Lunch

My office is in what’s known as the Old Port section of Portland, just a block away from the Federal and County courthouses. It’s also right across the street from Anthony’s Italian Kitchen, the best little eatery for many miles. They do cabaret on the weekends that is sold out weeks in advance.

I use to make my lunch but I have fallen into what I think of as my little luxury: I buy my lunch everyday from Tony. I have an account with him and he gives me a discount for being a regular. He’ll do that for anyone who asks. I call ahead and they make it just the way I like it, always some slight modification cause I’m a picky SOB. I never let him give me a bag or a box (in the case of his famous pizza) and I collect all the rubber bands from the sandwiches and return them for reuse.

Today I ordered a sausage sandwich because now that Girlface has moved back into the house, albeit reluctantly, as it is too far from her friends and work, I get a great meal cooked every night for me. (I clean up.) Since she is vegan, I get my minor meat fix at lunchtime.
So when I ordered my lunch today I asked for the sandwich and some sunshine, as it is a drizzly dark cold day. When I got back to my desk I noticed there was a big sun with a smiley face inside it drawn on the wrapper of the sandwich. I guess I don’t have much to complain about; I get sunshine on request.

Where were you

Where were you

On the 5th of September 1973?
It was my third day of high school.
With the melding of three middle schools
more faces to ignore me
a crowd to get lost in
and maybe find someone
who also loves words and photography.

Where were you?
I rode a bus home
past long driveways,
of a thousand houses, with curtains drawn,
empty cars parked out front,
squirrels running on the wires above.

I came home
to brothers and sisters, dogs and cats
admonitions to clean up
and dinner at six.

Where were you
on the fifth of September, 1973
when Alexandra K was born in Wichita,
the editor of the Chronicle-Telegram in Elyria, Ohio
returned from vacation
and the Georgia Supreme Court decided Clark v. State?

Where were you
when fourteen days before her sixteenth birthday
she was taken by force
deprived of her freedom her dignity her soul
her self;
deadened with fear, knowing her life would soon end
and that would be the good part.

Where were you
when covered in her own vomit from fear
she was forced to strip,
clean herself up,
so he could rape her.

Where were you
as she lay trapped under his massive bulk
knowing only fear as the day died
as she negotiated for her release of her body
and was raped again.

Where were you
when finally her body was released
still breathing
and thrown to the street
by the garbage cans
at the end of a long driveway
where ultimately she was told
to just get over it.

Where were you September 3, 1973?
Where were you last night?

SP

Womb

This is the first poem I ever sold: Midwest Poetry Review, April 1984

Womb

Hong Kong is constantly being torn down
and rebuilt. The sound reaches me
as I lie in darkness.
She is an uncertain city, a twitch
between China and the sea.
I walk her streets watching her side-
long glances. Ripples bounce off
every building, rustle people along.
Holes appear in the streets,
people avoid them; unanswered questions.
The streets tie down the city's anxiety.
The ground pulses with the strain. Buildings
push across no man's land, wade into the bay.
Hong Kong beats on the edge of excitement
and unpenned history. I fall asleep
to the sound of cabs traveling in a half dozen
directions. The city is closing her eyes.
We dream together.




It is not my favorite nor my best but I put it out here to encourage everyone (including me) to write and everyone to publish. There are many, many people who write better than I; some should be publishing.

Tolerance

Tolerance seems to be in short supply these days dispite the fact that society allegedly promotes the concept. In Woodburn, IN, a student wrote a short piece on tolerating homosexuals in her student newspaper. The administration is pushing for the teacher/advisor's termination for failing to "alert" the principal to a "sensitive" issue. They claim it is not a cse of First Amendment free speech.
Is it any wonder that people are killing those who are different when in the country that claims to be be the bastion of freedoms statrs censoring it's citizens at such an early age?

Refusal Not to Fly
for Nathan Bright Keegan, 1983-2007

As I make my way to your funeral,
I drive too fast.
I accelerate the motorcycle
along the outside curve of the exit ramp,
around a car already over the speed limit,
cut him off
and speed ahead.

I am not late.
Like you, I want to fly.
With a reckless, careless, endless intensity.
I speed past the traffic light
without noticing the color.

I have a thousand questions.
Each blurring streetlight that flashes by
whispers an answer
that falls on a fleeting shadow.
My head down without a helmet,
I miss the light held by your sister driving ahead.

