Saturday, February 2, 2019

*Poem: "Six More Weeks"


Image result for groundhog pic



Six More Weeks

It takes him three tries to get to the story,
his odyssey, 500 miles to forecast the rest of the winter.
Cold and dark, deprivation of sound
and the angled stimulus he is accustomed to.
I hear the sink and splash in the background.
We are both Sunday dish-doers,
lives lived in the rush of singles
scampering across any available floor,
any outing to avoid the solitude.

He tells it like it was, abbreviating the hours
I would have lost hope in,
endless drive across the flat highways,
the boxy hills of Pennsylvania where
many of my ancestors dug,
and still dig in their quiet blooming.
He describes the one-eyed pioneer,
getting her fix from a private flask,
at her station at a hometown dive,
and I picture short-haired discouragement,
flailing at air for the tourist cameras,
her weekend routine disturbed by the groundhog's carousing.
He melts by the bonfire,
counts the teeth of the locals with one mittened hand,
air a solid mass of cold and beer and silk high hats,

and I laugh, and the futon beneath me
slides from its slick pine frame.
My day is for paperwork, poetry,
sorting socks and cotton panties.
We have six more weeks, according to Phil,
before we are obligated to move
our homemaking efforts to the outside.
I have only seconds, odd surrenders of faith
to make it mean something.
I have only the hint of a shadow
to drive me on.

CAR  2/3/02 

Saturday, January 26, 2019

Speechless: A Month Without Sound








I thought it was just a momentary hoarseness, the after effects of a particularly good New Year’s Day gathering. By the third day, though, as the roughness lingered, I began to worry. The last and only time I lost my voice was shortly before I resigned from Cosmodemonic Communications, back in the late 2000s. My body pulled all sort of imploding tricks then. I had rashes under my arms that responded only to a cream prescribed by a doctor who’d treated victims of Hiroshima’s atomic aftereffects. I vomited violently one morning, so hard that my face was purple with burst blood vessels. And, my voice left me, a final sign that it was time to go.

I am under no such stress now. There is still promise for 2019, artistically at least, and the other aspects of life are under the usual illusion of control and serenity. I stayed home from work, hoping a full day of two of rest would fix things, but they did not. I began to worry that I’d done some actual damage to my vocal cords. I held back tears frequently, afraid that sobs would do more harm. I checked my neck for swellings or lumps, the common American paranoia that all too often becomes reality. I finally called my doctor, and with forceful croaks, made an appointment.

She found nothing wrong, and prescribed vocal rest, and an appointment with an ENT if there was no improvement. My day job is on the phone, so vocal rest was difficult. My employers were kind, and found work for me to do, but even so, I took two more sick days, hoping physical rest would speed my recovery. I finally called the ENT my Beloved went to a few months ago for a definitive opinion.

Dr. K’s office was neat and calming, but the diplomas on the wall revealed a career of over fifty years, older by far than the ‘80s pastels in the waiting room wallpaper. His receptionist, a pleasant, efficient woman, handed me a form to fill out that had been created on a typewriter. As I waited, she worked on her IBM Selectric, the satisfying clicks a comfort in my muteness. The doctor looked down my throat, and needing to get closer, told me he wanted to send a scope down. I’d been afraid this was what he’d want. He tried to comfort me, saying, “I do this with little children all the time.” “They’re not old enough to be scared,” I replied in my raspy squeak.

Three sprays of Novocain down my right nostril later, Dr. K gently snaked the camera down to my larynx. I felt a tiny movement, nothing more. He saw no infection, damage, or any of my other worst fears. The diagnosis was the same as the others had guessed, “mild” laryngitis, and again I was told to rest my voice.  

During all this silence, because this is what I do, I made plans to live the rest of my life without a voice. There was poetry, which could always be read by others, or just given up altogether. There was looking for another job, because clearly I couldn’t continue where I was. I wondered how much I would make on Disability, and how long it would take to get during a long-term government shut-down. I wondered how I’d manage visiting my parents, who worry about everything, and how I would hide my own worry to comfort their fears.

I worked on a little chapbook to take my mind off things. No new poems, but an old manuscript that had been rejected several times. I did some trimming, and started laying it out in my primitive way. I spent a week on a collage for the cover that I’ve since ditched in favor of a totally different concept. My Beloved and I watched TV, as we always do, flipping through all the YouTube vids from Disneyland fanatics. We’ll be totally prepared, if we ever bother.

And of course my voice came back, little by little. I’d test it every morning before I got out of bed. The high notes are still out of reach, but I can get by. I’m back on the phones at work. There are a couple poetry readings to get to next week. I’m featuring in late February, and hope to have that crazy chapbook put together by then, under my own wobbly Flying Monkey imprint. And, as long as the TSA folks stay on the job, the Florida trip is back on. 

Monday, December 31, 2018

*Poem: "Eggplants"










Eggplants

 I am the eggplant
that the lucky ones
dream of on New Year's Eve,
black-purple bulb,
pulsing green umbilicus,
roasting in red September.
I dream of parmigiana,
or babaganouj.
I dream of seedhood.
I dream of summer.

I am Mount Fuji
that the lucky ones
dream of on New Year's Eve,
blue shoulders rubbing the sky,
rock toes warming at
Mother's lava heart.
I dream of a spring that never comes.
I dream I am an egg in a nest
pasted onto a cliff.
I dream of spewing eggplants,
vegetable fountain,
for the lucky to dream on,
glow in the Nagasaki night.

Dream of eggplants.
Dream of Fuji.
Fuji dreams of you.
Eggplants doze on and off,
mumble your name in sleep,
snore in light frost.

CAR  10/27/93