in an early morning kitchen

in an early morning kitchen
the baker collects her bowls and spoons and measuring cups
lays out her ingredients - flour, butter, milk and sugar
the light is low
only the voice from the radio spills into her space

and then she begins to combine the ingredients
in the early morning kitchen a streak of light stretches across the stainless steel tabletop
before it is smothered in flour
soon a rubbery dough flexes back and forth
on the cool smooth surface
and fights against her every new shove

when the oven reaches the perfect temperature of heat
she opens the door
slides in the pan with settled loaves
awash with hope of warm, tender bites
the baker rinses flour from her hands
wipes them against her apron and sits down on the stool beside the table

where she kneads her hands
softening the tendons and muscles tired from work
in an early morning kitchen

what got left behind - tire chains

The tire chains you bought in Portland lean against the wall between our bedroom doors.  A reminder to me (no doubt) to mail them to Carmen along with your sunglasses which arrived today (of course).  The tire chains are funny to me.  Never expected you to need them.  Seemed like overkill.  Reminded me of your father.  Always prepared.  My challenge will be making a trip to the post office in a timely manner (I'll try).  I need stamps anyway.  I'm guessing I can do the flat box without the post office being open. 

It seems

we are always recreating ourselves

a cold December day
wind whips large, rust colored leaves
a single pigeon head bowed
stretches wings back before
lift

I watch one squirrel sit upon
a branch's tip
before leap to branch below

wonder what the creatures' plan
on a day temperatures drop
twenty from the day before
to accomodate the weather's shift

to lose time

a great clock hangs alongside the moon, hands tick
while I watch stationary train cars
and my car purrs beneath my seat

you say the cars slip off the tracks often
I contemplate your words before I turn around
and time ticks beneath the wheels to your house

Thursday morning in my livingroom

at home for a break on the couch
John Aielli and John Gorka on the radio
plays Wilco Impossible Journey
I watch Luddah and Godot spar on the rug
Luddah on hind legs reaches Godot
who stands and leans back
into a crouch,
friends play
pieces fit together
music and pets

many times before

last night I went to hear Don Delillo read -
the Prologue from Underworld
felt like he'd read those same words many times before
to a room full of people
much like those assembled last night

Dick, my back fence neighbor,
Rebecca, the poet, I taught in sixth grade
who begins at Mount Holyoke in a few weeks
Geoff Ripps, a father of an old friend of Laura's,
and a man of words
my government professor who I used to run into at Austin High

Jessen Auditorium filled with readers, who anticipated
a young man's leap over a turnstile
and waited patiently for the batter to connect his bat and the ball
to win the game
listened as he answered three questions from the audience
following the reading
questions he'd probably answered many times before

and I left last night
reminded of the night I saw Carlos Santana at Merriweather Post Pavilion
many years before
great show - feels like he's played those songs many times before
easy, elastic and familiar

piddling

whittling away at the list of things to do
feeling like I'm hardly getting anywhere
wondering if I can see over the top
still more to do before I can walk through

Rachel's birthday

days before bombs exploded at the Boston Marathon
we explored dinner at Lenoir, as an impulse
and a couple of days later Terrance Mallick's To the Wonder

- life in all its fullness

pushes boundaries
causes us not to keep marching forward
but stop and think about the detritus dropping at our feet

life cut short after celebrating a great moment
actions completed without thought of a future
in the space of two hours, time to ponder
relationships
interactions
purpose

one life begun 22 years ago
on a Sunday in fact
with all these questions laid out before her

Voice from across the street

Today I sit in an unfamiliar pew - the body of Christ stretches in two directions
I listen to a woman sing the hymns of this place
I remember Jane Mitchell who sang before her kitchen window
Her voice crossed the street to the house where I was young
As she practiced for Sundays and special occasions

Tonight an unfamiliar service continues with a bench for kneeling, wafers for tasting
Two people's lives join while family and friends watch and listen
and I remember an evening when I sat in a familiar church with my family
My first wedding - our neighbor's daughter
Jane Mitchell sang the hymns of the church and a song of love
As my brother laughed uncontrollably on the pew between our parents
Tickled by the voice from across the street

A second woman sings "Ave Maria"
I am lost in the words from her lips, the range of the notes
And return to that Baptist Church in Waynesboro with my family and neighbors

her book

I borrowed her book
a student who's name I've lost
I'll call her Hannah
though I know it's not her name

an adaptation of Alice in Wonderland
rode to Arkansas that first spring
Laura lived there

stacked among other things
on the floor behind the passenger's seat

there was a leak
water dripped from the air conditioner
soaked the carpet at the feet on the passenger's side

later I noticed it soaked the stack of things
on the floor behind the passenger's seat
including the book I borrowed
from my student I'm calling Hannah
but who's not

