Neighborhood
Apr 20 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Neighborhood
I don’t know my neighbors.
I don’t know the man next door,
Who mows his lawn every Saturday.
I don’t know the lady up the street,
Who walks two greyhound dogs.
I don’t know the widow,
Who rarely steps outside,
Or the kids who set up
The lemonade stand every week.
I don’t know the politics
Of the guy with the flag on his lawn,
Or the college allegiance
Of the family with signs
That say “Go Buckeyes!”
I don’t know if the family
That dresses well and drives
Off every Sunday
Are churchgoers.
I don’t know the woman
Who walks with a limp
To the bus stop every morning,
Or the guy who strolls by
Every day with a brown paper bag.
I don’t know the couple
Who leave their Christmas tree
Up until April,
Or the woman who gets
UPS parcels three times a week.
I have all these neighbors.
But I don’t know them.
I don’t know my neighbors.
I don’t know the man next door,
Who mows his lawn every Saturday.
I don’t know the lady up the street,
Who walks two greyhound dogs.
I don’t know the widow,
Who rarely steps outside,
Or the kids who set up
The lemonade stand every week.
I don’t know the politics
Of the guy with the flag on his lawn,
Or the college allegiance
Of the family with signs
That say “Go Buckeyes!”
I don’t know if the family
That dresses well and drives
Off every Sunday
Are churchgoers.
I don’t know the woman
Who walks with a limp
To the bus stop every morning,
Or the guy who strolls by
Every day with a brown paper bag.
I don’t know the couple
Who leave their Christmas tree
Up until April,
Or the woman who gets
UPS parcels three times a week.
I have all these neighbors.
But I don’t know them.
Stormy Weather
Apr 20 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Stormy Weather
When those vast Midwestern
Thunderstorms struck
Terror in my boyhood heart,
I figured the lightning bolts
Were all for me,
But God was a bad shot,
Or maybe a sadistic outlaw,
Making me dance with his pistol
Outside the cantina.
It wasn’t until much, much later
That I realized the thunderbolts
Were all for somebody
In the next block
And my guilt revealed itself
As innocence
Gone wrong.
When those vast Midwestern
Thunderstorms struck
Terror in my boyhood heart,
I figured the lightning bolts
Were all for me,
But God was a bad shot,
Or maybe a sadistic outlaw,
Making me dance with his pistol
Outside the cantina.
It wasn’t until much, much later
That I realized the thunderbolts
Were all for somebody
In the next block
And my guilt revealed itself
As innocence
Gone wrong.
Last Race at Churchill Downs
Apr 20 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Last Race at Churchill Downs
My cousin was dying
In a hospital room
Watching his last Kentucky Derby
On TV with a catheter
Hanging out of his dick.
We watched the race together
That April day, me and him.
It was over in a couple of minutes
After all that hype, just like that.
Like life itself. And we looked
At each other
With lame smiles
And parted without saying goodbye.
--
The fourth law of thermodynamics
Says empathy must always increase,
And that love will become disorderly,
Until hearts die everywhere
And the universe is still.
My cousin was dying
In a hospital room
Watching his last Kentucky Derby
On TV with a catheter
Hanging out of his dick.
We watched the race together
That April day, me and him.
It was over in a couple of minutes
After all that hype, just like that.
Like life itself. And we looked
At each other
With lame smiles
And parted without saying goodbye.
--
The fourth law of thermodynamics
Says empathy must always increase,
And that love will become disorderly,
Until hearts die everywhere
And the universe is still.
The S.S. Admiral
Apr 20 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
The S.S. Admiral
The Admiral casino
Is a five dollar whore
Of a riverboat, no engine, roped
To the St. Louis levee
Where the unprivileged class
Shreds paychecks
Into hanging chads.
Numb and cheerless gamblers
Breathe stale smoke
And whisky by the slots,
Where they curse their luck
And stub out cigarettes
On their hearts.
I remember a different Admiral
From more innocent times,
Nighttime excursions
And the great piston arms
Of the steam engines,
Calling to the dark shores
Of the Mississippi
Calling for admiration
From jealous unseen eyes.
The Mississippi was our great sea,
The George Washington
Of American rivers,
Muddy like chocolate
And smelling of the lost dreams
From a thousand farms.
The river was alive with aroma,
A flowing, breathing plantation.
Yeasty smells from the great breweries,
Sweet poisons from
The chemical factories,
The odor of stockyard cattle
And barbecue smoking up
The black skies of darkening neighborhoods.
On the river we smugly escaped mosquitos,
And made a breeze to push away
The smothering humidity
Of our lives.
In those days the Admiral
Moved up and down the river
With its shiny, aerodynamic aluminum skin,
Like a monument from the naval battles
Of the Civil War.
People rhumbaed in the ballroom,
Shaking wax on the dance floor,
I was young then, and explored the ship
Imagining myself Huckleberry Finn,
On a raft drifting to a dreamland
Called New Orleans.
The wake of the riverboat
Swelled like the ocean
A brown maelstrom of churning water.
The waves sang to me of the river
And the city’s greatness.
They told me to stick with
White people.
They told me to watch my step getting off,
For the water was dirty and swift.
They told me not to break my ankles
On the levee stones.
Before my time the steamboats
Lined up like old Cadillacs
Along the banks of the river,
Bales of freight were scattered on these stones
Like carnage at Omaha Beach.
Once upon a time there was life here.
Now the dead Admiral
Is a floating tombstone,
A stuffed carcass
Denied the dignity
Of a proper burial.
Like my memories,
That remain
Like motionless zombies
At the slots.
