Shaping the Land
Rash weeds, thorned gooseberries,
oily poison ivy cannot be killed,
and shading oaks endure
spring flooding and baking drought
while the neighborhood’s oldest man
putters at agenda stealing,
scrounging, transplanting—
working pathetic progress toward
sustained dream, crawling
at shadowy backsliding art only he
can see. He loves more than anything
raking, pruning, planting,
creating soil layered with manure,
worms, sawdust—digging holes in clay
baking to rock on a thin
scraped quarter acre lot in a paved tame
culdesac where the spirea grows woody
and quiet, and boys rush close
on bikes weaving and gliding. Where
outside in the evening the old man,
alone, watches for the thousandth
time bats giving lessons in swoop
and dive and darting to blackness
like death behind
the streetlight’s yellow glow.
The Hallmark Engagement card
"...telling it like a bedtime story no one knows"
-John Ashbery
A sepia photograph can’t be denied
once upon Kansas City time,
a princess frozen in gentle shadowed
studio lights, airbrushed hair perfect
one caressed moment so poised, eyes seeing
nothing but virgin bride dream.
A tan almost rosy scene standing in
for ten thousand promises fixed,
manufactured, sold for forever and ever
bright—unreal rouged lips, intimate eyes,
milky white taffeta skin. Absurd this card
ten years later presented as precious evidence
in cold academic sterility as vita line
congealed in ancient flash--
a universal desire card, a textbook symbol
of need answered. But she is not myth living
the role waiting in this sorry office, seeking
reaction—a tired face, worn smile,
dulled red hair can’t hold the narrative,
though I make leaps, connect lost
threads, construct tangible glowing history,
ready to sign what is needed on the dotted line.
The faded context of disappointment (again)
is real, failure in thin air allowing possibility
to slither into its smooth hole.
I desperately want to believe
this could be legend in the flesh come home
dressed in modern clothes, today’s answer
to dream. The magic lifting above thin
dusty paper, ready to amaze. But I can’t.
It is not the same
Not often enough do thin-skinned trout
live side by side with rough carp, drum,
sturgeon, but in this aquarium with shiny chrome
and alarms, a gift shop with t-shirts and key chains,
a svelte ten pound largemouth bass pushes painted
sunfish into arranged rocks—an alligator gar
four feet long noses at bubbles. A thirty pound
catfish meditating at the bottom ignores
small boys pressing hands to the glass.
A snapping turtle born in the St. Francis River
hides beneath a synthetic log.
Under unnatural lights reflecting glass reveals
thinning hair, a paunch, fully tamed
waiting for children. I dream bright algae
summer water hallucinogenic glare
around a snaky pond—seven-year-olds
with megaphone voices throwing bait
at opaque surface, the humid shock as Jack
hooks a wide mouth monster, a slow motion
torpedo leaping two feet into violent air,
his neighbor friends jumping, a-giggle
with delight.
In a cool dark aquarium water is filtered
and pellet fed fish are ranked and weighed.
Superlative charted numbers do not lie
when trophy fish used to spotlights and kids
pointing fingers, stand in for the wild. Jack’s bass
would be minor and scarred behind glass,
though off a gravel road far away in mythical
Missouri minnows dart before a blue heron
standing elegant in the shallows. In the dark
murky core beneath lily pads a king
waits on a crawdad to venture close.
No tragedy if he lives and dies never
erupting like the movie into light.
Important enough never written stories
ripple through water, breathing the
rhythm of mud—depth.
Parallel language like a river
Eager to kill mentors, grad students live
supple new skin, borrowed wit criticism,
so before the big dinosaur enters and forever
alters the air David speaks quickly for his snide
crowd: Dr. Common Language is an aimless
road out West, full of dust and rocks and tumble
weeds, going on and on. Ending nowhere.
Before laughter dies a bowling ball stolid
on cowboy boots moves with a thesis to
the board, his bolo tie fronting flannel bulk.
Then, beyond minutia the board fills with syntax,
phonology, dialectology, the Professor mimicking
my father saying bidness, tracing the beauty
of warsh and tater, knowing the brain’s ear
for backtracking playful twists, having spent
lifetimes documenting missouree and missourah,
might could--nuances of ain’t and you’uns.
He could have been a lumberman laconic
forever a-fixin, but he walks ancient marble
halls like a tamed bear aware svelte creative
writing stars wearing vests live nearby.
No microphone, no phalanx of groupies
or acoustic guitar—to the jokester his eyes
define lonely. For the record, David with his
stale degree probably still laughs from the West,
though ten years after graduation Dr. Language’s
bloated carcass was found percolating--
the newspaper hinting for substantial stark
black and white days he focused blank-eyed,
diagramming permutations of death maybe going
up, not down—into the clouds a west Texas
twang flat and tight illuminating the river rolling
and tumbling like a song. All the time the bright
amber swirl still leaks whole nother dialects
alive with effortless blues spelling coherence,
determined to say enough.
