i memorized the quadratic equation, but always forgot to divide my answers by 2, this meant failing the class, which couldn’t happen, so i was introduced to a tutor, mr. marks and his dog pickle (dachshund), my new mathematical friends. i met with him most days in his basement apartment where his stomach growled and balding hair moved with the air from the space heater, but he knew algebra, had taught high school for decades, and had the patience of a man who didn’t talk to anyone all day. they always say, it was a miracle that i passed math, but my miracle had a name, it was mr. marks.
when i left terra linda high school
drive the mustang top down to silbermann’s ice cream, marcels blue moon blasting, five years of teaching completed and they want yearbooks signed, the teenagers, my students. benevolent chaos, i feel like mickey mantle as they hand over pens and pencils for me to scribble words of love on a page. descriptions of what they added to class discussions, how much history they mastered, or their uncanny comprehension of richard wright. they surround me all afternoon, a human blanket, wrapping me in june kindness and melting mint chocolate chip.
Selling Cameras, 1991
survey the merchandise, canon, pentax, nikon, kodak, know the prices, how many dollars to preserve memories? tell the customers about zoom lens, color quality, shutter speed, sell them one by one, talk spanish sometimes, if they are from el salvador, remember the war, they fled that war, try to remember, speak with co-workers, allen, who rides a bike because he lost his license, yusuf, from pakistan, college-educated, has a family, wants to move up to selling televisions, shift from foot to foot, 12 hours standing, 9am to 9pm, too long, scribble scenes for a play when no one is watching, quit before prom, but don’t forget evans department store
When I Think Of Orange
frank o’hara, the color, the fruit, florida, bowl game, john mcphee, orange barons, concentrate makers, tropicana, vitamin c, prevention of the common cold, sunset, sunrise, morning has broken, cat stevens, van gogh, cēzanne, rothko, warhol, after yellow, safety cones, pumpkins, halloween, marigolds, monsoon wedding, dahlias, zinnias, carrots, turmeric, basketballs
Swing Low, Sweet Chariot
song by Wallace Willis, a man enslaved by the Choctaw, but free when he wrote about the band of angels, i’m guessing we all know the spiritual, but not Mr. Willis, another voice lost in time, like Florence Price, first African-American female symphonic composer, her version of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, doesn’t make the radio, or the history books, we can all wonder why
You can listen to the composition by Florence Price here:
when i used to dance
joy of not knowing which hip would move next, right, right, left, or invisible hula hoop, my whole waist doing circles, and the music, weezer, sia, or nelly, always while doing dishes, distraction, chore not a chore, but now no more, cue the sad music, mazzy star or the equivalent, daniel don’t dance, vertebrae can’t play with spontaneity
fugazi
listening to cuyahoga, r.e.m., michael stipe, used to be a household name, like prell shampoo, but now he’s a my generation kind of thing, as in the 80’s, i remember the green tour, when the band went mainstream, didn’t they all try, to get the money, blow up, get bigger, artists and their stage, their platform, grow it, except fugazi, ian mackaye, $5 shows, think about that
Laugh With Summer
The eternal summer laughs, joyce mansour, the name, the face, the poet, jewish-eygptian, born in england, portrait fragments. she was right, the eternal summer laughs, like fireflies, barefoot grass, lemonade, and tanned skin. as tom hanks said, there’s no crying in baseball, save your tears for winter, today we laugh with june.
The Girl From Ipanema
astrud in black and white, bossa nova posterchild, rio de janeiro summer, probably first heard it in a west village cafe, turned any room into a beach, even in february new york city, samba power, brasil cool, we lost her, ms. gilberto, but the song lives on and on
George Winston: 1949-2023
when i heard that George Winston died, i realized i had no one to tell, no one who would really understand how he transformed piano notes into snow, into darkened pine trees, into music of the winter solstice. transcendent, like time immemorial, i can still see my seventeen year-old self, not making a sound, just listening to Winston, that quiet focus, he taught me to be still, appreciate all that is.
Daniel W. Polk 