Mr. Seymour Glass

C/O The Museum of Television and Radio, W 52nd St New York, NY.

Dear sir,  

Please accept our if not profound at a minimum sincere condolences on the passing from the earthly plane of Mr. J.D. Salinger. The author’s recent translation to the hereafter has placed his readers and the principle subject of his books in an uncertain relationship, as if we’d met through a mutual friend now gone, and must bump into one another “accidentally” at the observances, be they religious in the conventional sense- Jewish ceremonials or Buddhist meditations on the Great Round of Being, or, more simply, over quiet coffee at a diner in Cornish NH if one exists, or any other suitably remote town in the USA- and, having bumped so must do two things: one, forget whatever we’ve heard with regard to the supposed “fictional” character, and two, think of the absolutely RIGHT thing to say to such a one, who will be, as a matter of course, Larger Than Life and yet as real as a cup of almost instant hardly palatable coffee; whatever stammered remarks by us would not defray the cost of one such cup in the days when coffee cost a nickel. Before my time, I know, before my time.I refer to you, Mr. Glass. You were the main character in many of the works of Mr. Salinger through his amanuensis and ghost-writer (and now I can use that term in every sense), Buddy Glass, your brother.I feel confidant we would recognize you without your shoes on, and that we would follow any strictures or admonishments to do the same, with regard to the removal or casting aside of shoes, hats, overcoats, up to and including the rending of garments, in honor of the Writer now gone to the Beyond. We feel that in common with other great artists tempted by the short but enviable stay in this vale of tears, you would fail to conceal your genius, and we would recognize you right away and we would approach you, or eddy toward you through the crowd, and then wonder what to say to prevent us from staring at you in wonder. You, “fictional character” Mr. Seymour Glass, will not know whether we had just realized we had locked ourselves out of the car, or whether we had something of pressing importance to ask about, or both.The troubling thing will be, as with the Passing of all Great Beings, (and all are great) the Immortality question in a somewhat inverted form, which will come up right away, I assure you.Here it is:Despite the fact that we may be certain that Mr. Salinger could be forgotten in Time, and would undoubtedly prefer it so, does the larger question hold with respect to the Immortality, the basic Life-Goes On-ness of his main characters?Though your own final chapter has been written, Mr. Seymour Glass, I think it safe to say that your memory, your being, the life of your character, begins again and again with every reading, and so it may be in life. We don’t know WHERE you are, but THAT you are is beyond question. And Franny, and Holden Caulfield, and the entire authorial progeny of Mr. Salinger, the same.Now that he is Gone, and we are given the chance to think it over, we are not sure we would accept a personal check from the Author without two forms of ID, but you, Mr. Seymour Glass, we embrace as family, no! more than family! For we didn’t give you monkey bumps or Indian burns, and have no amend to make. We just read the books and stories and myths and yadda yadda yadda and now we think we know it all: we have a hold on you, and you can’t escape, even though I see you looking for your shoes already.No Mr. Seymour Glass, Now it is one to one, mano a mano,  tete a tete with your readers.It is as though we found your letters in a drawer and read them DESPITE the warning label you put on everything as to what trouble would befall any who break seals 1- 7.And trouble did befall Mr. Salinger’s readers, whether they recognized it or not.

The readers of Salinger learned that a spiritual step may have Consequences.

Kafka said,” There is a point in every life beyond which there is no return- that is the point that must be reached.”

Those points in Salinger’s stories may be cataclysmic, in which a character’s basic faculties are at stake, or sense of sanity. Even the will to live may be superceded by some greater urge forward, beyond explaining.

We know this now.

And yet nothing ever is lost.

Somewhere the uncollected writings of J.D. Salinger exist, the great non-sequential pieces from the Typewriter Era. They include a somewhat less familiar letter from you, Mr Seymour Glass, which brave scouts know as “Hapworth 16, 1924.”

To read these is to return to a writer on a apparently unique level of American letters. The Glass family writings appeared at a time when some spiritual precepts middle-Americans now hold dear (at least in an NPR slash PBS sense) were quite unheard of: That meditation makes sense. That religions probably are reconcilable. That normalcy might be the face of God etc. etc. -these are now of the common parlance.

Today, no one would be shocked if they knew their next-door neighbor was studying yoga, or was a vegetarian, or had taken a Vow of Silence or whatever. I am not sure that was always the case- I know it wasn’t.  

And, too, Salinger’s concern with the post-traumatic stress of modern life was hard to grasp initially. Now we all have it, and sense it and no wonder.

