THE SUN SETS BEFORE IT CAN RISE
At a smalltown in Idaho
sitting in the sun
we met a sunburned man.
Squeaky shoes from 20 years ago,
unmatched socks and crewcut hair.
Paints scorched and flaked in the sun.
We could tell he lived in a cheap way
by the "retired" license plate and grey-white
porch, the ancient house and weeds decorating
the front lawn.
He was a teacher to us.
Slowly - far away from no. 2 pencils
and math books -
He explained loneliness.
CRAMMING FOR THE CALCULUS TEST I see the pigeons on the track rising, circling. I can almost see the words their wings etch in the sky. The grey light in dawn forces my eyes back to the ground before I stumble in the almost slick mud. Seagulls scream frustration at morning-coated lawn and laugh sincerely when they realize that I am the one who must sit in endless rows of pale desks while listening to a recorded yellow voice of a teacher reciting endless rows of empty facts. My feet walk up the path to the parking lot and white sunshine breaks through, a freed prisoner. A sudden buzzing caw behind me, my eyes open to my empty room, My hand slammed on the snooze. 3-27-90
THE ROAD OFF CEMETERY
"A place is yours when you know
where all the roads go."
-Stephan King
To escape the whimpering house I rode
in Wendy's car and we explored
the rest of the roads around our
"place". The moon rose like the clock
on a classroom wall, and the sky
faded like a sun-bleached poster.
The perspiring tress waved goodnight
and a lighter dark stretched before us.
We honked and waved at unsuspecting joggers
caught in the headlights' gaze,
Then we laughed and wished for an eternity
and a full tank of gas.
Time is stubborn,
and when my alarm clock screeched
I forgot
where the roads all go.
9-22-89
There's a story behind this poem, that may get told eventually. For now, just think Thelma and Louise.
THE NEW NIGHTMARE
It walks when doors don't slam
It doesn't come through the TV antenna
It leaves before Kent and Allen
come on KPLZ every morning.
It has no name
It hates life more than death
It writes with a black pen
on black paper.
It is alien to white lights
It is a friend to fast cars
and late-night visits
It is already here.
I don't know what to say about this one, except maybe: can you guess what the new nightmare is?
while LISTENING TO ROD STEWART ON KUBE
13 MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT ON A
TENSE SUMMER NIGHT
A slanted moonbeam slides in the window
but is drowned in my eyes by the red tinted
flashlight. Camp Lockamora waits
five days away; when I get there
Moonbeams will shine, not slant.
I wish I could catch those thoughts
that fell into whirlpool dreams before
the paper was ready for words. The pen
makes a shadow where it touches the page.
I hate memory.
It echoes up time. My life is the chalkboard
that was scratched by accidental diamonds;
the marks screech on. Stars through the open
window sit like splattered smears of paint
glowing in drops.
I want to shut the radio, but I can't reach
the dial. A breeze sneaks through the room
and closes over my light.
I must end this poem
because I am running out of page
and the red
hurts
my
eyes.
I actually wrote this one exactly when the title says I did, by the light of a flashlight that had a red filter so it wouldn't destroy my night vision. I used to wake up in the middle of the night with poetic thoughts raging through my brain, trying to get out onto a page, but I very rarely actually tried to write them down.
LANDLOCKED IN A NIGHTMARE
Infinity is not a car, but
a fallen number eight
that takes practice to write.
Delta is not a river, but
an equilateral triangle
that summarizes life.
Equal is not a philosophy, but
two horizontal lines
that don't always work.
Ah! For the simplicity of an equation, the clean, pure lines of mathematics! The numbers that always come out the same, if not sensibly. Why did I ever choose the creative path, when I could've been happy as a number-cruncher?
I'D RATHER BE AN EVERGREEN
undefined edges of
rough lines reach
their skinny fingers,
sweep away the
hazy fog, and reach the sun.
THE FINAL DAY IN AN ALEXANDRIA HOTEL WITH FRIENDS
A cold dream trickled down the side of a cliff
and drifted into an ancient pond.
I packed a shirt into a silence,
lifted my eyes to the window where scratching
in the night disturbed our gossip.
The others passed it off as the wind sneaking
through a crack, but I knew
it was a poem waiting to be let in.
We spread toilet paper all around the room
and wrapped Hiroko in a heavy quilt - Indian squaw style.
the air conditioner allowed that.
When they left to the dance I promised to
end up there - but sleep won a war of priorities.
I spent the last of my D.C. spending money on
Katie's birthday present, but I knew the card
and pink pen couldn't supply friendship that
could last High School's competition.
I tossed another shirt into the suitcase
and realized that my only gains from the trip
were fading friends - and a chance to say,
"I've been there."
The summer after I got out of Middle School, right before I entered High School, I went on a trip to Washington D.C. with a group of fellow students from my Middle School. It was a strange trip, and I often wish I hadn't gone. Among other things, I learned that I hate Washington State Sen Slade "Skeletor" Gorton, who ignored the "children" and told me to "go play" because I wasn't voting age. Well, Slade, I am now.
One problem with the trip was that all of my room-mates were going to a different High School than me. I saw Katie once more, three years later. She'd gone halfway to Hell, and was still heading down. But I never saw any of the others. I hope they fared better than her.
BUT IT WAS ONLY MEMORY
The pen pushed against
the black ink-stained hand
that wrote the typewriter words
one the white bone
paper.
The glove surrounded
the shaking hand
that threw the snowball
at the car then ran
into oblivion.
The desk supported
the sweating hand
that beat the class
in a fifth grade round
of dodgeball.
The hand closed the door
as I walked away.
WALK TOWARD THE BRIGHTEST DARK
I write to see the
Images that burn at the
Forest of my brain.
I write, blazing icy
Trails under silent ogre
Trees, to learn what
I can't read, the stuff
that hides under bushes of
Mathematical equations
And won't show itself to me.
I write a
picture for myself to look
Back upon, for when I get lost
On the wrong path,
Or don't know who my
friends are.
I write so I won't forget
Dreams of checkered flags and
Racing slugs. Forests of
Waving thoughts hide my hopes
From myself until I might want to cut them
Down.
And become average.
NONWISHES FROM MIDDLE STUDENTS
We used a blue balloon for
soccer while the director
was in his office.
I thought about nuclear warheads
As a spitball flicked past my clarinet.
We were playing WE ARE THE WORLD when
Mr. Rosenquist went to call the
Principal because of our obnoxious drummer.
A pencil whirled, and bounced off the wall.
The future revealed a football field,
a Renton Stadium half-time show,
where I marched in toy soldier routine.
I saw mushrooms as the
chalkboard moon was softly erased.
The band kept playing.
Mr. Rosenquist was my seventh grade band director. He retired that summer, partly because he was sick of scenes like the (true) one described above. We were a bit of an animal house. The next year, eighth grade, we got Mr Johnson, the best band director in Renton, and the best director I've ever had. The man was a genius, and compared to Rosenquist's hissy fits, a saint.
There is a song with the line "The Leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old" or something like that. Whenever I hear that song, I very strongly remember Mr Johnson. If I have an idol who was a teacher, he is the man.