All due praise
to the Geese of Fenway
reminds me to be human
even as I sidestep the shit
and whose power
can bring traffic to a halt on Boylston
in the early afternoon light
of opening day.
Nowadays, no one stops to hear a bird sing.
Instead, we google it and think we know.
These shortened attention spans are trying to
(pause, pause, pause, pause, pause)
drive me crazy.
Remember when butter
came wrapped in quarters
with an expiration date
a year and a half,
a full Year and a Half!
from its date of its purchase?
from July to the January after next,
and things even more wondrous than that:
water melons at Halloween,
people whose only job it was to deliver couches,
ice cream for dogs
and factories whose only job,
whose only job!
it was to make tiny, tiny, tiny
Oh, you should have seen the toys!
Rainbows on every surface,
lights so bright you could spend a lifetime
never knowing a star
and music that you could swallow and swallow and swallow,
and never feel full.
Do not cast blame when it comes.
We all ate of that easy butter
like it was nothing.
You are my lost city of sorrow,
lost city of light,
of illuminated minds,
illuminate our hearts.
Calling all cars: hear ye! Hear ye!
We make movies of mobsters
with whom we’ve fallen in love
because we see ourselves in them:
We are the underdogs of life.
You teach me to look down
when passersby pass,
to pretend we are invisible,
but I see your hidden heart in parks,
in the corridor of London Planes that line the Charles in witness of
your sad soil, your grit and insistence, armies of wasps,
your tribalism and no-nonsense attitude.
Today I was awakened at the Fort
beneath Rapunzel’s tower,
listening to the Grandmother-wisdom of willows.
I witnessed my own mobster movie of rebellion unfolding
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I never thought I could love you,
your fields of broken glass
where things still grow.
Four years ago
I saw a woodcock
undulating in the shade of the
massive puddingstone of Thwing Street.
Our eyes met for a second and
I thought I saw the gaze of my teacher.
The keys, hidden in plain sight.
and the gentle sound of leaves falling,
i think this must be it.
and the sound of the neighbor’s car arriving home,
and i think this must be it.
and the sound of the dog contentedly licking his chops right next to my seated ear,
and i think this must be it:
that invisible thing i’m longing for–
but i don’t want to be one of the masses
holding my arms in the air at the first glimpse of avatars, messiahs or alien ships.
i do not grovel for salvation.
what god would ask this of me?
i welcome Bashar to my own castle.
we open the lock together.
come to my party when you already know this:
God is a sexy slow dance in the basement.
and, with that, i take my tea inside.