We can’t thank Salinger for this, but we may guess that by participating in the life of his creations, (even if we are Too Shy or Not Smart Enough, or only Went to New York One Time and yadda yadda yadda) we can still ponder the koan about one hand clapping, though we now think we know that one already.

(Do we really?)

Speaking of which, I’m going to disclose to my friends the answer to one mystery that has always perplexed me, and, though my all-nighters with Buddy Glass are faraway in the past, the question has remained.

I have always wondered what, if anything, Mr. J. D. Salinger would have in his safe, in the way of writing- including poetry by YOU, Mr. Seymour Glass.

I know, I feel sure I know what it is in Mr. Salinger’s writing safe:

It is a handkerchief with YOUR monogram, “SG”.

You may have cried tears into that handkerchief, you may have blown your nose, you may have received it and never used it, or you may never have received it at all, but the poem is that it belongs to you, his main character, Mr. Seymour Glass.

Sometimes something commonplace brings us closer to what we seemingly cannot attain.

-In memory of the writings of the reclusive writer J.D. Salinger,

James K
SF CA
2/3/10.

 

   “President of Virtues”. (a poem):

 

President of Virtues

Buddha/not Buddha,

 

I heard your talk at

the jamboree/ the center-ground

of being

 

Oh Buddha/not Buddha: in perfection/misdirection

 

Your straight-talking speech so thoughtless, profane

Leads one toward the active silence of contemplation

 

You advocate petty gratuitous violence;

This shows me the way toward compassion

 

Your worship of all that is gold-plated and numerical and small

directs me toward the ten thousand things and the non- separation of all things. Truly we walk on holy ground every day.

 

You champion winners,

and so lead us to remember the begging bowl and the value of service.

 

Incontinent and profligate, you awaken within a desire for pure heart

that I might breathe in and out mindfulness

 

Oh Buddha/not Buddha!

President of Virtues!

You are the town drunk pointing at the moon /we pull you drowning from the river you’re pissing in/ mocking/ you remind me that

The imperfect tree survives the ax

 

President of Virtues

Buddha/not Buddha

Your disciples are clowns

Directing us toward

Seriousness of purpose,

The narrow path/no path

The truth /no truth

Integrity as it is.

 

Old, old Buddha/ not Buddha,

Fat president of golf clubs

your vigorous tongue is wagging

to remind us of the ancient parchment

The fine calligraphy

Of Liberty:

 

The imperfect tree survives the ax.

 

7/28/17

***

-My Supreme Courtyard

 

The hummingbirds agreed to return to my porch and converse with the color red

 

the tomato plant at my fence

agreed to grow, promising to tomato

 

and the eucalyptus grove on the hill has by mutual consent agreed to perform the interpretive dance that brings the wind and the windblown seed drifting about

 

The ocean, always busy plunging, yet still stands in support of more cormorants who honor the ancient rocks

 

and the fleet of pelicans are in formation commanded by no one to fulfill a conning role with respect to nature, carrying intelligence to the remote districts

 

Clouds and blue sky cooperate in summer and moist foggy air agrees to reach across the aisle to shake hands with the inland heat

 

morning afternoon and night have agreed to allow each expression in turn

 

and the midnight bullfrogs agreed that while it is disruptive to croak in the still pond at night keeping everyone awake, nothing ought to be done, noting in all fairness the quiet in the day, and the nonstop chirping of the birds in the dancing trees.

 

(6/27/18)

 ***

 

-Note to self:

 

Looking for the poem you lost

The poem is inside you

 

A library is out there elsewhere somewhere

But the poem isn’t there. Where.

 

Looking for the country you misplaced

The country is inside you

 

The border isn’t out there

Nowhere anyhow anyway anywhere

Anywhere. No.

 

Looking for the government you remember

The liberty and justice-

It’s inside you

(Or it’s nowhere anywhere)

 

Looking for. Looking for. Looking for.

 

(7/17)

 ***

 

-remember the artists that live on air alone

 

the morning clouds are not describable

but I knew someone who knew someone who could dance those clouds

 

a ballerina on a bus and that bus was driven by john cage

 

she traveled a dusty road

 

my intermediary just bade me listen

be open

 

the sky this morning is too blue to say

but I knew someone who knew someone who could perform and direct that blue

 

premier ballerina of the imperial ballet

1917

 

she traveled an arduous journey

 

my intermediary just bade me listen

 

be open

 

you may know someone who knows someone

 

the artists who struggle for bread

like morning birds

 

the clouds the ballerinas who stretch their legs a little hungry

 

remember the artists that live on air alone

 

(7/20/18

***

Neanderthal grandfather

 

We’re related

in a decimal landscape

somewhere in Germany

 

We co-wrote a poem of formal sequences:

The serrate mountain, and the time before naps

The pier of broken stones

 

-You, a mosaic of buried stems

a beloved fractured reassembly

-me, with the nightlight, wireless

 

You are out there somewhere

 

In dreams’ stillness

bridge,savannah

cloud and twisted arch

 

I join you in your library

glossary of stone

or the unwritten code

 

under our ledge of time:

our dna

thinking

 

earth is starry with transmissions now

satellite maps your resting place

 

You who figured out the flowers

and fragments

the work of the world without words

 

Neanderthal grandfather you had your nightlight of stars

 

We are slowly leaving language behind

on our way to where you are

 

(8/8/18)

 ***

***

Interpretive Dance!

