THE GOOD DOCTOR POET

      —with thanks to William Carlos Williams

So, we were at this boring party deep in a dull suburb,
much to our surprise, we met an aviator in the atrium—so much

depends upon casual connections, conversations drift and float
upon a sea of ambient noise, the generic hubbub fueled by

a mix of alcohol and angst, the party fizzled, it was a case of nature

red in tooth and claw, soon drunks would be carted off in red

wheelbarrows, our New Jersey pilot was out of his depth, his face

glazed with boredom, he told us a story of scars when he was five,

without preamble, he rolled up his pants, to show us his knee, his eyes
watered, a yawn, he fell out of an apple tree, the poet-doctor stood

beside him, and stitched him up. We leaned forward in unison, was
the name Williams? He said, yes how did you know? We were

white-knuckled with anticipation. We cackled like triumphant
chickens, high-fiving each other, and said, because we’re poets.

4/11 NaPoWriMo 

WCW poem Knockoffs

THE WHITE TOILET

so much depends
upon

a cat litter
box

filled with pine
shavings

beside the white
toilet.


THE HAWTHORNE TREE IN FULL BLOOM

Under

thick 

felt 

sheets 

down 

quilts 

thunder 

clouds 

tease 

cold
white
spring 

mid-May




BETWEEN STALLS

the back doors
of the

old stable where
nothing else

will grow blooms
a dungheap

where steam
rises in full

dressage of white
tule fog

WILD HORSES IN THE RAIN

        —after WCWs, THE ACT

There were the horses, in the sleet.
Don't scare them, I pleaded.
      They won't like it, she said.
But they're so lonely
      out in the field.
Ach, we were all that lonely once, she
      said
and hugged me, and led them to me,
      that wild band.

9/12/2009 La Casa de Maria, Santa Barbara

Journal entry, 12/19/1992 WCW

12/19/1992 I went to a party in Rohnert Park with Mimi Albert, she invited me to go without Jan. It turned out to be a boring event, a good thing I came late. However an airline pilot marooned in the atrium said he was from New Jersey, and asked what we did. Like conjoined twins we both blurted out poets. Attempting to find some common ground, he started telling us about his family doctor—who was a poet. Mimi and I both leaned forward and in the same breath, asked, he wasn’t William Carlos Williams, was he? To which the surprised pilot, John, hitched up his trouser leg to display a scar that the good doctor himself had sewed up when John, at the tender age of eight fell out of an apple tree and filleted his shin.