Rash weeds, thorned gooseberries,
oily poison ivy cannot be killed,
and shading oaks endure
spring flooding and baking drought
while the neighborhood’s oldest man
putters at agenda stealing,
scrounging, transplanting—
working pathetic progress toward
sustained dream, crawling
at shadowy backsliding art only he
can see. He loves more than anything
raking, pruning, planting,
creating soil layered with manure,
worms, sawdust—digging holes in clay
baking to rock on a thin
scraped quarter acre lot in a paved tame
culdesac where the spirea grows woody
and quiet, and boys rush close
on bikes weaving and gliding. Where
outside in the evening the old man,
alone, watches for the thousandth
time bats giving lessons in swoop
and dive and darting to blackness
like death behind
the streetlight’s yellow glow.
The Hallmark Engagement card
"...telling it like a bedtime story no one knows"
-John Ashbery
A sepia photograph can’t be denied
once upon Kansas City time,
a princess frozen in gentle shadowed
studio lights, airbrushed hair perfect
one caressed moment so poised, eyes seeing
nothing but virgin bride dream.
A tan almost rosy scene standing in
for ten thousand promises fixed,
manufactured, sold for forever and ever
bright—unreal rouged lips, intimate eyes,
milky white taffeta skin. Absurd this card
ten years later presented as precious evidence
in cold academic sterility as vita line
congealed in ancient flash--
a universal desire card, a textbook symbol
of need answered. But she is not myth living
the role waiting in this sorry office, seeking
reaction—a tired face, worn smile,
dulled red hair can’t hold the narrative,
though I make leaps, connect lost
threads, construct tangible glowing history,
ready to sign what is needed on the dotted line.
The faded context of disappointment (again)
is real, failure in thin air allowing possibility
to slither into its smooth hole.
I desperately want to believe
this could be legend in the flesh come home
dressed in modern clothes, today’s answer
to dream. The magic lifting above thin
dusty paper, ready to amaze. But I can’t.
It is not the same
Not often enough do thin-skinned trout
live side by side with rough carp, drum,
sturgeon, but in this aquarium with shiny chrome
and alarms, a gift shop with t-shirts and key chains,
a svelte ten pound largemouth bass pushes painted
sunfish into arranged rocks—an alligator gar
four feet long noses at bubbles. A thirty pound
catfish meditating at the bottom ignores
small boys pressing hands to the glass.
A snapping turtle born in the St. Francis River
hides beneath a synthetic log.
Under unnatural lights reflecting glass reveals
thinning hair, a paunch, fully tamed
waiting for children. I dream bright algae
summer water hallucinogenic glare
around a snaky pond—seven-year-olds
with megaphone voices throwing bait
at opaque surface, the humid shock as Jack
hooks a wide mouth monster, a slow motion
torpedo leaping two feet into violent air,
his neighbor friends jumping, a-giggle
with delight.
In a cool dark aquarium water is filtered
and pellet fed fish are ranked and weighed.
Superlative charted numbers do not lie
when trophy fish used to spotlights and kids
pointing fingers, stand in for the wild. Jack’s bass
would be minor and scarred behind glass,
though off a gravel road far away in mythical
Missouri minnows dart before a blue heron
standing elegant in the shallows. In the dark
murky core beneath lily pads a king
waits on a crawdad to venture close.
No tragedy if he lives and dies never
erupting like the movie into light.
Important enough never written stories
ripple through water, breathing the
rhythm of mud—depth.
Parallel language like a river
Eager to kill mentors, grad students live
supple new skin, borrowed wit criticism,
so before the big dinosaur enters and forever
alters the air David speaks quickly for his snide
crowd: Dr. Common Language is an aimless
road out West, full of dust and rocks and tumble
weeds, going on and on. Ending nowhere.
Before laughter dies a bowling ball stolid
on cowboy boots moves with a thesis to
the board, his bolo tie fronting flannel bulk.
Then, beyond minutia the board fills with syntax,
phonology, dialectology, the Professor mimicking
my father saying bidness, tracing the beauty
of warsh and tater, knowing the brain’s ear
for backtracking playful twists, having spent
lifetimes documenting missouree and missourah,
might could--nuances of ain’t and you’uns.
He could have been a lumberman laconic
forever a-fixin, but he walks ancient marble
halls like a tamed bear aware svelte creative
writing stars wearing vests live nearby.
No microphone, no phalanx of groupies
or acoustic guitar—to the jokester his eyes
define lonely. For the record, David with his
stale degree probably still laughs from the West,
though ten years after graduation Dr. Language’s
bloated carcass was found percolating--
the newspaper hinting for substantial stark
black and white days he focused blank-eyed,
diagramming permutations of death maybe going
up, not down—into the clouds a west Texas
twang flat and tight illuminating the river rolling
and tumbling like a song. All the time the bright
amber swirl still leaks whole nother dialects
alive with effortless blues spelling coherence,
determined to say enough.