To commemorate the release of the declassified documents relating to the JFK assassination, the Magic Bullet Theater will reenact, through  interpretive dance, the day when Abraham, Martin, John, Robert, Malcom, and 58,000 American serviceman, were cut down by a lone nut with a ricochet rifle. Music by the Dictaphones on an endless loop. 

jk

But That’s Just Me, Poems

A Campfire Song for Nervous Americans

 

Are you sensing a lack of urgency?

“We’ll do something eventually.”

– President, USA

 

Our Titanic’s hit its berg!

Our Hindenburg’s struck a spark!

Antarctica’s breaking up!

Internet’s going dark!

Ocean floor is sinking!

Sea level’s on the rise!

Thank God the Republican Party is in control

I’m sure they’re going to call the roll-

What grand plan will it devise?…

 

… I’m only hearing crickets

Little crickets by the fireside

Just the wind through the trees

The lonesome lack of bees

In my garden.

 

Things are getting really scary

That thing with Russia’s getting hairy

Natl security’s up for grabs

The body politic’s on the slab-

With the fate of me and you,

What are Republicans going to do?

Let’s listen to what they say:

 

(Long pause)

 

But …we’re only hearing crickets

Little cricket by the fireside

Just the wind through the trees

The lonesome lack of bees in the garden.

 

The ICBMs are flying

These times men’s souls are tryin‘

Superbugs are pumping iron

Armageddon sounds its siren

What’s a good Republican government going to do?…

 

(Long pause.)

 

…We are only hearing crickets (chirp chirp chirp chirp)

Little cricket by the fireside

Just the lonesome summer breeze

And the lack of honeybees in the garden…

7/20/17

***

The Donald Trump Commemorative March and Two-step.” Or “Wishful Thinking”

I am the president

and this is what I say

American values have prevailed

I tell you this fine day

Though the pleasure been all mine

The trips to Paris was divine

The G20 summit on the Rhine…

 

I tweet my resignation- yes I tweet!

I tweet my resignation- yes my freedom is so sweet!

 

An ex-president I shall be

A must distinguished former employee

A celebrity

In your TV!

Clinton Bush and Bush and Carter and now me!

 

I tweet my resignation-yes I tweet!

I tweet my resignation:

I’m on the sunny side of the street!

 

My next reality show will be

another version of the me

that you always knew and loved

-the CEO with iron glove!

I gotta be the me I’m meant to be

a gold plated name that shines from sea to sea

I brand that you will recognize

A steak that you will tenderize

A daughter who sells lots of shoes

A son in law who’s paid his dues…

 

I tweet my resignation yes I tweet!

 

I’m not really that guy you hired

I’m not interested in being fired

I see the writing on the wall

I’ll be waiting for Fox News to call…

 

Yes 140 characters I will punch

And then to mar a Lago for some brunch

A round of golf on my own course

And then a nap with no remorse

then soon Melania and I shall fly

To Trump Tower in Dubai

We’ll bid the Fake Media fond farewell

Mr Pence can pardon those who fell…

Etc

7/16/17

***

Kellyanne’s glove, Inaugural

-Please wait  (A President visits the synagogue site of mass shooting.)

 

Don’t bring the Secret Service,

the NRA,

the black armored vehicles

the rooftop scopes

 

Please wait

Don’t bring the hate for the huddled masses’ yearning or the lies

Don’t bring your birth certificate or

the ghost of your fascist father

 

Please wait

Don’t bring your immigrant wife

don’t bring the daughter who turned her back

looking forward to skiing vacations,

the children abandoned in cages

forsaken

through your inhumanity

 

Please wait

Leave behind your princely son, who does the sword dance with our enemies

 

Please wait

Don’t mumble a prayer with a prompt from Siri

or Google the sacred tradition at the last minute or read from prepared remarks

 

Please wait

we don’t counterpunch at a funeral

or send the migrant ship back

or close our hearts at borders

 

Please wait to capitalize

to dominate a scene of loss

to dishonor the past

 

Please wait

 

10/30/18

 **

 

Poem:

Further Continuing Unfinished Greetings from the Capitols of Peace

 

Message 1:

My capitol and your capitol

Are the capitols of peace

We negotiated through breathing

What is tough is the heart beating

-When will you be returning to the Capitol of Peace?

