Online sparrows

We had terrible internet problems for years that could not be fixed. No matter how many times we called to complain, no matter what AT&T did, Flipping remote switches, visiting the house, blaming us, blaming our wiring which I replaced. Nothing worked. Then we got a renegade line-man named Elvis who actually listened to us, and after checking the lines he said it wasn’t a problem inside the house. So he climbed up the telephone pole to have a look-see. Turns out there were a bunch of dead house sparrows online, well and truly fried in the ATT junction box on the telephone pole.

After the fall

Last day of the Celtic year, While moving boxes of medieval Celtic books to the garage,  rather than do a header, I took a spectacular backflip and skidded down the front steps, trying to protect my knee. I sort of rode it out on my back and tailbone, surfing like a skateboard champ. I have a bloody nick on the front of my tibia and a foot long bruise, clearly I also landed on my shinbone as well. Then I flipped over like a fish to give the other side of my body equal exposure. 

And then, later in the day, I got  clobbered by a demented box of art supplies stashed on the highest shelf of the closet. I took the brunt of it on my left arm, not once, but twice. The second time, a crate of Xmas stuff leapt off the shelf and smashed my right arm. Since I was officially bleeding from long scrapes on both arms, I just gave up. I think those boxes were going for the jugular and carotid. Or maybe my head. I said, sheesh! Third time’s a charm. 

Don’t disturb the closet ghosts on Samhain. Needless to say, I didn’t get much moving done. Some days are like that. There will be hell to pay tomorrow. I may have landed on my back but now I also have a big bruise on the front of my shin. I must’ve flipped like a cat, mid-air. All those years on horse, and donkeyback have taught me how to fall. No tailbones were involved, but it hurts to slouch in the lumbar zone. And sitting in a chair or a car seat is uncomfortable. My arms are sumo buff and bruised. When I go down for the count, I do it with verve and style. But I hurt in some very odd places.

Warriors' Parade

Sounds like Vietnam, 1967, outside, large choppers have been hovering overhead for the past hour. You can feel the pulse of their blades. What's going down in the hood? Are we living in a Bladerunner dystopia? Someone said it was for The Warriors' Parade preparation. Three million people are out there, meandering with intent. Cars driving up and down MacArthur Boulevard, decked in Warriors flags, honking their horns, circling the block, looking for parking spots in all the wrong places. I am so not a sports fan. Last time I saw this sort of mayhem it was for the 49ers Super Bowl ca. 1981 in San Francisco. Dudes were shimmying up the street lamps and stoplights and screaming like gibbons. Joe Montana was the hero of the hour. Then the mass destruction began to go crowd ugly. As the helicopters make another pass over our cottage, I can feel the compression of their spinning blades—even inside the house. It sets my adrenaline dancing. This is going to be a long day and an even longer night. I hope there won’t be riots. Go Warriors! 

CHIA SEEDS

CHIA SEEDS 

Each morning Neil glugs down 

a dietary concoction of chia seeds—
slimy things I find hard to swallow.
A cup of tea keeps me regular.
And chia pets keep me green.
A college classmate, artist David Best
once chia-seeded an old 50s Cadillac.
He mounted a water buffalo to the hood
and lined its sides with broken mirrors.
At night the deer came down to graze
upon the curved beauty of its fenders.
And to gaze upon their starry reflections.

6/9/2013

Old Oakland Poster

Oakland, California
Where Ship and Rail Meet
The terminus of three transcontinental railways

HOTSEAT

The Thai curry that a friend made for us the other night

was so Scoville hot we literally couldn't eat it.

I went cross-eyed, I was willing to grab my tongue

to pull it out from the roots if I thought that would help.

Leah says, Here eat the cucumbers. That will cool your mouth.

I eat all mine, and bolt down her bowlful too.

Neil's already finished his, so I swig the dressing.

I'm choking on the heat, tearing up, gasping for breath,

and then Neil begins discussing the effects

of burn a deux: exiting hotsauce & curry on his asshole

at the dinner table and I'm truly mortified

by the thought of flaming "O"s. Besides,

the 'roids are acting up again and that makes for heat.

I used to laugh with the doughnut pillow folks

until I joined the dubious pillow league. I stand up a lot.

