FOR J, L & K

 

Something went wrong with the routine operation --

You'd think they'd know by now to call no operation routine -- 

And I woke by the river among all the poets who've ever been

Meeting at the Orchid Pavillion to drink and write poems

And send empty glasses floating downstream.

My scrawled letters aroused much amusement -- Basho said 

"Take away his brush and find him an iPad, someone!" 

But even Li Po admired how I held my liquor.

ANOTHER

 

Coating the poem in cold varnish I hung it

Carefully on the drying rack 

Not too taut lest the fabric tear; not too loose

Which just asks for sags and puckers.

Tilting my head to the right and looking

From five and a quarter feet away

(As the old men used to recommend)

I saw my father long ago writing a better version, 

Piecing it together from odd scraps,

From bits of shattered light, from shadows,

From the echoes of unsaid words,

From memories of opening day

In 1936 when the Dodgers lost

8 to 5, playing the Giants at the Polo Grounds.

EXCHANGING

 

It couldn't be that they were both drunk

Since my father never was but somehow

He and Li Po agreed for a season

To trade shadows. Word got around since

Li Po was nine feet tall and his shadow

Taller, even at mid-day. In dreams my father's shadow

Signals urgently sometimes that a glass of rice wine

Or perhaps a bottle wouldn't come amiss.

BRIEF DIALOGUE

The dawn comes
Said Li Po
Nonsense!
Said the Moon
I've no intention
Of leaving
While there's wine.

GANG MEMBERS

 

The lord of the center 

Never hurries. He rides

A turtle.

The regent of the west

Knows everything. He carries

A noose.

The regent of the east

Is the god to whom gods pray. He rides

An elephant.

The regent of the north

Is rich. Three of his four hands

Are empty.

The regent of the south

Is death. He smiles and carries 

A broken staff. 

ONE MORE RIDE

 

I am just old enough to remember 
The elevated trains in Manhattan 
Running along Second Avenue
Running along Third Avenue
And rode them at most a handful of times.
Still, I believe I'll know I’m dead
When I put a nickel in the turnstile 
And ride the old trains once more 
The rattan seats, the slow-turning fans 

And the ads for dubious concerns or 

Asking me to vote for the next Miss Rheingold

Keeping me company until I reach 
Ah, what station do you suppose?

THEOLOGY BY OWL LIGHT

 

God by His nature is not

To be limited. You say

He is everywhere? Only

If He chooses. He can be

In just one place, 

In the Haarlemkirch, say

Sitting behind a pillar, 

Telling a marvelous story

Or walking down Eldridge Street

Twelve steps behind my father.

He can be in two or six

Or seventeen places at once.

He can occupy the universe

Or flicker down to being nowhere at all.

(If He can't, what point is there 

In being God?)