 

Message 2:

We are just beings with a thought before sleeping

The path of believing

that took us so very far from our capitols of peace! Meet me at the crossing to the Capitol of Peace

 

Message 3:

Let’s go together to the Capitol of Peace!

(The age isn’t golden but it may be within- they say it

doesn’t matter what country you’re in!

We meet at the Capitol of Peace

 

Message 4:

We always live here

In spite of everything

that would tend to interfere

-what we most remember:

The willowpond in summer

Minnows weaving in the watercolorgreen

shimmering, reflecting the many quiet steps to the Capitol of Peace.

 

Remember that day on our way to the Capitol of Peace!

 

Message 5:

In the capitols, jazz in every window

Light flows outward in the course of peace,

Children hold your memories

prayer flags in the breeze

Before the Capitols of Peace.

 

Message 6…

 ***

(8/9/17)

 

Poem after Election:

 

A Conservative Prayer of Thanksgiving. The tune is traditional.

(“American Tune” as played by Paul Simon)

 

Rich Men Have Dominion

 

The Rich Man hath dominion

Hath faith to make it be

All genesis no exodus

From sea to shining sea!

 

Yes the president’s ascension

to the highest office in the land

Must be the will of one on high

For the wealthy raise His hand

 

(chorus):

 

So long, they’ve waited so long

They couldn’t catch a break

The wealthiest individual now

is granted

More than one man can make

More than one man can make

 

We’ll ban the liberal establishment

And all those popular nay-sayers

Conservatives, the Bible says,

Will answer all your prayers

 

For the Rich Men have dominion

The Bible tells us so

We’ll strive to make prosperity

For people we don’t know

 

There was no Great Depression

No Progressive Era’s divide

The wealthiest obsession

Doth finally provide!

 

So let’s do our jobs at WalMart

Lower jobs for lower pay

Low income night security

Give the President a chance they say.

 

Chorus:

So long they’ve waited so long

They couldn’t catch a break

The wealthiest individual now

is granted

More than one man can make

More than one man can make

 

Yes History’s running backwards

The story’s all been changed

The wealthy have the answer

Your future’s rearranged

 

So give Republicans a chance they say

And lend a rousing cheer

With penthouse views over land and sea

-can’t see history from here.

 

(11/16/2016)

 ***

 

 

 

 

Time Runs Backwards

 

 

Time is moving backwards

Don’t know who I am 

The Great Depression never happened

It was part of Nature’s Plan

 

Roosevelt hates the Working Man

The Right Wing was correct 

You’ve got to think of things anew

The history books reject

 

Turn up the News

Throw out the book

Re-educate yourselves, you know

The top One-Percent has got your back

Just like the Fox news shows!

 

There weren’t no Revolution 

The Civil War was just a spat 

The vet’rans died for something

That America has forgot

(Assassinated presidents- so sad but that was that)

 

We’ll ban the liberal establishment 

And all those sad nay-sayers

Conservatives, the Bible says, 

Will answer all your prayers

 

The White House will be a bed  of roses

Without those nasty thorns

It’s going to be a Palace of Gold

A gilt name- plait to adorn.

 

National parks be condo-ized

Our rivers run hot with energy 

We’ll frack the fricking landscape 

Just how God meant things to be.

 

The Rich Man have dominion 

Just let Trump make it be

All genesis no exodus 

From sea to shining sea.

 

Yes the Rich Folks have dominion 

The Bible tells us so

We’ll strive to make prosperity 

For people we don’t know 

 

So let’s do our jobs at WalMart

Lower jobs for lower pay 

Low income night security jobs

Give Trump a chance they say.

 

Yes History’s running backwards

The story’s all been changed

The rich folks have the answer 

Your future’s  rearranged

 

You won’t need no Social Security 

No EPA or green protection 

Your political correctness 

Can recycle the Big Rejection!

 

Now we’ve got an ivory tower

With Melania and Ivanka in it

O beautiful for spacious skies

Is how we’re going to spin it

 

So give Republicans a chance they say

And lend a rousing cheer 

With their penthouse views from  sea to sea 

You can’t see history from here!

 

jk

11/15/2016

 ***

Hey, it’s Sunday.

Here is a gospel number.

“The Red States Revelations”

(or The Book Of Larry)

some newly-translated windblown fragments.

