this is not about the crow

this is not about the crow descending through dirty trees
picking at the dead raccoon on albatross ave.

and this is not about the first (em)pathetic snowfall
falling fast on the dash holding on like a bleeding soldier
for dear life, bracing himself for the crash of light

this is not about any flaw that i never saw in natasha's eyes
a white fleck in the iris hints at a deeper myth
i wasn't there to detach her from the miracle lifeline
bound from her waist to the sinking boat

in the nocturnal neighborhood
a dog's barking at the silhouette of what he believes is
the moon. too bad it's just a crescent silver reflection
in white-knotted pines where we're tangled
together until the end of time

this is not about the empty bottom of the wishing well
and it doesn't matter where i'm going
this isn't about that hateful heaven or the welcoming hell

and this is definitely not about her houdini hands
that started shaking after all these steady years
this is not about that crumbling america, not about
the forgotten flag fraying in the wind

this is not heart attack country but we've all grown up
real quick. this is not about a cross continent call
from long lost friends, boasting of beautiful
colombian chicas and carnival liquorias in baranquilla

don't ask her. this is not about the sorrow
in her flawed eyes or how it got there,
tricked after all this time, turning away from
the cawing crow on calypso lane

& no this is not about secrets of saints and angels
who sing with mouths open wide but have nothing to say

gordon park

broken window, looking out
there's red jackson
night rumbles, gang victims
paris fashion
birds against
the orange chicago sky
wild horses in portugal
a fort scott train leaves
another arrives

flavio
in the barrio
from the beginning to the end
the nuns praying at the cemetery:
someone else is dead
the duke and strayhorn
your grandson gordon
the third is born
delicate wars
and dancing matadors

half into autumn
umbrellas forgotten
hiding from the rain, you and me
beneath a movie marquee

if you add up every photograph
its just a few seconds in time
but they say so much in black and white
and color in gordon's eyes

everybody's sisters
everybody's brothers
in black and white and colors

you are here and gone again
in the blink of an unmade eye
like photographs by gordon parks
yeah, you make me feel that kind of alive

digger o'dell

there's a filthy yarn my granddad liked to tell
about this kook who lived next door
named digger o'dell
digger o'dell was a shifty old knave he'd
dress at dawn
to rake his lawn
then walk through the woods
to dig the graves
in his long black coat like a
floating ink spot stain

sometimes grampa heard crackles
and cackles in the darkness
when old dig would burn his leaves
through the fallen needles of the scrub pines
in that black overcoat all the time
he'd go inside when the church bells chimed

one day gramps got suspicious
he snuck into o'dell's yard
the grass flecked with ashes and broken glass
the paint peeling off the sills
the scrub needle pines were standing still
the steps they creaked
the windows dirty cracked and streaked

grampa crept to the back door to see what he could find
he turned & saw
a black figure approaching swiftly from behind
o'dell looked down at gramps
and smiled a blackened toothy grin
"well if it ain't old man jakobs. how bout a drink?
won't you please come in?"

all the furniture covered with a coat of dust
the two men sat in silence slurping whiskey sours
outside, the daylight fading and
on the table, a pot of dirt and dead flowers

"my wife gretchen used to plant them"
digger said noting grampa's gaze
"once upon a time when she was alive back
in those happier days. she died in a fire
burnt beyond recognition
there was no body no grave
just my memories and premonitions
and i bet you didn't know it but i used to be
a children's poet
if you like i'll read you my bedtime story
it's called the goat doctor
with illustrations by edward gorey"

the whiskey's done
the men said polite good nights
"come over any time" old dig grumbled
his eyes said "step foot on my property again
and yours will be the next grave i dig."

that night lying at home in that creaking bed alone
gramps was scared shitless
wishing grandma was there perhaps
as a collaborating witness
again he heard that deathly cracking
how loud those embers burned!
sounded like bones snapping
grampa peeked through the curtains
he saw the sickly man in that deathly black coat
laughing all the while

the fire died down the laughter faded
ole dig took off in his pick up truck
grampa hardly waited
he snuck across to see what he could see
with a lantern to light his path he found a circle of stones
and he found the pyre among the ashes
grampa found
a human bone
and then he sprinted through the briars!

down to the cemetery
he saw a truck's headlights
and the outline of an old man
lifting bodies
from their graves
laughing, singing nursery rhymes

"london bridge is falling down
falling down
falling
down
my
fair
lady"

and then just like that
*snap*
he vanished in the night

it never came to pass what crimes o'dell committed
thank the lord he's long gone now
his burning soul's requited

the goat doctor, by robert o'dell

walk down the road, a scythe in my hand
all day i been reapin', scouring this land
all i dream about is sleeping
but i got a full head and empty gut keeping
me up a week or two

Mrs. Brown asks me in for coffee, says
"come on in Mr. Lemieux"
but i say "no thank you ma'am
my feets are sore and besides, i'm a solitary man"

new england bleeds purple on a cold april afternoon
gunshots ring out in the valley
they'll be back with turkey soon
the wind she's a howlin' and she's a speakin'
but i don't hear cause my stomach growls on back
my social graces is a heart attack
and to boot i'm comin' down with the grippe
so on my way home i'll take a trip
to see old Mort Flannigan
town mortician and family physician
they all call him "the goat doctor"
but don't ask me why
"doc what can you do?
i got the chills, i got the flu
why dontcha cook me up a cure.
hell, a shot of whiskey'll do."

