the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 487, April 15,
2004
Matthew the Apostle,
patron saint of tax collectors
(http://www.catholic-forum.com/saints/saintm13.htm)
“We’re
betrayed by everything we do. Our art. Our children. But we were here. We are
still here…Plato was right. We’re all of us immortal. We couldn’t die if we
wanted to.”
—Chuck
Palahniuk, Diary
We sat in
Al’s dining room, sipping old scotch from square glasses. Al just changed out
Artie Shaw for Count Basie. I was always more of Duke Ellington man. But, to
tell the truth, I could go for anything Al had.
“Whatdya
think of the hod job?” he said, taking a measured sip from his glass.
We both
looked from the stereo to the ceiling above the dinette table.
Al had
graduated several years before from the Art Institute, an Army man who had
reenlisted twice and at the end of his twelve years, worked for a while and
then gone to college. Since graduation, he had been able to find work as a
clerk at a liquor store. Liquor-store clerking wasn’t Al’s idea of a career for
an photographer and former Quartermaster Corps man. He was going to sell the
house and finish his time to retirement in the Army, then find something else.
As far
as hod work went, it was all right, particularly since I had helped him with it
only the weekend before. Where we had repaired the textured ceiling, the swaths
of plaster were tighter, more fish-scale. But the overall effect wasn’t so bad.
“It
looks great, Al.”
“If you
think that’s something, let me show you this.” He stood from the chair and led
me into the living room and over to the large picture window.
“See anything
unusual?” he said. He put a hand on his hip. The other cradled the glass at his
waist.
I
looked out the window. Al’s beagle, Kodak the Wonderdog (it’s a wonder he’s a
dog), licked my fingers.
“Here,” Al said, pointing
with his index finger at a spot on the window. “Look here.”
On the
window was a perfect, ghostly print of a sparrow—beak, eyes, head, wings,
belly, feet, and tail.
“That
bird hit the window and Kodak went crazy,” he said. “I went out there to get
the poor guy, but it was already gone. You know. Broken neck.” He looked
disappointed. “I buried it in the garden, but I’m not cleanin’ the window.”
We went
back in and sat down and watched the needles on the stereo until our pal Doug
came over. Afternoon turned into evening. Sometime Shannon came home and looked
a little irritated with Al. I don’t know who else was drunk, but I was.
That was sixteen or
seventeen years ago. Al’s back out of the Army, having finished out all twenty
years. His oldest kid’s already driving around southern Arizona. Al manages a
company for a rich guy, basically doing what he did in the Army.
And recently, we’ve kept in closer touch. Al’s one of the good guys. He sends me pieces of his extensive music collection. Today, it’s The Count Plays Duke, sort of the best of both worlds. A bird on the window and Kodak’s nose in my palm.
backyard astronomy
long
snakes of smoke
from
Junior Roseman’s firepit
creeped
in under elms
flush
with seed
settled
down the terrace
and
over tulips closing against the dark
the
moon came up
to
tan some chickens on the grill
and
illuminate lies, cigars, drinks
from
a bottle perched on the brick
constellations,
stars, even a poke
at
a telescope and a map
until
Curt wrangled the birds
Gina
poured the drinks
I
fetched some plates
Junior
put more wood on
Bobbi
kept watch
then
we sat down again
planets
in orbit
around
our favorite sun
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Unclench!
SHIRTS
STICKERS
SWAG
WHERE THE LEFT IS ALWAYS RIGHTEOUS