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HOD CARRIER AT NIGHT

presented by

Eric Wayne Crosley

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HOD CARRIER AT NIGHT

by

Eric Wayne Crosley

A THESIS

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ART

Department of English

1993

 

ABSTRACT
HOD CARRIER AT NIGHT
by

Eric Wayne Crosley

This collection of poems represents, among other things, work
I have completed with Diana Wakoski and Doug Lawder. I have
tried to show poetic speakers, in these poems, who are of
interest and enjoyment. The issue these poems probably grapple
with the most is identity. Also, I hope the reader to be able
to feel some of the emotions I have in living the experiences

which these poems are based upon.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

JUST ABOVE THE EARTH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . l
DOC MAC WOULDN'T WAIT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
COMING CLOSE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
TWO RESPONSES TO THE MOST RECENT WAR . . . . . . . . . 5
TO SWOOPING HERON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
EXISTENTIAL BLISS AND THE SELF . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
WHY I WEAR TWO EARRINGS SOMETIMES . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
PRESENT, ON THE EDGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
NIGHT SONG TO THE SOLSTICE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
THE DIFFICULTY WITH NAMING MYSELF . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
ALONG PEACOCK ROAD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
FROM A TRANSSEXUAL DRAFT RESISTER WHO CHANTED HARE KRISHNA

FOR SEVEN YEARS TO HIS FATHER . . . . . . l9
WHILE STANDING IN THE BOTTOM OF A HOLE ON BROKEN CEMENT

IN A LANDFILL AT THE EDGE OF MY OLD HOMETOWN . . . . 20
SONG OF A YOUNGER MADMAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
FLOWING OVER THE FALLS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
THE WAILING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
SNOW WALK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
TRAPSHOOTING AT THE EDGE OF A WINTER FIELD . . . . . . . 30
CHANT FOR A DEAD WHITE HORSE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
ICICLE AND STAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
STORM OF HARD LUCK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
IN THE BROWN SHACK, OUTSIDE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
LOAFING IN THE GRASS A LITTLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
IN FRIENDLY GRAVITY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
GREY SONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
THE SUSPECT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
TO THE MUG AND BACK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
RUNNING IN SPACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

RUNNING ON DOUBLE YELLOW LINES . . .
DANCE RUN . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
PLAYING MUSIC FOR THE FISH . . . . .
ONE WAY OF DEALING WITH THE WISDOM OF
TENANT . . . . . . . . . . . . .
WILD DAISY . . . . . . . . . .
CRUSTY SNOW A WEEK OLD . . . . . . .
HOLE IN MY BROTHER'S WALL . . . . . .
FLOCK OF GEESE FLYING . . . .

GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS . .
TURNING AGAIN . . . . . . . . . .
ENJOYING A PASSING TWILIGHT . . .
PLAYING WITH MY SON AT MOON LAKE . .
SUPER POWER-OVER . . .

HOD CARRIER AT NIGHT . . . . . . .

iv

50
52
54
55
56
58
59
6O
61
62
63
64
65
67
68

JUST ABOVE THE EARTH

between leafy treetops

and dolorous clouds

a scatter of blackbirds
dances north

DOC MAC WOULDN'T WAIT

So he put

a shotgun
barrel

in his mouth
and fired,

to cheat

his brain tumor
of needless
life,

to deal somehow
with a difficult call.

COMING CLOSE
(for my father)

I'm living
as a monk
at the Hare Krishna Temple
in Detroit

and you call me
at 2 A.M.

from the Motel 6
in Sterling Heights.

You're drunk
and ask me
if I'd ever thought
of killing myself.

"Do you want me
to come see you,"
I ask.

"No," you say
telling me
about your difficulty

at the G.M. Computer Conference
about the technology

being too much

that you just wanted
to talk

with me.

Calling back
at 6 A.M.
I find you've

already left.

And when I reach you
by telephone at 7 A.M.
"everything is ok"

"mom is still asleep"

5

TWO RESPONSES TO THE MOST RECENT WAR

1.

Some of us factory rats
wear T-Shirts
boldly declaring,

OPERATION DESERT STORM
THESE COLORS DON‘T RUN

yellow ribbons pop up
on the cafe cash register
on the forklifts

the time-clocks.

Friends, when I left my house
to come to work,

I said to my dog,

"Spot, I really admire

your species,"

not feeling too good

about my own,

So caught up in jaded ways,
challenging the vision

of the flower, the bee

the star, the tree,
challenging the faith

of the sun and the moon,
challenging the ocean of meaning
in an honest fight,
challenging the hug, the smile
the joke,

challenging the human heart
orbiting in love

with Self.