Mort flashed a grin
turned his back
a dab of this,
a pinch of that
from dirty vials he keeps in overcoat pockets
and mixed 'em all together
into this mud brown stew

then rather gruff, he says "drink this stuff
it tastes like shit but in the morning
you'll be as good as new."
you know he was right...
about that taste

the church bells clanged alive
but i couldn't go inside
i looked at the ground and i walked on by
yes, it's true, i once
had relations with the preacher's wife
now it's much too late to repent
all the sins of this old dog's life

in the house my granddaddy built
i crawled under a quilt my great aunt edith made
and i pulled the shades

the demons came to me
the devil wore a pastor's clothes
in the church standing silent rows upon rows
heads bowed down
then His voice arose: "Sinners! Whores!" the pastor shouted
threw back his christened cloth
said "when i'm done, i'll send you back to visigoths!"

that congregation howled.
every last man, woman and wolf-child
they brought the pastor's wife
then tied us to the organ pipes
and sang in haunting harmony
"you'll pay dearly for your crimes!"

oh, the awful sounds of the pastors teeth
and organ grinds
instead of notes those pipes played fire
for every earthly sins, our souls set to reside
eternity of damnation among the pyre

i woke up
kicking the sheets
that old goat doctor will be getting a call from me,
you see, i felt much better
the color returned to the leaves and my cheeks
but i think i'll take the long way through the woods
instead of pass by that church for the next few weeks

Neruda dream

i. processing
the funeral procession,
solitude in mourning, in afternoon,
gathering memories of the deceased
newspaper man at the delicatessen.
the family, benign
in barefeet, take small steps
of remembrance along the way.
dead leaves shake the alley like a den
of rattlers, whistling thru narrow streets
of white, lined with blue and green
windows quiet in respect, the blonde
shopkeepers dressed in white
close doors on clothes, waiting
vacant upon walls

tourists shake sand from hair,
auto-focused flowers float in
snapshots of a blue sky
& empty shoes

whatever brought you here will soon take you away,
the flies are counting on that, too

here it comes, quiet, please:
a black stream,
funeral clothes,
a mournful song.
echoes, echoes,
a church bell rings five
echoes, echoes,
flip-flop-foot-steps stop at the crosswalk
an old man in blue wails a soft sigh,
draws a cross in the air
with a crooked finger,
just a moment, please,
it's almost your turn.

ii. yesterday's funeral suit,
empty on the rug
a wet pen drips indecipherable dreams
into mixed drinking glasses, cut w/ scissors,
packed in film cans w/ fallen push pins
from movie star posters, swinging
crooked on the wall

i am thinking of leaving my friends far,
far behind, heading west
into foreign forests, following, not
falling, from paths of unbalanced tightrope wires

iii. the pulling waves with sept. ultimate
wind, the crashing and breathing water,
cigarette ashes
and candy wrappers unwrinkled,
age each passing day
tonight i dream to sleep on a wooden floor of some friend's house
i need to hear laughter and conversations soon carried away by songs of
perching gulls, Ne-ru-da, Ne-ru-da, they sing
searching for words to unspeak, heard like whispers in the flaps of a black
dog's ear. that's why he howls at the breeze, suzanna says, for here, he hears
the cry of every fleeting soul lost at sea.
wish i could burrow
beneath sunbathing rocks,
find a new world, a catatonic sun
without blistering skin,
without vacancies of blue windows,
without memories hidden in
every street corner,
every wrong turn,
every burnt out lamp,
every shriek of children's
field trips, I hear every child climb over me,
buried in rocks that have seen ten thousand feet, they
raise arms against autumn wind,

what is this infinite sadness, my lover, i can tell
you are rolling closed eyes against internal skin,
seeking out shapes of psychedelic colors inside
newspaper eye lids

there is nothing left to count but the parked cars
empty restaurants and every rock
thrown back by the bleeding ocean

you have lost me again, love
you've wandered off, dreaming
of burning marquees welcoming us
into this tragic movie ending
when we're all washed away,
watching the end of the world together
feels so alone like back row movie-goers

in my final breaths, i echoed
the echoes of solitary seagulls,
gasping for the smell of autumn earth,
chiming Ne - ru - da, Neh - ruuu - daaa
Ne - ru - da