It's not something that you discuss in intimate, or polite circles.

They really ought to sell Preparation H in plain wrappers.

I mean, you get up to the checkstand and the clerk

asks for a price check over the loudspeaker—

Heads swivel and soon the entire store is privvy to the fact

that you're having an intimate relationship with your rear end.

Reminds me of the story of big time Hollywood actors

who used Big H creme to reduce the bags under their eyes

from too much alcohol abuse the night before.

Like Norma's famous line in Sunset Bulevard:

All right, I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Neil says, You really don't know someone well

until you've seen their asshole. TMI, I shout. TMI!

Besides, there are children present. At that moment.

as if on cue, the cats perched on the couch

hoist their hind legs daintily into the air

and give their bottoms a thorough going over.

Urg. Though I admire their poise and dexterity

and the way they have of leveling the field

by making all intimate acts ordinary and public,

dogs are even worse, the way they noisily get down to it

making themselves into crude Rodinesque sculptures on the rug,

licking their balls when the conversations settles down.

Everybody ignores them, averts their eyes,

and pretends to be preoccupied with something else

far more interesting than elephants in the living room

when his little pink lipstick happily swizzles out of its sheath.

But you really don't want them to lick you afterwards.

Then there's the hound who noisily plants his nose

deep into your crotch when you're at your most vulnerable.

Someone helps with introductions: I'd like you to meet so-and-so…

and the damned dog is snuffling at you like a prize trufflehound.

You try and bat his head away, but he's persistent

and the owner casts a blind eye, saying something trite

like: Aww, he really likes you. And you try pinching his ears

to deter him, since lifting a quick leg to his chest

will only serve as an enticement for deeper rotor-rooter work.

He yelps like a tattletale playground fink,

the owner frowns and clocks you suspiciously

wondering of you're some kind of pervert or worse, a dog-hater,

and wonders whether or not he can trust you with the job.

And all you can think of is: Thank God there's no puppy

having a go at your ankles.

write a TMI poem (or too much information poem). As with all prompts, there are a number of ways to come at this one. You can make it about gossip or revealing too much personal information. You could write an information overload poem. Or...well, I'm interested to see what everyone produces.

GOOD FRIDAY

Yesterday's bright billowing clouds gave way to grey flannel skies.
A perfect Watteau or Frangonard canvas of the pastoral pursuits
looking up the skirts of the beribboned middle class—
morphing into the stark industrial duende of deChirico or Miro.
No chance of rainbows, or atmospheric haze.
A young hood practices dragstripping up the street,
that peculiar hissing waltz of rain and tire and iron road
chases the revving engine, boombox pounding back
a lush tropical rhythm of drums and cannibal instincts.
Weeping cherry trees in antebellum skirts sway in the breeze.
An airplane howls a doppleganger of loneliness in overcast skies.
An alarm jangles like an old school telephone. No one home.
The fan palm clatters and waves to the sky,
whether in greeting or farewell, I can't tell,
but the cat on my lap has tucked himself in for the duration.


4/2/10

Oakland


April PAD—Water

Election Night in Oakland

In Oakland, on Election Nigh, voters were literally dancing in the streets. Firecrackers and guns were let off, it was like the 4th of July in November.

The Ethiopians and Eritreans on the balconies next door went clean mad. They played Bob Marley, Buffalo Soldier and the Limbo.

You could tell when the California Electoral vote finally came in.

The entire city collectively screamed at once. We were all shouting a rousing rugby rendition of a echo and call cheer: Oh Bah Ma! Oh Bah Ma! Oh Bah Ma! I forgave my neighbors for all the other times they woke me in the middle of the night. Tomorrow was gonna be a brand new day.

Nobody got very much sleep on Election night in Oakland.

We were all on Cloud Nine.

Mouse Wars

Our neighbor Brooke is a real animal lover, she nurses stray and orphaned cats back to health, but her true passion is birds. One time I found her camouflaged in the hedge of my front garden, binoculars and tally sheet in hand, counting birds for a local birding club as there was a bird flu decimating the local population.

