A Random Image

Posts Tagged ‘the robinson chapbook’

|| October 22, 2007 || 10:27 pm || Comments (0) ||

the sound of the rain, filtered through the window screens and bouncing off of the wall next to my overimportant writing desk has an eerie scraping undercurrent to it. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life had a disquieting feeling about rain. that’s one more thing to grace the ‘things I’ve experienced’ box.

last night, I was sitting at a concert and –so enraptured was I by the music– whipped out my phone to record a snippet for e-mailing to myself. I was intrigued today to find that my recording device’s lack of sophistication resulted in what amounted to the aural approximation of about a thousand unsettled wasps in a middlish-sized hunk of lead pipe….what I imagine that might sound like, anyway. I’ve never had the distinct displeasure.

I digress–I wasn’t sitting at a concert so much as I was lying in the same room as one. ten yards back from the stage, up near the ceiling atop an eight-by-eight sort of crow’s nest, I had the best view I think I have ever boasted. when you are above the band, the music hits you before the images do and it’s enrapturing in a really organic way. didn’t hurt that the floor beneath my stretched-long body was thrumming with everything it had, and the music found its way straight to my chest before it was run from the ground up through dampers like knees and hips and pesky things like kidneys, the greediest of all filtration devices.

the most interesting sensation was the thrumming of my uterus sans the regular postcoital recovery method. thaaaat business was crazy and enlightening after a fashion all its own. i think I’ll see more shows from the air above them while lying on my belly. somehow. don’t worry about me, I’ll work it out.

other things that romanced me last night:

+ when I pointed out to Wes that he’d likely need more clothes (“It’s always freezing in there, man,” I relayed to him while giving him a cursory nod of the head) than the overalls and tank top he had on, he fished around in the back seat of the car for three seconds; he then brought out an orange-and-brown puffy vest to sport over his beat-in Liberties. he looked, in a word, fuckingamazing.

+ the contrast of the bass player’s so-shiny-it-could-be-pleather cherry red instrument against his softly-plaid ivory/tan/tender blue trousers. hot damn, hot damn

+ the bow that the guitar player pulled finely and precisely across his les paul standard (thank you, oh mighty gibson, you are one thing america can still jut its chin obnoxiously out about)

+ the influence of tool and dream theater liberally sprinkled with some geoff tate-styled vocals that pushed up through what these boys were extracting from their respectable musical abilities

+ my sudden and inexplicable (but thank-you, o ye magical slumberforce) ability to sleep, deep and dark and unmoved, for six to seven hours at a stretch.

hey, by way of closing here is some really bad poetry for all of you wot like that sort of thing:

and now, let us speak of pretty things, dainty things

let us speak of things both wild and oily

let us speak of the indefatigable and the shamed

then we’ll dress our beds for ceremony

the pomp and circumstance of sleep that ushers dreams

shows, grand plays, about the tentative way we view reality

and the pitiable cries of them as we fall once again

stumbling on the morning sunlight and open thirst

of the freshly awakened, robbed and mourning.

There is this place up the road a ways, tucked back among the winding rural roads that you find all over this place if you drive even a mere five minutes out of the town proper. I found it quite by accident one day, and may not have even seen it had I not been looking for someplace else so very hard.

It’s a smallish farm seated in the midst of rolly fields; it boasts a nice brick house and a sweet little manicured lawn. There is a sizable garden off to the left of the house and behind that garden there are two silos, an oldish sort of tractor and a big, open red barn. Above the barn’s large doors there are carefully-cut and -hung letters that spell out ‘Someday Farm’.

The first time I saw this vista, I sat and stared across it for a good fifteen minutes, breath coming in slow, peaceful draws: Diaphragm out, beat, diaphragm collapse, beat, inhale carefully once more. It was that moment precisely before twilight on a summer’s eve where everything has a magical clarity, the heat of the day drawing slowly back and the no-see-ums dancing in the space between your eyes and what lies beyond.

Someday Farm, how simple and brilliant and amazing a thing to title such a pristine and wonderful little setup. Someday Farm. It just sounds so full and fetching. The promise of a pretty girl’s kiss. The roll of cash settled neatly in a breast pocket. Home-churned ice cream on a Sunday afternoon. A game of cards with your Very Bests on a Saturday night. Creek-swimming on a long and lazy day.

Every now and again, especially back in those days of Emotionally Tenuous Hanging-On, I’d take a beer or a peach NeHi out there and sit across the way from Someday Farm, staring or scribbling and almost always dreaming want-drenched things. It became one of my favorite places in This Most Hellishly Unholy Of All The Places I Mostly Despise.

My friend Geno drove in from Waseca, Minnesota one whirlwind day in the early fall, late nineties. I’d called him two days previous: “Okay, Geno, it’s time. I need you here. Will you come stay a while?” No sooner than I had pushed out the words he was packing his bags and filling out leave papers. Before I knew it, he was squeezing the life out of me with his machinist’s arms and digging a pit in the sand at the beach for a cookout. He’d been patient, waiting for that call he knew in his innermost being I would one day certainly make. Smart man, my dear friend Geno. He knew my insides when even I had no idea what had become of them.

We laughed and played and sat silently together for days upon days until one morning he woke, wandered into my room rubbing his bare belly, and said, “Today I’d like you to show me some Sacred Places.” I knew just what he meant. I took him up to the old Red Mill atop Short Creek, I took him to the broad plank covered bridge outside of Oneonta and to Someday Farm. Someday Farm was last, and before I could even open my mouth to share my feelings on the place with him, he covered me in his delight and wonder; the things he expressed were near-exactly what I felt and I could only stand there, stupid-grinning and pleased beyond any explanation whatsoever. Geno pulled out his camera and began shooting pictures of me, the farm, me and the farm there in the blazing and gorgeous sunset.