 

TO SWOOPING HERON

You surprised us all
and didn't appear

for your sentencing

at one P.M. on Monday
having made your choice
to be a fugitive.

To me

it was a mistake
but what do I
know.

Perhaps you believe
more strongly

in your position
than I think.

You sold illegal drugs

to willing customers.

You showed me a quote
from President Lincoln
in 1840:

A PROHIBITION LAW
STRIKES A BLOW

AT THE VERY PRINCIPLES
UPON WHICH

OUR GOVERNMENT

WAS FOUNDED

So much for wisdom

this is 1987

and the Government-Man

is at your back

on your heels, now

with his long arm computers
and well paid agents
grabbing for you

to put you in a cage

if He can.

I wish you divine luck
my brother

on your journey

under stars

like nails.

8

EXISTENTIAL BLISS AND THE SELF
(for Joe)

I meant to say
transcendental bliss
when I said
existential bliss

as we talked

about the nature

of the self.

"I'm always trying

to satisfy myself

by being successful

at something I do

in the world

around me.

The self

is already blissful

so you don't

have to gain it

by getting a ringer

at horseshoes

or something like that,"
I say

as you listen

with a pensive face
that now

shows a smile beginning.

 

 

#1:.

 

"You

searching for happiness
outside of yourself

end up looking

for countless lifetimes
within the cycles

of birth and death
when all the time
forever

eternally

now

then

always

you are alive

actually

in the realms

of transcendence

in pastimes

of love

and you just

have to wake up to the fact,"

I talk out, playing
as you laugh from your belly

knowing halfway descent bull

when you hear it.

We agree that ants
probably don't have
psychological

problems.

10

WHY I WEAR TWO EARRINGS SOMETIMES

Because I have a father

and a mother.

Because I have a moon

and a sun.

Because a potato, ice cubes,
a needle soaked in alcohol,
and the soft clever fingers
of a girl friend

twenty years ago

gave me ear lobes

pierced with holes.

To play dress up.

To enhance my beauty.

80 I can enjoy not wearing them, too.
Because of issues of balance.
To be a good example

for my son.

11

PRESENT, ON THE EDGE

it wasn't like him
to disappear
like that

we were all playing frisbee
and rollerskating

and toward sunset

when our playing was finished

Present, was gone

since I'd already freed him

once

from the nearby football stadium
I climbed back inside to look
but with no luck

and I went to sleep

wondering

what the hell had happened

to him

it was Labor Day weekend
the Animal Shelter

was no help

I worried

about what to tell my five year old
when he returned Tuesday night

from ten days of vacation

with his mother

"Son, Present got lost," I'd try
and I couldn't stand the thought

of his face

12

"Present"
I yelled at the sky
Monday night

then Tuesday morning
and no Present at the Animal Shelter
and no Present at the Small Animal Clinic

but just before the campus
police dispatcher

was about to hang up

a call came in

from the stadium

the officer couldn't believe it either
but a small brown and black dog

had been found that morning

up past the press box

on a small cement girder

about fifty feet

above the bleachers below

I hung up the phone

I knew

when I got to the stadium
and after climbing

the twenty zigzagging ramps
up to the top

there he was

perched

and not responding

to the kind offerings

from the workers' lunches

13

but recognizing me
he quickly rose up
from his protective curl

and walking very slow
and low

with his tail
wagging furiously

he navigated
the 15 feet of plank

and came home

14

NIGHT SONG TO THE SOLSTICE

rabbit in moon
dog on earth

stars in sky

i in big I
of

dog eating snow

in snaps of jaws

moon SHOW moon

snow moon snow
stars
like exhaling breath
curling white
out
into
the present

cold

15

THE DIFFICULTY WITH NAMING MYSELF

I wouldn't call myself a Man
since Dad always said, heatedly,
that if called, Men fight

for their Country in war.

Don't think he could help it,
his fire. Only now, I see

how that fire burned dark

in my own angry, terrified eyes.
Fighting the Draft, obsessively,
I drove into the dark

just up the road I travelled.

Fantasy of being a transsexual
flowered in me when I was

only a child, saw one, a picture,
tempting saga, in the National
Enquirer. No one else could know.