She's created a fabulous plant jungle around her house, an urban oasis in Oakland. She planted a birdbath and several bird feeders for her fine-feathered friends which drives Angelino Bernini, the resident black cat, crazy. Angelino may weigh in at 20 pounds, and though he's at least 12 years old—if not older—and missing a few teeth, he's still an avid birder. So his yard going days are curtailed. A tortured soul, he watches the birds from the window, with whiskers curled, at the ready, chatting a-a-a-ah, followed by a forlorn meow behind his Guantanamo prison of glass.

Brooke's bird-feeding urge started out small, with one small hummingbird feeder, followed by a rude platform on a post, then she put up a sleek plexi & chrome cylinder high-rise filled with millet and birdseed. She hung it from a branch, but the sunflower seeds jammed up the works.

So that sleek feeder was soon followed by a chalet style birdhouse feeder for the sunflower seed-eating birds. They came in such droves, it sounded like a Star Trek convention. The singing lemon tree quivered like an eager hound waiting for the word as they energetically hopped and chittered in its branches.

To keep up with the growing appetite of her feathered friends, she started buying sacks of birdseed and sunflower seeds in bulk. At this point, the husks and shells were creating such a thick mulch around the hydrangeas, it was attracting more than just the birds.

First to arrive were the red squirrels who loved the sunflower seeds meant for the grosbeaks, sparrows and finches. Every day they tussled with each other to get to the bird feeder. Word got out. Soon there were squirrel gang wars when the mothers would bring their young to the feeder.

Power shopping

Well, you said mundane and I was already spooked by the temptation of the sacred so I picked the most mundane, if not least important part of my day. Being at Costco with only 20 minutes to spare, to shop for staples, and to return the furry bagels, all green in their penicillin splendor. I blindly grabbed a handful of receipts this morning in the dark, hoping one of them was last week's Costco receipt. 

In the parking lot, after I tanked up—why does Neil let the tank go dry, then randomly reset the trip odometer, and never records the results, let alone, fill the tank? So at 6 AM, as we sped down the freeway we didn't know how much gas was left in the tank because my gas gauge doesn’t work. The meter lies somewhere near the 1/3 tank mark leaving us guessing as to how much gas is actually in the tank. 

I can’t stand the suspense, we are running late and Shell is open, but I don’t like Shell's politics in South Africa. They helped invent apartheid. But we only buy 1 gallon to assuage the gods. I still don’t buy grapes out of respect to the César Chavez strike way back in the 1970s, but when it comes to wine I’m suddenly myopic. I don’t see past the rim of my wine glass. 

It made me think of other gas stations where I hunt for the best deals online before the gas gas goes up another $.10. But I digress, so I'm in Costco slaloming around the leisurely paced shoppers who have all the time in the world. One woman yells to her mother: Coming through! as I careened around the corner, and I thanked them. I say I’m power shopping. Don’t worry I don’t drive like this. But wait, I do! I ram it down the aisles, snagging snacks enroute to the counter. In and out in 20 minutes, a world record. I broke my own personal best. 

But the woman in front of me was in suspended animation time. She slowly picked up each item contemplating it as if it were a rare jewel, taking it up to the conveyor belt, leaving no room for me whatsoever. So, when her head was turned, I shoved her stuff closer together, slicing my thumb on a plastic package of tomatoes. There, I’ve even given blood to the god of power shopping. I will race to the school and Neil will be 45 minutes late. I will sit in the sun hot sun in the parking lot and take a deep breath. Breathe.

6/3/06 Writers' Group

AFTER THE STORM

AFTER THE STORM

Boy rides his bike down the Emeryville Bridge ramp
billowing white shirt lufting behind like a full sail
the back tire throwing up a spray onto that white shirt
until he is wearing a skunk tail down his back.

4/7/ 06 Writers' Group

It was a dark and stormy night

No "was" about it, no night either. Make mine present tense and hold the ice. Today, as I stepped out of the car I had to quickly step back in again and put my hip waders on because the sidewalk had turned into a stream. There were rapids forming over the curb and whenever a car wheel turned in snug to kiss the curb, like we were taught to do in drivers education, only no one ever actually cranks their wheels in to the curb, unless they’re too tight or too poor to get a brake job. That would be me on both counts. 

