Category: Poetry

Listening To My Shortwave Radio

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you might think it was all tina turner, the cars, or tears for fears, but vinyl could only take me so far, same songs, over & over, flip to side 2, try to save allowance money for the new billy idol album, or listen to casey kasem, see if anyone fresh was in the top 40, but then i got my GE shortwave radio & became an auditory magellan, forget karma chameleon & all that pop sound, i now spent nights slowly turning the dial, on a quest to travel the airwaves, listening as the basketball play by play guy said, louisville has the ball, i added a marker dot to my map of cities: new orleans, pittsburgh, morgantown, buffalo, each night i tuned in to: games, preachers, news, weather, anything & everything, in search of a new locale, another mark for my map, of course it was more than this, i was a 1980’s lewis & clark kid, connecting with my country, & this is still what i’m doing today, except i’m the one broadcasting & you might be in croatia instead of cincinnati.

Working at the 30th Street Senior Center, 1996

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the elderly are grumpy, cloistered together in plastic chairs, waiting for their number to be called, i’m the guy with the microphone calling the numbers, the elevator can only take 8 people down to the cafeteria at a time, i’m so lonesome all the time, since i left my baby behind, on blue bayou, i’m crooning to the mostly spanish speaking geriatric crowd, entertainment for the hungry, they smile, call me young clin-ton, or danielito, charlie is my elevator operator, he gives me a shout when he’s ready for more people, send them my way danny boy, they shuffle their feet, eager to eat a free meal, i say hello to conchita, manuel, margarita, & maria vela, they are all so kind -i only worked at the senior center for 6 months, but they gave me a few hundred dollars & a nice card when i left, periodically i looked through obituaries over the years, one by one they disappeared.

Thinking About The Suburbs

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just read bukowski’s poem hello, how are you? he deftly takes down suburbia, little green lawns, little homes, like the beat writers, everyone loves to hate the suburbs, this has become a truism for some, make fun of the burbs, but my question is: post-world war 2, what should have happened instead? cram hundreds of thousands of returning veterans back into cities, stack floors up to the sky, no grass, just concrete? or should they have joined some sort of back to land movement? corporal jackson returning from iwo jima can enjoy 10 acres in bartlett, nebraska (population 176 in 1940) 3 hours away from omaha? no, suburbs seemed inevitable, near enough to urban areas for work, close enough to golf courses for leisure, artists are against the sameness of suburbs, but conformity is baked into all cultures, that is how they have survived, but just because i’m typing on a macbook pro, doesn’t mean that i can’t write whatever i want to.

White Christmas in Rochester, New York

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i’m dreaming of a white christmas, first sung by bing crosby, 1941, only a few weeks after pearl harbor was attacked, listened to by millions, but only a large handful have ever had a real white christmas, like the ones i used to know in the late 1970’s & early 1980’s, snow stacked high, fireplace crackling, tins & tins of homemade cookies, ham baking in the oven, neighbors stopping by for eggnog, my grandfather’s organ playing all the songs, rudolph, jingle bells, deck the halls, the fir tree with gifts under every branch, dozens of christmas cards on the mantle, tinsel draped below, at night tucked into my father’s childhood bed, i peeked out past the wooden bedposts & waited for santa, this was christmas. 

Humpty Dumpty & Row Your Boat

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humpty dumpty sat on a wall, you know the rest, but what does it mean? when you were a kid did you think humpty was an egg? a fat greedy person? a king? where was the wall? how high was it? why was humpty precariously perched up there? and why did mother goose share such things? then there is row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream, strive, work hard, but not too hard, be happy, life is but a dream, what do these nursery rhymes mean? in one, life is a risky disaster, the pieces will never fit back together again, the other demonstrates utopian optimism, combined they explain human existence.

My First Solo Apartment, 1996

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throughout college i had roommates, later, i futon-surfed my way through the east & west village in the nyc, by the time i landed in san francisco during the fall of 1996 i was done with roommates for good, that is when 204a day street found me, a 3-minute walk from my job at the 30th street senior center where i was the bilingual (spanish) volunteer coordinator, $540 a month & it was mine, when i first moved in i had a cot to sleep on, 6 cds, & a plant, spartan, no question, apartment highlights included: getting up at 5am to admire comet hale-bopp from my roof, hosting thanksgiving & a paella dinner party, listening to sonny rollins on sundays while cooking pasta -my solo sf apartment adventure ended when i moved to paraguay in 1998, but there are moments when i daydream about studio-living, less really was more.

Nitzana: Israeli Archeological Site 1993

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negev desert, judea, where jesus once was, at least the bible says so, how to know such things? i’m digging in the earth, sliding shovel across the surface, not chopping into sun-laden ground, that breaks plates, pottery, artifacts, i see richard in the distance, bandana around his neck, this is his club med, his happy place, last night he told me about his termite business back in anaheim, says he saves up all year to come out here, to be alone with god in the land of the new testament, & he’s not wrong, they were here, nabateans, romans, byzantines, arabs, persians, turks, jews, muslims, christians, they built, conquered, lived, loved, died, their shadows surround us as we labor.

When The Hospice Bed Arrives

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a metal bed frame rolls into the living room, & without wanting to, my mind goes there, are we the 20th room? the 200th? how much death has this bed frame held? the mattress starts to inflate, then i’m shown the oxygen machine, 7-foot plastic tube, with inserts for the nose, depending on the journey this might mix with morphine 

the warriors play on the tv, microwave beeps, & the dogs eat their dinner, just another night at home waiting for the inevitable, passing of time, life leaving, of course there is much more, massaging of temples, feet, hands, kisses to cheeks, forehead, tears, lots of tears, for others it might be sudden, but our hospice bed slows it all down, minutes mean everything.

While You Are Watching Netflix

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he is pondering the sound of crickets, he swims outside every night, listening to the rubbing of wings, chirps, we call them, mating sounds, darkness attraction, he has noticed the transition from october to december, dissipating insects, a little less with each cold night, moon fattens, sheds light, then gradually disappears, grows full again, & all the while you are indoors, scrolling through trending & top picks for you, top 10 movies, looking for answers, a way to kill time, exist, alone, or with ice cream, your screen escape, watching drama, violence, comedy, night after night, hoping for something good, something that matters, meanwhile, he’s outside contemplating dusk, counting stars as they appear in the sky, you ask, why? he pauses to reflect, each evening is different, is his reply.