I offered to buy her another
a copy not soaked by water from an air conditioner
"it's a first edition" she said
though I did not replace her copy
with one that was

I never read the book
leant it to students over a few years time
til it went on its way

from 'a storied procession of palms'

the Prado
remnants of a wealthier Lima
where Spanish colonial mansions now house oficinas

an avenida
where two strips of street travel in different directions
palms stand in the green space between street and sidewalk
cars and emissions fill the space beneath the green fronds

I ride along through continuously warm days
surprised that the magnificent now diminished to a roadway
only hints of a splendor that once existed

nine words

I stand beside the back door
on a Sunday afternoon
the light is low

I've just returned from a trip
in my grandparents Rambler
I'm not more than four

a day spent with cousins
whose names I never knew
a wood paneled room
I never visited again
my first Big Red

my dad asks me
"Jamie, where did you go today?"
And I respond
"Daddy, you know I don't know where I went"

If there were a bead for every time my father
told that story
that necklace of beads would stretch
beyond my sight

nine words made what could have been
a forgettable afternoon
more than it was ever meant to be

who are no longer

today I woke thinking of mothers who'd been planning Christmas parties
now there are no children to attend these parties

yesterday my mom mentioned gifts under Christmas trees for children
who are no longer alive

tomorrow something else will cross my mind
and those children will not be here

grounded

my day began with lightening and rain
a short walk backwards on the trail
the two of them darting among familiar trees
hidden briefly

on our street - a tree lit where one appreciates another chance with the holiday
I'd been nudged earlier this morning by the smell of pork
now the day holds so much - cars and grades
and lost childrens' lives
it's right that there's too much to grasp
feel I nibble at the edges - peer into a dim lit window not even able to make out the shadows
of a Sunday in December with a beer, an open notebook and familiar faces

More Rimbaud - War

might yea 

but where can anyone find right

my angle of argument

my dance of disobedience

requiring logic

to make sense of the act or situation

lodged in the situation of the day

the same breeze sets the blades of grass on their sides

and bobs the clover heads in a rhythm of vibration

so much from a breeze

more Rimbaud - Novel

warm  air

cool breeze lifts my hair  

waves notebook pages 

flutters wine scent

noise from cars passing resemble the slow flow of water

soft conversation laps at space

comes in waves no regulating beat

discordant conversations fill space 

best not to attend to the actual words

rather attend to the cadence of the voice

in response to Rimbaud - Seasons in Hell

there is much about society that annoys me, leaves me dissatisfied

though my rantings are minimal

expressed with few words and

then forgotten or

at least swept out of my current mind 

to make way for the trivial tasks of the day

Destinationless

"may be the last time, I don't know, don't know"

The words wafted through the warm heavy breeze.  Heavy enough to hold those words as you drove out to Ft. Stockton.  Sky and road scorched white - scentless air washed in the open windows.  The metal lining the car door not too hot to rest your arm.  No thoughts flooded your mind.  As open and empty as the landscape.  Just time to get away before the clutter came crashing in and pinned you to a house filled with your things and Jane's.  An excuse to check in on Mom, decorated as goodwill.  She'd be surprised when you showed up with no evidence of plans.  Excitement followed by questions.  There'd be a few days before responsibility and guilt set you off again.  Not going anywhere. 

Why are you the one who's never going after anything and you're just fine with that.  Why do people have to go after things?  Why can't they just be somewhere?  But aren't you the one who's pushing away or is it just out?  Destinationless.  These thoughts began to crowd your head as you pulled up to the familiar yellow house not much wider than a station wagon.  The concrete walkway, a straight line from the street to the door.  Up the steps the screen door hung closed.  Quiet heard from within.  "Mom, are you there?"

"Jesse, what are you doing here?  I wasn't expecting you."

"Oh, I just thought I'd drive out to see you," you answered as your hand reached the door.  Your mother's grey figure moved toward the opening door's light.

tomato sauce

tonight I'm preparing tomato sauce to have over pasta

those corkscrews have sat on the shelf, two weeks now

and I wish to taste their delicate shape

washed with a light tomato sauce

filled with zucchini, bell peppers and mushrooms

flavored with garlic and basil

topped with parmesan cheese

a red wine would be nice to round out our conversation

the three of us sit around the table turning the corkscrews

pale red with tomato sauce

slipping in between parted lips

an occasional drop slips and is soon met with my cloth napkin