dad
dad, you'd be 73 tomorrow.
that isn't entirely old age.
to think what a strain
must have pulled you from
the amerikan dream
so young, 44, successive,
major heart-attacks.
44 & almost dead
but for medical knowledge
of heart surgery in 1972.
i'm 48 now & feel as if
i've also had open heart surgery
in my early 40's.
i never miss my daily dose
of lipitor.
you've been buried
in dirt since 1988 --
being alive
is tumbling
thru the hours
counting seconds
under our breath
then noises of
the universe open
up
ghosts are screaming
all over italy
grandma & grandpa
& little grandma & big
grandpa
& time reverses
us
until
we watch
the ed sullivan show
we eat
steak
we drink
whiskey
we
stop one moment
from furthering
itself
by writing
a poem
by nailing
boards
that's what i hear
at 5 in the morning
40 years from
you:
upstairs in my bedroom
outside the window
you building
a two-car garage
you pounding
nails
sawing wood
echoes all over the place
what luck essentially is
an old-timer who used to work
at the factory died a few days
ago. 74 years old. amos tells me
he was sittin' inna chair
talkin to a son
just stopped talkin
just died mid-sentence
daughter-in-law did cpr
but he was dead.
911 was called.
most people showed up
at the funeral home
in
work
clothes.
one showing
3 in the afternoon.
then earth lapses
into its
black
side -- old
roll
of
days
goes
on
forever.
bud backen is fifty
i hadn't considered it, his age.
not much cld ever change about him
when he was 35, except maybe his
eyes lightened up,
glazed over with whims
of a schizophrenic aardvark
nosing amongst cacti shards
& intergalactic hiroshimas
-- fuck it, worlds --
why an imprint of human relevance
shld stamp a virgin cheek of fresh
brie with a branding-iron of
language.
let's forget this premise
all the fuck together.
let's.
let's swing along like ape-arm'd
lunks into the kitchen
& get us something
to chew upon,
to gorge on like life.
steak.
grilled steak.
mimosa trees shiver
as you
flip the greases
into increasing
fires on
the patio.
a mile from yr patio-door,
alligators.
i have spoken
i have spoken with pish
& bud backen this evening
washing my throat with
ezra brooks bourbon, neat,
plenty of water & a little
ice. first portishead
plays,
then nick drake,
now blind faith.
free long distance on a saturday
night according to my cellphone
plan: what a deal!
free air time all the way
anywhere in the u.s. of a.
friday the 13th 10 p.m.
there, nothing unlucky happened
today. didn't see a single
cat -- or a ladder. no mirror
broke, & i didn't step on any cracks.
a regular monthly bill
in the mail.
nothing financially
bizarre. we drank
the beer
& finished the whiskey
& ate double-size meals
for our increasing old
age appetites.
for lunch i ate
tortilla shell
sandwiches in
both fists --
one chicken,
the other beef
& refried beans.
tortilla shells
the size of
the paper
plate.
delicious.
doused in ranch
dressing
& lettuce & cheese.
waited a few hours
ate supper
ham & bean soup
with a tremendous salad
now i'm
hungry
again.
already sucked
down 5 chocolate
mint candies
in a
row.
i'm looking
at the package
of instant
4 cheese mashed potatoes.
war
the world
isn't going anywhere.
there might be conflicts,
major armed battles,
& maybe a nuclear
dime of citrus
light
expands
past
the fatness
of human
history --
infinity,
foreverness,
the
utterness,
molecule'd,
mute,
motivated,
ready for
action,
sir.
yes
sir.
click to view movie/poem - eggs