Two fires, both in my head
both in my heart, burning
the house of me to ashes,

leaving one hell of a clearing.

l6

ALONG PEACOCK ROAD

We usually don't take Spot

along, but destiny was calling
and even though Prema

and Julianne were not into it

in a flash, not only myself

but Spot, Julianne, Prema

and our neighbor Sergio

were all inside a roaring machine

rolling to Peacock Road.

Millions of images

were passed through

before our conveyance

on four spinning rubber tires
advanced beneath

the dual bridge

of the interstate

super highway

being built

over Peacock Road.

Then, just as suddenly
as we had left

the sky now held

a broken cover of clouds
pouring down sunshine
like chatter

from the Great Spirit.

17

As the road waved

like an 8

through a green carpeted swamp
there bingo, a blue heron

and me, "O God let me get

a picture," nervously zipping
the camera out of the top pocket
of my brown backpack, stopping
opening the door and exiting
Spot escaping the machine

the bird rising up into the air
a good shot getting away

Spot jumping into green water
and then just standing there
like a prophet, immovable

at the edge of his promised land
me furious

yanking him out of his trance
by the collar

me forgetting to breathe

Prema crying about a bee

in the machine

me feeling incompetent

because I brought no rag along.

I open the back of the machine
with a key

the bee

flies away.

With paper napkins

from the glove box

I wipe Spot's legs.

18

As I'm back in the machine
with the other kids
and swap Spot the seer,
I activate

controlled explosions
under the hood

and we all move ahead
on Peacock Road

to the goat farm

the blue heron

not on the film

but free in the swamp

in our hearts.

19

FROM A TRANSSEXUAL DRAFT RESISTER
WHO CHANTED HARE KRISHNA
FOR SEVEN YEARS
TO HIS FATHER

I know like you say
I can't rub two dimes together
ok-

I know like you say
I'm 35 and a failure
ok-

I know like you say
you feel like you're a failure
ok-

But when I heard you say
on the phone last night,

"how ya doin' boy?"

I knew we were in love
I knew all the rest
was bullshit

20

WHILE STANDING IN THE BOTTOM OF A HOLE
ON BROKEN CEMENT
IN A LANDFILL
AT THE EDGE OF MY OLD HOMETOWN

A yellow bulldozer
sleeps nearby

on this Sunday sea.

Somehow, blue, so blue sky
allows sunlight
to dance in here.

Three turtle doves
on a wire balance themselves

with electric tails.

A girl and a boy
play with a ball
in front of a house.

Parallel rows
of corn plant stubs
flash into existence

in a winter field.

The road where my car
sits parked

now dead ends at the creek.

Remember the steel bridge.
Remember tossing a stone
and widening ripples
flowing downstream

disappearing.

21

SONG OF A YOUNGER MADMAN

I can't imagine
my bottom growing old
it's so soft and white.

I look away from the mirror
I'm at a crossroads
where I must choose

what I want.

I'm naked

at my writing table
with little prospect
of success.

A candle is burning
in the daytime.

Music is coming in the windows
a camera

lies under a lamp

a calendar is on the wall

a guitar is in its case

resting against books on a shelf.

I don't know where I'm going
but I'm going

I know.

I'm here on the path

onward through my existence
making

every day every moment

every breath every word.

22

Cleaning up dog shit

off the yard

being proud of the land

I live on

claiming it as my own,

playing with the grass

and flowers, vegetables, fruits
in the space where I live

and work.

Will I be forced to leave?

Will the Court side

with my present landlord?

Will I be allowed

to become free

of having a landlord,

free to buy and own

my little plot of Mother Earth?
I try to do her pleasure

in caring for my yard and gardens
and flowers.

She always gives herself.

How absurd to think

about the person who thinks

he ACTUALLY owns Our Mother

and can charge rent perpetually
to live on her

because she belongs to him

and the paper work proves it.

23

Arbitrary creation

of ways to look at ownership,
claiming the earth, the land

as one's own

forgetting the Right of every being
to the gifts of Our Mother.

Capitalism forgets
the broad cooperation
of Nature

the joy of sharing

the opulence of endless time and space.

It has began raining

I hear.

I will go out.

I want a pack of cigarettes.
I

want a lover.

24

FLOWING OVER THE FALLS

Just before midnight
on Thanksgiving 1992
the black lettering
on the small nearby monument
still reads .....

THREE WHITE MEN HUNG HERE
IN 1825
FOR KILLING INDIANS

The wind is alive, and perhaps
this small town of Pendleton

is anywhere?

