swimming centers me, fallen japanese maple leaves sink in water, nestle between my toes, stick to shoulders, i am a leaf magnet, like the man feeding pigeons in central park, the tree likes me, i think, gifts from above, cold water thoughts, staring at stars, nameless constellations, pump arms and legs harder, keep the heart moving blood to numb fingers, i have a rock on pool’s ledge for coyotes, but i would never throw anything, maybe splash or yell, coyotes won’t visit, worries disappear, this is a good night.
Category: Writing
Fame Addiction
actors, politicians, craving limelight, accolades, the ones who never got enough as children- love, affection, reassurance, the stage is beset with their desperate desire to be cherished, by strangers, friends, anyone, everyone, and often that void can’t be filled, the sly stallone sadness from an abusive father, demi moore & her alcoholic parents, peripatetic, moving her from place to place, bill clinton with stepdad roger, alcoholism and abuse all around his arkansas childhood, so they grab the mic, stare into cameras, give endless speeches, while the spotlight is on, the past is gone, but darkness always returns, they run, but they can never hide.
Being Marianne Moore
pretending to be someone else, they say it’s exhausting, but i guess that all depends, i’m ruling out hunter s. thompson with all that hell’s angels gonzo-journaling, and not raymond carver, chain-smoking to avoid the booze, and i could do without hemingway’s dangerous summer, slurring bullfights with blotchy skin, nay to virginia woolf’s last walk into the river ouse, and maybe the worst, sherwood anderson’s demise by toothpick swallowed, no doubt a martini taking slow revenge, none of the above, but maybe marianne moore, humor-filled poet of the common & uncommon, lover of athletics, teacher at the carlisle indian school, i do these things which i do, which please no one but myself, & to wear a cape and tricorn hat, well, that’s where it’s at!
Why I Don’t Submit To Poetry Journals
i don’t get it, the poetry publishing thing, true, people definitely do read the new yorker, but does anyone really read radon journal? it’s a whole rigamarole, sending out poems with a bio, trying to figure out if the editors are interested, hoping for approval and acceptance, who cares? truly, many people know mary oliver or maya angelou, but do they know li-young lee? he’s an amazing poet, nobody knows him, nobody cares, the word obscure should follow almost anyone who names themself a poet, hi, i’m daniel, (obscure) poet, i watched a video posted in august with an inspiring poet from virginia, she read, she spoke about her life/work, it’s november, the video has like 17 views, obscure, anyway, the point, for me, is to write and self-publish, i need no approval, i think, this is an interesting piece, copy/paste/publish/done.
How To Stop Aging
embalm right now, easy answer, but that involves not living anymore, so try again, wake up slowly, whisper, i’m young, i’m young, i’m young, buy a lighted mirror, they take away three years, get a tiktok account, do all the dances, upload your favorites, tell people you are 27, lie, pluck out gray hairs, then dye, continually dye, never let them see your roots, use facial cream in the morning, use facial cream in the evening, never go out in the sun, smile all the time, frowning is for wrinklers, constantly talk about olivia rodrigo, never talk about justin bieber, he failed, he’s old, botox is required, sleep in silk, it keeps your skin timeless, do cardio, then sauna, infrared, never ski, the cold makes lines in your face, never wear glasses, never drink, but if you must, one white claw with a college student, marry someone twenty years younger than you, wear the brands that they wear, ideally only lululemon, don’t forget vinyasa yoga, anything else is for the elderly, drink water, lots of water, drive a jeep wrangler, play your music loud, post everything on instagram, that way you have proof.
Cold Water Swimming
thought about buying a wetsuit, but after research and experimentation i’ve come to learn that i can swim/tread water all winter in northern california without a wetsuit, my max so far is 20 minutes, i’m going to do at least that much into november, december, and beyond, after a full day of teaching, then helping my kids with homework, and cleaning dinner dishes, there is something cathartic about gazing at a full moon in the night sky, listening to an owl hooting, while gentle water undulates all around me, numbing my injured back, big breath in, big breath out, i feel my heart, alive, all of me.
My Modeling Career
i have longish hair combed back, think don johnson in miami vice, 1994 and i’m living in santiago, chile, always walking the city streets, one afternoon he sees me strolling, hey guy, my name is max, please take my card, i think you can model, are you interested? i had heard about other americans who’d made thousands of dollars with their blue eyes and light skin color, sure, i say, good, good, go to this place tomorrow at 4pm, he scribbles the address on the back of his card, tell them max sent you, the next day i arrive, it’s a tv ad for a washing machine, i give max’s card to a woman, ok, she says, stand on the x, spin around and smile, i nod, i get the spinning part, but i can’t smile on demand, in my head i’m thinking, this is stupid, i do another spin, another failed smile, third time’s the charm, but no, thanks for coming, she says, i throw max’s card in the trash, adios modeling career.
I’m Writing To You
are you checking up on me? i hope so, that means i’m competitive, no, we both know i’m losing, instagram always wins, or tiktok, or, for a few outliers, maybe even facebook, or whatever elon musk calls his platform now, anyway, thanks for visiting the written word, i don’t have much to offer today, just black and white, nothing like that woman who moved to the italian countryside, the one who dated ryan seacrest, you know her, the one with lots of followers, anyway, you can imagine her, living the beautiful dream life, that’s why you scroll through her photos and videos, to catch a glimpse of something better, right? anyway, maybe you are in australia, or the united kingdom, or ghana, or topeka, kansas (loretta lynn reference), and maybe you don’t own any expensive products or travel on a yacht, maybe you are asking, is my life really that great if i don’t look amazing on instagram or go anywhere exotic? you heard it here first, yes, your life is great, the invariable mark of wisdom is to find the miraculous in the common, i didn’t say that, emerson did, but i agree, wherever you are, have a wonderful day, and by the way, i’m not saying you are common, what i really mean is that i hope you are at peace, i wish that for you.
Writing To An Angel
i can’t see you, but you can see me, i’ve heard about bells and wings and things, hollywood movie, it’s a wonderful life, yes, of course it is, but are we all alone here? we mortals, plodding through the daily grind, doubtful, that you don’t exist, you do, sometimes we see you, in dreams, in our mind’s eye, or, as one might call it, our third eye, perhaps this sounds like new age mumbo jumbo, such a strange expression, but i’m on a tangent, back to you, entity of the spirit, soul, subconscious force of good, surrounding us, escorting us after passing, where do you take us? you are so many things to so many people, how do we come to know you? through prayer? meditation? faith? or just belief? are you christian? or does all that specific religion stuff not matter? if you answer me, how does that work? i’ve seen you in children’s books, watching over the sick, guiding people to be better, are you light? or just love? can any of us be angels, if we care enough?
When Art Spoke
draw like a child, wild, carefree, place fingers on clay, wet with water, let the wheel shape, smooth, soothe away pain, i hang in galleries, oil colors, old wooden frames, they want to touch me, own me, be me, hold me forever, like a sunset, a sunflower, stars, constellations, my world is an inner universe, they go mad for me, seek to possess beauty and truth, they stare at me, just stare, as if i’m their mirror, and i am, looking back at them, from the past they see me, i am goya, picasso, matisse, van gogh, kahlo, o’keeffe, joan mitchell, betty woodman, they have paid for meals with sketches of me, teach me in classrooms, with crayons and paper, portraits on refrigerators, i matter more than taxes, money is eventually forgotten, me, i live forever.
Daniel W. Polk 