Start Writing:
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I am looking forward to a fun smart conversation.
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He has shoulders like boulders and is feeling kinda older as he takes another sip of his Jack
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Jack and his boulders
Squeeze Jill too tight when he holds her
Them heroes don’t age
Just a little squirrelly when in a cage
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I loved that hat. It was broken in just right. It was the first hat I received as a pleasant valley hot shot in young Arizona. We each had a seat in the buggy. Some seats even had a screen. I remember smiling. I opened the bug screen in the way to the fire. Wind caught it. It was gone.
I miss that hat.
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“Write a poem,” he said.
Um, what?
How do you write a poem?
And what the hell would I write about?
Geez.
I think with affection of a dog turning in circles before it lies down.
I think of the beauty of green leaves, of diving into them, of swimming in the chlorophyll.
A poem? I think of words, of language, of the wonder of two beings sharing their thoughts, their perceptions, of the bridge between two consciousnesses.
I think of the experiences of so many creatures in the world today and throughout time, living out the richness of their entire lives, language unknown, unneeded, their senses entirely filled in every moment with feeling.
I think of the miracle of words, of how extraordinary that the word “dog” exists, and “leaf,” the infinite behind each of these words, the countless variations of beings and lives and times and sunshine and water and soil and bones within that word, represented by it.
I think what a miracle that the unassuming, almost invisible word “the” exists in the universe.
I think of a darkness pressed into lightness to create a contrast, a letter for my eye to grab onto, for my being to connect with and fill with meaning.
These thoughts must be putting my head into a slightly altered space, because all of a sudden I’m struck by how I’m just sitting here, hardly moving, even though I’m floating above the rain-wet road, moving fast around curves, as I drive the morning route in my school bus. Can you imagine no bus, just me, sitting upright, five feet above the road, moving fast, gliding through the forest, only making tiny motions with my hands and feet? That’s what it feels like.
I don’t usually drive in the morning, but it’s the route I drive in the afternoon, so the kids know me. As I pull up to one of the stops I can see the girl say to her sister, “Oh, it’s Jeff,” when she see me. I can’t hear her, but I can see that’s what she says, and for a moment those silent words connect her and her sister and me, I know what those two girls who I hardly know standing over by that mailbox are looking at and thinking.
I wonder what portion of her day will be shaped around words–hearing them, thinking them, speaking them–and what portion will be her wordless, direct lived experience.
And then I’m driving back to the base, giving another driver a ride, when I see some marks on the dump truck in front of us. These marks have meaning to me, they say, “Do not push.” And I laugh to myself. Has it ever once come up that someone was actually about to push a dump truck but didn’t because of those marks?
I turn to the driver next to me and point out the words. He says he was just thinking of them also because he used to drive a loader, and it actually happened a lot that dump trucks got stuck at the construction sites, so he would help push them out with his loader. He told me that if you line up the loader exactly parallel to the back of the truck, and in the center, you can push it without doing any damage, but if the loader is at even a slight angle or isn’t centered, it can damage the truck, even to the point where the back might not open.
And I’m struck by the secrets shared by those marks and this person.
And now I’m thinking of our distant ancestors who first started using words and creating language, maybe making a sound like “dog,” or a sound like “leaf,” having no way of knowing where it would someday lead, how unimaginable a dump truck would be to them, not to mention the important words on the back of it making sure you don’t push it.
And now I’m thinking that I’m pretty sure I’m stretching what the word poem means to most people. But that I’m going to send the word “Done” a few thousand miles to my buddy by text and call it good.
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nuts are good nuts are tasty
some people describe them as being pasty
but I don’t and I won’t
I’ll eat them all day and into the night
when they’re taken from me, I sit in fright
don’t worry I say
nuts will be back in my life some day
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When you have a broken existence, you just do.
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I’m not sure how such sharing could work. One man and a Pulaski and drink water before you puke.
I’ve tried some late nights and certain women have been fun.
Any way. Here is to my father. I burned his arm in a terrible fodder.
He made me tough and he healed up fine.
I should of went to sleep and bought
a blink. Fuck what a night
need a drink.
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P
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A sight for expression perhaps won and lost
Nothing ventured nothing gained
we all run a course that all seem to see and I think most understand
I enjoy the shout across lines
the feeling when some things are just truth
I’m just enjoying hearing myself talk.
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funny how you go from hero
to fright
Because your morning is the night
Chew our food with the same
bite
sleep ever so tight
however some just don’t feel
it’s right
what fright.
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Lost my brother tonight
happened as a sound that dissipates
The echo I hope is sound
that smile could stop a worry
guess he isn’t worried much now
I didnt get a chance for worry
raise a drink little brother
us stuck in space
space that does
not fill.
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