Tuesday, August 25, 2009

tea with angels

for some time now, i've been writing letters to beauty
telling it that i see it around town, see it in people
see it in places, see it in things
and i just want to let it know that its not going unnoticed
that i appreciate it
that i'm grateful
that i want to see more
that i cant get enough.
for some time now, i've been writing letters to god
telling it that i see it everywhere, see it in people
see it places, see it in things
and i used to ask it a bunch of questions
about why things are they way they are
but i've come to figure
that it's better to to not know
better to let god be god and me be me
and just appreciate it for what it is.
for some time now i've been writing letters to love
letting it know that i see it milling about
traipsing around
sometimes i'll tell love that i see it trapped
trapped in people, places, things
how i see how bad it wants to get out
sometimes i tell love all about how i can't live without it
sometimes i call it air.
my new letters to god
letters to love
letters to beauty and letters to life-
they're all coming back.
return to sender.
so i called the post office to see whats the deal.
i mean for seven years now i've been writing the letters
dropping them in the big blue frog
comforted that they are reaching their destination.
not really expecting a reply
just comforted in the act itself.
the feel of the yellow stationery with the red lines
the smell of the ink rolling from the pen
peeling the rhododendron stamp from the stampbook
placing it delicately in the corner
dropping it the big blue frog
and pretending the frog says "ribbit thank you."
until now, i've kept my obsession err habit a secret from mere mortals.
it's been my ace in the hole
so no matter what the earthly situation is
in the back of my mind i can always smile at the notion
that i'm in communion with the big things
things like fate and destiny and time.
so when the alarm doesnt go off and i'm twenty minutes late for work
it's just, eh, oh well, i've got a letter to the universe traveling its course.
the nice lady at the post office tells me that with a five billion deficit for the year
the postal service can no longer process such letters.
and i know that maybe it was neurotic
maybe a little crazy
to send letters to god
i mean, maybe i've been off my rocker all along.
maybe i need to evolve.
maybe i could blog to god.
maybe i could tweet @god
but it just doesn't have the right feel.
i liked the idea of the mailman
in his short faded blue shorts
handing my letter to truth.
i liked the idea that i couldn't do it myself
the idea that i needed help
the idea that i don't have it all together
the idea that i don't have it all figured out
the idea that there is something bigger
more powerful
more transcendent
more complex than my mind can comprehend
but at the same time, it's within reach.
and now i'm lost.
no ace in the hole.
so when the kids shatter a porcelain owl over the heater,
without the solace of my letters to love in the back of my mind
i don't know how to not be
the screaming drunk redneck asshole that i'm terrified of becoming.
or when i run out of gas in the middle of the intersection
and cars keep just driving around
around and around and around
so i have to leave the van right in the middle of the intersection
run two blocks to the gas station
buy a gas can for $8.50,
without the tranquility of my letters to life in the back of my mind
i don't know how to not be
the cynical jaded ungrateful asshole that i'm terrified of becoming.
so i guess i'll just have to start talking to time.
having audible conversations with beauty.
shoot the breeze with nature.
have tea with angels.
coffee and cigarettes with god.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

a couple poems

i go searching for poems
up to the tip of mt. scott
look out like mountain lion
scouring the oklahoma skyline
hungry for beauty.
down down down
and over into town
to the cafe
to the ol timers gathered around
taking coffee with no cream
mentioning ol bill walker
went in to the big city this morning
cataracts they think
or maybe hips
it was one of those anyways
i sit like gazelle
ears perched to capture wisdom.
belly full of eggs over easy
i go the way of bill walker
to the big city
hunting for poems
to the paseo, to woodward park, to 711 coffee refill
i am hunting, i am gathering
like sponge i soak the images the moments the feelings.
to nichols hills
to downtown
searching searching searching
wondering how ol bill walker is doing over at baptist.
to martin to hear the owls whooo whooo
to bookbeat to see how the real poets did it
to 711 one more coffee refill
fueling up for the finale
to the typewriter
to sitting and staring and sitting and staring
and trying forced lines that end up as wads of paper thrown violently
to the ever growing pile of discards
to frustrations and wondering where on earth have the poems seemed to go
to pouting and sulking
and wondering where in gods universe is the beauty
to emma crawling up on my lap
"whatcha doin daddy"
"tryin to write a poem"
"well i can help"
and i cant help but giggle at her cheerio breathed ambition
and i see where the beauty is
and it all makes perfect sense.







i drive 15 miles
for takeout chinese
cause its the best in town
and i listen to the blabber on NPR
about the economy
the economy
the economy

and i know that maybe
its a different world
in oklahoma
but there wasnt a dang thing
stopping me or the other five folks in line
from getting kungpao chicken
general tsao chicken
vegetable fried rice soy sauce on the side please
and some extra fortune cookies

and as i walked by the nailsalon next door
peeked in
there was a lady with 2 prosthetic legs
getting a pedicure
and a straight up gangsta
complete with LA dodger hat backwards
teardrop tattoo under mean left eye
white leather forrest gump running shoes
oversized dickie sweatpants
something in spanish up the whole forearm
and he is sitting there with his lady
and his hands are delicately placed
for the worker to file away

i jump in the car
flip on NPR
to hear steve martin
promoting his banjo cd

i cruise down hefner parkway
looking at seagulls
canada geese
joggers
all moving towards the sunset
while i listen to steve martin
pick a banjo

comforted
that the cosmic grinning panda
who oversees all small interconnected ironies
cannot be dimmed
by tough economic conditions