Redefining Vertigo

Photo by William A. Anders

After revisiting this photo of earth, taken from by Apollo 8 crew in 1968, and reading its history, I suggest the butterflies in your stomach have less to do with your distance from the ground and more to do with your distance from everything else.

GMOs and Babies

Twilight,
we saw a bird rise up through branches,
sing in shadows;
leaves and all the colors dusted
by the hour.

Inside, a farmer was defending science.
You tottered on my shoulders, towering
above us,
seeing only what you could,
contextless.

You gaze with such intent and purpose
at the sink where I have bathed you;
I am dwarfed by the closeness of your touch.

You grip me with such humble confidence,
delighted, honored to catch sight of me.

Looking up, you tower,
at peace with neediness.

The farmer’s tired
of us all trying to tell him
how to run his farm.
He wants a future too,

as good a one as possible,
in the circumstances.
He loves his farm;
he loves his children.

The twighlight shadows deepen,
make the river loud,
the meeting hall a jewel box,
defenseless, fragile.

Intimacy:
Teach me about that.
I want to feel the weight
of love, tractors, angels and meteors
on my chest;
see the world through your eyes,
through the farmer’s eyes.

I want to play God;
banish the slugs from my garden,
feed only perfect food to my baby,
know the number of hairs
on a scientist’s head.

(Published in City Life Las Vegas April, 2000)

My Cousin, the Crow

My cousin, the Crow,
Is as sharp as a knife
And as black as the tar upon snow,
Or the night.

He decided to dive
Underwater one summer,
Along with his son and his mom
And his brother.

They slipped in together.
They sank to the bottom
And, wings spread like manta rays’,
Stayed until Autumn.

One chill dusk they agreed
That they all ought to rise.
So, transformed by their quest,
They returned to the skies.

It was twice as much fun,
Since they did it together;
Mysteriously good for the soul
And the feather.

October 2008

Attention

I always notice things better when I’m not looking directly at them.

Fall 2007

Published in the One Three Eight

My poem, “Is this Full Circle?”, was published in the One Three Eight this month.

From the About Us blurb:

The One Three Eight was created in 2005 at the City College of New York by Gregory Crosby and Danny Rivera. Our purpose is to publish the poetry we like, with little regard for fashion or faction.

Submissions welcomed. Send 3-5 poems, on any subject using any received or invented form, via electronic mail (in the body or by attachment) to our address: theonethreeeight@gmail.com

The Beautiful American

“They say it comes in threes,”
Muttered the Barstow waitress, out front with a cigarette.
“Yeah,” said gristly Mr. Finality, “Everything comes in threes.”
And I know they are talking about what I’ve been thinking about
This whole drive, one of thousands filing in and out of Las Vegas
The Friday night after the Big Cut.

For the first time, I test the metre of the words, September 11.

Threes, and I think of the fourth airplane:
The story, the fight.
I’d rather think about that,
Because I’ve been waiting four days now
For someone to pull me out of this wreck.

Took me four days to realize I’ve been waiting for a hero
Since the first time I saw that well-dressed woman
Running at full power through the dinge and flurry.
I could feel only embarrassed, then ashamed, then numb.
These are not plastic-shoed, brown-skinned, un-permed, unschooled.
We have finally got Ours.
That is what they’ll think—the World—when they see this,
And they see this now.

So we pounce on every half-heard word
Because that might be it, the answer,
The secret, the missing part of the story.

Inside the restaurant, a man tells mute, complacent friends
what the flight numbers actually mean.
In the corner booth, teenage girls in gangland lipstick
Absent-mindedly brush the cheeks of their babies.
An elderly couple whisper to each other.

I order greasy potatoes and apple juice
For my son, who will be three in four months,
And we color on the back of the paper menu.

September, 2001
Written before it all turned Political

Starving Artist

He has a lean, quiet face and a linen suit.

He gazes at my work with dispassion
while I envy his income, his regular paycheck.
I flip slowly through my black box full of austere pictures
glued down onto thick black boards.

I am wearing practiced confidence,
professional demeanor,
a hasty manicure
and my only pair of good shoes.

Then, we arrive at an image that makes the linen suit freeze
and shudder,
spilling stillness all over my ink.

“Did you do this for yourself?” he asks.

Confused and a little insulted, I insist a little too forcefully,
“No!” and I describe the CLIENT, the ASSIGNMENT.
“Yes,” he says,
“But did you do this for yourself ?”

I look from his hungry face to the glossy print,
and the memory of the day I painted an impassive sun
and moon and mythical beasts
in gold and black and red and blue,
and the pale light from the window

makes the room glow softly

while he tells me about his music.

September 8, 2007

Sex

(the bigger picture)

Sex: the idea
Sex: the moon
Sex: my grandmother

teeth long and sharp.
I wear them like claws and jewelry.

Once again, I knocked and pleaded
and was not there
when you opened the door, because

Sex: it’s just the mortal flesh,
which we both know is not the point
(masters of our bodies
riding to heaven on a chariot of ideals
and danishes).

Death: the secret audience—
the dinner guest we never ask to leave.
Sex: a handshake
Sex: a contract
Sex: underground catacomb,
mapped once, then abandoned.

I must remember, no matter what I say,
keep the palms exposed on my lap.
No matter what you say,
keep them open where they can be seen
(grasp not even a hair of that golden head)

There is a bigger picture here.
Sex: a loan
Sex: a truce
Sex: the forest clearing
where we first touched.
I smell that dirt now. I had forgotten it

because I am no prophet, and a false poet,
because
I wouldn’t talk about it—
only flippant stanzas
about violence and grief:
letters drawn in lines so thick
they ran together,
side to side and top to bottom.

Just like raindrops on concrete
gradually turn it all dark gray;
Not even a rivulet to trickle to the ocean.

I have failed you, wildflower boy.
The wind and rain
have torn your white petals
and I berated you for being weak.

But there is hope,
just like a seed, to wash somewhere
where the soil is good
and no hand cups to shield you,
blocking the sun.

October 1994

Storytime: a Picture