A police cruiser passes
going in the opposite direction.
In my rearview mirror
I see his brake lights illuminate.
I make a left and accelerate into an immediate right
and cruise up a parallel street.

It is 192 miles from Biddeford
to Little Cranberry Island.
A distance measured from seven pounds
to beyond six feet;
from your first step to all the answers
that did not fit your questions.
A path that constantly turned
the horizon on its side.

I find the street to St. Bart’s.
I slow down and pull in.
Faces turn at the noise the tires make as I stop.
I make my way through the memories of your life,
littered with tears and smiles;
Scars and hands extended.

There is a tangle of family and friends.
There are answers here
that have caught up to your questions,
questions that may fit some of your answers.
There is a brother whose world has turned darker.

You always wanted to fly
and sought those paths;
carefully, carelessly, intensely.
And with passion and friends.

I will listen to the images
and comfort the memories
and I will leave with the fire of your passion.


SP


Nate's obit, it should be noted is of Pulitzer quality. Check it out;

http://www.legacy.com/mainetoday%2Dpressherald/Obituaries.asp?Page=Lifestory&PersonId=87403789

Something from the past.



Specters Along The Highway

Illusions

Figures fade. People become trees, become
mist, and a notion past. Disappearances
are common. I accelerate, not sure
my headlights will ever break out of the fog,
or that the road behind is tied to the city
of departure.

Allusions

Figures smirk, point back, draw tenuous
connections: to a house in Western Australia,
an apartment overlooking the New Territories,
to Seattle, Washington. The road past Bear Mountain
is a loop from the Pacific Northwest. The future
is chained to the past with every specter
as it fades into bush, tree, signpost, bicycle,
headed in the opposite direction.

Elusions

Figures slip away, leave holes in the fog.
I’m on the road again, I search new cities
one step behind. Every town, city, poem,
has a thousand intersections. I catch a flash
in the corner of my eye, the tip of my pen;
I look too late. The road goes on,
cold, forever. My eyes
see more than I can digest.

Nathan

I am on a mission today. I have a poem I wrote several years ago on the death of my cousin in a car accident called the Language of Flowers. In light of several events I’ve been looking for it. I’ll find it and I’ll post it.

I’ve lived, it seems, a very cautious life; jumping out of airplanes, climbing rock faces, driving motorcycles at 100 mph, wandering the world. When I was at University of Colorado and a silly lad of 17 I climbed up the side of an dormitory called Willy Villy, a new high rise with window wells that were like rock “chimneys” I just crept up using my hands and feet as friction devices until I got to the fourth floor and knocked on a window. At that point I decided to walk down the stairs. My favorite form of bicycling is riding in city traffic. I’m just so much more efficient than the cars. I’ll take my space out of the middle of the road thank you very much.

My caution takes a slightly different form; I have never had a drink of alcohol. I grew up in the 70s and there was plenty of everything available. Plenty. Everything. Sewell Hall seventh floor, a guy called spaceman, and not because he was studying astrogeophysics.

I watched people consume small quantities and huge quantities of alcohol. The result was always the same; it changed their behavior. Always. Sometime that was the goal and sometime just the effect. I had a hard enough time dealing with people on a regular basis without becoming impaired. I prefer to be an idiot on my own terms without the chemical inducement.

It was also a bit of a scary thing too. Sometime people changed permanently. Sometime it wasn’t enough of a change and they kept upping the dose, upping potency changing to more exotic chemicals. It was very cool. And so damn enticing. “Parker, you don’t know what you’re missing, Dude.” .... Exhale. And I didn’t. But I never really wanted to see how far my own self-control went, where could I stop. Frankly, I was afraid that it was exactly as I was told, euphoric, and I would go there and never come back. I didn’t want to not come back.

Last night, two very good friend of mine’s son died of an overdose. Nate was a very fine young man who will be sorely, deeply missed. I cannot imagine what it is to lose a child. I do not want to know.

These days people complain about the alcohol problem of youngsters. The drinking age has been put back to 21 but drinking continues to grow ever more prevalent. The schools pass rules, cops clamp down, colleges have programs, advertising tells us what to do, but everyone says, “Well, it’s inevitable” and “a right of passage” and “They have to learn about it somehow.” I don’t agree. As a parent the only thing I can do is explain why I never took a drink, explain that they have a choice and should think about what they do and why.

The most interesting thing for me is that my friends “back in the day” as Weaselboy would say, accepted my choice as one of the options, accepted that is who I was. As an adult I find much more ridicule and pressure to conform to the drinking “norm”. I made the right choice for me. We all make our own choices. That is what makes us individuals. That is what makes us free.

