Poem Fix . . .

7/31/12

Russian Cognac

My hosts in Moscow thought I was Russian
Because my surname ends in s-k-y
And is identical to the names of
Famous Russian historical figures, streets, parks, theaters, stadiums.
Two generations ago
My family blood ran in a small village near Minsk,
Where relatives fought through pogroms and other conflicts.
So I suppose I am Russian,
Though I don't speak the language
Nor worship vodka.
But Moscow,
Cold and foreign,
Seemed welcoming and familiar.
I ate at a restaurant with my last name above the door,
Where I was treated like a celebrity,
An expatriate returned in triumph.
The owner asked if I wanted cognac.
I declined, but that meant nothing.
A squat bottle emblazoned with my name was thrust at me
Despite my protestations.
I drank until I couldn't see,
Until I understood the waiter when he said nazdrovia,
Until he invited me to banya, a steam bath.
He was just being friendly but I managed to decline in
Fear, self-doubt and inferiority,
And so became a true Muscovite.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

7/30/12

Claiming Victory

I am trying to think of a way to say
I don't appreciate you
As a human being,
But I won't.
Taking action would reveal the
Size of my ego,
So I'll remain silent.
In you I see someone with an
Angry heart
That demands justification,
Judges people,
Tears them down.
This observation makes me
Just as judgmental, and
Perhaps even a worse person,
Doubly so
Because I observe your failings and
Decide they are faulty.
I measure myself and others as better and
Choose to do nothing.
Your failings are honest and transparent;
Mine are complex, calculated, suppressed.
Please end my misery.
Provide relief by calling me out and
Claiming victory.

Photo by Christopher Walker

7/29/12

Smoked Trout

The clerk says
Smoked trout
Is the best thing in the store,
So I buy eight cans and
Bring them home.
I'm scolded for my extravagance:
Whoever heard of smoked trout?
I say, The guy at the store seemed very high on them.
She says, I sent you there to get vodka.
I'm not sure how to reply other than a lie:
They were out.
She says, You can't drink smoked trout.
I want to yell, but I keep my anger in check by saying,
It's supposed to be amazing.
She looks at me like I'm the biggest
Mistake in her life.
I asked you for
One thing.
When she leaves, I turn on the television
And open a can,
Draining the oil from the shallow rectangle.
I sit in the dark with a small fork and
Eat the fish.
It does taste good,
Incredible.
I change the channels and imagine being alone forever,
Not answering to anyone,
Doing nothing for the rest of my life
Than eat smoked trout in frightful solitude.

Photo by Trader Joe's

7/28/12

Márquez

A college teacher
Died.
He succumbed several months ago
But I didn't learn the news until today.
I barely knew him.
He smoked,
Was an excellent artist, and
Surrounded himself with a
Bohemian harem of young admirers who wanted
Poetic rub off.
I desired that, too, but
Resented his acceptance and encouragement of
Those who worshiped his prose,
Wanted to sleep with him
To slice off a piece of his minor fame.
I hated him, of course,
Longed for praise that never came,
But I am forever grateful because he taught us
Gabriel García Márquez,
Who made us understand the
Promise and potential
Of life and literature,
And the futility of equaling him.
Rest in peace, Steve.
Thank you and damn you.

Photo by Jose Lara

7/27/12

The Death of Dreams

We are told that dreams are
Nothing more than
Electric pulses bouncing off
Filing cabinets in the brain.
This seems unfair because Freud said that
Every dream is a
Secret wish,
And that they reveal the unconscious,
Soul secrets,
Repressed desires,
Regrets.
Experts say that isn't so.
Dreams expose only arbitrary connections from
Random brainwaves.
They hold no more meaning than
Happenstance
Or bumping into a stranger on a train.
Then what of my dream last night
And its strange revelation?
I shall be forced to abandon the important insight
And the changes it would bring,
The better man I would become,
The security and peace that would wash over me,
The idea for this poem.
All of this disposed
In favor of serendipity.

Photo by Lee Jones

7/26/12

We Can Stay In and Play Games

His lover stands at the window,
Gazing at the impenetrable rain,
Dejected,
Her hand flat on the pane.
It's just rain, he says, but her only reply
Is a sigh.
He thinks he ought to join her,
Put his arm around her,
Give her comfort,
Tell her that all her
Great plans
Can wait until tomorrow
Or whenever the storm relents.
But that would take great effort
So he stays sprawled on the bed
In his underwear
With a beer,
And he enjoys the nostalgic smell the
Rain brings,
The mesquite and creosote,
And a particular summer when he was 10.
He thinks it's good that the parched lawn will drink
And the birdbath will be filled.
We can stay in and play games, he says,
But realizes too late it is the wrong thing to say.
She turns to him, then back to the rain that will
Not relent,
Not forgive.

