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TOO WAY BACK MACHINE
Platform shoes, velourNehru jackets, what the hellwere we thinking, and pinkvelour, seriously, for men. At least it was Hendrix, Byrds,and not Pat Boone and AndyWilliams, almost the deathof music as we know it. Reefers were evil, told us so,and when we figured out it waspot, we begged to differ, frequentlybetween hits on the bong, after…
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GRANDCHILD
You more easily rememberthe birth of a grandchildthan his or her parent whether from a memorysharpened by ageor regular sleep or by a visionmore acute for knowingwhat to look for, or simply a clingingtightly to any symbolof youth denied you. It may be as wellthat grandchildren seeyou differently than parents a hope for a long…
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TREPIDATION
I approach it slowly, overcomeby fear and desire, warned to stepcarefully over the uneven earththat on this hillside haven set behindthe rusting wrought iron fence , itsmaster lock dangling askew, peersout through the trees to the Kanawha riverflowing unknowingly through the valley. The stone is set in line with the others,neatly incised, a name, Englishand…
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OLD SCHOOL
How much better off would we beif every poet and wanna be werecompelled to write using only paperand a quill pen dipped regularlyinto a small glass inkwell? You must wonder if we would seemore elegance, villanelles, sonnets,and the other forms now lying jumbledin the great literary waste bin. What would we discover if leftto our…
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NATURAL LOGIC
Nature has a way of applyinga perfect logic that eludesits most complex creatures,we claiming to be first among them. Nature grants the houseflya quite short life, but allows itto see a thousand images at once,a lifetime of vision in mere days. The tortoise is consigned to crawlalong at a laggard’s pace, outrunby other animals, who…
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ME ME
Coming soon perhapsbut hard to saychoose carefully a moment whenmeme andavatarmerge and youcease to exist or exist twiceand whichyou isreal is leftto others but that youis immortalnow unlessbeset bya magneticcatastrophe, butyou’ll likelybe ashes andshould notgive a damn.
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ON THE WALL
Each morning, once I have completedthe often unpleasant task of draggingmyself from the womb of blankets, I makemy appearance in front of the mirror. I stare closely into it, and am unsurprisedto find it returning my stare,and on every occasion, I noticethat the mirror has once againchosen to wear the same clothes as I,albeit not…
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A LOST PEN
I wrote a poem for my father,about how one afternoonthe oddly green ’57 Caddyappeared in the drivewayand he polished its chrome for hours,even waxed the black bumper bullets.It was the love of his lifehe said, except for his wife,he added after a moment.The years would provethat addition was most likely false.I could send him the…
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INTIMATIONS OF MORTALITY
It is easier to think about deathon a wintery evening, when so muchof life slips into stasis, and there isnothing to do but concede your mortality,and with good fortune, then slipinto sleep before being lostin a sea of depression. I must be thankful for my dreamsfor they keep the night from becomingthe little death of…
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PERCUSSION
After years of going to live jazzI’ve honed my skills to a fine level.I still know next to nothingabout the intricacies of the music,five years of classical piano andI barely understand Bach and Mozart. But I know where to look, whobears watching in the combo,and it isn’t the trumpeter, hewith his ballooning cheeks, someclownish bellows,…
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an old writer and his words 