matcha, genmaicha, sencha, bancha, kabusecha, tencha, all of the cha’s, and the list goes on and on, and you thought it was just trader’s joe’s moroccan mint, cardboard box, bits of green wrapped in plastic squares, no, the earth offers more, from india, china, new zealand, sri lanka, south carolina, taiwan, bangladesh, hawaii, fields with leafy bursts of light caffeine, subtle, translucent hot water, in a glass, a mug, on lips through throat into stomach, mind alert with awareness of dirt, warm humid rain, lots of rain, to create moments of wonder, sipping stillness.
Alphabet Money
all we care about is money
bacon, bank, bones, bread, bucks
cash, clams, coin
dead presidents, dinero, dollar, dough
everything runs on
funds, financials, facts, they want the
green bills
hedge equity
including liquid assets
just because we
keep believing
loot is loot and
moola matters
never trust the
ones without the
paper rectangles
question those with no
resources
something is wrong if they’ve got no
treasure
unless this whole construct is
vapid
what if we
x-ray the system and this
yearning for money isn’t worth
zilch?
Bananas
i’ve seen you in el oro ecuadorian plantation encased in plastic, no beauty in bunches of wrappers strewn on earth underneath, because profit is everything, exports to united states & european union, consumers pull back yellow peels, reveal that white, sweet appetite for mixing with peanut butter or in milky cereal, loved for potassium, fluid balance, lower blood pressure, means we won’t die, not from eating this soft south american wunderkind, edible prodigy, machete hacked plant, cherished comestible.
Palo Alto Hermit
I live two blocks from the Apple store, don’t own a cellphone or a TV, don’t have an internet connection. Some weekends I unplug my phone and I’m an ascetic, surrounded by my volumes of John Muir, Jane Kenyon, A Buddhist Bible, and my journals of poetic plodding. I watch them on their headsets, talking to the air, talking about technology into technology. They fill the Starbucks on University Avenue with their napkins, sketching schematas of the next IPO. I’m a walking anachronism, a luddite they call me, voluntary simplicity, I call me. Doing the mental math, I calculate whether I’m the only one in all of Palo Alto completely disconnected. Maybe a couple of Stanford religion majors without TV, but none would be internet free, no, that is just me, 1 out of 66,000. But there is Greg, that isn’t his real name, no one knows his real name, he drags his feet, toes sticking out of his shoes, his long, unkempt blondish brown hair jutting in all directions. Greg and the other homeless people by the creek are my kin, my kind, fiber-optically missing, invisible, off the grid. One night I meet Larry Page at a Stanford pub, we don’t talk about his company, Google. He tells me he likes Dance Dance Revolution, but only does it in private. The seven minute conversation sticks with me, like the mornings when I see Steve Jobs at the farmer’s market. Me, Steve, and Larry, we’re in this thing together, makes me feel like I’m a part of the team, the future. But all I teach about is the past, the Cherokee, the Californios, the buffalo, the removed, the replaced. I hike miles on Sundays, Butano Ridge Loop, Foothills Park, my fern-filled temple, my isolation, my solace. I try to make sense of it all, the movement of time, my standing still. After many days, maybe hours, I plug my phone back in, walk down Kipling Street, go to the library, check my email.
What is Wisdom?
not old body parts: craggy eyebrows, gray hair, beard, failing eyes, not dusty books: shakespeare, socrates, aurelius, arendt, not words: erudite, precocious, sagacity, percipence, not education: cambridge, oxford, harvard, princeton, not military: combat, boot camp, target practice, bombing, not politics: president, judge, senator, prime minister, not bragging: instagram, birkin bag, nantucket house, porsche panamera, but rather: nameless nature, lakes, oceans, trees, mountains, timeless, perhaps one day dead, but still wiser than….
Reading & Billie Eilish
some question the point, why not just watch a screen, text, talk on the phone. why leave friends to immerse with already dead authors? why visit streets where horses pull carriages and fast food doesn’t exist? paper pages, turning them, what a chore. who wants to detach, disconnect from internet, iphone, streaming shows, online shopping? yet, somehow this has become me, always was me, by fireplace, under quilts, narnia, watership down, the hobbit, the color purple, quiet moments, alone, reading, reading, reading, imagination, walking with holden caulfield, questioning the phonies, the ones feeding us cookies, tracking our every electronic move, urging us to fear the next disaster- to quote billie eilish, when reading a book, no one can hurt you.
When I Think Of Trains
human-made ocean tide of steel, freight and escape, like waves continually crashing, compartments rush by, sound bending wind, horn blasting, alerting animals that machine can collide, graffiti painted sides, desperate spray paint, crude canvas carried from small town to town, and this meant progress, loneliness, like a harmonica pretending, like running away, like blue collar grease, a sunset, a sunrise, an aching, a braking, cacophony, a screech and heartbeat.
Fall In Love With Fast Food
We have the meats, only the latest siren call, the odysseus watchers of televised oracle know our happy must be fed, we must eat fresh, the highway signs urge us, next exit, final exit, on the conveyer belt of factory farming, where environmental earth comes in last, profit 1, addictive ingredients 2, advertising 3, yet we continue to drive thru because america runs on dunkin’, and somewhere a marketer reads this little piece on the internet and thinks, free publicity, the number one rule of fast food? there is no fast food, because i’m loving it, slow bites for the camera, finger lickin’ good, says the colonel, the conveyer belt is overpowering, cannot be stopped, won’t be stopped, so don’t fight it, get smarter and eat mor chikin.
Swimming As Meditation
i’m experienced in walking meditation. one step slowly in front of another, ball of foot, then toes, and finally the heel, like a dog carefully touching december’s first snow. the point of walking meditation is to go nowhere, except within, and this can happen while breathing each breath, one inhale, one exhale. in the pool where i paddle pushing water with palms and legs and arms, maple leaves glide near me on the surface where i pretend to walk in deep water, treading instead. i sometimes pray, that my back heals, that i can be kinder, that i will live without fear. with glances i watch the trees, today it was a pileated woodpecker, the birds know more than i, about when to move quickly and when to just sit and wait. my quick days are over, the waiting days are here, breathe in, breathe out.
Yearbook 1990
we care, we don’t care, ballpoint pen, sharpie, maybe a pencil, use words like dude, sign with love, air out grievances, i guess we did have a few little arguments this year, address complicated romance, i suppose we’ve said before that everything was a mistake, but i really don’t feel that way, attempt humor, have a nice winter! make fun of teachers, doesn’t ms. earle look like grimace when she wears the purple lab coat? express bland kindness, you’ve been really cool this year, and i hope to see you around, give unwanted relationship advice, make sure to keep your girl in line, she’ll run all over you, talk sports, oh and by the way, the Braves do not suck, comment on music, STRAY CATS RULE! forget who’s yearbook it is, jim, chemistry wasn’t great but we made it to june, and this quasi-document, could be pompeii, everything, and nothing
Daniel W. Polk 