The Rank Black

I have a pistol here, by this heart of mine
And you don't think I will but I just might
Gonna keep it close, you will see
That it's not for you, it's just for me

The rank black in all sunrise
And look-aways from lonely eyes
Desperation goes unsung
A crowded room that weighs a ton

The flat land where winter tries
To chill the earth until it might
Be hard enough to take me in
With arbor kill and violins.

Nabi

you don't know what it is


no you don't know what it is

what we're waiting for
patiently waiting for
what we're waiting for
what we're waiting for…..

now, what would make you want a dream like that?
and what do you keep under your hat?
and you may be one of many or you may be more intact
but no one's going to tell you and that's a fact




i don't know why you called
we've been through this before
you're just a little worried, that's all
a little lonely....

and
you don't know what it is
you don't know
no, you don't know
no, you don't know
what it is


BUT
you stood right here and wished that god would set you clear
and then----then----then
you prayed so i could hear,
said that was the gift.


now darkness comes in threes
so it's you, your sister and me
and

there's enough to make amends but not enough to make us friends
you, your sister and me.

still, you don't know what it is
the faithful failing kiss
and the gypsy, moribund, hanging by his charm
and this D 55 which always comes alive
but you don't know it....

so, you won't go there for awhile
you've got no grace, you've got no style
now, if you have the truth, well, i'd love to see the proof
but you just stand there and act aloof


and
and
and

and you don't know what it is
you're still dreaming your way out of all of this


but you have the right so, be here by sunday night
just don't tell a soul that he died
i said don't tell a soul that you lied




i said don't
tell
a
soul
that you
















tried.

The Luther Lockwood Memorial Library

the luther lockwood memorial library:

under direct influence of the working class, joe pug and troy new york.

living in the shadow of something there is lenno's luther. tall, gaunt with a keen eye for the space he needs and where the ball can be played. curly, matted hair with a little sweat around the edges and a knee brace that feels a little like cheating. what you get, what you've got is the steady hand of decision making in the middle of the field and the distribution to the fleet footed and hard workers.

the crazies.

they're here, they're queer and we're getting used to it.

an every day occurrence and the ongoing assessment won't stop, no you don't stop. the coffee is cold and there are enough sticks in the yard to turn your stomach and to get you stuck up a tree.

she said it was a trudge, that with her there were fits and starts but with me it seemed like an everyday battle through the trench where there was no such thing as lifting your knees above the flatline-putting some distance between yourself and the past.

knees up mother broon....

when you figure it as choice over chance, the pressure increases. if you are in control then you are responsible. there is no more blame to place or credit to defer. there is only you and the more more you seek-the more you're sought.

travel is as tiring as you might think if you've ever rushed right along to the waiting. that's the part that you can't escape. nobody's timing is perfect and a phone call, a train whistle on a morning filled with characters and ankle pain.

it's starting to get away from us you know.

yes, i do.

the checklist, the letter writing, the griefandtheloss, the blackandthebroon.

there's also skittering along the rails and hoping i can talk gee into taking me to get something to eat.

and,"it is important throughout your life to proclaim your joy…"

That is all I see

there is always another mountain,

there is always another hill

there is nothing left of wishing

that can change all of it still

Your Obsession is Waiting

what do you do when the things that you've counted on for so very long don't work anymore?

i have been putting off so many things that i just don't feel like doing.

and now, it's just time.

time to do such things or leave them all behind.

little things add up to bigger things.

and even the little things in the distance are getting bigger and bigger.

like a shopping list the things tick out:

get organized
buy soap
fix the sink
give things away
sell things on ebay
go through the files
throw most of that shit out
get rid of the baggage
call the important ones
stop taking calls from the ones that aren't important
read music
think freely
speak honestly
enjoy beauty
laugh
play guitar
stop getting talked into things
live
love
stop hesitating
tell them
don't live in songs
call her
nevermind
make plans
keep promises
take risks
make a plan
stick to it
don't take yourself, or anyone else, for granted
tell them
sing
louder
smile
harder
cry
even if you just want to
think
clearer
work smarter
forget about "things"
don't worry about circles
take it to heart
then you can feel it
then
tell them
see if they'll tell you back
don't let her do that to you
don't let her
friend is not a four letter word
love is
the biggest mistakes are the "human-est" kind
and we all make them
make more decisions
don't worry if they're not perfect
don't worry when you're not perfect
you're not
neither is she
despite the bright and the shining
wait
something good will happen
move
something good will happen
try
something good will happen
think
something good will happen
feel
something good will happen
smile
something good will happen
sing
something good will happen