Photo by Frank Vincentz

7/25/12

Woman and Guitar

My new guitar smells like an
Exquisite woman.
Perhaps she is one,
A woman,
Only a bit less lovely and
Soft where it matters.
But the fragrance,
The glue, the wood, the lacquer,
Intoxicating.
I will do almost anything for her,
To preserve the aroma as long as possible,
Keeping the rosewood beauty tucked safely
Inside its luxurious cushioned hard shell case
So it, too, absorbs and
Memorializes the factory tang.
Still, despite my drunken attachment to her,
She is certainly not a woman,
Though I will ply my lover with it and so achieve
Glory.

Photo by Poemfix

7/24/12

Another Damn Poem About Love

Do we really need
Another damn poem about love?
Too many sonnets to muses have been
Written and
Memorized and
Used to nurture intimacy.
I offer this prose to
My only love
To ensure she knows ours is unyielding,
And to fight off those false
Mind monsters
That slither from the deep when we're apart.
I would not know how to find you
If you had not
Found me.
So please accept this,
Another damn poem about love,
Unoriginal yet abiding.

Photo by gnlogic

7/23/12

The Javelinas Came Last Night

The javelinas came last night
As they often do at dusk
When the wind pushes the chimes,
Calling to them.
The dogs sense them first,
Spotting movement and large shadows
Moving through the brush.
Barking doesn't startle the musk hogs
Though they pause to consider the attention.
They scurry quickly, following each other,
Staying close to the pack.
I call my wife who joins me on the deck.
We take turns finding them.
Is that a tree or . . .
As it grows darker we notice a small figure,
A baby that appears lost,
Trailing the rest.
My wife comes closer, touching, worried.
Over there, she says,
As if the animal can understand her urging.
Where's the mother?
The wind changes direction and it's
Too dark to see them.
Still, we stand against the rail,
Against the night,
Comforting each other.

Photo by Alan Vernon

7/22/12

Dream Shaping

I am told that dreams can be shaped by
Focused mental exercises at bedtime.
Concentrate on what you want to
Experience while sleeping,
Then it may come alive in your dreams.
Last night, head on pillow,
I focused on a
Secluded pristine white beach,
Just me and my lover
Under an umbrella,
A fresh piña colada every twenty minutes.
I pictured fine grains of sand and
The water, the sun, the smell of sunscreen.
But in the morning I had no memory of beaches,
Only a vague recollection of
Being with someone I know.
We dream several times a night,
Which means the beach may have been my
First dream,
Followed by nightmares of falling
Or being chased by a demon.
What's the use of forcing a dream
If it can't be savored?
Perhaps lucid dreaming is next,
In which I will know I am in a dream
When it's happening.
Or maybe a real trip
To a real beach
With my real lover.
But that would be too easy.

Photo by Johntex

7/21/12

Me, and Not Me

I might not be
Who I think I am.
I must keep this in mind
Because the man I see in the mirror
Lives in an
Alternate reality.
All these years I have been
Someone else,
Hair parted on the wrong side,
Clothes flipped,
Everything in reverse.
Me, and not me.
If it's true that we are what
People see,
If perception is reality,
Then I have lived a double life,
A false existence.
I need a mirror that shows what people see,
An internal double mirror device.
Then I will know what
Others observe,
An unfamiliar version of me
That I must get to know.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Photo by Poemfix

7/20/12

The Couple at the Next Table

The couple at the next table is fighting.
She says, I had a life before I met you,
But he doesn't reply.
They sit quietly, barely looking at each other.
He taps his shoe on the floor.
He says, I don't think you have any idea how much I care about you.
She says, Oh yes I have an idea.
I definitely have an idea.
They fall into silence again,
Together.
She glances at me and whispers to him.
Then he says something about love,
About recognizing it, and
All the things he's done for her.
Go ahead, she says,
Please tell me everything you've ever done for me.
No answer.
I really want to know, she says.
They perceive me listening and quickly pay their bill.
They leave,
Walking past my table,
Glaring at me for stealing their secrets.

7/19/12

Y-Chromosome

National Geographic studied

My DNA.

They traced my ancestors back

50,000 years to the Rift Valley in
Northeast Africa.
Withdrawing from the Ice Age.
Stone tools and early art.

My Y-chromosome then migrated north

Through the Middle East

And into southern Europe.

I’m in North America and

Not feeling my roots at all.

I suppose we’re all from Africa if you

Go back far enough.

