Monday, 2/25/2013

The feeling of mundanity
        mostly a sense of blankness,
forgetting. Details detached from memory,
days one into another
     as the lit screen pages of an ebook
     or the interior city of the mind's
cam on every corner 

other cities claim air, things:
Paterson's angular rock faces
the poet standing on a bridge
      reading a letter

San Francisco a city
that nearly broke her
(Oakland's shell casings
    squashed under foot)

Elkhorn, not a city but
a series of detours around
the wetlands
to keep you from sinking into mud
       Found an old photo dropped
       by the roadside, naked brown-ass
booty shot
and she grinning

that was not today, but a day when
breathing the air was full of cottonwood
fluff, scratched out lottery tickets
possible brush fires
                       gang raids;
horses gnawed the fence posts

Today was other, and not all there
in the midst of cleaning and telecommuting
and even while letting go of objects
from my past--the two brass lamps, the
tape recorder, the yoga mat, 
the business cards, boxes, etc.--

I open a wooden box containing
my father's nail clippers and file, a razor 
blade, a traveler's sewing kit, 
and stow it.

    " the hatches" he once said
    as we left the house...

the world outside
and inside
          a series of posts or stops
read online   and one moves on. a series 
of items   tasks to be completed 
continuum of days and nights
                            and so on    

Random lines from my bookshelf:

As Marat sinks into his bath of blood
as faces becomes one behind a mask
as Christ looks down from his cross at our sextopia
as the face of The Virgin appears on the greasy wall

-- Pete Rugh, "As If," Left Curve 35, p. 47