The water of Fall Creek,
coming from the same source
as sun, moon, earth,
flowing over the falls,
sings with a poet's tongue,

of change.

 

25

THE WAILING
(for Aunt Nelda)

ALL right. Try this, then.
Every body I know and care
for, and every body else
is going to die in a
loneliness I can't imagine
and a pain I don't know.
We had to go on living.
James Wright

The old cliche covered with sores
we've just walked past

in the hallway

sitting in her wheelchair

is wailing, chanting...

O GOD GIVE ME STRENGTH

O GOD GIVE ME STRENGTH

like some verbal combination

of tornado and rising and falling

tidal wave of old age.

We enter your room.

You sit in the corner

in your wheelchair

an emergency button

on a long white cord
pinned to your blue dress
an aluminum walker

in front of you,

not your piano.

26

Earlier today I sat at that piano

in your unoccupied house

tapping out little tunes

remembering your playing and teaching,
gazing at an oil you painted

hanging on the wall above.

When I ask you how you feel

you complain about never waking up
from your afternoon nap

that you can't think straight.

As the wailing resumes full cliche
O LORD HEAL ME I PRAY

O LORD HEAL ME I PRAY

blasting in from the hallway,

my brother asks you,

"Doesn't THAT drive you crazy?"
but your head, again, is hanging down
your eyes closed

your soft wrinkled hands

resting in your lap.

We watch the Hoosier Millionaire
low—volume on the TV

and a Mounds Mall maintenance worker
chooses the #3 green panel.

It raises up revealing the figure
$1,000,000.

The winner looks frightened.

Your white hair doesn't move.

27

When a person who looks

like she could be your sister

rolls slowly into your room

in her wandering wheelchair,

you perk up

and utter, distinctly,

GET HER OUT OF HERE

A little surprised, I acknowledge
your request and wait.

WHAT'S YOUR NAME, I ask the intruder.
I DON'T KNOW, she replies.

DO YOU LIKE TO GARDEN, she asks me.
GET HER OUT OF HERE, you again urge.
YES I DO, I answer.

And on her own

our nameless friend and enemy
slowly turns around

and wheels herself away.

Again your head droops down
again the wailing swells

O GOD RETURN MY STRENGTH

O GOD RETURN MY STRENGTH

I stand up and walk to you
and kiss you on the cheek.
You manage a faint smile
as my brother and I

must leave you now
struggling alone

with your enigmatic
cliche,

your death art journey.

28

SNOW WALK
(for Prema)

when I said, watching the falling snow,

"Do you want to take a walk?"

even though close to midnight
and cold and you only three

you said,

"Yeah," with a boyish voice

I knew myself

and with joy
in our difficult steps
we left the house

though February
we found a Christmas light burning

under a snow covered shrub

both heads bowed

for a closer look

and we agreed

that we had discovered

where some elves were living

we didn't disturb them
and trudged on

beating step by step
across a vacant lot
deep in snow

holding hands

29

and again we pause
and begin kicking at the snow
creating a nest

we settle in
to tell each other some stories

as the wind carries diamonds
over our snow-angel bodies
over our heads

and everywhere we look

30

TRAPSHOOTING AT THE EDGE
OF A WINTER FIELD

Grey sky dropping snow
tickling the nose, cheeks
O the sparkles.

Dad pops shells
into four different guns
from a box on the opened
tailgate of his pickup.

The clay pigeon catapult,
fixed on a steel platform
centered on a steel tube
extending out of the boat
hitch, center of, bottom of,
pickup back bumper, ready
to perform its tool and die

magic.

Brother—in—law pulls
the curtain string trigger
fluorescent orange discs

soar, shots rip the silence.

Brother-in-law's daughter fires.
Children I don't know fire.

My son fires, hits a couple targets.
I fire, hit a few.

My brother fires, doesn't hit even

one, gets hit with teasing.

31

It's damn cold. Down the slope
in the sprawling field
one huge oak tree lives

its mysterious life.

CHANT FOR A DEAD WHITE

lying itself down

32

HORSE

close to a small mountain

of fire wood logs.

Chant for a dead white
with an eye still open
a tongue still out
teeth still showing

a serious smile.

Chant for a dead white
lying on its side

in a barnyard

in wintertime

with legs still trying

in precise positions.

Chant for a dead white
we never knew

never rode

never fed an apple to
still circling

in the sun.

horse

horse

to run

horse

33

ICICLE AND STAR

I've been watching it
for several days
hanging on a broken
eaves trough.

