No Cartoon

Forge
A
Million
Intricate
Links
Yet
Maintain
A
Newness

Cracked Earth

When I let my hand climb,
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me,
as if my love,
they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter's hands.

A habit of mind,
a cerebral confluency,
a found form,
an uncovered order,
dots connected,
a song of spokes
whirring radiant
round an unseen hub;
a blasted intersection
of seeming unrelated themes
perhaps akin to the naming of constellations.


Face among faces, arm among arms,
fingers among a phalanx of foreigners
and the flux of young employees
at the neighborhood cafe
performing the rote manipulations
at the hissing espresso bar.


A flash of abused cuticles
centered my unfocused eye,
a tattoo (somewhat subtle),
the boho jewelry and my
immediate imagination is
artist, artisan, painter, potter.
Potter; yes, potter.


And I could see it,
the long leg pumping
the potter's wheel about,
caked fingers into the water bowl dipped,
the spinning surface slickly shaped
beneath the deft, earth-knowledge
of her dedicated digits.


That same week I found myself
prowling 'mongst Neruda translations,
audibly gnashing my teeth
at the persistent presence
of some so bewilderingly bad
yet extant 'mid their better brethren.


I presented Los Versos del Capitan
to a lady but just familiar
with the name behind the
now interred Chileans tectonic talent.


Completely unpredicted,
a fortnight aftreward,
the way she moved,
seemed to turn and grow,
flushflowerflutterform,
beneath my dumb-struck,
love-numbed hands...


so shockingly so that
reaching into my pocket,
ponying up for a cappuccino
some shattered weeks later,
wincing then waggling
my own ragged fingers,
that same barrista
expressed her sympathy,
noted nonchanlantly that,
as a maker of jewelry,
she suffered similarly,
which tripped my wierd-wired mind,
sent a tremor through my marrows.


The merest, remotest reminders
(much less direct recollections)
of that sosculptedsmooth mocha hip,
that fine, scared, wide-eyed,
fertile daughter from twixt
whose supple lips my name
will slip no more and
beneath this breastbone(sudden)
shifts that eccentric
four-vaulted fault.


Not potter but artisan.


Nice, I guess,
that the instincts are
still somewhat intact.

Hieroglyphic Grovel in Driveway Gravel Found

Sleep not, sweet-supple sylph.
We know by heart by now
these supplicant stabs and scratches,
which are my best hand,
cannot rewrite the wrongs
in seconds quickly sewn
and by the clock compounded.


And though my heart to you belongs
neither will the keen edged lilt of songs
unwound beneath Orion's bright-brave belt
jolt the heart's asynchrony aright.

Let me yet conspire to cajole,
from your broad repertoire of joy,
a single, winsome grin again.

For old Time's unslaked march
might somewhat abate
if I should fling a fearless,
Spring-swollen river
of ink stained paper-poem planes
into the dew-damped,
sullen nights moonspilled cup.

Unskein that oft invoked thread,
your precious patience, dearest;
let grow a silken smile
about your gen'rous mouth,
forget the syncopes
which afflict this brain,
and 'scape these slack lips.

See? The night, she skitters,
falls and trips into the day...
So let me feel, once more,
forgiveness play angelic
through your fingers’ tips
while a well attended
sun wakes brightly up.

Candymen, Cufflinks and Cards

A 1993 New Yorker mag ad for khakis,
Sammy Davis in the Nevada desert,
an acrobat dancer's heel-clackin leap,
arms extended, all lines aligned,
alive, communicating, correct-
a perfect instant of unmitigated dash.



Ahh, sweet Sammy.
Candy Man. Sportin' Life.
Mixed it all with love,
made the world taste good.



This I think by way of an ad
for the unseen Barton/Depp version
of Dahl's Willie Wonka.
It inspired me to revisit the '71
Wilder incarnation of the candy-man
in a world of pure imagination;
the origin of that sun-drenched song
I've just learned to play and sing.

The nineties;
I'd been promoted, then-
serially invited to
a slew of weddings
as a dear friend's escort.
The combination led to an era
where I regularly wore
a collared shirt and tie,
often a sportcoat.

A co-worker commented,
" You look good in clothes."
Reminded me of an Updike octatagenarian
who'd reminisced to her rapt granddaughter
'bout her evaporated success with men,
" I'd a good figure, could dance
and I looked good in clothes."

It was about allowing
the idea of clothes
to fall more entirely from me.
Allow/express essential self,
beyond sartorial habitudes,
outgrow an adolescent
anti-establishment
phobia to "dressing up"-
come unbundled of
an immature, reactionary
perhaps fascist fashion sense.

It worked; I think.

I don't think much now,
nor stress, 'bout how I dress;
more than less a good Laertes-

"Costly (my) habit as (my) purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy."