Chapter 1:

And they said, Master, how can we feed the multitudes after your big tax cuts?

And the Master handed him a fish and saith, Have faith. I have a lunch date with my biggest contributors. I’m sure you can work something out.

Chapter 2:

On the way they saw a woman who had no job, and another who was not paid the same as a man doing the same job. Master, they called out, I have no job, and I who am working am not paid the same amount as the man doing the same job.

And the Master saith, See this child over there that can do the same job for a penny. See the one across the sea that will do that of which you complain for the same penny but for ten hours a day: Go, and do likewise.

Chapter 3:

And they went on from that place and found a couple older in age than the others. One of the followers asked in what manner they might live as they await the blessed life to come. And the Master saith: I suggest any of several tax deferred savings accounts. These will be a blessing unto them for the kingdom is like unto a Roth IRA or a personal savings account that belongeth only to you. It doth have your name on it. But lo, Master, some of these elderly have nothing. And the Master saith: Verily to that which have, more will be given, and vice versa. At this they wondered at its wisdom.

From town to town they went wondering, listening and studying the fine print of all that he saith.

Chapter 4: The Book of Larry

And the servant sayeth, Yea, and verily, would I understand this ownership society. And should I not have the tools by which I worketh, and own them, and have access to the company expense account for all my travels far and wide, and should I not share in the ownership of the plant and equipment by which I earn my daily bread, and claim ownership of the many stock options now reserved for those who deprive me even of a roof over my head?

But the Master picked up his scourge, and smiteth him a mighty smite, and drive him from the temple being careful not to disturb any of the money changers who were shaking down the widow for her mite, and curseth him even unto the end of his days.

And then they went out of town and saw a gathering place of veterans and the Master rose up saying saying Verily the benefits for all these shall be cut in the coming fiscal year, to which prophesy the multitude marvelled.

The ones afflicted with demons rose up saying Thou represseth the poor and those in need, dishonor such as these, casting them out? Even unto the daughters and sisters to oppress by new fangled laws? And the Master replied Lo, I think I seeth my house from here!

And the followers laughed at this and went from that place. And the Master saith, the Kingdom is like a gated community…

Chapter 6

And so it came to pass at nightfall the Master yawneth and saith to his followers Excuseth me for I am bushed right now, and he fluffeth his pillow before his followers and saith the Song of the CEO:

O Administration thou art by my side

Though I walk through the shadow of free enterprise thou art with me;

Thou reviseth the tax code

To make it simple

And raiseth the taxes on sales and amenities of mine enemies;

Yea the multitude deserveth nothing

Thou turnest the tables belatedly;

Thou enacteth much needed tort reform

And protecteth me from frivolous lawsuits

Though they be but 1% of 1% of my losses thou restoreth them unto me

Thou smitest the trial lawyers amassed against me

Thou cappest my damages

And freeth me from regulation

When I faileth decisively thou subsidizeth me

Thou grantest me billions to support my cause

Thou endest competition

And grantest me untrammeled advantage over mine enemies

Thou doest the R&D and chargest me nothing!

Thou grantest me dominion

And privatize my soul

Yea though I walk through the shadow of free enterprise

Thou fixeth it for me

My offshore accounts endureth

tax free forever.

And the Master slept

Chapter 7:

And awakening the Master looketh out, and seeing birds in the trees, and squirrels and other wild creatures, he saith: The environment causeth a great racket disturbing my slumbers. Have one of these my people raketh the leaves. And he gave a leaf a smite with his toe.

And they went from there and saw a wedding. These two have much in common, sayeth one. They are like unto the ancient Greeks at the Olympics, of like gender. And the Master saith Verily these faileth the test. To marry one with the other wouldst be like unto turning water into wine. It is like unto a trend in music which disturbeth the neighbors and driveth them crazy, like unto Elvis, afflicting all.

And then the Master saith

Offendeth me not, the poor that lifteth thineself up by thine bootstraps;

Offendeth me not, those following the rule book to the letter;

Offendeth me not, the heavy- laden that doest all the work for me.

Consider the birds in the trees, how humble they are, they stayest out of my way; they provide food for my table, as the earth provideth oil for the recreational vehicles of all

…And so end the precious fragments found in a jar in a wind blown desert long ago, and yet still inspiring Americans today! It is an awakening to which the Blue States watch with wonder.

jk

(11/07/04, – but still the same) from the notebook where all drafts are rough drafts.

 

 

 

 (Note: I admit these really don’t get off the ground, but it’s an idea I may return to later. It’s just an idea for a little volume.)

