Random Poem in 9 Parts

Random poem in 9 parts

22X30 Indian ink , Bee's Wax and pigment on folded Paper

#1

wish you were here

yeah me too, wish I was there

but here is good

looking at my right big toe

wiggling,

feeling the strap

of the Oneil flip-flops rub between

the big toe and the next one over

wondering if

that second toe was

ever used to flip

someone a toe,

you know?

Looking across

The room, my studio,

My garage, my laundry room,

Storage area

Lights on above the

Easel, paint splatters

White, green, pink

Across the edge where

The last painting

Rests, one side still

Taped up on a board

The other side fallen

Because the tape

No longer holds it

Now in the lopsided

Posture, old already

One week after it

First looked at the world

#2

so I contemplated

silence today the

whole trip from

the moment my son

got on the bus

at 8:15 a full

half an hour after

I held her face in

my hands for that

morning kiss, coffee

in hand, bag, the other

coffee for later.

I stick my foot

There in the doorway

So the dogs don’t

Run, thinking perhaps

It’s a playday

And now the house is

Empty as I close

The door

Ready for my

Silent retreat

Up 92 to 280

Silver BMW

Blonde, sunglasses

Obviously on the phone

Not observing my

Silence.

#3

Sunday I wake

With my mouth open,

Late

Judging from the angle

Of the sun through

The bedroom window

And I know

My mouth was

Open

Because of that

Dryness now.

I wish I had

A glass of water

Here

To get my tongue

Unstuck from the roof

And I remember

There was something

About the roof

In that house

No, it was

A mansion

A white one

It was mine

I lived there

It was clean

And airy

With tall windows

Looking out

To the sand dunes

And I watched

As she removed

A weathered gray

Piece of wood

And the ceiling

Sagged

So a dark opening

Appeared

I guess I should

Get up for coffee

And start

The laundry?

#4

I always park

Around the corner

And down the block

From the house

Where my drum

Circles are held

I don’t want them

To know I smoke

And I’ll want

To smoke when

I leave.

Hugs at the door

And it’s 11

I get to my car

Fetch a cigarette

Light it,

Close the door

And walk in

The dark down

The street

Contemplating

The tears.

#5

I haven’t done yoga

Since July

My thighs feel tight

My right hip hurts

At the end of the day

Of sitting in a

Third floor office

Bare white walls

Tall windows

Shades always up

To let in that

Northern light

Like maybe

It would be

Vermeer, like

Some woman

With a pearl earring

A scarlet turban,

Soft skin,

Moist full lips

Sitting here

In this northern

Light

While I watch

Wondering how

In the hell

To paint that

Moment.

Instead my

Mind sails

From the wire

Outside

To

The top of

PG&E where

A raven shrieks

#6

I don’t feel like

Painting tonight

There, the last one still

Sits looking old

And I have one

Blank canvas, some

Paper

All white waiting

To graduate

To intimidate

Me,

To dare me

To touch them

With color!

They tease me

Saying

“you know you’ll

fuck up. You always

do.”

And another voice

Says

“well yeah, but

fucking up is

part of love.

Trust your fucking

Up and find

What is beautiful

In it.”

Yes, but I still

Don’t feel like

Painting tonight

And I take another

Sip of red

And I put down

The green pen

In the white

Pages in my

Journal

Right between

The pages where

Some one had

Written an address,

Someone I don’t

 Know,

Someone who passed

Through my studio

One day named

Tracy Bryant

On Clay Street

San Francisco.

She was probably

Younger then?

#7

I read a man’s blog today

Something I rarely do

But today there was

So much controversy

And I had been feeling

It for days

A feeling like something

Was coming to an end

I think I read all

93 comments and

at the end I had

nothing to add

felt like maybe

I would just be grandstanding

Wanting to be

Seen in the

Popular room

And I really

Didn’t know

Which side to take

The rabbit

Or the wolf?

Funny now that I

Think about it

I wondered about

His devastation

Wondered about

His feeling now,

Being accused of

Being unfeeling?

But then I realized

I was projecting.

Just seemed utterly

 lost , lost to that

fact

of being lost

even, lost because

of the devastation

that killed feeling.

#8

I wonder about her

I haven’t heard from

Her since that night

In Texas

Me standing outside

Of a restaurant waiting,

By the fountain

She was moving

Again and I never

Gave her that

Painting

And she asked

Me to call back

Later

And later I walked

Outside in the

Warm September

Night, but somehow

I just fumbled

With the phone in

My pocket

Listening to

Cicadas singing in the trees

#9

There are two

Green pieces of

Foam rubber on the floor

Something the dogs

Chewed

The woodglue is

Over by the space heater

With the cord

Cut in two

Yes, by dogs

Chewing again

There is a single

Splat of black

Paint running

Sideways across

The edge of a

2X2

one I will

saw in pieces

to brace a white

piece of

a future painting

someday.