But I can barely remember what I

Ate for breakfast two days ago

Or why I let my ego get out control yesterday.

Africa thousands of years ago seems distant and

Meaningless.
I can't feel it.

But the girl who stuffed me in her closet when I was 12,

That I remember.

That I’d like to change.

I wish I had been brave enough to ask her to

Explore my Y-chromosome.

That would have resonated more

Than a dusty patch somewhere in a distant continent.

Illustration by Archaeogenetics

7/18/12

A Ring of Red

Nearing the highway,

I wondered if I'd

Turned off the stove.

I washed the

Omelet pan and spatula.

Slid the fork in the dishwasher.

No question.

But the burner?

Indecisive.

Before the turn of

No return

I made a U and reluctantly drove home.

I would be late now,

All for my worry and faulty memory.

Where did it go?

How has something so simple become a

Handicap?

I saw smoke as I neared my neighborhood,

But my home seemed fine.

The stove was not glowing

A ring of red.

I am unsure what is most disturbing,

That it might have been on

Or that it wasn't.

7/17/12

Haircut

I was afraid of haircuts.
I was certain that a single drop of blood
Would drip from each strand of hair
And that my scalp would be matted with
A thick coagulation of gore.
It would drip down my forehead
Until the barber wiped my brow.
I learned these thoughts were foolish
Though I still grow anxious
When my hair is long
Because I will be forced
To smile and make small talk
With someone I don't know
And don't want to know.
Go ahead,
Wrap my neck with a harsh white strip of tissue and
Snap a smock too tight.
Attack me with razor, scissors, and comb,
But please do not converse with me.
Let me gaze at my reflection and
Listen to others in the room.
Don't force me to reflect on the weather
Or what I do for a living
Or weekend activities.
Leave me alone to disappear
In a world where
Blood is preferable to human interaction.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: U.S. National Archives and Records Administration

7/16/12

Dueling Memories

When I was nine
The girl with freckles and straight brown hair
From across the street
Said if I showed her mine
She would show me hers.
I wasn't sure what that meant
But I sensed it was
Naughty and exciting.
We exchanged peaks in the pool
Where splashes and ripples
Obscured everything.
This is what I think about now,
The girl, her challenge, the water
And I wonder where she is,
If she is happy,
How satisfied she is with where life has delivered her and
How often she's been in love.
Is it possible she thinks about the
Strangely shy boy in his bathing suit and,
If so, is it a memory of
Nostalgia or regret?

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Sergiu Bacioiu

7/15/12

Dead Fly

I hit my head hard on a cabinet and
All the stars jumped around in my brain.
For a moment I felt
Lightheaded.
Knees buckled.
I cried out, held the counter and
Eased myself to the floor.
I rested my head on my hands.
Eyes closed, afraid, alone,
I waited for my body to decide
Where it would go.
I opened my eyes a final time to see that the
Kitchen floor was terribly dirty.
Crumbs and dust and a dead brown fly.
These would be my sad last thoughts
As I floated into the light
But air came deep into my lungs and
I knew instantly I would survive.
Embarrassed,
I felt better.
My strength and awareness returned.
I stood up and
Immediately swept the floor
Just in case.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Bff

7/14/12

Bra Strap

He lifts his head and
Eyes his girlfriend
Who wants to be his wife,
But he's not there yet.
She has her back to him.
She senses his glance.
He's looking at my ass.
Not quite.
He's gazing at the swivel of her hips, true,
But a loose bra strap is what
Catches his eye.
It somehow defines her
And everything he admires and
Desires.
She figures it out,
Shrugs and straightens her blouse.
The bra strap disappears and
Along with it
His optimism.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

7/13/12

Lost Phone

I lost my phone
And worried for an afternoon
Hoping a good soul found it.
I called my number
And listened to it ring.
Nothing.
I didn't leave a message.
I tried a few more times
Not expecting success
But half hoping I would answer
And tell myself where I could
Find my phone.
If only
I could talk to myself more often
Things would be better.
I could find my lost phone
And all the other things
Physical or not
Missing in my life.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Tom Murphy

7/12/12

Physics

If I had been born
Somewhere else
I wouldn't be the same person
Nor have the same thoughts.
Those things
My past and potential
Would not exist.
But there is finite mass in the world.
Nothing can be gained or lost.
That's a rule of physics.
Where would my present reality go?
It must exist somewhere.
My life, my loves, my actuality
All would coalesce into a
Single floating entity,
Existing in an ethereal netherworld
Waiting to be absorbed by another person.
Claimed by a close match
Who I would have been.
In my new life
Raised on an obscure island in French Polynesia
I would assume another person's identity.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Drawing by Louis Choris, 1916

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