The Admiral casino
Is a five dollar whore
Of a riverboat, no engine, roped
To the St. Louis levee
Where the unprivileged class
Shreds paychecks
Into hanging chads.
Numb and cheerless gamblers
Breathe stale smoke
And whisky by the slots,
Where they curse their luck
And stub out cigarettes
On their hearts.
I remember a different Admiral
From more innocent times,
Nighttime excursions
And the great piston arms
Of the steam engines,
Calling to the dark shores
Of the Mississippi
Calling for admiration
From jealous unseen eyes.
The Mississippi was our great sea,
The George Washington
Of American rivers,
Muddy like chocolate
And smelling of the lost dreams
From a thousand farms.
The river was alive with aroma,
A flowing, breathing plantation.
Yeasty smells from the great breweries,
Sweet poisons from
The chemical factories,
The odor of stockyard cattle
And barbecue smoking up
The black skies of darkening neighborhoods.
On the river we smugly escaped mosquitos,
And made a breeze to push away
The smothering humidity
Of our lives.
In those days the Admiral
Moved up and down the river
With its shiny, aerodynamic aluminum skin,
Like a monument from the naval battles
Of the Civil War.
People rhumbaed in the ballroom,
Shaking wax on the dance floor,
I was young then, and explored the ship
Imagining myself Huckleberry Finn,
On a raft drifting to a dreamland
Called New Orleans.
The wake of the riverboat
Swelled like the ocean
A brown maelstrom of churning water.
The waves sang to me of the river
And the city’s greatness.
They told me to stick with
White people.
They told me to watch my step getting off,
For the water was dirty and swift.
They told me not to break my ankles
On the levee stones.
Before my time the steamboats
Lined up like old Cadillacs
Along the banks of the river,
Bales of freight were scattered on these stones
Like carnage at Omaha Beach.
Once upon a time there was life here.
Now the dead Admiral
Is a floating tombstone,
A stuffed carcass
Denied the dignity
Of a proper burial.
Like my memories,
That remain
Like motionless zombies
At the slots.
Yurt
Apr 20 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Yurt
A loose pile of men
Raked themselves
Into the temple of a yurt
One night. The moon was
New and the woods were black
With shadows.
So what if they weren’t
In Mongolia.
They could still smell the
Sweetness of grass
And the breath of horses
Almost in farm country.
Prayer flags lined the walls.
As thoughts burned like cold wind
On every face. Blessings circled
Like witches around a fire.
While old men contained
What was in their hearts
Even as they tried
To figure out
What it was.
A loose pile of men
Raked themselves
Into the temple of a yurt
One night. The moon was
New and the woods were black
With shadows.
So what if they weren’t
In Mongolia.
They could still smell the
Sweetness of grass
And the breath of horses
Almost in farm country.
Prayer flags lined the walls.
As thoughts burned like cold wind
On every face. Blessings circled
Like witches around a fire.
While old men contained
What was in their hearts
Even as they tried
To figure out
What it was.
News Release
Apr 20 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
News Release
The war will be over in days
The President said
As he straightened his face.
And thought to himself
I’m late for the fundraiser.
The war will be over in days
The President said
As he straightened his face.
And thought to himself
I’m late for the fundraiser.
Invisible Man
Apr 20 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
Invisible Man
Invisible men are popping up everywhere
Waiting to greet you
At the tops of stairs
And ramps and escalators.
Outside banks
And high end grocery stores.
Invisible men
Are stalking and waiting
And watching.
Staring at you
When elevator doors open.
They stand at the gas station
While you fill up your shiny car.
Outside restaurants,
Rattling cups
And saying “God bless”
After you’ve had a good meal with wine
And Armagnac.
They stand in lines
On invisible streets
Waiting for warm soup
And cold pity
From passers by.
But perhaps all the invisibility
Is an illusion.
Perhaps it is you who are invisible
And unreal.
Perhaps the other invisible men
See right through you.
Perhaps it is the real you, voiceless
And terrified, who is waiting
At the top of the stairs,
To materialize.
Invisible men are popping up everywhere
Waiting to greet you
At the tops of stairs
And ramps and escalators.
Outside banks
And high end grocery stores.
Invisible men
Are stalking and waiting
And watching.
Staring at you
When elevator doors open.
They stand at the gas station
While you fill up your shiny car.
Outside restaurants,
Rattling cups
And saying “God bless”
After you’ve had a good meal with wine
And Armagnac.
They stand in lines
On invisible streets
Waiting for warm soup
And cold pity
From passers by.
But perhaps all the invisibility
Is an illusion.
Perhaps it is you who are invisible
And unreal.
Perhaps the other invisible men
See right through you.
Perhaps it is the real you, voiceless
And terrified, who is waiting
At the top of the stairs,
To materialize.
Man UP!
Apr 20 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
When she told me to man up,
I bought a Stetson hat
And a catcher’s cup.
I bought a gun and a dagger, too.
Surely I thought, that should do.
But no. She said “man up” again
So I joined a gym, and then the marines.
I joined a strip club, behind the scenes.
I bought a Hummer, a box of cigars,
And a season’s ticket
To African wars.
“Not man enough,” my woman sniffed.
So I bought a horse
And a trip to Mars,
I spent lots of time
In grim Irish bars.
I studied Jujitsu and strange martial arts,
And even considered
Enlarging my parts.
“No, no!” she lamented,
“You simply don’t get it.
You need a recliner
And E-S-P-N,
A full plate of nachos
To eat now and then.
You need to get fat
And ignore me completely.
Wear hats to the restaurant,
And don’t eat discretely.”
And so I reformed,
Drank beer from an unwashed cup.
As soon as I knew what it meant
To man up.