Religion and Philosophy

i used to think that home was the woman
the one that let you lay in the crook her arm and talk about bob dylan
the one who was smart enough to think i am funny and
wise enough to tell me when to shut up
beautiful enough inside and out to make the other someones fade away
and strong enough to carry the both of us, if only at times

then i found out that some home is songs
songs that are so tangible you can hang your hat, or heart, on them.
songs that are a hand hold on a rock climb whether you are playing them or just listening
songs that give you a reason when there is no other reason
songs with a lyric or melody so perfect that you pour it into your heart on the hundredth listen as much as you did the first time.

and, by then, i knew that some home was these people
that you love of choice and not of obligation.
that's a different kind of home, but still an important kind
the kind of home that says, i will take you to the airport or the oral surgeon or the laundromat or the bikeshop or jamestown or starbucks or where ever you need to go.
the kind of home that calls you friend from behind a counter she can barely see over or leaves you a small brown bag of pastries just because he knows you like them. or sends a reply even though it's late because he knows you need it or hugs you when he sees you, or anytime you want him to.

and even though home might be where you're from
maybe it's more like where you're coming from
and that part is wide open.

Hope

“Why did you stand there after we spoke? What were you looking for?” He asked

She smiled.

“I thought you would like to see the side of my back” she replied.

He thought about it for a second, “Do you mean your backside?”

“Is that how you say?”

He smiled. “That is how you say.”

For the past two weeks he was unable to think much of anything besides the word “Julia.”

Life is a collection of very small moments and the one which had captured his mind was a short conversation he’d had two weeks ago climbing out of the pool. She was there as often she had been, squinting at everything.

Finally he had spoken to her. It was not much more than a hello but it evolved into a quick little “what do you study/are you Chinese/where are you from?”

She squinted responses of:

“English”

“No” and

“Korea, South Korea. I am here to study English.”

Her English was stilted but still far better than his Korean.

He didn’t think much of it until it was time for the pool to close and all were gathered around the lifeguard retrieving the ID cards that are required for admittance to the giant pool of sickly chlorine blue.

She moved with purpose, first toward the aluminum bleachers and then, bright red towel in had and white-rimmed glasses in place- she approached him directly. So much so that he was taken back a bit.

“My name is Julia!” Her voice was excited and pointed. She thrust her hand forward and gripped his firmly as he said, “Henry.”

They walked toward the locker rooms together with chitchat and smiles. They both felt an ease that was too soon to comment upon.

So, each day he found his way to the pool armed with a giddy hope that he’d see her.

The first week passed and he thought of how his world was rife with instant gratification and pushed that sense down.

The next week passed and he was finding too much of a frown. Did she go back to Korea?

Finally he walked through the doors and saw her swimming. Her blue and tan suit that was just a bit too small. Just enough to show a little more than she probably should have. It was enough to catch a fella’s eye, that’s for sure.

It caught his eye, over and over again.

It had been a seemingly long time, more than two weeks, but his hopes were not dimmed. His hopes were bright. She seemed to exude energy directly to him. That was a strange part. He swam more quickly knowing she was in the pool. He felt better rested, better prepared even.

He carefully watched as she left the pool and approached his lane. He flagged her down.

“Julia!” he smiled.

“Oh! Hello! I have not been here for two weeks!” she said.

“I know, I know” he replied.

The niceties passed back and forth and she squatted to speak to him. The guys in the lane next door were perplexed as to why she stopped and why she stayed. They chattered in Chinese to one another and she shot them a quick look after a while. She smiled easily and stared into his eyes. He was trying to force himself to ask her out, “just say the words,” his brain screamed. But nothing but politeness and she eventually excused herself. She stood a few feet away, her back toward him and lingered.

He daydreamed she wanted him to look.

He looked.

He stared.

He memorized.

The next time he wouldn’t hesitate to ask.

Wit and the meaning of life.

I watched a film called “Wit” recently. It was a heart felt jerker of the tears. I watched in an uncomfortable conference room where the chairs roll on the slick, wooden floor whether you want them to or not. It was a room full of interesting and diverse people who were unified in the single thought that this film could not end soon enough. Now, that’s not to say that the film didn’t affect any of us as we hoped for time to speed up. Quite the contrary, I witnessed this wide group of almost 40 get sucked into the issues of the film. There were a few who checked out in the first few minutes but most of them came back as Emma Thompson laid out her character’s misery. It is certainly worth watching and even more worth discussing. The reason being that there comes a point toward the end where, knowingly or unknowingly, director Mike Nichols and company answer the question “What is the meaning of life?”

