I don’t think this thing is working.

we need some other way of doing things.

Any ideas?

-MFC’s poem

Suddenly Everything

 

 

The hills mimic—

They settle into themselves.

The ugly faces on the train project

Themselves onto it— The landscape—

So now the moon is disconsolate—

Following us around like a runt sibling. A dwarf memory.

A young man lurches as if the train had braked

Abruptly. Though he is not ill. He has

The demeanor of a wild animal—

The wolf.

Easy to attach mystique to. He is looking out the window.

It is obvious

By the lampblack light of the star pierced sky

And the blue sheen of curving railroad

That he is suffering

A privileged disease.

In his heart he is uttering.

The click of hard wheels amaze

With its complacency.

In its complicity with his prayers—

Chiming with every word.

Those wheels are resolute—

They are hurting—            Prick them.

They whine. Spilling

Stars.               The boy blackens

The evergreen forest with just one sweeping glance.

Oh God he sighs.

The trees snatch shadows and take on new forms.

They swoon.

They have never been more alive— More close

To obliteration.

He clutches at himself.

He sighs.

Something howls. The hills open

With a yawn.                The horses its teeth.

The river its tongue.

It screams.

He begs. He cries out—             If you do not come— all

These things would mean nothing

If you do come all these things would mean nothing.

Suddenly everything—

Disappears.

 

winter on the river Lethe

Her left mitten, the car keys,

meetings, birthdays, the way home,

even you – lost. She has left

it all on the bank like so much baggage.

She’s emptying grain by grain

like a salt shaker, she stands

neck-deep in loss.

 

You visit the nursing home,

and her eyes are a slow drift of ice,

dim now, an unfathoming gray.

She looks past you when you

speak, when you tell about

the new granddaughter, the war, the rosemary

you still tend in her garden.

Her whole mouth thins into a question

you can’t answer. Neither words

nor love will reach her, now.  

They tie her down at night

so she can’t float away.

 

It was worse before she came here.

You’d wake at midnight to a cold bed,

the sunken hollow where she

had been. Always the same thing—

You run downstairs to find her drifting

in the kitchen, naked despite

the season, scouring the cookbooks

for some hint of her own name.

When she sees you, she starts to cry.

Asks you to hold her, whoever you are,

and you do. For over an hour, you do.

 

And over her shoulder you see the television

on the counter, broken but still on.

On the screen—a bright June morning,

a woman laughing under an apple tree,

a yapping black dog. All fading

to snow,

snow,

          snow.

correspondence: norwegian folk cooking

Dear Impresario, the television
told me to live better, so I try.
but I don’t know how, because
the television didn’t say.

I read that to make something tender,                                                                                                                                                    it should be poached. So, I am preparing
a pot for my love. I am rubbing
it with duck-fat and demi-glace.

I have not found a recipe
for commitment, or how to
read moods in the bite of
an apple too sour to eat.
Or how to make the quinces
hanging from the trees, turn sweet.

I tried a recipe for a cake
made from scripture.
I substituted the broken pieces
of your myth, for manna, and
milk instead of wine, but it fell
when I hoped it would rise.

What I’ve lost is the will
to be thin, and so forth.
Six pennies and my favorite hat.
I know that hitchhikers are
the things that make us whole;
the eggs in my batter.

I heard that in Norway,
you can catch a whale
of sadness, if you cut
a potato in half, rub it
with salt and hold it to
your forehead for the
shortest hour. I tried this once,
and its true, but I got only
a narwhals worth, when
I was hoping for blue.

carrie’s poem

a walk home, i live briefly in the basement of a long day

shuffling in navy black boots,
in crow feet’s not properly sealed,
the madness of wet socks.
the wool yarn humming,
becomes a conductor, a sidewalk
hot on the trail of desk lamps,
an explosion of neon ash
and snow is falling again.

across the wintery desert,
of one of jupiter’s tagalong moons.
the madness of wet socks,
the damp braided cable tounge
begins the humming of me
dry, brittle me north-facing the dusk
disappears despite a 100 steps taken towards,
a dawn suddenly died before dawn.

jared’s poem

Baby Blue

The kitchen clock says 5:05.

That means that Dad is late.

I know this because the kitchen clock is how I tell time.

My bedroom clock says 5:01, so I know that it’s

…five minus one equals…

Four minutes fast.

Or four minutes slow.

I don’t know which.

I go back upstairs to my room because that’s where my Terminator action figure is.

 

Through my bedroom window I saw Dad’s baby blue

jaguar rip into the skin

of the neighborhood road,

leap with terrific speed

past the somber 10 mph signs

and screech-brake the length of our driveway.

My fast father,

his car the color of sky, reflecting

an incensed orange ball of sun

as if my father were the world,

encased in sky blue car, like Earth

encased in sky blue sky.

But he was also the wind

driving the sky, too.

Sky.

Sky sky sky sky sky.

The best poets are the most self-deprecating ones, I’ve heard.

 

My dad drives very fast and it scares me.

I run down the grey-carpeted stairs and stop at the front door.

The front door is made of a heavy thick brown wood.

I have to pull very hard,

For very long,

To open it.

So I start working on it before my Dad even gets out of his car

Because I don’t want him to see me struggle

Dad sees me out in the open

Doorway and he knows

I haven’t forgotten about the promise,

And he knows

How important it is to keep a promise.

So he comes inside,

But not before making a joke.

I could never make that man laugh.

I think it’s funny when Dad makes jokes

because Dad is very big.

VERY big.

He works out.

It’s also funny

Because Dad is funny.

 

We walked into the family room and knelt

on either side of the coffee table:

solemn suburban monks.

We each moved

piles of magazines from the varnished off-white table’s center,

and littered its corners

with Vanity Fairs and Peoples and Times and Vogues and together,

big hands and little hands,

we placed the board upon the table

and positioned our pieces.

 

I have never beaten Dad in Stratego.

We play chess or Stratego once every week on whatever day I make him promise to.

Sometimes I beat him in chess

But never in Stratego.

And I try very hard

Because Dad says that if I ever beat him,

He’ll buy me a Nintendo game.

 

I have so many Nintendo games.

I have Regular Nintendo and I have Super Nintendo and I have Sega Genesis,

And I have Road Rash and Sonic the Hedgehog and Super Mario,

And I call them all Nintendo games,

Even though some of them aren’t Nintendo games because they are Sega games

And even though they are all “video games,”

I call them Nintendo games.

I don’t know why.

My mom says that I don’t need anymore Nintendo games

And she says that Dad shouldn’t give me any if I beat him in Stratego

My father is a callow irate child and my mother is a weak submissive neurotic.

But once she came downstairs with me while I played Nintendo,

Because I’m scared to play Nintendo in the basement by myself.

It’s very dark.

I love my mom.

 

Dad takes my One with his Spy and tricks me.

He is very tricky.

“Good game.”

I say that because I am a good sport.

The clock says 6:00.

And I know it’s right:

It’s the kitchen clock.