[W]hen a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason – John Keats, Letter to George and Thomas Keats – December 1817.
The fog fades over the bay on New Year’s Day.
Pale blue surface drinking light. Flat
and glassy with a few ducks bobbing. I walk from
the Lesner Bridge to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.
Crisp as the calendar. Wispy clouds.
They’ve wrapped the giant supports in bolted
metal and weatherproof paint, but there’s no
such thing as permanence. Ask the poles
with no pier. Ask the dunes. Ask proud-fool
sailors about trusting the sea. The answer is laughter.
The answer is existence as long as Keats allows
and we believe in the concept known as
the second of January.… ...continue reading
It looked orange when it went in the air and the sun was on it. It was easy to churn up, too. A gust of wind, a pickup truck taking too sharp a right turn, or when the women flapped their mats and rugs out of windows or off the sides of front porches. Sometimes, if you weren’t paying attention, it got in your eyes and in your throat.
Black folks lived in town and white folks lived outside town. It wasn’t always like that. Before there was a town, white folks made black folks live on and work their property under threat of whip and rifle. Once the town was established though, white folks only went into town out of necessity, and black folks avoided going outside of town.… ...continue reading
Ted’s a good guy, but he’s got this rare condition called Blown-Out Heart Syndrome—or BOHS—where about once a day his heart gets blown out his back. It leaves an awful mess. It’s like his body sneezes out his heart and blood and such. I don’t know why. I’m not an expert. But his heart grows back, don’t worry.
Ted hired me in a CleanUp/Caretaker role a while ago. I used to do freelance crime scene cleaning, but now he’s got me on contract. I come in the morning and stay till the evening, waiting for Ted to have a BOHS episode and clean up afterwards. He tries to make it easy on me. For example, he’ll spend most of his day sitting in the living room with his back pointed to a blank wall.… ...continue reading
After Jericho Brown & Terrance Hayes
Undergrads wade through the scorching afternoon
clutching sweating six-packs of cheap beer.
Clutching sweating six-packs of shitty beer,
white shirtless undergrads climb a ladder.
Shirtless white undergrads climb a ladder –
frat boys are drinking on their roof again.
frat boys are drinking on their roof again,
sound system pumping n-words & bass rumbles.
The sound system pumps n-words & bass rumbles
through open windows, backyards & boulevards.
Through open windows, backyards & boulevards
party music spreads hate & violence.
Party music spreads hate & violence –
undergrads wade through the scorching afternoon.
– Nathanael O’Reilly… ...continue reading
Today I walked around the city with a white noise machine. Not an app played through headphones but a box, both futuristic and antediluvian, used during nights too loud or too silent to sleep. It ran on electricity so I snuck into my dad’s garage and took his generator, zipping it into a duffle bag and slotting my arms through the straps.
Then, I carried it around the city looking for you.
It rumbled against my spine, and I felt touched for the first time since your impression faded from that side of my bed. The soft whir distracted me from your high-rising, staccato accent, the one you explained as particular to your side of the Port. Despite the distance you traveled to arrive, were it not for the machine, I’d have heard you everywhere.… ...continue reading
March brings its rain
and stubborn questions.
The red-wing blackbirds
return. I walk through
the half-thawing marsh, listening
to that familiar oak-a-lee call.
Every time the blackbird sings,
he shrugs his shoulders.
I don’t know either, I tell him.
Sometimes, I think the soul
is two-toned, like an old board—
the half that’s been baked by sunlight
is dark brown, the color of cinnamon,
or burnt toast, while the other half
that was covered with a stone or sheet
of plywood is light yellow, as though
the tree has just been cut—then
blackbird interrupts—
isn’t this a little extravagant?
Adding “the soul” to every problem, isn’t it
excessive, like including saffron threads in a dessert?
Yes, I answer, excessive—unnecessary, even
if it does impart that pretty yellow
you can’t manage with other dyes,
and subtle flavor, easy to miss,
like the soul when you consider all
the ingredients for life, many
of which are strong-flavored
like garlic, or molasses…
But aren’t we getting our metaphors
mixed up a little?… ...continue reading
Growing up, my favorite movie was Gigi.
Vincente Minnelli’s Paris
as a breathtaking canvas
filmed in a brutal heat wave.
The director had jangled nerves,
then whooping cough,
then he was bitten by a swan.
On screen: joie de vivre.
Colette brought to life
with Maurice Chevalier & Leslie Caron.
As a kid, I read Chevalier’s risqué memoir
three times.
Minnelli was born in a tent show.
Too shy to be an actor, he designed costumes
his father thought were ‘never good enough.’… ...continue reading