Here is a page from my notebook about the changing skyline of San Francisco

 

On Steamer Day -a history poem

 

2018:

 

City of cranes

High rise skyline

Sinking in the mud sill

 

Beloved Babylon of Barbary

What has become of you?

 

***

 

1850s:

 

From Telegraph Hill the lookout

a signal flag is raised

over the sand dunes

across the mud flats in this

god-forsaken place of fleas

 

Twice a month the steamer comes

with mail on Steamer Day

 

and up Montgomery from a ramshackle stretch of Market Street

townspeople congregate

knots and eddies crowd about

on Steamer Day

 

Knuckle by an old steam donkey dozer choking smoke

push past lawyers cads and drays

alert incoming manifest

aboard on Steamer Day

 

to Long Wharf booming aloud

with intermittent rumbling

as pile drivers

pound down rafts of redwood

 

out past store ships

Niantic, Apollo

newly planked streets

constant hammering

 

On quiet sea would it be

letters from a loved one

or news of striking gold…

anything to lift the constant fog

through the dark shimmering gate

aboard the steamship hold

 

Only the sadly murdered of Happy Valley

(the foundry tenements buried shallow on

the sandlot Mission Road,

sleep, awaiting Judgement Day)

 

-others await a letter

on Steamer Day

 

The course of life and death

in the steamship’s narrow hold

our fortunes are never fixed

no intelligence foretold

 

-no tower no magic lantern on a building high above :

 

…the garish the gaudy

the precious the vain

The multicolored nonsense in the sky

-No Dancing God of Bullshit on the sixty something floor…

 

just a side- wheel steamer rolling in

circa 1854.

***

 

Part 1 rough notebook draft

jk

5/26/18

 

Sunday: Spring in North Beach a California poem

 

A simple string becomes the sound of the reed and flute on the air of Washington Square all for the joy of

butterfly and bird and bug

 

A Monarch butterfly fluttering trumpeting yellow in his great circling,

up to the leaves and all about

like a folded paper fortune-teller

 

Origami creature of air

folding and unfolding

counting colors of the park

green and blue and yellow in shade

Your fortune now is:

Statue bell and cloud

 

The trumpeter plays his intervals

and the Chinese fiddle blues

and traffic in languages of

North Beach

 

Outside the burned out shell of the old workplace on Union

masonry facade blue

sky of midday shines right through

 

Casual drinkers at Vesuvio

ghost of Bob Kaufman

seminal poet in a poncho and battered hat, outside

I saw you

voice of Gregory Corso

I remember

 

Where Nana Juana Briones grazed her cows in the 1830s the poets look on

Ferlinghetti arms folded in his doorway City Lights

all the Beat poets milling about to fit into the frame

 

Washington Square

3 trees

trumpet blues

river of sky wave after wave of cloud

 

the statue you climbed as a kid

floating

you with your head in the grass

all infinite countless

undefinable things -beautiful -breathing elements

breathing as the trees do

Poet’s words in the leaves of the trees in old North Beach circling

 

Monarch, I ask you

why, the mind, the literal, the figurative,

Kerouac,

tools of practice

-instead of one perception,

one grasp, one actual thing?

 

They dug up the time capsule

at the foot of bronze Ben Franklin

and we’re still alive!-

The wordless capsule spinning out thoughts

as all the poets do

Bob Kaufman, is that butterfly you?

 

jk

6/8/2018

 

Gold

earth poem  (or Some Assembly Required)

 

They figured out the continents during my lifetime

the drift and scuttle

the cement mixer

of ocean floor spreading

 

that’s some nice real estate

where they were shooting the cannons

I can see condos

 

in 1969 during the war

we looked back from the moon

too at the marble destiny green and blue

 

the sight of it stopped all thought

for sixty seconds

to imagine the first day in the garden.

 

this place really could use some work-

I can see condos

there at the edge of the blue.

that’s a money pit there though

where Eden was.

 

***

 

We walk for a short time

consider longevity

-nice sunset last night

 

My wife asked about it from across the room.

Well, it’s gold.

 

6/14/18

 

Ode on an Ice Plant; a stepped-on sonnet

 

…or alien species go home

 

Walk not upon nor weaken the ice plant, she cautioned

Though humble, resplendent, purple imperial

Or the larger, pale yellow strong rooted, ethereal

Encroaching the natives- ice plant takes its portion

 

Established on hillside, the seaside commanding

With green leaves and tubular, the native grasses excluding

With that dazzling psychedelic color deluding-

And thus the ice plant mega-landscape demanding

 

So Californians -not to naturalize-might prefer a more bulldozed reproval:

And heed the quieter plea for invasive species removal.