I find it hard to imagine that a man as shrewd as Nichols was unaware of that moment in the script and later the film where Thompson chucks a life’s worth of work dissecting John Donne in favor of a popsicle and the kind touch of a fellow human being. There is no sex or even romance attached to the touch and that may very well be the point. The scene is simple, straightforward and exceedingly powerful. The point made, or the one that I got, is that the meaning of life is kindness, full stop. That’s all there is to it really. Be kind to your fellow travelers. No amount of speculation as to what Donne meant by anything he wrote could replace kindness, especially in a time of need. Further speculation on how (or if) Joyce wrote densely to vex literary critics or if Rothko meant his blocks of color as landscapes is even less useful.

The moment wasn’t properly discussed amongst the crowd of semi-strangers who were in such a hurry for minutes to turn to hours since discussion of this provocative point would only further delay the very event we were all hoping would arrive. In retrospect, nothing could have been further from the truth. Discussion was inevitable and should have certainly included this particular point. We spent time talking about how healthcare and research do not have the same goals and how, too often, a willing participant in a study is akin to one of Mr. Wonka’s golden tickets. That is an extremely valid point and both Christopher Lloyd and Jonathan M. Woodward do a wonderful job showing the ugly side of the eagerness to solve medical problems. But, the point just isn’t as big as the meaning of life. I would have enjoyed the ensuing argument of how it cannot be that simple and how there is inherent value in intricate work whether it is medical research or literary study. I haven’t a qualm with the latter point but take serious issue with the former.

Why can’t it be that simple?

What is wrong with simple?

Perhaps a group of approximately forty semi-strangers isn’t the best forum to discuss the meaning of life. Or, more likely, it is the perfect forum for such things. I think of what a young friend once told me when I invited her to go swimming. She explained that in her culture it would not be acceptable for her to go swimming with a man who is not her boyfriend (or husband) since he will then see her body covered only by “very small amounts of clothing.” I pointed out that the pool we would meet to swim is a public place where we both swim fairly often and that there are many people who have seen and will see her in “very small amounts of clothing.” She responded by saying that it was okay for them to see her because “they don’t know me.” This is why discussing the meaning of life with semi-strangers would be ideal. The relative anonymity of the situation would create greater amounts of honesty. The final aspect worth mentioning about the swimming situation is that when I did see this young woman at the pool we both pretended that we did not know each other out of deference to her culture and/or her boyfriend. It’s just another highly amusing entry in the cross-cultural divide.

But, we did not discuss the meaning of life. We spoke about the heroism of Audra McDonald’s character, Susie. Susie was the dispenser of the kindness in question and the antithesis of the researchers. She was the easy-going, uncluttered conscience of the film. She understood that it could be that simple. I didn’t realize until I looked up the film on IMDB that McDonald had played that role. I was familiar with her as a singer.

Before you start to think that kindness is all that there is in the world I’d like to explain what spurred me to even write this. It’s not a happy thought, nor is it kind. It’s a frightening thought, in fact.

I am willing to accept the hypothesis that kindness is ultimately to what we should aspire. My fear is simply that I have experienced kindness from either end and while I find it to be a wonderful thing I do think I may have had my fill. Not in the sense that I am out to be unkind but more to the point that if this is the meaning and if I feel that I have exhausted my enjoyment of it then why continue?

And that is the question.

The flashing lights.

My eyes blink. Every time my eyes blink there is a flash of light. So much so that I have to sometimes keep one eye open to see if I miss the lightning every time my eyes blink.

But it’s not the lightning.

It looks like lightning and it acts like lightning.

So, the train rattles by deep in the night and the lightning subsides in my eyes. I wonder which part transforms the good nights into great nights. The obvious answer might be drink. And it might be the spontaneous kind of drinking that tiny Asian girls do over on McFarland Avenue. I see them there from time to time and it’s always funny to watch them walk home. They tend to forget that home is just across the street and wander around for about five minutes drunk on three and one half cans of Budweiser, feeling no pain. The ascent up the stoop is the fait accompli for them. They are inside before they realize it has taken place.

I know what this means.

The funny thing about this time of year is the flux.

Nothing has ever been as true as a soft voice singing “people come and go” at a makeshift coffee house. The song was unimportant. I was unimportant. But the truth is always important and that particular truth reverberates across hill and dale.

This is the time of flux down by the avenues and up by the brown buildings. Flux brings hope. Hope brings joy and joy brings, well, we can’t rightly say just yet. The big, brown buildings don’t know. They are being scraped and cleaned. They are being prepared for the first act and this flux is merely the second round of rehearsals. The first act can only happen if the big, brown buildings are scraped, cleaned and prepared for that act. They must be prepared for the chill of the autumn and the huge influx of hope.

Hope is a man’s best friend.

Or was that fear?

Never you mind, from where you stand sir, you will find out soon enough.

14 minutes and cold feet.

with little purple shoes

and little purple blues

fourteen to sixteen in one or two strokes.

the rabbit came and the rabbit went

a nightmare for everyone at twenty percent

1.96 miles