Married, by Jack Gilbert

I came back from the funeral and crawled

around the apartment, crying hard, 

searching for my wife’s hair.

For two months got them from the drain,

from the vacuum cleaner, under the refrigerator,

and off the clothes in the closet.

But after other Japanese women came, 

there was no way to be sure which were

hers, and I stopped. A year later, 

repotting Michiko’s avocado, I find

a long black hair tangled in the dirt.

Gilbert, Jack. Collected Poems, Knopf, New York, 2012: 139.

behind you in the city

You know my name

i don’t know yours

wandering town

choking heat vapor

___

I know your face but you don’t know mine

glass shop windows, sunlit refraction

smell the melting city

living Dalí, dead world

___

I follow you 

black jean jacket

sidewalks loaded

fifty dollars for a cake

feral panhandlers

muse drifting

pay the mortgage

chase your dreams

___

Aggressive music

molded grapes in a bag

house for rent

chrome forty-five

fuck the president

you look rebellious

today

___

Ice cream

a summer shell

a voice: love me 

you’re looking for something

credit card swipe

crooked bacchus

___

suddenly Stan Getz

in a raincoat

no bus fare

Colfax meanderer

i’ve met you before,

he says

____

sculptures of horses

destroying each other

temporarily i lose you

forget your voice

family burdens, debts

hang on walls

___

joyous are we

behind sunglasses

  behind you in the city

    who’s behind me?

The Horse and Rider, Louise Glück

Once there was a horse, and on the horse there was a rider. How handsome they looked in the autumn sunlight, approaching a strange city! People thronged the streets or called from the high windows. Old women sat among flowerpots. But when you looked about for another horse or another rider, you looked in vain. My friend, said the animal, why not abandon me? Alone, you can find your way here. But to abandon you, said the other, would be to leave a part of myself behind, and how can I do that when I do not know which part you are?

 Glück, Louise. Faithful and Virtuous Night, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 2014: 59.

Ransick’s Dream in Salida, Colorado

Sunrise crests the southern peaks,

strikes the white hut high on the hill,

casts shadows along a railroad spur.

Winter rode in on a boxcar last night, 

spent the new moon’s savings in a

ghostly brothel. All night, wind ran

cold hands up the valley’s things,

bristling with newly naked aspen and

pines that know not the beetle hordes.

An old man with smoldering beard and

eyes of grey glass cries outside the Victoria

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

but he’s more Lear than Scottish thane, 

banished as he is to a mountain moor

far from daughters loyal or treacherous.

A brewpub inhabits the old mortuary,

customers soaking up suds instead of

embalming fluid. Every alley you skirt

harbors defrocked Klansmen who

scurry into dilapidated shacks or dive

into dumpsters, mumbling of nooses, 

shotgun blasts and crucifix ash.

The Arkansas flows wild silver between

hot yellow cottonwoods, a river anticipating

canyon curves but regretting, like all

pure water, flowing closer to the Springs.

Look west toward Monarch Pass and see

in the flats green fumes rising from a

herd of porcine developers who dream of

bedrock, valleyview, alpineglow over

identical subdivisions, followed by the usual

quick getaway. You wish to be a trout

swimming upstream and even as you

whisper those words you wake

in clear shallows, current strong

through your gills, jeweled beams

lighting your flanks. Autumn is over

and you know in your fine bones you must

swim and swim and never stop.

Ransick, Chris: Asleep Beneath the Hill of Dreams, Ghost Road Press, Denver, 2010: 81.

your books

The books you sent

lie on the shelf

I don’t read them

Austen and Maugham

books on old films

Nazi biographies

furry with dust

purposefully neglected

lies, all of it

histories of French kings

by church-going luminaries

not to be gifted or donated

sentenced to a life unread

books about

dandies and rich bitches

dogs in human form

Agatha Christie

biographies of propagandists

revered by some but

not me

books not worth the flame

not worth time

lying books to lie decoratively

(like all lies)

as long as I control

coronavirus blues

Daydreaming in aisle five

toothpaste and shampoo

silent sparkling commerce

air conditioned

red arrows on scuffed white tile

a guide in the labyrinth

whole aisles are wastelands

handwritten signs: OUT OF STOCK

no one looks at me

not masked employees

shuffling

ignoring everyone

afraid

not shoppers

some unmasked

aggressive

center-of-the-universe

others kind, warm

smiling behind masks

at the absurdity

a blackbird loops above the bakery

scouting crumbs

I’ve been here too long

they don’t have what I need

 

back in the car I

sanitize

mask down

never dreamed I’d need

masks for my family

 

through deserted streets

atomic sunlight

paranoid and guilty

for what I might now carry

 

Library, by Roberto Bolaño

Wreckage

Books I buy

Between the strange rains

And heat

Of 1992

Which I’ve already read

Or will never read

Books for my son to read

Lautaro’s library

Which will need to resist

Other rains

And other scorching heats

— Therefore, the edict is this:

Resist, my dear books, 

Cross thy days like medieval knights

And care for my son

In the years to come

 

 

(From Two Poems For Lautaro Bolaño)

The garage

Processed with VSCO with hb2 preset

 

Take the staircase

up

fluorescent light flashing

concrete + steel loneliness

new stains

past the sleeping man

with no legs

up

out to dark city morning

cars speed on First Ave

headlights like lightning

sporadic pedestrians

wraiths in fog

a taxi idles in the alley

exhaust and headlights

city of skunk

I arrive at work

less human than yesterday

when I walk out that last time

on both legs

singing

the legless man will be gone

but not my car

vessel of freedom

I speed from the garage

to reclaim my life