Now whirling at night,
I gaze at red and blue
embedded sparkles
shining within,

the outer contours
like wrinkles on a baby
in continuous wet birth.
And looking up farther
between adult clouds,
a star, lecturing
across the vast,

a pin—point of light,
a brute ocean

of spherical fire,
lamp of another world
perhaps, questions me:
What do you know?

34

STORM OF HARD LUCK
(for John Skriba)

The little sphere up in the corner
of your hospital room, during
your last visit

was one main speaker

in a little d.t. drama.

You confided in me

how it was announcing

your coming death.

"No way jake. I'm a fighter,"

you shot back. Some strange
disease was crumbling your

nerves too, to boot, named after
some French doctor. You could
barely walk. Your heart condition
still exploding for ten years
after your lover broke away.

Remember our shared dream?

Remember the court battles we won?
Remember how close we came

to realizing our dream?

Remember the powers that be,

perplexed?

My God, a resident owned and controlled
mobile home park, our park, right

here in Michigan.

 

35

No way said the Mid-Michigan Landlords
Association.

No way said the Legal Aid Society

of Central Michigan.

No way said the judge in our

district court.

No way said our landlord and his
lawyer.

No way said the bewildered jury which

allowed us to be evicted.

Meanwhile your mother followed your
father into death and you landed

in their house, alone, in a town
fifty miles away from our blown
apart neighborhood.

I was down too, but still hoped

we could both keep fighting.

But your fight must have seemed

like trying to snuff out the sun.

36

On our last visit to see you
you brought a pillow for my son
to lay his head on,

the terrible distance from the bedroom
to the living room.

Your legs collapsed

crashing your beautiful
eye—glassed face against

the hard wooden arm

of the soft sofa. Blood ran
from the bridge of your nose.
Your glasses, broken.

My son sat and watched.

I got a wet cloth and tried

to mop the blood away.

We left you resting on the sofa
that night. Death took you
before we could meet again.

You know all that.

What you might not know

is that I still love you,

that your life matters,

that you taught me much,
friend, about the storm

of broken hearts.

37

IN THE BROWN SHACK, OUTSIDE
(for Mike)

Songs beating along, jive

talk of the Now, alive,

Mike's pad, for me, a single

dad, a place to visit to sing,

to joke, tell stories, to be.
Underground with our treats,

the earth is solid below us,

we're quite dangerous felons

as some laws like to spell it.

To be fair, I admit frequent defeat,
but the cloud feeling remains sweet.
Outside, the seasons sing strong,
playing the democracy of the grass,
flowers, stars, trees, by rights

of self government, you and me.

The brutal sun is a poem in the right
balance of fun, the limits of serious,
in our home of gravity. Imagination
too often hostile to the traditions
of the sea, puts us nowhere. But
here we are, now, always singing

some tune in the windy quiet, free.

 

38

LOAFING IN THE GRASS A LITTLE

I'm taking care of my dog
here at the park

on the side

of the grass covered earth
lying on my back

seeing the clean line
made by the head and beak
legs and feathers

of the blackbird

resting on a wire
stretching in the sky.

I watch for it to fly.
Spot tugs on the stick

in his mouth

which I hold in my hand
as we lie together.

I see the quick, quiet
path of flight

of another blackbird
curving between cars
passing on the nearby road.
A swallow is flying
straight up

playing in the air
lighted by the sun.

39

IN FRIENDLY GRAVITY

At Jennifer, Bill and Charlie's house
I say a prayer

as we quietly walk by.

Spot pulls on his leash

this Sunday morning

under the clouds

blocking the sun.

He chases the stick

I send twirling, twisting, sailing
in friendly gravity.

A church bus roll past

on a nearby street.

I think of God in the grass

we play on.

Back at our house

I remember the flowers

out in the front yard,

how I fertilized them last night
and I want to go see

how they are doing.

Out the front door

I go to the edge of the porch

look down at the unwilted impatiens
who are shaking their colors

at raindrops hitting them from above.
And as I glance to the sidewalk,

Bill appears from behind a hedge
pushing an 8 wheeler of blue and white
and Charlie getting a ride

leads the way

kicking his bare feet

through the light morning rain.

40

GREY SONG
(for Richard Hugo)

This is the poetry, my friends,

of painted fingernails and

panty hose, of jockey shorts

and naked genitals, freshly
stimulated into a little death.
This is the poetry of loneliness,
of longing for a lover, of anger
at the status quo of fear, so
near, so damn dear, I hear. This
is the poetry of sight of light
singing in the silent night, the
decorations of antiquity. This
joke of the past becoming, now
the future. This is the poetry
of foot-binding and high heels,

of nightmare and daydream rampant,
of, catch this, diamonds, gold,
money, hunger, old and sold.

