Hank

Western light

through a November

window.

Axial was the term

you introduced me to.

Like a horizontal searchlight.

Sunday afternoon

in your kitchen.

Oilcloth and newspapers

covered the table

where

three disassembled crabs

waited for our eager mouths.

Sourdough,

and a bottle of Napa red.

Your wife, the sexiest

woman I’d ever met,

leaned back into the sun

streaming through the window,

blew out a jet of Marlboro.

Laughed like she’d

just heard the funniest

dirty joke she'd ever heard.

I brought a box of photos,

you’d seen most of them before,

a few at a time, now I wondered

how you’d put them together,

which ones go where,

which ones to ignore.

That was close

to half a century ago,

and cancer took you

two years ago.

I kept thinking over the years

that I’d like to drop on by.

Every time I crossed the bridge

and looked up at your house

on the hill with the view

of the refinery.

Or maybe we could

walk up Columbus,

find a place that did

chops and vegetables

in the style we used to get

before class. two foot flames

roaring up from the skillet.

Wine served in water glasses.

Probably not, they closed up

a long time ago.

We’d find something new

and that would be just fine.

You died before I ever called.

I still remember the number.

I could use it as a PIN at the bank,

because I’ll never forget it.

And what I’d like to ask you,

is the same thing I asked

that sunny November afternoon

- which photos to choose,

those same ones from the seventies,

and which ones to ignore.

And I could share my poetry.

You liked poetry back then.

I didn’t get it, didn’t see

the relationship between poems

and photographs. Now I do

and now it’s too late to

eat crabs and drink Napa red.

No Marlboros or Camels.

No watching the lights

at the refinery, or flames

flaring in the night.

Rites of passage

It starts with a slap and a gasp

and ends with one last flicker

the snap of a gap

from neuron to neuron

but in between……..

there are bronzed shoes

and training wheels come off

and doves perched on powerlines

over bedsheets hanging

on clotheslines drying in the sun.

The way the crabgrass felt under my feet

before the world and biology kicked in

the universe had my sticky fingerprints all over it

and I inhaled it through my skin

and desert sun in April could feel

like old velvet movie theater seats

at a Saturday afternoon double matinee.

The day i got my drivers license

August fifth, nineteen sixty eight

was my father's birthday,

twenty three years to the day,

when the crew of the Enola Gay

dropped a bomb named Little Boy

on Hiroshima. 

That night, on the roof beneath a moonless sky

the milky way was echoed by the foam

on Duxbury Reef, the wave's hiss

blending with John Coltrane's tenor sax

moaning through the open window.

I howled at the sky.

I ate the raw blue flesh of a rock fish.

I raised my arms towards the spangle,

poked my fingers in the eyes of the stars

and felt myself expand into that dome of black,

out into the grass and cypresses

and pebbles rolling in the surf below.

and it had nothing to do with a drivers license

or my father's birthday or Hiroshima.

maybe Coltrane had something to do with it.  

Ninety-nine miles per hour

He was doing something

that wasn’t quite dancing,

kinda Broadway slash kung fu.

Edging down the street

in front of Cowgirl Creamery.

Twist and stomp.

Big headphones over

long black curly hair,

very Pt Reyes Station.

and talking really fast,

like the side effects disclaimers

on pharmaceutical ads.

No anti virus mask to interfere,

he was smiling through his beard

and I’d swear it was joy

not methamphetamine

that was fueling his

hypersonic patter.

He twists and stomps

and slices the air,

addresses happy

ninety-nine miles per hour

commentary on his moves

to Friday afternoon passersby.

I wonder what was playing

on those big headphones.

It must be something good.

Blue logic

Nothing.

No time, no space

just the mind of God.

Until he blinked.

or was it a wink?

said let there be…….

And a universe

vomited into being,

a boiling spew

of plasma,

stuff and anti-stuff

the birth of galaxies,

stony orbs,

and frozen gas.

Eden, eventually.

Mozart and mosquitos.

rainbows. babies’ breath.

Only birds, bugs, and fish,

are truly blue. Is that

because they are creatures

of the sky and waters?

I think he smiled

and said with a wink,

let there be blue.

Enchiladas

I made an enchilada
casserole last night.
I may have made

some kind of enchiladas

a thousand times. 

No recipe, it’s in my head;
layers of pork and chiles,
onions and herbs,
tortillas and cheese.

Layers that live there
on top of the details
about dinosaurs
and California
and distant wars

that I shared playing
Jeopardy on Zoom
with my office mates
the night before.
Hope I didn’t bore them
-much.

When the enchiladas
were on the table
and the candles were lit,
we said a prayer
of gratitude

-for the love we shared
that day and every day,
for the kitten now in our lives,
for the departure of the toxins
from our skies.

We prayed that the toxins
in our national atmosphere
would depart as well.
Then we ate the enchiladas
and they were good.

High Noon

Everyone was
talking about it:
the color of despair.

Looking up the AQ
on sites like Purpleair.

When noon looked like
it had been drowned
in rusty water.

The gray replacement
was not a comfort
when we longed for blue.

And we declared,
Is that red eye my sun?

Oswald's grave

His mouth gaped,
made an O, 
an Oreo,

A gasping carp
on land mouth,

when the bullet
from Ruby’s snubnose

Colt Cobra .38
pierced his gut.

The gun then sat in
a white cloth bag
in a safety deposit box

for twenty four years
while it's ownership
was contested.

Ruby’s brother Earl
sold it for legal fees
and back taxes.

To a real estate developer

from Del Ray Beach.

He tried to sneak out the back door

of the auction at the Omni Hotel

with the revolver hidden

in a velvet Crown Royal bag.

Back home in Florida,

he fired hundreds of bullets
from the gun into a swimming pool.

Mounted them on plaques
and sold them to benefit
various charities and
environmental groups.

Beside Oswald’s grave
in Fort Worth Texas,

on the adjacent plot

is a grave stone, same size
and same pink granite

as his.

The name engraved
on the matching stone 
is Nick Beef.