 

and oh: how my tennis shoes on ice plants go smooshing

I’m not buying the ice plant propaganda those purple plants are pushing.

 

(3/26/18)

for Tina Heringer

 

 

 

Breathing as the Trees Do

A simple string, the chinese fiddle

the sound of the reed and flute on the air of Washington Square

all for the joy of butterfly and bird and bug

A Monarch butterfly fluttering trumpeting yellow in his great circling,

up to the leaves and all about

like a folded paper fortune-teller

Origami creature of air

folding and unfolding

counting colors of the park

green and blue and yellow in shade

Your fortune now is:

Statue bell and cloud

The trumpeter plays his intervals

and the Chinese fiddle blues

and traffic in languages of

North Beach

Outside the burned out shell of the old workplace on Union

masonry facade blue

sky of midday shines right through

Casual drinkers at Vesuvio

ghost of Bob Kaufman

seminal poet in a poncho and battered hat, outside

I saw you

voice of Gregory Corso

I remember

Where Nana Juana Briones grazed her cows in the 1830s the poets look on

Ferlinghetti arms folded in his doorway City Lights

all the Beat poets milling about to fit into the frame

Washington Square

3 trees

trumpet blues

river of sky wave after wave of cloud

the statue you climbed as a kid

floating

you with your head in the grass

all infinite countless

undefinable things -beautiful -breathing elements

breathing as the trees do

Poet’s words in the leaves of the trees in old North Beach circling

Monarch, I ask you

why, the mind, the literal, the figurative,

Kerouac,

tools of practice

-instead of one perception,

one grasp, one actual thing?

They dug up the time capsule

at the foot of bronze Ben Franklin

and we’re still alive!-

The wordless capsule spinning out thoughts

as all the poets and those Buddha winos do

Bob Kaufman, is that butterfly you?

Sunday: Spring in North Beach a California poem

jk

6/8/2018

-An Autumn Poem Entitled Hope

a dream of a black grackle

in a luminous pool of woodland waters

drawing light around

purple green bronze

is a bird’s good fortune

balance, iridescence

this morning too, dawn is purple green and bronze-

equal parts mystery

feather and ruffled current

hidden nest somewhere near

beyond the dark pools

beyond my little dock of the morning

away out to the south and west

that grain of light is a planet

jk

10/12/2018

***

-Poem at 2:30 am

Zen coyote

Last night’s coyote

yup-yip-yuhoohied across the valley

And the neighbor dog went yep yep yep

And the siren went Ohhhhh

And the trees went mmmmm

And the jet liner went shhhhh and the sliding door went skreee

and my belly went rumble rumble rumble and Cali cat went yow! and the refrigerator went aummmm

so the light went on

the light went on

the light went on

for a minute.

(and john hartford up in heaven went twang)

john hartford up in heaven went

twang-ditty-twang

john hartford up in heaven went twang

and a light came on

a light came on

a light came on

for a minute)

5/29/18

***

-Before the Fire

If night is a spirit it’s there in the lower branches

among cool sparks across the hillside

sings a tune to those sunset windows

an expanding breath passing among Monterey pines, whisper supper in the subdivision

aerial towers wink on our mountaintop all those sweet pieties below those hymns in the trees the last songbirds of day – I slide the glass door closed on these

How the night comes from within things

The conversation of night and day

The relationship of unlikely things

The idea of forgiveness as darkness drawing essence from the cool earth in love with the bugs and worms and rootedness and microbes

the day now grants

the living being of all things

We must be glowing like breathing leaves with shoots if we only knew our independence is a story we told ourselves

We are like plants when we set our feet down

11/28/2018.

***

-The color of your voice

This morning’s smoke is not the color of your voice

but the cool fog carefully erasing the far trees down-building, Sunday stillness, your morning, your embrace

fog is the prayer of the

cool green and the knitted thread of flowers

leaning cala lilies, geranium, the

sampler garden on our wooded loom:

we have so very much

This is my first day of this day

the bridge of my blanket knees to the ridge top, calico asleep

to hold grief at bay

yet still

the Sunday peace,

the night sings

through the screen door

7/1/2018 (for Melie)

-earth can’t have you

(requiem -a funeral poem )

the dress and opinions

the earrings they couldn’t find

in our row the believers

our cells silent, vibrate

the blue uniforms of mechanics

the ropes, folded turf

wheels proceed across

green grass uneven ground

earth can’t have you

ancient place

vault of concrete

exhausted air

our best oldest idea

hollow

and yet here convex earth longing for sky

while above sky expresses gravity in a beautiful way: clouds

the earth holds its atmosphere;

the sun, its planets

the sea, the tides

moon sifting shells, as in a weir

everything holding everything

we tell the earth in all its longing

coolness fragrance forgiveness

-no!

we tell the earth no

7/11/18

 

For a friend who rescued animals. And people. A hospice poem:

 

Heaven is in Your Pocket

 

In the heaven that does not exist

they keep you waiting

while they look something up

 

and no pets,

they’ll have to wait outside

please

 

The heaven that does exist

is a rat in your pocket:

He’s cute. And smart.

