He was a writer. That is what he told people who asked what he did. Although he said it was what, no who he was. He said he wanted to be the sort of person that Stalin feared, a man of ideas, maybe someday, in an Alexieian world, charged with a crime of holding an audience hostage with the idea of a gun. But he knew somewhere along the way, the weapon would have to be fired. That was Chekov’s rule and he was one to obey the great writers.
Someone suggested that
it is certain if you fall
into a black hole you will be
crushed well beyond diamond.
Not exactly a fate I’d want,
but that person added
that time elongates as you
go through the event horizon.
If I understood him correctly,
death is instantaneous but
that instant will seem quite long
as you verge on your death.
I could live with that, I suppose
although with my luck I would
irritate my sciatica before entry
and suffer its pain with no Advil.
You ask me to define what family is
and I tell you that I may be
the last person you want
answering that question, I
an adoptee who felt like
an orphan supplanted
by siblings who knew her womb.
But I do have an answer,
family is that insane person
who will drive six hours
to spend an hour with you,
family is the joy and aching
of your heart as they leave,
a bit of themselves remaining
deeply within your soul.
At some point in each call
to a customer service representative,
or worse still technical assistance
which is a painful oxymoron
in and of itself, I pause and wonder
how the conversation might go
if I could reach through
the ether of the phone
and grab the script.
Would the voice on the other end
suddenly become attached
to a person, ripped
from its computer home?
Would that person engage
in pleasantries for a bit
before telling me that I should
go to the website where
I will inevitably learn that
there is nothing they can
or will do for me? And why
is a call to my local doctor
garbled, but my computer
voice in India is crisp, clear
if never fully intelligible?
It is a strange feeling to discover that you
have been made a liar by your own DNA.
For years I was Jewish to the core, half
at least Sephardic, Portuguese, and that
not merely extracted but fully blooded.
My diet at Passover expanded greatly,
no longer dictated by Northerners who
easily banned that which they did not grow.
But inquisitiveness got the better of me,
and I learned, and disbelieved, that only
half of me was Jewish, half a polygot
of other faiths, no Sephardic in sight.
It wasn’t as painful as you might imagine,
for I had given up my Judaism well
before the discovery, so what was lost
was no longer mine by claim or right.
It is strange feeling to discover that you
have been made a whole person by your DNA.
What were you doing
three days ago
and what will you do
three days from now.
Are you the same person now
as you were, will be?
While your face in the mirrorKoan
seems much the same
each day you die a bit
each day you are reborn.
A thousand days
a thousand years
a passing moment,
how do they differ?
A reflection on Case 68 of the Iron Flute Koans
As you look at him or her
do you see someone with
a beauty you only wish you had,
or someone you pity
for lacking your beauty?
As they look at you
do they see someone with
a beauty they only wish they had
or someone they pity
for lacking their beauty?
When I look at either of you
I see a person like myself, feel
neither jealousy or pity
for in those emotions
the moment is truly wasted.
Anger is an unruly beast,
slinking around out of sight,
bit always present on the periphery.
What is remarkable is that anyone,
anything might become its prey,
and no one will know until the moment.
But, and it is a significant but, when
it is a person who is the target,
the lurking anger can be shunted aside
if you simply stop and consider
that the person who offended, who
you wish ill, could quite easily
fail to wake up tomorrow, meet
a speeding car in an intersection today,
or forget to turn off the gas stove.
The Hawaiian language has 12 letters
which is important to understand
particularly if you consider writing
an apostrophic poem, not to a person
or thing, but to a letter of the alphabet.
It might help to explain why Hawaiian
poets never write about zoology or
the role that zygotes play in life, and
leave zymurgy to the haoles, for
native Hawaiians prefer a linear
life, free of endless zigs and zags
I don’t imagine I will try and learn
Hawaiian any time soon, although
with twelve letters, I’d have an easier
time of it than Russian, say, but nor
will I write an apostrophic poem
to the letter Z although I will open
a bottle of zinfandel to honor it.
On the razor edge of dreams
the periphery of consciousness
a face appears, and I am left to wonder
who this person is, who he might be.
At first he is a child
with a pixie cut, a bowl placed
over the head, the bangs cut
without considering the face peering out
and others peering in.
But, as sleep washing the last
sands of consciousness out
to the sea of Morpheus,
the face morphs and
it is Science Officer Spock
who is peering back at me,
his ears pointed to the heavens
reminding me, as I slip
into Morpheus’ orbit
that I can yet
live long and prosper.