Monthly Archives: September 2019

Poetry

It’s Entropy, Baby

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This is another old poem, but I found a link on YouTube to an old video I put out years ago. If I were to record it again today, I’d pick a moderately slower tempo. (and my new gravelly voice.) It’s a good poem to put out on one’s 69th birthday.

 

No matter what you build, it all comes crashing down. No matter what you want, it all goes out of round. No matter how you sing, you make a discordant sound. It’s Entropy, Baby and it’s the law of the land.

It all spills into disarray. It all breaks into pieces. It happened to Sister Teresa. It happened to Jesus. As much as we want to keep breathing, eventually it ceases. It’s Entropy, Baby. And it’s the law of the land. Everybody turns to dust.

The universe is collapsing in upon its point of birth, or else it’s evaporating  away from the center. No matter what we do In our little stay on Earth, we end up evicted like A delinquent renter. It’s Entropy, Baby and it’s the law of the land. Everybody turns to dust. And we’re breaking up the band.

Energy flows to where it hasn’t been. No matter how much you have, you always need more again. Feather, fur or fin–you die, you rot, you pay the wages of your sin. Your molecules go out. They don’t even know each other when they meet up again. It’s Entropy, Baby. And it’s the law of the land. Everybody turns to dust. And we’re breaking up the band. On a subatomic level

Everything goes to hell Given enough time. My effort to keep the rhythm raises hell with the rhyme. When I pay attention to the rhyming, the timing falls apart. Everything goes to hell. There’s arrhythmia in my heart. It’s Entropy, Baby. And it’s the law of the land. Everybody turns to dust. And we’re breaking up the band. On a subatomic level they need your parts again.

Sunshine singers say, “Look, it’s bright.” The sun comes up and spreads the light. The rain that falls on the grave in the spring brings grass, and leaves, and there’s life again. But it’s Entropy, Baby. And it’s the law of the land. Everybody turns to dust. And we’re breaking up the band. On a subatomic level They need your parts again. ‘Cause it’s entropy, Baby.

The elements that bring back the new life will erode my gravestone over time And the granite will turn to sand. Even the conquering worm becomes dust motes in the sunshine. And children who play in the sunshine will grow,  break their hearts, break their necks and die all alone. It’s Entropy, Baby. And it’s the law of the land. Everybody turns to dust. And we’re breaking up the band. On a subatomic level They need your parts again. ‘Cause it’s entropy, Baby. And it’s the law of the land.

Uncategorized

Of Plums and Iceboxes

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Rudimentary robots on Mars
grind through sorrel dust
on a quest for the next higher ground
or large boulder field.
One drags a frozen wheel
As it limps toward the sunlight.
Far overhead,
another robot
discovers erosion patterns
and evidence of great floods
in delta fans of effluvium
and not a wisp of water in thin air.

But here
two bananas have gone just beyond ripe
and when I peel them
they release plumes in the kitchen.
I slice them into a bowl
and drench them with thick cream.
I spoon them.

Uncategorized

My Pack

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Older and retired-er,
I feel my status erode.
If I admit it,
I’ve never been the top dog
in my own pack before.

So now, my three sister-dogs
and I
maintain the dog network
that probably runs for miles,
at least on this side of the rivers
and lakes.

We know in advance of
joggers, packs of bicyclers,
I don’t know why we care about them at all.
But we dutifully chuff and huff
responses and signal boosters
and pass the intel along down the line.

We know about too loud ATVs
and stealth animals in the woods,
but the full sound and fury go forth
if there is a dog doing dog
inside of my area of responsibility.

I remember before I was older
and retired, ….

but, no, there’s too much thinking about nothing there.

I’ll stay here on a one-acre plot.
My eyes are shortened by the trees,
but my ears go out about 300 yards
(or meters. I piss on the distinction.)
with good distinction,
and my nose can do a thousand more than you.
A thousand anythings.

All day we receive messages
along these channels
and send the intel on down the line.

I trust what I see, only some,
I trust what I hear a bit more,
But what I smell is the truth.
The truth often stinks.

I live this life in captivity in exchange for
my taste.
Here i will be fed, and in exchange
i will offer the benefit of my eyes, ears and
the Dog-given power of my nose.
It’s what I do. It’s a good gig.

Poetry

Sit Still

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Common frogs mating

 

As light fades
over the pond.
Frog song emerges;
one, then two,
five, then twelve.
Dozens sing.
Hundreds harmonize.
Thousands send an acoustic aura.
The musical swells
rise and fall,
synchronize,
then fall apart.

Each male chants,
“Come. Pick me.
My genes are splendid.”

And the females too,
hasten to frogsong
sung seasonally plumb.

And still,
if she is seized
from behind,
rough, rude thumbs
hooked into armpits,
she sings again:
either, “Yes. Yes,”
or “No, release me.”
Wrong breed?
Wrong species?
Deformed sperm?

Males release, mostly,
if told to.

The sound is not a murmuration.
(I looked it up.)
It is more a susurration,
rising
and falling–
a weak repeating pattern
that screams
into the otherwise
still night–
“Seize me.
Spill seed.”
Afresh, the cycle begins.
Sit still.

Memoir, Poetry

I celebrate the life of my father’s mother’s father: Francis Marion Cox

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I can remember
near Memorial Day
of 1955.
My great-grandfather Cox,
(just Grampa to me)
has me seated in the car
up front with him.
I am sitting as tall as I can
in order to see out the windows.
Grampa is driving through the center of town,
three traffic lights then as now.
The first light clicks to red
in front of the courthouse.
Grandpa rolls to a stop next to
a skinny man
wearing an army barracks cap
in the cross walk.
The man, much younger than Grandpa,
nonetheless familiar, says,
“Frank, where’s your Poppy?”
Grandpa always looks pissed off,
Like he’s chewing something tough.
But he pulls two dollars
from his shirt pocket,
hands them to the man in the cap.
“I want two, Melvin.”
He gives me a glance.
He doesn’t smile,
He looks like he got stuck
with some duty
beneath his station.
He lays both paper flowers
on the dash.
He drives one block and turns right,
drives past the Post Office,
makes another right
into the parking lot behind Beech Market.
He stops the old Dodge,
takes a paper poppy
And twists the wire stem
around the middle button on my shirt
He does the same to his own.

I remember he placed his higher,
where he couldn’t really see it
but others could.
The VFW had completely
occupied our downtown.
I didn’t know then
that
the poppy was a protection racket.
It was a cool poppy.

Grampa always smelled of tobacco.
The poppy didn’t smell like anything.

Memoir, Original recording, Parody, Poetry

My Mem’ry

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This is what I did today instead of work. (Sound on.)

You know this is semi-autobiographical parody, right?

You know, of all the things
That got away from me,
I miss my mem’ry most.

Of all the things
That got away from me,
I miss my old mem’ry most.

Lost my money.
Lost my love.
Lost my house,
But I miss my mem’ry the most.

I lost a bunch of other things
I don’t remember right now.
Oh, God–I miss my mem’ry the most.

Of all the things
That got away from me,
I certainly do miss my mem’ry most.

I lost so many things,
But mostly I miss my mem’ry.

 

I must acknowledge the lifelong inspiration of Tom Waits,  Leon Redbone and especially Chuck E. Weiss