American Woman In Italy, 1951

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you’ve seen the photo, perhaps in an italian restaurant somewhere, the story begins much earlier, ruth orkin, the photographer, at age 17, rode her bicycle from los angeles to new york, this was 1939, before europe was a rubbled graveyard, on the journey she captured images of everything, living passion in wheeled motion, fast-forward, war over, florence, italy, friendship formed with jinx allen, all 6 feet of her, striding through streets, mid-century beauty & grace, like a sandaled beatrice, dante’s imprint ever alive, allen walked by the italian men twice, the 2nd photo is shown above, portrait of harassment, but in every interview allen insisted the whole scene was playful, this image has been interpreted in a sinister way but it was quite the opposite. they were having fun and so was i, her narrative, two independent women making art together, the men? no one remembers their names.

Unearthing Cat Stevens

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i listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul, where I’ll end up, well, i think only god really knows, there was a time when everyone knew cat stevens, mellow, introspective, perpetually coming of age, questioning the world, wishing for peace, early 1970’s, before yusaf islam, before the muslim allegations, but time has a way of passing, and he’s back on a snowy boarding school campus in the holdovers film, bleak backdrop, his musical return, forget all the wikipedia details, just take a minute, remember his songs, morning has broken like the first morning, he’s now 75, looks like a new dawn.

How To Be A Good Husband

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listen, to every word, change the toilet paper roll, go to the store, don’t ask what she wants for dinner, just make it, get the car washed and vacuum the inside, watch the rom-com movie, don’t invite the old frat guys home, make the dinner reservation, say yes to italy, say no to tv sports, clean the bathrooms, get the car tires changed, only buy jewelry that she has already selected, always share your dessert, never eat garlic in front of her, bring home flowers, always offer to drive, help your children with their homework, take the dogs out at night, rub her feet, say thank you, say i love you, say i understand, ask her if she needs help, listen, to every word.

The End Of November

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journey toward winter solstice, lost light, weak orb only wins in the morning, by early afternoon the disappearing begins, darkness, a time to hide, in a book, a bed, by a window looking at snowflakes falling, the white ground rising to meet wind and swaying pine trees, howling silence, nature’s portrait of death, the end of something, and now i understand january 1st, i used to always wonder, why not call september the beginning like in judaism? but i get it, the minutes added each day, climbing back into the sun, waiting for spring to heal the earth, but for now we rest.

Cold Water Swimming & Coyotes

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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.

Fame Addiction

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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

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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

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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.