Finished in Dreams
Deduction of the general from the specific is no longer needed, the evidence is in— The ice caps are melting, oceans rising, refugees on the move. How many
wails for the earth slide out in the lowlands until even the most self-made individual
will raise their eyes, hazed at first,
to receive the news as it arrives and arrives.
We remember the way it used to be, all those drives across country
while we said we’d do what we want, when we want, touting our freedom, we even shot fireworks.
That turned out to be a waste.
So no more puffing ourselves up,
no more crazy weekends on the coast, we’ve got to live smaller, become less. And you know what?
The work still gets finished in dreams.
Hamlet In A Climate
Silly boy, at first a character in Shakespeare’s mind, that he puts on a page, then on a stage,
who’s wondering if he should be or not, portrayed over and over in varied climes
each allowing the slightest nuance of a word, that later becomes a major theme,
it takes over the play.
I write these words as I react to heat, cold, wind. Aren’t I
one person in one context
then unrecognizable in another,
the way I get handsy with you after the sun goes down, and wake in the night,
looking into blackness for a sign. . .
So, like Hamlet, I’ll go on from here into the next clime, feeling
my way into the firmament,
remembering that what I carry is everything I’ll know.
A Globe
My story seemed as fulsome as real time could make it.
I saw storm fronts arrive bringing wind shifts on the flats.
I heard rustling in dark corners that I tried to enlighten, enliven. There were conversations that I couldn’t forget, and now they’ve grown gargantuan, I listened, I heard.
And the voice of Miley Cyrus wafted the hall: was it a moan? Why did her loss of love matter so much?
Maybe she projected herself in the melody, wanted to become a moral or two.
Which is what we try to make of ourselves, don’t we?
And when the lawyers arrived, I felt like
a soldier in a portrait of Waterloo: so much to be comprehended, all that running into the breach, some salutations offered,
then the breaths die away. Luckily, there were survivors, or did I make that up too? Wasn’t there
a stenographer who made a record
so later we could examine the wreckage, offer our critiques. Those lines
we shot across the conference room
were a sad cover for our grief that flooded the place. At the end of the day, we just left.
Yet, once outside we confronted surrounding heat, swelling the air like a harsh idea filling the earth, and despite pillow talk or the private speech
I heard in my head, I never tried to stop it, at least not much, not then.
And whether I ran the silly streets or took leave to the coast,
I couldn’t escape it. For surprise,
on this planet, everything is connected to everything. So, buckle up, strap on the strap on,
we live on a globe.
Stories in Smoke
As though in Bosch’s Descent Into Hell he swans the lowlands swamped by smoke from fires
on the coast, the temp on his car AC turned down as the heat heats up,
unaware that the climate is taking his measure. The radio bursts with Winona: why did her entanglement with a man cause her to wail
so much? I mean, she’s a star? Doesn’t she have it all, the cars, the place with a pool, receive texts
from exotic venues, or does she struggle like the rest of us.
We go on, try to be happy,
as we further make our descent.
Once the meeting Tee’s up, I feel like
one of Napoleon’s soldiers looking from the trench, barbs lobbed across the table, glaring looks given, wondering how it came to this
or that, and how my children,
one who asks do you love me, one saying of course you love me, and one
who doesn’t give a rats ass if I love them or not, could clear the air,
and you know what, even if I tried or thought about it, or wanted to, I couldn’t keep people from driving around,
or prevent the population from swelling. I went to sleep to the sound of traffic,
meaning we shouldered through brambles, we made the brambles. We did not give up
no matter how complicated the ornery kerfuffle. So hold on to your undies.
We are still on our own. We are on the loose.
Taking Stock
She looks from her door. Hadn’t she thought by now she’d
have found a cure for some loathsome disease, written a compelling oeuvre, found a way to save the planet
from us.
From here she’ll turn back to her desk, find the email she was writing, focus
on it, be as granular as she can.
The lights will burn brighter as dusk comes on. Parked
cars will remain where they are. Meetings will
drone on. Still, from inside she’ll hear music,
it will be like wind
blowing in tall grass,
it will be just like that.