Thank gawd I have a clutch, as the emergency brake is done in for as well. We haven’t quite reach the Fred Flintstone school of driving and braking, but it looms on the lithic horizon. Anyway, the tire against the curb becomes a mini cofferdam and debris plugs the holes until the rivulet has left its bank. The storm gutters are overfull. 

We negotiate impromptu lakes spanning San Pablo, Marshall, and Stanford avenues. Momentary calm before the storm. A gust of wind turns Lorene into Mary Poppins. I have visions of chasing her down the street shrieking something about a spoonful of sugar. And the next thing I know, I can’t shut off the damn soundtrack. Earworm. As long as Willy Wonka isn't invoked, perhaps I'll maintain enough sanity to make it to nightfall. 

Here we are, April showers—more like April monsoons than showers. But the wildflowers are cavorting. I found myself kissing the landscape on both sides of the freeway. I gasped when I saw in the distance, a swale of buttercups—as if the painter had fisted buckets of yellow onto a canvas of green—so green even the air was verdant. When the storm hit, all the color drained out of the sky and the land turned the color of pavement. Everything was grey until I was on a glass bell glass of rain—and no one else on the road. 

Boy rides his bike down the Emeryville Bridge ramp  

billowing white shirt lufting behind like a full sail 

the back tire throwing up a spray onto that white shirt 

until he is wearing a skunk tail down his back. 

4/7/ 06 Writers' Group

Rooster sacrifice, Oakland

Rooster sacrifice, Oakland. I was awakened at 4 AM by a rooster outside on the 3rd floor balcony. It felt like I was home, I slept deeper yet. Wait. Roosters in Oakland? I grew used to the sound. On the third morning, someone screamed, for chrissakes kill it, then, silence. I watched in horror, as the shadows played out on the wall, more real than the act itself. The Ethiopian woman was singing, she raised the chicken up to the rising sun, and the  twisted its neck. Then, a deft slice, to let it bleed out in an enamel pan for Sunday dinner. An unseasonable snowstorm of feathers drifts down from the balcony.

HALO

The lovers entwine, 

the geese bond in pairs, 

my truck and I, 

an unlikely couple. 

It’s magical when the lights 

around Lake Merritt 

ring the lake 

like a freeform halo.

 9/9/98

Full Moon Over Lake Merritt

Saturday's full moon over Lake Merritt. I found in the mud, a horse jawbone, encrusted with barnacles and tube worm casings. Blackened as if it had been burned. I took it home and bleached and cleaned it. I always wanted a horse jaw, or skull. So, I didn't get the whole thing. Still, I am pleased for the horse is the totemic animal of my dreams, of creativity. The horse, the archer, first full moon in May, magic is afoot.

We walked around the lake, a long line of goslings came tumbling down the hill to the safety of water. The super flock had grown up, teenagers now. We counted 36 goslings. A few domineering mothers had kidnapped, goose-napped all the others babies. As someone said, you can't get much cuter than that. As they waddled up the embankment to splash about and drink from a mud puddle, and to nibble on the grass, they were a superfamily: brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles and relatives by proximity. What could top that?


May 1998

Lake Merritt, Oakland

THIRST, 1

THIRST, 1

When the moon is full, an artery of thirsty ants rings the tub.
Over the years, they’ve burrowed from the patio 

through the bungalow walls to gain entrance to water. 

They pool around their fallen brethren as if in mourning.

Perhaps they’ve found religion 

in this microscopic city-state of insects. Resurrection. 

They eat their fallen dead, leaving no trace behind. 

Such is the frugal intelligence of protein when food is scarce. 

The colony of ants, probably here before the house was built, 

is a persistence of memory. I think of the ancestors of those ants 

tunneling through walls for how many generations 

before they breached the final wall in search of water. 

Sometime during the Great Depression, who bathed in this tub? 

What clothes did they divest? What unmade dreams 

washed down the drain with little else to show for, 

like laborers’ sweat at the end of the day?

The unmade August moon dreams at the vee of my legs, 

where I touch to see if I’m still alive, 

having dreampt of circumcised Muslim women, 

and I cannot help them, nor stop the march of the red tide, 

the countdown, while he sleeps alone in his isolation, 

dreaming of a future which never comes.

8/26 1997
Oakland