you once told me to- find my true north, thank you of course, & realistically we will never meet again, after all, it has already been over a decade, but chance encounters are most of life, then just memory, then nothing, or nothing that we know for sure, but i still appreciate you, sometimes read you, even watched a video once of you reading, describing jellyfish everywhere, unseen danger swimming all around, true, the sea, ocean, life, can be fear, but rarely here, on this page, screen, canvas, thanks again for your courage, i try to be like you.
Tag: Fear
When The Alpha Male Spoke
i tried hard to be a beta, with the deep breathing & walking meditation, soft steps, thoughts of love, be the buddha, what would jesus do, turn the other cheek, my religion is kindness, of course i believe all those things, but underneath i’m still the alpha, the guy who walks in a room & thinks, no, not thinks, knows, deep down, that death is nothing to fear, meaning, fear doesn’t exist, subterranean alpha, so hidden i hardly feel it lurking in my plasma, my dna, my surface is placid, but when push comes to shove i’m no piggy, closer to the lord of the flies, endless abyss of ego, or lack of ego, no self, not scared of losing self, alpha, it’s not a physical thing, no need for hulking muscle mass, it just is, bury me in mantras & i laugh, thanks for the peaceful sayings, but i’m still the alpha.
Cold Water Swimming & Coyotes
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.
Neruda and War Addiction
somewhere in neruda’s memoir he speaks about addiction, war addiction and che guevara, ecstatic life on a constant journey toward death, craved knowing he might die, was going to die, unity with the greatest unknown, heaven maybe, or not, but on the way, violence, machine gun eruption, mortar explosions, deafening everything, all thought becoming sound, becoming silence, perhaps the final silence, and now, instead of fear, there is oneness, war, when we are really in it, makes us whole
A Rattlesnake Story
the rattlesnake doesn’t care, has heard the stories about sucking out venom and survival, how the young can’t control the release of poison, sun is out, languid, or perhaps curled up as if, but no, the rattlesnake doesn’t care, sits there on the trail, the protagonist in your story, the one where you fear the fangs, as if that would actually happen, and it could, you claim, show everyone the video of that one man, his hand swollen, they are dangerous, see, i told you, but the rattlesnake doesn’t care, the ground is just the ground, dirt, rocks, summer heat on hillside home, your story is just your story, the rattlesnake doesn’t care, slithers away
COVID-19 Grocery Store
Grad School Late Night
12am, my usual quitting time, when the
Cherry Coke has run out and I’m done
munching on plain M&M’S, and whatever
I’m writing or reading starts to repeat over
and over, telling me the night is complete.
But sometimes I have to push the clock back,
mix water in with the caffeine and sugar, stay
hydrated, which leads to bathroom, me walking
empty hallway corridors after 2am, maze of fluorescent
lit academia, everyone else sleeping, sleeping.
I turn off my ghosts are real imagination
and focus on whatever I’m thinking about,
Ambrose O’Higgins or some other obscure figure
from South America’s past, when turning the corner
on my way back to study, he screams, I scream.
A freaked out bearded janitor and me like looking into a
mirror seeing myself older with blotchy skin, but same
expression of holy mother of, until we both figure it out and
smile, laugh in fright, then wordlessly walk past each other
into the building’s vacant night.
Daniel W. Polk 