“Goodbye to the MFA”
The struggles
of a long year
are felt in the depths
of the calves.
And walking around
slowly, aimlessly on
hardwood
has only propped more pins
beneath my heels.
Not to mention
all of those bright colors
were a strain
on my poor, dull eyes.
And so now, my dry palms
wave bittersweet goodbyes
to the Impressionists,
and blow kisses
to Thomas Cole and
Frederic Edwin Church,
followed by a nod of the head
towards those crooked Baroque drama-queens.
I leave a trail of bandages
for all of the broken
Greek and Roman sculptures,
after which I will walk
steadily and calmly
through the disproportionate
mummies,
all the way back;
past the empty line of people
past the cute coat rack girl
past the blinding lights
to descend back down
the shallow granite steps.
-----------------------------------------------------
“first hand”
In yellow
dirt, pale
bright, warm
light bathes the bushes
the grass
the gulls, the sand, even me
in yellow
over the stygian glass
the mist
kissing itself in circles
swoons yellow
atop a shimmer, the void
darkness
coated in silver
wisps, all atop the warm hand
of the day’s first
bright yellow.
-----------------------------------------------------
“Mornings at the Lake”
In the mornings
I drink ink;
no cream, too much sugar
two fire sticks
three sausage patties, four whole
wheat
pieces of toast with fake nutella
mud and chunky peanut butter
bull shit.
I recline in a round
space
chair afore the lake
trying desperately to look
cool;
holding a cigarette, drinking
coffee
reading English Romantic
verse.
Soon the sun pops up
from behind green hills like
a partner giving head
in a car
pops up at the sight of
headlights
and I sit still, silent
as the mist twists
atop
the glazed blacktop; cerulean sky
peeking through floating blankets
marking
highlights as downslopes
and shadows as upslopes;
and no one is outside swimming
when the sun comes up
and I am alone
and I am
awake.
-----------------------------------------------------
“Morning Waltz”
This wind
has caught a cloud
in a conundrum.
It pushes and pulls
from every direction
so that the poor body
cannot decide
which way to go.
Some of its limbs
dance back and forth
sucking and swirling
and wriggling around
in the troposphere.
It extends
distends
and compresses
like an accordion
into a shape similar
to a fishing vessel.
Stirring birds chirp
their morning chimes
bidding the cloud
North
to provide shade
for the long flight
home.
-----------------------------------------------------
“45 Minutes at Wal-mart”
“I have made this longer than usual because I have not had time to make it shorter.”
-Blaise Pascal, The Provincial Letters
I walk in, tall and straight through sliding
doors which linger a second
too long before opening
my shoulder eating
metal upon entering.
I find the line and it is
filled up long
with people lamenting
having waited until this instant
to cash my meager check.
In front of me:
something untamed
akin to the life
before systems of
human governance:
A soap opera
between two sisters
fighting passively for attention
begs everyone to watch:
The pastime includes pretending
not to notice the stares.
The smaller one rolls a ball
to each line dweller
mocking them with bright eyes
trying to see if they have been enjoying
the game
as much as she has.
A young fellow in camouflage
with running shoes on size six feet
stands alone, aloof in new adulthood
acting as if no one else is there.
Except when the ball rolls to him;
For a split second, his eyes
light up, as if remembering playing
the same game when he was younger
and it seems that he might just plop
onto the ground and join them
until his worn out Adidas
suddenly kick the ball back
and return to face the line.
Hold on; an albino just walked by.
A working man, wet with sweat
is stuffed inside a neon Nike jacket.
He stands with tangled arms
having just arrived at the register.
He is not happy.
He requires the aid of a cashed check
for bottles, or butts, or babies
and you can tell by his demeanor
that he isn’t going to receive any relief;
Not today.
Once he exhausts all complaints
unwittingly embarrassing himself
one last time
with a whine and a stomp
he storms away, still protesting.
Everyone sighs silently
then laughs awkwardly;
Guilty in their relief.
People have been waiting here
for so long, that some receive
phone calls, and complain aloud:
As if they want the cashiers to hear;
As if this last fit of impatient
frustration would shorten the wait.
As if degrading two workers
who make less money than a fish
would help the ill-prepared
present their ducks, nice and tidy.
The woman behind me
with the bald headed husband
shrieks aloud that her brother-in-law is awful
at navigating Concord.
“I bet he couldn’t even find
the hospital.”
“Is she on the way?”
“I’m not sure; he never knows
where he is going.
Have you ever seen him drive?”
I draw in the cramped air
one last time, before watching
as wife and husband storm away
crying; probably off to find the hospital.
And even though their loss
is tragic, nothing to brush off
every one of us in line
lets our shoulders shrug in relief
as the line lessens by two.
Now, an older couple
who have been standing in this line
longer than any person
in any store, in any country
both show matching creases
falling from the corners of their mouths.
They don’t express
this inherent anger openly;
they seem certain
that it would not really change anything.
Now, you see you are
the last person to be accounted for:
plain black t-shirt, plaid jacket
blue jeans and navy shoes.
There is something here
you think, just as
an enormous man squeezes by you
ever so slightly making contact
brushing against
belly upon belly
as the thought
drifts stubbornly away.
Oh, and the worst part of all:
of course, of course, of course.
To top things off, right
there are these little signs
hanging from the ceiling, which read;
“Check cashing:
enjoy our enhanced approval process.”