This is the poetry of insanity,

of numbness, boredom, meanness,

of birds with oil on delicate wings.
This is a little song of our human

frailty.

41

THE SUSPECT
(for the clever policewoman

who impersonated a hooker so well)

after purchasing.
ten dollars

of green home grown
from a friend

it's 2 A.M.

and I'm in my car
with a choice

at the intersection
with two red lights
blinking above

I take a right

away from home

and drive

toward downtown

past the Big Boy
and South

on Pennsylvania

along Shiawassee

I see her

shaking a little
I go for her
pulling to a stop
just off the road
our eyes

finally meeting

 

42

she's moving
toward my car

her makeup

looks professional
the window

is rolled down,

"Hi, what ya up to?"
she just stares
"Want to go for a ride?"

"I've got something
more serious in mind,"

she offers

"I've only got five bucks
I'm poor
but I've got some good grass

we could share."

she tells me to drive

across the street

and wait for her

in the empty lot -

"The cops are thick tonight,"

she says

I'm suspicious
but I go ahead

very soon

I'm watching her walk

on her high heels

toward my car

through the passenger door
window

she's not smiling

I reach

and open the door

for her

she reaches into her purse
and opens her wallet

for me

and bringing

the inlaid golden badge
closer very slowly

she barks,

"You're under arrest."

"What?"
"What have I done wrong?"

43

and the driver's door behind me

is suddenly opened too,

"Look buddy, you are under arrest

either we can do this peacefully

of we'll just TAKE you in
what's it going to be?"

I throw up my hands

44

"ok. ok. I don't think I've done
anything wrong. I don't believe
prostitution should be illegal, but
obviously you folks don't agree, so
just tell me what to do."

and they did

until they had their suspect
safely in the back

of a Lansing police car

and he was thinking

like never before

about Whitman and Thoreau

TO THE MUG AND BACK

Stretching out

like an anxious tomcat
on a makeshift bed

of blankets

I spring up
and leave the bedroom

Prema and Julianne

sleeping on the bunk

tip—toe

down the hallway

past mom and dad's door
and sneak

out of the house.

Within an hour

alone

I'm driving my car
very slowly

near couples, married

arm in arm

riding in horse drawn buggies

45

around Soldiers and Sailors Monument

at the center of Indianapolis

bright Christmas lights everywhere

the large wooden wheels

rolling on the brick Circle

hoofs hitting with a clump.

46

Having seen enough
circling around

the tall phallic symbol
to war

several times

and after two dead ends
at cheap sex-shops

with lights pulsing
around in circles

like centipede legs,

I arrive at the Mug.

I pay two dollars

and enter,

a jukebox belting out songs
about a dozen dancing girls
in g-strings

high heels

and less

a sign

on the back wall saying

53 Exotic Dancers

and Growing

drinking males circling

the perimeter of the dance stage
pinning one and fives

on the dancers

giving out favors.

47

I'm still leaning

against a mirror

on the outer wall

a few beers down

when one dancer comes

and sits next to me

with her black-netted legs
stretched out

and crossed at the ankles
her purple pumps

resting

on an empty chair

in front of us.

Putting my arm around her shoulders
pulling her close

I ask,

"Do the guys every get to dance
with the girls?"

Smiling, she says, softly, "No,"
as her name comes over the P.A.
and she leaves me

without even a kiss.

I'm soon bored
and with the left front brake
grinding steel

I leave the city

drive under a black sky
dotted with stars
through Indiana cornfields

 

48

back to Pendleton at 5 A.M.
and the darkness

and artificial light

of the neighborhood

where I began.

49

RUNNING IN SPACE

it's like falling ahead
keeping the heart
lifted

in the downward

pull

this running

swinging of arms

gentle ups and downs
like the curves

of small breasts

in this flowing sun

on our spinning planet

and by now
your fingers are stiff

with November cold

your shadow flies
on nearby water

rapids grumbling

a rabbit
hops
across the road

from shadows

and above
white curling clouds

sail in blue

50

RUNNING ON DOUBLE YELLOW LINES

Out toward Seibert's
Apple Orchard

in the light

my inner thighs

under grey sweat pants

burning in the cold.

