The Interview

Mr. Cat Scanning your resume Everything looked good. You came across well during the interview Bright eyes, vertical pupils, fine whiskers Pleasant meoow Inquisitive friendly face Fine white teeth. Unfortunately for you I checked your references. Poops on rug is what they said Pees in corners Stays out all night Sleeps all day. What would you do If you were in my place? MY GRANDMOTHER SMELLS My Grandmother Smells Lemons Smell My grandmother Smells Lemons Smell the lemons. MOTHER DURING THE WAR WITH JAPAN Mother, on bended knees Trowel in hand Praying to oriental poppies In full bloom. The dirt black Rich, moist, black And full of life. Today The poppies. Still, Are full of life. THE BUS When I was a child Early one morning Getting up early I got on the bus Went to school. It was Saturday Wrong day No school. Today in Tucson I want to go to Ajo I want to get on the bus. It is Saturday. There is no bus Damn, When will I get it right? MY SISTER ELAINE PIED PIPER OF THE URBAN LEAGUE I remember Elaine led us, To our back yard. Seven black kids One white boy. The black kids Stepped carefully from Lannon stone to Lannon stone As if avoiding Alligators. I was also afraid. In the photograph We are sitting In a semi circle Around a campfire Toasting marshmallows In Wauwatosa A middle class suburb Of Milwaukee Wisconsin. BETTY AND MERCE* Elizabeth AKA Leapy Given that name by Pete For obvious reasons, And Eskimo Because of her eyes. When I think of the Sistine chapel fresco, The index finger of God The index finger of Michelangelo Almost touching, I recall Betty’s black and white image. Her arm horizontal Merce Cunningham’s arm Reaching Reaching Reaching For the light. Both Focused, intent, Still Dancers On tip toes Dancing Still. SMOOTHER THAN THE FEET OF WOMEN Savannah, a focused nine year old Bathes my old feet. Sprinkles Epsom salts Into a vibrating blue pool. Following commands, I raise dripping feet To a toweled bench. Carefully, she dries each foot Rubs in pumiced oil From the little toe To the big toe To above To the sides To beneath. She picks up a stainless steel tool. A lemon zester? Firmly strips my calluses. I am fearful. “Your feet are smoother than the feet of women. Your legs are like a girls,” She says. Then she paints each toenail twice, Like the shell of an abalone. “Don’t touch, Until they are dry.” I look at her finished work See flashes of Michelangelo. Today I wear long pants Socks and shoes cover my toes Cover my feet Feet smoother than the feet of women. TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR My father consulted experts They advised Clarinet will be good for your son He can join the school band Learn how to get along with other kids March with the best. I learned to play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. The instructor said The boy doesn’t practice. The lessons stopped. I remember the smell of the reed Can still play the sad little notes, Twinkle twinkle little star How I wonder what you are? My son wanted to play the guitar I bought him a fine acoustic instrument Engaged a hip music teacher. Each week they sat and plunked The boy did not practice Of course the lessons continued. Today if you wish You can go on the internet Look up his band: the Diminished Men. You can buy the CD, Or go to the Blue Moon Or another tavern And watch and hear them play. And as for me Sometimes, I pick up a recorder. I play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star How I wonder what you are? PACKRATS WEAPON As a boy my father was A strict disciplinarian. Wrathful, he stood in the doorway, Told my mother, “Make the boy clean his room.” Upon his return from work, I heard his footsteps coming up the winding stairs. Seeing the mess He yelled at my mother, “I told you to make him clean his room.” Then he marched me to the chaise lounge, Screamed, “take down your pant Take down your pants.” I felt the belt upon my butt Tried to take it like a man. Tried not to cry. Tried not to cry. Tried to take it like a man. Today, Each time visitors say, Why don’t you clean your room? How can you live With so much stuff? I try to take it like a man. I try to take it like a man. IN THE SEMINAR The EST Leader directed us “Form groups of three. Tell your thoughts to each other. Take three minutes each. Then we will come together.” I raised my hand. “Why must we take so long? Two minutes will be plenty.” Discerning my rebellion The leader said, “You’re not contented here. Where would you rather be?” “Outside, Looking at rocks.” “Then go outside. Look at rocks,” he said. I did. I looked at rocks. That took forever FISHTOWN* In the moonlight Fishtown and the river Are together The air is still. The trees have not been cut yet The artists are in their shacks above the current. Their losing battle will come Soon When it will be time to Evict them. Time to evict the artists Who like the lilies of the field Pay no rent. Soon their time will come The owner will yell, Out, Out with you Lazy artists Good for nothing But drumming Calligraphy Painting And paddling. MACHO MACHO AMERICAN MAN Macho, macho, macho man Feed him some Prozac See if he can. Macho, macho, macho man Feed him some beta blockers See if he can. See If he can. Once He had a rod Stiff as can be. Now he remembers What no longer will be. Poor, poor macho Macho American man. Still trying To see if he can COVERED WITH SCARS Yesterday While measuring a stream I Crawled under blackberries. Their caress left speckled trails across my hands. This old man crawling under fallen alders, Was smacked by branches, Gouged by stubs, Trails of red droplets glistened On my forehead. In winters mud, pulling, My boot slowly sucking free, I called to Brendon, “What’s the reading?” “Ninety-three” he yelled Ninety-three I wrote on my palm, Kept slithering upstream like a salmon, Balanced on wet mossy logs, Ready to fall. Here I am today, Crashing through branches Tempting fate. Sixty-nine and all scratched up. The people look at me and say What has happened? This man is nothing but scars. What has happened To this man? THE GOOD GARDENER To some the land must always be neat. The good suburban gardener rakes the leaves From the forest floor. Digs up plants between shrubs. Calls them weeds. Sprays herbicide. Or pesticides. Mulches carefully with bark or gravel. Wars against soil formation. On the seventh day there is rest. It is hard work, Creating desert, Where there is plenty of rain. COYOTE AND HIS POCKETFULL OF WORDS (THE DEFEAT OF SCREEGRABBER)* In the old days, a long time ago, a very long time ago, coyote used to yip, yip, yip with so much wildness, that he took no time to listen to the other animals, or to the water which called out to him, or to the trees which sang to him. Coyote had forgotten how the trees had whispered to him while he played as a pup by the mouth of the den in the rocks. Coyote had forgotten the words of rock calling, “feed me, give me something to eat, give me hair, pawnails, hide, bones.” Coyote was afraid of rock. Never-the-less he thought he could trust rock. That is true. If an animal really understands rock, rock can be trusted. Still, who understands rock? Do You? This story is about how coyote learned the value of words from rock. This story is true. It happened to the author; therefore it happened to coyote. Coyote used to keep his words on loose pages which he kept in a shallow pocket of his skin. In the old days all coyotes had a pocket on their left side. To begin with, he kept the words on scattered pages of hide or birch bark. If you would have been there you could have heard the words as they fell. (continued in The Interview).