Day Poem

Twenty 20 (The Last One)

We walked to the end
of the pier, and disappeared into

the thickness of morning
only to appear days later

in black and white and
always: It wasn’t morning

but it is enough to remember it
perfectly as such: We walk

the pier as if it was
a narrow windowsill,

and the last one too.

estuary: that part of the mouth or lower course of a river in which the river’s current meets the sea’s tide

. (eleven)

walking the estuary preserve
bordered by navy property to the east
(demarcated by barbed wire and
blackwhitered warning signs)
and the golddust patrol highway
carved between the border’s triplefenced layers
to the south
it’s so interesting
this natureland place,
which is associated with restoration, respite and peacefulness,
pressing up against sites associated with such violence
i say
it’s violent in there too
he replies
gesturing
from our gravel path
into the swamp meets tall grass meets cacti meets ocean edge
oh yeah
i say
you’re right

Take Fifteen

Day Poem

Nineteen 19

The black rock just visible
through the radio static
fog, the sea erased
in the grey fuzz and
mist: the island
an airship hanging
in this infant year’s
first morning.

little volcanoes of celebration

. (ten)

out the door at twelve fifty something
we get half a block down before we hear it
little volcanoes of celebration
erupting
from house to house
first a few houses to the west
horns
then fireworks in the east
plus plastic/metallic cardboard party horns
and hap-py new year!!! shouts and bellows
somewhere between us
and the park
stars
blinking back
from crisp sky
later
gunshots
into same sky
some southeast
some north
partysounds
providing maps
locating humanity
strung across neighborhoods
there are people in those houses
the map says
and if nothing else
you have this moment in common
with all of them
something cinematic
in moving
from microworld
[dining room
wine flutes
freebox try-ons
carrot butter and multi-seed baguette]
to macro-world
[echos from other micro worlds
like streetlights switching on
just as dusk gives itself over to night
a sense
of looking down
and for a slice of a moment
seeing that things are good]

Day Poem

Eighteen 18

The note we might have left
on the car we inadvertently backed
into: The hills here, I think you’d
agree, they are numerous and infinite
in their treachery, you see, we aren’t
familiar with hills of this tilt and certainly
with settling our cars between other cars
on their steep, and in fact we were extremely
aware of and, indeed, fearful of the real
possibility of such incidents occurring, and,
as perhaps you could understand, it seems
our fear acted as the impetus
for the accident itself, as our friend
had such anxieties about possibly
bumping you that, when he firmly
pressed down on the gas pedal, he
did so in hopes of avoiding rolling slightly
down the hill when transitioning
from a stopped position to a forward
acceleration, but you see, in this weighted
and somewhat panicked state born
only from the desire to not hit your car,
he forgot to first slide the gear shift
from R to D, and hence, instead
of accelerating forward, accelerated
in reverse, and so hit your car, damaging
its headlight and pushing it back down
the hill, leaving it resting with its own
bumper touching now the front bumper
of the car behind it, and yes, we hastily
left that scene after the shudder and bump
of the collision, and yes we laughed and threw
our hoods over our heads and held them
there taught against the frames of our skulls, but
you have no idea how much we talked
about what the right course of action
might be, not only the possible legal
ramifications, but we even appealed
to our own, somewhat elevated, advanced
and we believe admirable,
moral and ethical ideals, but in the end,
after drafting a handwritten note
and revisiting the scene and finding
those two cars touching still and specifically
yours, winking and lopsided up the curb,
decided against leaving the note and instead
wrote this poem that you almost certainly
will never see and even if you did would
leave you at best with a strong suspicion
that it was in fact you in this poem, and really,
this poem isn’t for you at all, perhaps it exists just
for us to clear our consciences, or as a way
of remembering, or even just to laugh, regardless,
we do feel bad, that should count for something. We hope
this doesn’t ruin your New Year celebration, or please,
don’t let it. We didn’t.

Take Fourteen

Day Poem

Seventeen 17 (Towards Alcatraz)

Staring out
the third story flat
window, watching
that revolving light
scrape out the horizon
until its one, immediate
flash falls in perfect
time around my
iris. I stay staring
and around again,
the seal lions barking
at a distance.

another word for fog

. (nine)

four
ice cream parlor chairs
tucked around
a small square table
on our front slab of concrete

here
she tells me
about two developmentally delayed brothers
reminding me
how she once told me
that her father was a violent
man

they were not born with them
but it’s difficult to pinpoint
the origin of the delays
she says
adding something about how they both
have epilepsy
but he came down harder on the boys
she says
because they were supposed to
be ‘real’ men

that’s how i lost hearing in my one ear
she says

age 20something now
living in a care facility
one wears diapers
and does not have the cognition
to engage in verbal dialogue

the other
progessed
to the equivalent
of a 14 year old boy

in the kitchen
we discuss
how violence
contrary to popular belief
might be the norm
but it’s harder to see the normness
since the norm of not talking about it
slips in first
stealth as fog in the quiet of night

Take Thirteen