You will be missed Nate.

peace.

Monday

Monday morning 6:30 AM sleeping soundly when a great shaking of the house and giant noise smacks the bedroom. The dogs jump up the cat jumps down and I pull the shades to lookout over the back 40. First I look past the plywood and notice that there is a new lake formed beyond where the pear tree use to be. Then I notice that the pear tree use to be. Then I notice that I’m looking past plywood instead of looking past my roof. The great ripping noise was the roof (over the living room- the same living room and roof that just last Summer I had completely redone and just 5 weeks and 2 days ago had the beautiful oak floor redone with a nice stain and 4 coats of poly and had to dry for 4 weeks to further clutter the house before moving the furniture and rugs back in- yes that one) had torn right off and several billion rain drops were beating the plywood like it had just French kissed their kid sister.

It seems that I have a few good mates near by because 15 minutes later Keegan and Chuck both pulled in the drive while I was stockpiling implements of coverage, plastic, strapping, nails and hammers. Keegan grabs the ladder from me and heads out back. It is, of course blowing around 40 mph and pouring like a get out. Keegan comes back to report the membrane is still attached to the roof and we can tack it back in place so we grab the necessary implements and clamber on up. About half way through restraining and replacing the roof Chuck looks up and states, “I really don’t like roofs.” That’s a good matie, eh. We covered the tears with plastic as well as the siding and corner boards that were ripped off.

Once inside we rolled up one rug with about 2369 gallons of water in it and I proceed to throw every towel and rag I own on the floor in an attempt to wick away the evil moisture. That’s when Chuck gets the call: his wifey is explaining how their living room is also filling up and come start bailing.

We were mostly finished and I’m dumping soaking towels in trash cans and wiping up stray drops. Keegan exits and then the good news: The washer repair guy is back with the new part to fix the washer. Perfect timing as I can now start spinning out the wet towels. As I’m watching him I glance out the front door and notice that my electric service has pulled off the front of the house and is lying across the yard over the wall and in the road. Now I’ve already watched this same scenario before, my low hanging wires weighted down in the Ice Storm of 98 and some clown in a big truck zips right by in a big truck taking ‘em with him. I wasn’t looking forward to another 13 days without power so I called the left hand neighbor, Marc, an electrician only to find he is bailing the basement. I left a message to call if he needed anything and instead he comes over to check out my problem (what a guy) and says best thing to do now is park my car in front of the wire so people don’t hit it and call CMP (power co.) Make’s sense so when the washer guy leaves (his van was blocking me) I get in my car to move it out to the street where Marc’s truck is saving the integrity of my lines only to find that my battery is dead.

Insert highlight of day here (see below.)

Next up was my second appointment of the morning, the architect who will help design a smaller’ more efficient’ green (see that, Green?) home for me out back. My favorite room is, in fact the living room with its exposed 250 year old beams, its high ceilings and its great expanse of glass looking out over the fields and trees – less one giant pear tree. It is lovely, but I told him I preferred to do without the water element. He made notes accordingly and then helped jump the car when he left.

While the car is running in the drive the Fire brigade (or Dept. as we say here) comes and says they have a repot of a wire down so we head to the barn to find some sawhorses to pull out it the street where Marc’s truck has been replaced by a bigass ladder truck. We make due with an ashbin full of very old dust (another story) and they even pull the wires up off the wall and yard some.

I’m still scrambling for more containers to contain the water that is now coming in three rooms so I head back to the barn. I come back with three of the kid’s plastic sleds, perfect because they catch drips from multiple points. With enough containment now I decided to get a new battery from my mechanic so I head out. Half the roads are closed already due to washouts so it takes a bit more time than expected. I pick up the usual coffee order (2 black, 1 regular) and had for the garage when I get a call that there is a problem with the roof of a building I own downtown. At least I have a car that will start now. While passing Mickey D’s I note the wind has taken their sign and folded it in two. Not sure that it meets code anymore.