His name is Dr Gonzo

 

In the heaven that does not exist:

a bunch of saintly types and angels

 

In the heaven that does exist

-rabbits everywhere!

(lop-eared, cottontail, hare…)

 

In the heaven that does exist

you feed a baby raven with an eye dropper.

 

The heaven that does exist

is your sunny back fence

where a cat can stand guard against other cats

or sleep, depending.

 

The heaven that does exist:

…A clean cage

clear water in my water bottle

and the door slamming because you’re home.

 

The heaven that doesn’t exist is who knows where

 

But oh: the heaven that does exist

is in your pocket.        

5/15/18)

***

Poem at Midnight Exactly

 

The night

Conducts

The day

Down

 

Among trees

Sonic since

Dawn

 

Now still

 

Ceiling sky so low

Not a bird

Can hear

 

Rain

 

The wrinkled paper sounds

Of

Rain

 

And

 

leaving

weather at the root

 

Silence

Sings

Scales of soil

 

Night

 

Descending

stairs hour

by hour

 

Turning

lights off

As you go

5/17/2018

***

-Your grief, not mine

 

Carry a freight

a grief

a weight

to the track out to the pier

 

And then, push off from the limestone coast

 

Pilot past the hidden bay

the fogs, a brig

propelled by only sound now

 

Another century away

the low thrumming engine

bass vibration

a clanging bell saying

“This and that, this and that”

The rolling wheels

the crowd waving

shouts and whistles of farewell

 

Can’t take the suitcase you carefully packed

only the books you memorized

grief out of orbit now

looking back

earth, universe does not hold you

holding nothing, holds nothing back

 

Do you have that letter tucked away?

Do you remember what we said?

 

The personality,

the lack, the locked hunger

The empty safe-who took the book of you?

 

Your grief, not mine.

 

I’ll take it to the pier and let it go

just have time to catch the morning train and, seeing things,

see things just as they are

 

It’s good, breathing morning air,

the ocean, a warm coat

the lungs expanding, health

and strength again for walking

 

(12/7/2018)

***

Walk Home

 

visibly wild

are birds and trees

but at night predawn

even more so;

When the tallest trees are traced with light

and line the walk in space with distant stars

I feel myself on the other side

just beyond life and the border of dreams

 

I’m just walking

 

Then I hear it

the great owl back behind the house

Resonates a presence

makes its statement

repeats it twice

Stars, dawn,

I heard you owl

Your fact beyond words

bears repeating

 

Like

untrained country singers’

sung from the heart

deep in the chest

as though to themselves

up in the loft in unison

by rote, by shape note

 

That’s you, owl with your simple

ancient call in the darkness of trees

 

Your presence

presumes– everything

stars sky tree…

 

(4/17/18)

 -There’s not a thing you would change

 

The themes of the transport station , intentional rust and brick red and stainless steel open to the sky cloud deck scraps of blue blowing slowly by and a pigeon not heeding the corrugated yellow lines ever all the air is weighted a little humid so the coolness swirls in currents around your skin like every good summer at a dime store waiting with a couple of nickels and you can feel the ocean out there and smile that your big destiny has already happened – when was that anyway?- and now you can exhale and say a prayer if you want to -breathing is giving thanks if you say it is.

 

3/30/18

***

Found this in an old notebook:

Piano Practice A Bridge

Piano practice a bridge to the afterlife

(of course that is a secret to keep to one’s self)

The moon from your perspective:

vast, full, comprehending ;

from mine, just houses, sleeping.

The teacher doesn’t wander by – no, it’s not like that.

She arrives with a good suggestion:

“this should sing”

and “that will help with the passage”

or: “drop the ornaments- no one will know!”

Moon over the ocean.

A calm approach clears the mind for memory.

***

refrigerator cricket

refrigerator cricket

the old steam heat’s a comfort

the teapot will whistle like a bird in the

warm kitchen corner

and the dark window’s bright-

condensation

never mind, my love; raking the corners, the leaves are in the bones and branches of me

rake the gutters tomorrow

November tacks a string of lights from cloud to cloud while

December’s ladder’s still hidden from view

October peers past the curtain

and the oven light is on.

***