Tall leafless trees
stand motionless
lining a small creek
running

in its wide deep
ancient new valley
making music

as I pass.

White painted fences
edge this road

and across a fallow field

the thirty foot high
cement walls

of the Indiana State Reformatory

mock the sun.

51

A few black birds light
on the fence

as I'm running

on double yellow lines
a prodigal child myself
again hearing

that running water

as I have done

a U-turn

and am running

on home,

running

on home.

 

52

DANCE RUN

Chest feeling good

arms working

breathing

down through the ballpark
yellow bleachers turned up
leaning for the winter

snow covering all the diamonds
sun sweeping the ground
through clouds in the sky

in this run, this run

here along this road now

snow and cold and lifting
heavy boots in rhythm

along Brown Street farther out
to the cemetery

stopping at the Eggman marker
two sisters two brothers

and their stone still twirling
in this space I run on

slow not racing

lifting my feet in the gravity

light showing when I turn my head

a sycamore tree glowing by the gate.

Inspired with myself

I head into the pile of snow spray

off the road
go and down like a bobber
then west on east Water Street

bobbing, breathing full

finally turning onto McLoy Drive

where mom and dad live.

 

53

My body sings.

I make a line of holes
in the smooth snow
dancing past the window
of my old bedroom

past the swimming pool,
the silent garden,

into this backyard

one breathing creature
simple

with joy.

 

54

PLAYING MUSIC FOR THE FISH

Turning the red

round handle

of the tinny hurdy-gurdy
with my pinkies,

moving the worm gears
spinning its little
metal drum, its warts
plucking tines

makes, WE WISH YOU

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

chime, ring, sing

here with me in this dark room
just above the bubbles
surfacing, breaking

from a ten gallon ocean

to the placostamus, the beta
the neon, the silver dollar

to the headlight and taillight
tetra

to the angel fish

gazing so seriously

at my playing

dancing backwards slightly

in the soft
blue

aquarium light.

 

55

ONE WAY OF DEALING WITH THE WISDOM
OF AUTHORITARIANISM

I ask jerry how it is
when Frank, his boss
chews him out,
is really pissed.
After taking a bite
of his beef goulash
which he has just purchased
from me in the plant cafe,
at an illegal time,
he says, shaking his head
and smiling with disdain,
"When he blows
it goes in one ear
and out the other."

 

56

TENANT

A dim half moon

is showing

in the eastern sky
through the leaning

willow tree.

The kids'

red round swing

is hanging on a rope

from its outstretched arm,

now motionless.

Crickets sing.

I'm standing

next to the impatiens
which grow within

the comet

shaped bed

formed of stones
gathered at the river

by my son and myself.

The green garden hose,
coiled,

is hanging

on an old extra set

of mobile home stairs.

I've put them there, temporarily,
resting against the wooden ladder
my father and I built

four years ago

when I moved here.

57

The ladder
leads up
to the roof

of our house.

The sky is distant tonight,
the stars look faint.

I'm afraid the landlord
will force us

to leave.

 

58

WILD DAISY
(for Gary Snyder)

See

a wild daisy growing
by the curb

among weeds.

Finger

its delicate

white

tine—like petals.
Gaze

at its yellow belly button
like a soft sun
with wave patterns
as good

as stars

and oceans.

 

59

CRUSTY SNOW A WEEK OLD
(for Doug Lawder)

In this cold,

crusty snow a week old

is taking the fire of the sun
and making

a shower of flashes

which falls up

from the ground.

 

60

HOLE IN MY BROTHER'S WALL

A fresh hole in your

bedroom wall, as you slept,
jagged-edged

about the size

a fist or foot

could make

striking out in rage.

I'm visiting from up north
and now we all stand here

in your bedroom.

Dad, in his working mode
asking just minor assistance,
to get the tape measure.

You and I leave him working,
play golf on the Nintendo

in your living room.

You are 39 and never married.
Me at 40 and divorced.
Something about Dad working
you and me playing,

about his strong arm
knocking me off my chair

at our family dinner table.
Dad comes out of your bedroom,
explains,

"You'll need to paint the wall.

The hole is covered."

61

FLOCK OF GEESE FLYING

And it was queer, Goddess. How

I noticed the harmony

while driving the Interstate.
Machines of steel, rubber, plastic
rolling along at seventy miles per hour
in lanes just a few feet apart.
Talk about a circus of trust

and danger. The sky was blue,

the sun was hot on the face,
pushing its influence

in all directions, leaves, leaves
those sunshine eaters, everywhere
enjoying, no doubt, one hell

of a feast, gasses burning, gasses
being created as waves charged
through the air. And from inside
this torrent of earthbound autos
looking through solid transparency
I saw living beings with wings
flying in a pattern of two lines
converging to one point moving

ahead, quietly, gently, incessantly.