Once the problem is taken care of in Portland I head back to check the LR. Upon my arrival, after going around countless downed trees and wires I come to find the power has been lost. During the Ice Storm debacle I had purchased a generator for the obvious reasons. Recently being older and wimpy I took note that many new generators have a fancyassed electric start thingy which keeps wimpy old guys from having to rip their arms off and appear, well, wimpy. So in anticipation I sold my old trusty generator and…well I thought about buying a new one. Luckily my very own brudder (one of several) had the very same idea (and he, in my defense, is 4 years younger than me) but he also has the good sense to buy the new one before getting rid of the old one and since he had not yet gotten to the step of selling the old one he said I could borry it. That was the easy part. Getting back to Freeport (near the mechanic) was quite the ordeal. The first 4 roads I took were washed out. The next was closed but I had traded the little car for my monster truck while in Portland so I wend around the barriers and through the water streaming over the road. I remain impressed how forceful just 10 inches of water can be but I forged on. At the end of my brother’s road a great huge spruce was toppled onto the eclectic wires and blocking the road with about 8 cars pulled over to the side. I just drove under it while the spruce bitch slapped the truck and drove on past dozens of downed lines. None were sparking so I figured it was ok.

It was a long way home but I found a path. I am racing, btw, the raising water in my basement. This is a game nature plays with me every time the power goes out. Power goes out every week in my neck of the woods but for only an hour or two at a time. Whenever it goes out for an extended period of time it is always accompanied by water. Wind and water, apparent, have been dating for a long time and often they don’t get along. My old farmhouse has a dirt crawlspace that I call a basement. The end with the furnace has a cement floor about 10 foot by twelve and sump pump. Said pump, which is customary, runs on electricity so when the wind and rain come together (I heard that snicker) they play see if we can get two feet of water in the basement and cover the furnace motor. In these conditions that is about 3 hours so I’m cutting it close.

This borrowed generator has a different plug than my old one so I work on changing it, brother Chris having given me a plug for such an occasion. I check the water level in the basement; 2 inches to motor, buckets and other flotsam wandering about. Good, I go and start the generator and plug it in and hit the switches and…nothing. I look at it. Still nothing. OK, call Marc again he tells me to check the cable I just did and check for proper wiring. It’s OK so he says he’s headed out so he’ll stop by. (Yea Marc!) He comes over and I pull the cord apart and He give’s it the OK so he pulls out a magic electrician’s box with little probes on it and test the plugs and both ends. They check out. He checks the generator out put. It checks out. He checks out the panel, it checks out. I take off the panel cover and he pulls at wires and jiggles things and they all seem to check out. Some things, he thinks, is shorting out. The only thing left is the receptacle for the generator plug attached to the house. We pull that open and AH-HA that is wired wrong. (Now how the hell did that get that way?) A quick rewire (solid wire is much easier than twisted wire, btw) and we plug in again, restart and…light camera action. I run through the house and look out the window and see water pouring from the discharge pipe from the basement. There is now officially more freaking water in my backyard than the Red Sea.

By the way, I don’t like sump pumps in theory. I’m happy to use the little buggers but I really don’t like the idea of an eclectic motor running down into the water. It keeps me out of the basement in wet weather.

So with towels piled high, sleds and buckets and trash cans all catching drips and the wood stove packed to the door with hard wood (there’s that snicker again) I observe a stove top dinner is in order so as to keep from straining the generator. I decide on hash browns and eggs and get out the potatoes to wash and grate them. Not here that while Weselboy and Girlface are no longer permanently living here their creatures and fauna are still here for my deft care. Included of course are Monty (the python) the rats who various names I don’t remember but I do remember no to let them play in Monty’s cage and various plants including Weaselboy’s extensive cactus collection. I’ve had one of this group sitting on the kitchen counter for some time now and have now recalled the reason I keep intending to move it. While grating the red potatoes I took my upstroke just a little too hard and looked down to see my two knuckles by my thumb resembling a pincushion... Dinner, albeit simple was quite good.

I took the opportunity after all this to relax by the fire and read while keeping an eye on overflowing water containers. It was really very nice, the dogs were curled up next to the couch which was pushed up next to the piano to clear the flood plain and the cat was curled up on my fleece on the piano.

Before bed I went out for a walk in the still driving rain to a very different perspective. Even in this relatively sparsely populated area there is normally light, street lights, a few houses, cars, stars, the moon. There was a virtual sea of darkness where normally many lights, no noise but the rain and in the distance the lone sound of my generator. All in all, worth the experience.

But, I promised the highlight of the day, other than the ending so I offer a small bit of Maine humor. When neighbor, Marc, the electrician, was graciously over to see how he could help, while standing in the from yard in the pouring rain and standing 5 inches of standing water, grabs the live power line laying across the stone wall and says, “Remember, no line is safe to touch, ev-ah.” Maine, the way life ought to be.

Night Kids.