when code is a poem

the crusty old goat

on the back of the boat

i used to ride to the city

said he wrote code

for the trip to the moon.

we all stood at the stern

on the 4:25

with our V&Ts

or our wine.

the scofflaws who smoked,

defying the prohibitive signs,

sent curling plumes

of Marlboros or Camels

over the water.

he said that his watch

had more memory

than Apollo, so the code

had to be parsed

line by line

to fit in the limited space.

more like a poem

than the sagas

of bloat for the typical game

or word processing suite.

now he was writing

some kind of thing

for a digital sniper sight

that corrected for windage

and the arc of the flight

that a bullet travels

from muzzle to target

a thousand meters away.

he finished the dregs

in his glass

went back to the bar

for another.

the herring spawn

was particularly strong

that year. as we passed

the mouth of raccoon straight

we watched ten thousand gulls

on the bay along paradise drive

diving and feasting

on roe. the crusty old coder

returned to the stern

just as a humpback

broached a few yards

from where we stood

smoking and joking.

we all gasped at the sight

of a sixteen foot tail

upright in the green waters

where it hung for a moment

like a black tower.

then slid with a hiss

back into the deep

to swallow an army of fish.

place your bet

It was chicken fried steak

and black-eyed peas day

with stacks of white bread

on the side. I said no thanks

to the chitlins and candied yams.

The last snow had melted

and the fields though muddy

would soon be ready to plow.

The silver firs were showing

their first pale needles.

I’d eaten quickly,

still had forty-five minutes

til one o'clock formation

in the alley outside the barracks

so I decided to take a nap.

The mid day March sun

warmed the wool blanket

stretched tight on my bunk,

so i lay down, luxuriating

like a dozing cat.

I awoke to the whispering

voices of six guys in my platoon

crouched around a wastebasket

in the corner of the room.

I sat up and went over

to see what they were doing.

The wastebasket had six inches

of water in the bottom

and a mouse frantically

trying to climb up

the slick gray metal walls.

The guys said, you want to get in

on the pool? a dollar a minute.

Wilson's got four minutes,

Hassel's got three. Hey, Steve,

whatta you got?

Fourteen, seventeen and twenty

are still available.

Available for what?

Hassel says, til the mouse drowns,

you in?

Birdwatching

Sooo; here I am at the hump in the street where the railroad ends behind the feed mill.

a good place to get away from the cars and the people, the shops.

Just me and the weeds sprouting up between the tracks.

That low sun on the mill, the silver guts,

god! dying light makes everything look good.

the razor wire, the broken glass.

That little pile of styrofoam cups, that soggy jacket sprawled and withered in the dirt.

Those blackberry canes shooting out big colonizing arcs,

the milkweed in bloom,

can hardly see the tracks.

That thing they say about vegetation: riotous, run riot,

that's just exactly it.

no respect for order, it's always encroaching and climbing and wedging into soft places.

Those blackbirds are finding something in that tangle.

Spiders? bugs? Seeds?

Something to sing about I guess, you happy fucking birds, what should I listen to?

I need a soundtrack for this.

huh! two dozen playlists with six varieties of self pity.

some angry ones; some I-am-not-from-this-planet-anymore oddities....

Where do I want to be? Comforted or picking scabs?

Why can't I just choose something?

That raven over there found a dead bird and grabbed it,

Smarty bird, gotta make sure I don't get that tasty treat before you do.

Everybody's always worried about somebody else stealing their treasures.

Yeah right, like I want that chewed-up slimy tennis ball, Fido.

We're the worst, though.

All those walls and gates around a bunch of shitty tract houses

crammed around a golf course

and the mini parks with their bright colored slides and climbing bars.

There's nobody there. except the kids sneaking a smoke and a beer at night.

Well. That's a community. What we all desire isn't it?

Those doves, cuddling and cooing... 

it's like my first memory:

my mother is hanging clothes out to dry and, 

and I'm sitting on the lawn beside her

looking up at the doves perched on the telephone wires,

trying to make dove sounds.... doves...

Here it's all dusty windows and plywood.

dumpsters.

And nobody's watching the weeds.

No need for happy window displays and breathless promises of satisfaction and fulfillment

if you'll just step inside and make a purchase.

Facade. What an excellent word.

Sparrows hopping up on cars, picking insects off the radiators.

I wonder how long will it take for a new species to evolve?

Black-crested Bug Pickers. Ruby-throated Fly Snatchers.

Where's the White-shouldered Fly Unzipper?

I want one of those.

But I haven't spotted any.

What's this grit in my eye?

Something crumbling?

bricks, asphalt, paint, leaves, french fries, discarded panties, dandruff, shoe leather, newspapers, bird shit, soot, me?......... empires?

Everything but plastic. How nice.

Our hamburger comes in a biodegradable little box now.

so that it can merge more gracefully with the rest of our shit.

That oughta make an interesting couple of inches in the geology about twenty million years from now. right above the disposable diaper layer.

What is this in my eye?

Ohhhh, there's an egret perched on a shopping cart in the river.

how's the fishing, sweetie?

Here's the bridge to downtown. Terra Nada.

Elm Street Americana enveloped in a thousand blocks of cheap stucco,

with ample parking.

I don't walk in that part of town, it's like walking on a treadmill without the big television tuned to Fox News.

Maybe that's why the fitness center is so popular,

you may not get anywhere but at least you can watch a freeway chase from a news chopper

or pick up some grooming tips.

swallows over the river.

catching insects on suicide missions.

It's almost dark.