He left two days later, his grandaddy’s vintage map absent-mindedly abandoned on top of my chest of drawers. Poking a slight bit of fun, I’d remarked on the age and seeming unreliability of the thing when he’d first arrived. “The plainest roads, Jett, they don’t really ever change much.” Geno’d carried that map for so many years and I couldn’t help think that it was no accident that it had gotten left in my care at a time in my life when there seemed to be no recognizable landmarks to speak of.

He called me along the route, voice tinny in my answering machine, marking each locale of every ass-dragged stop along the way. When he finally got back home, he didn’t call me at work as planned, but instead left an extremely lengthy and emotionally loaded message on the tape of that same machine. When he got back into his truck for the long and silent drive home, he said, “…all I could think about, JettGirl, was what a lonely place my life is when you are not laughing into it, shaking the room with that thing you have, making me feel so fucking proud that I get the privilege of saying to the world, ‘I have a piece of that girl and it will be mine forever and no one can take it from me.’” I remember leaning my head into the wall when I heard that, the dark shapes of my kitchen growing even more fuzzy through the heat of freshly-pulled tears. I recall that moment because I had been without hope for about a year at that time, and hearing Geno say that thing to me, saying it in a manner that preserved it for posterity (or at least until the fucking tape wore slap out), slipped a little seed of hope back into the darkest recesses of me where it was nurtured by the little bit of faith that stubbornly clung to the underside of my ribs.

Some two weeks later he excitedly told me that he’d gotten around to developing his film and now a large print of Someday Farm, my shadow falling across one corner in the forefront of it, hung in his dining room where he could see it every evening. I geeked on the notion of my not being actually in the picture, but a hint of my presence –put forth in shadow and light– lingering there nonetheless.

“I like what the name of that farm represents,” Geno told me, “I can’t even explain to you what it means to me,” but I knew precisely what he was talking about. You see, I’m all-in for Somedays.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

“Well, that was easy.”


As It Should Be

The day we drove off the beaten path

Was random and precise

One more One-More to ponder

Another Something waiting for exploration:

“I scouted ahead for you.

“Monday goes okay.”

Would that they were all Mondays….

When you say ‘I know’

You mean

‘I do feel the same’

When I say ‘I know’

I mean

‘I fully realize that’

Such a disparity of language

teh hearts have teh meanings of teh words

because teh hearts hold teh experiences

(feel free to emote unless

there is someone specific in the room)

The day we drove off the beaten path

Was random and precise

“Be careless,” I told you

And you were that.

I don’t have the numbers to count

Lo these many times

But –there to here– it makes sense

In The After

I welcome the rain
Despite the threat
Of being whipped and bit
By its windy slap
And cold liquid thumbtacks;
I stand bare, firmly fixed, ready
Eyes on the roiling clouds
Because I know the lush growth
That comes, quietly unfolding

In The After.

|| July 8, 2006 || 1:09 am || Comments (6) ||

The wonder of reconciliation.

We spoke, words

Hard-lining the air between us

Eyes lit up like coals,

Bright, burning, obsidian.

Naught could cool them.

Over same words we climbed,

Seeking purchase in a pause,

Footing on a comma:

Avoid the periods;

They are hard to get over.

Somewhere we met, again

And oh, again we reached,

Clasping wrists…each pulling

(we learned not to tug long

ago; tendons pop) the other in.

Back into the eddy

Where understanding swims

Soothing us into caresses,

A hand on throat (mine, yours)

Fingers wound in hair (yours, mine).

Lips still release words,

But these are for the soul

Rather than the gut and

The eyes, they are

No less bright and now smolder.

|| February 13, 2005 || 1:10 am || Comments (0) ||

There is bone wrapped in string

Dangling reminders, drowning remainders

And there are forevers

That I am not privy to

I never knew what to think

Starting with the pink ribbon

And, lollygagging through time,

On up through you grinning yesterday

Pushing against the sheath of understanding

I am a burden more to myself

Detonated at a word, a scent

Left picking shards from my clumsy heart

Afraid the crystal would simply shatter

Before I could even open my mouth to sing

(Measured against now, my pre-you singing

then resembled merely an excited hum.)

More afraid the crystal bits there on the floor

-pretty and dangerous things as they are-

Will cease to glow like fire if the moon

Outside decides to up and hide away

Grief and laughter heel-toe, heel-toe

Always a puzzle two steps past solved

Seeking the okay in whatever form

Chasing deed, word: Kind or not

I stopped and I grew cold

Skin shivering with spilled breath

Cramp on my soul

Willing the recollection of your voice away

A hard thing to do, this, when

That thing echoes through my marrow

And there are forevers

That I am not privy to

|| June 2, 2003 || 1:54 am || Comments (2) ||

My head is an overfilled balloon

and you are helium

keeping me floating,

silly-bobbing, directionless;

you dissipate slowly and

I descend by degrees

not noticeable from one afternoon

to the next then one day

barely clearing the floor,

almost deadweight and deflated,

because you are gone

–not the way you came,

whooshing and sudden–

silently, piecemeal and without pomp.

Here the balloon lies,

spent and imploring, pretty

ribbontail scuffed, once-smooth

latex puckered forlornly.

|| July 17, 2002 || 12:38 am || Comments (2) ||

…muggy summer night
humidity out of control
roaming lonely around Cyberia
slip sticking to me
ankles crossed, hair curling at the back of my   neck
it’s one-something ay emm
eating a beautiful vine-ripe tomato
cradling it juicy in my hand
taking big apple-ish bites
seeds squirting, dribbling down my chin
a little wet juice spot on the tip of my nose
content….you could call it happy…..