 

62

GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS

So get out your clothes

those special coverings

step into your high heels.

You sit at, now, a table

your legs crossed in nylons
and his hand exploring you.

You drink several beers.

An older guy wants you too.

You were just going to play
not get involved.

You dance.

Your makeup is working.

He asks you to his apartment.
He helps you take off your bra.
You keep on your nylons

and black pumps on.

You lie on the bed.

He sucks your nipples.

You play with his cock.

He begs you to put his cock
into your ass.

You can't tolerate it.

You begin to cry.

You snap on your bra,
reposition orange water balloons.
You put on your dress.

You see your smeared makeup
in the bathroom mirror.
He's divorced too

shows you a picture

of his three year old daughter.

63

TURNING AGAIN

I sit with crossed legs

on the floor

in priestly robes

fingers rolling wooden beads
in a cloth bag

around my right hand

years past the point of no return
gazing in front of me

at my superior

on his elevated chair

about ten feet away

just the two of us

and silence.

Then my guru speaks:

"So you think there is a problem
with this philosophy.

There is no problem

with this philosophy.

The problem

is you."

The debate was over for me too.
I left without a word

turning again

to belief

in myself.

64

ENJOYING A PASSING TWILIGHT

Here

with you again
maple tree

at this time
of day,

just standing.

I can't hear

the life

inside

of you,

but I see its play:

rhythm frozen

in a winter dance

limbs spreading
out, up

into dark blue
lighted sky

twilight passing
into night

Venus, Mars
the seasoning

of stars,

SHOW.

65

PLAYING WITH MY SON AT MOON LAKE

Floating
on the clear water

in our row boat

you see a turtle
down by the bottom
which I see too
disappear

into the water weeds,

silently.

I row our boat

in the sunshine and sky,
gliding around lily pads
until the scratching

of rocks on boat bottom
at the old dam

on Moon Lake.

Out of our boat

I walk just ahead of you
exploring this world

of cattail

and wild green leaves.

Suddenly you are angry
demanding we return
to the boat.

Not wanting to fight

I pick up a stone

toss it in the water.

Your love for rock throwing

takes over.

66

I build a little medicine wheel
as you bombard granddad lily pad
then baby lily pad

with glee.

After our apple feast
I begin chanting,

you snicker.

I pat the top

of your blond head.

As we begin to board our boat
you spot a grasshopper,
poke it with a stick.

Grasshopper flies off

in a dazzle of wings.

Out floating again,
when we measure,
with the stick you pulled

from under our docked boat,

taking readings

every few rows

you report, smiling
nothing but water
nothing but water

nothing but water

every time.

67

SUPER POWER-OVER

This is not even a crime.

The boss says nothing can be done
about it.

It might have something to do
with the conflict of interest
between workers and owners.
Slavery was practiced by the
founding fathers of the U.S.A.

My son asked me how Ross Perot
worked enough to earn

a billion dollars.

Our economic system is called
capitalism not moneyism.

It is also called free enterprise.
There is a minimum wage

but there absolutely

can be no maximum wage.

There is no connection between
Ross Perot having a billion dollars
(low estimate)

and economic exploitation.

We have reached final knowledge
when it comes to economic philosophy.
Our present economic system

is based upon a fully realized
understanding of human nature.
People can only be free

if they are capitalists.

There is only one true god

and he believes in capitalism.
There is no Ultimate Mother.
Women were not allowed to vote

by the founding fathers.

There is no such thing

as economic rape.

68

HOD CARRIER AT NIGHT

sloping in the mud
at five below zero

carrying cement blocks
through the maze
of scaffolding

you've built

close

to the blazing
Salamander's
hot sheet metal

the warming of hands
the winter of '71
dropped out of school
and working

after the breakdown
in the spring

you crawl

through an open field
and see dandelions

like never before

everywhere you look
there is the question

of your identity

you don't know
if you
are man or woman

or some of both

69

in the dark
on the land

and pulling through

the heavy mortar

full of antifreeze

in the steel mixing box
with the hoe

your breath escapes
is pushed out
turns white

and vanishes

you tighten the hood

around your head

 

 

 

 

 

 

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