In 2006 San Francisco,
'bout a block from City Lights Books,
I'm having a beer and
thinking bout the Beats;
swarthy Jack in that
same khakis campaign,
BAR in neon spelled behind;
smart, a bit too arrogant,
probably somewhat drunk.

Been standing next
to this dour faced Brit
fifteen minutes and
haven't met his eyes
much less uttered a word
his silence seeming quite closed.

I lift my glass, say,
" Cheers, mate."

"Cheers.
What YOU dressed up for?"

"Nothing, mate. Nothing."

Unthinkingly dressed in
black blazer,white oxford and khakis,
I listen as young musicians
(mostly otherwise ignored)
produce competent,
pleasant music: Jazz.

The TV's on,
several men are seated,
hunched and huddled
about a felt-topped table,
playing high stakes poker
on the sports channel.
Professional flicker of eyes,
forcefully flattened aspects,
close cupped hands guarding cards.

Sport?

Polonius was pompous,
comical, tragical, tragi-comical,
bound, doomed and destined
for an early date with dust-
but his fatherly advice was sound.

"Rich not gaudy"
"Tender yourself more dearly"

I've naught to do with cufflinks.
The Ratpack likely did;
The Beats? Likely not.

I don't want to win
the million dollar pot,
calculate the odds,
compete, make the bluffs,
take the pains.

I don't play it close to the vest,
(sure, call me chump)
nothing up these sleeves
save arms replete
with blood-plump veins.

Every time
I lead with hearts,
my one,
my only,
always, trump.

BART ( Embarcadero to MacArthur)

Though there are vacant seats I stand.
Must be the nostalgic straphanger in me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

No "Poetry in Motion" here,
but I do spy
an eye grabbing poster.
A warning.
(Think Madrid)
A pair of alert, roving eyes
against a plain white backdrop,
nary a lip nor a nose.
In bold above- Bomb Detectors.

A young man sporting
a balaclava and a hoodie
'neath his coat boards.
(It’s 48 degrees: God Bless these Californians.)
He seats himself to the rear of the poster.
I watch his eyes dart about.

I glance at the poster,
then back at Boy Balaclava,
then back again...
a second man sits between he and the poster,
this guy with a facial pigment anomaly-
not sure if I’ve seen the like before;
like an inverted raccoon;
he's light chocolate with a
pinkish melanin absence about
the eyes, nose, mouth and hands.

Poor guy.

My camera is in my bag,
the three together
is interesting, arresting almost-
but I don’t have the stones for it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Since I'm in a good mood,
(having played guitar
and sung the day's middle away
in a Cannery Row plaza
with Dash, a guy with an eye-patch,
a good booming voice, a friendly dog
and a talent for wry songwriting)
when I see the button and speaker
which allows one to communicate
with the conductor
I am oh-so tempted
to press it and say...
" I just wanted to thank you-
the ride is smooth,
everyone appears to be
content and secure.
No terror here, Captain!
No sir, we're a chipper crew!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the el section now
(West Oakland)
a tube of lip moisturizer’s
been left behind,
it's rolling around
in a vacant seat
near the door.

Almost dapper,
a trench-coated black man enters
singing Willie Nelson sotto voce,
“ To all the girls I’ve loved before…”
spots the lolling, left-behind object,
leans over to investigate,
is fingering the tube
when I elevate my eyebrows
and say in a hyperbole of disbelief,
“Used Chapstick? Daaay-um!”

We both smile.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am looking now
at the container cranes
which line the East Bay shore.

Stark, strange, white girders
startling against the grayblue setting sky.

Ingenuity unleashed.

The machinations of man
gird the world.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Nearly twenty years ago
I was on a Manhattan bound LIRR,
hurtling through the borough of Queens
with my brother and nephew.
The tyke's brilliant locks
were something to behold.
Pull a ringlet, let it go
and it would recoil
into it's most perfect
corkscrew pig-tail, anew.

Out the window,
whizzing by in a sprawling
cacaphony of color are-
junkyards, alleys, avenues,
women, kids, buildings,
streetlights, men, storefronts,
garbage, graffitti, cars, flags,
trucks, lamposts, fire hydrants...

Desiring he should,
in a Whitman-like list,
name what he saw
I innocently asked-

" What do you see?"

He seemed puzzled,

" I see all things."

* * * * * * * * * * *

I've kept her waiting,
my friend's curbside,
listening to Cesaria Evora
in her warm Honda.

I hasten guiltily toward it
wanting to jot a note or three.

As I fussily extract pen and paper,
some aged detritus from my
heavy coat's deep pockets
is liberated...

it flutters earthward,
resembling,
oddly enough,
uncooked oatmeal.

Heirloom

Reared without kindness,
poured out into the warped world,
some write while most wrong.