You are currently browsing the daily archive for June 27, 2011.

What time is it, puppy?
What time is it, roadkill hawk?
What time is it, cars and vehicles pellmell in traffic?
What time is it, shoreline scattered with shells, bird bones and bits of wood?
What time is it, for 5.4 million killed in the Second Congo War, the Coltan War?
What time is it, dull black metallic mineral called “coltan” from which niobium and tantalite are extracted, in order to manufacture electronics such as DVD players, cell phones, computers and video game consoles, and the profits to fund war?
What time is it, cell phone?
What time is it, skin, bones, nerves and blood?
What time is it, computer?

1,300 miles, i just drove back from a visit to my dad in northern calif., in the hospital where he sits out his days, he wishes he’d died many years ago (the doctors said alcoholism would kill him in his 30s or 40s, now at 88 he says, “i’m too old, too damn old”)— on the street below, the kid who used to shoot baskets in the driveway and when he got older play guitar with his band in the garage, it was his dad who was scheduled for an angioplasty, they found him dead christmas day a couple years ago, early 60s maybe, Northern European accent, he’d gotten up at night and fallen to the floor, “he was cold,” what kind of christmas was that? that boy’s a lean young man now, wearing glasses as he locks his front door and walks to the car—he doesn’t notice me leaning on my balcony, but i remember his name (his uncle would remind me)—no basketball, no electric guitar these days, he gets in his car and drives away—

who is to say what will be will be?
that route could turn into the white bird battlefield, idaho or a drive along the mississippi
that ranunculus red could blister raw like some aggravated irritation or permanent exile
that puppy could become a kayak on a pacific swell or a canyonlands waterway on a hard hike
that uncertain figure could be a final pivot or a purple thistle

who is to say what you finally say or do
who is looking to you through the spotted glass and glare or at the juncture (where my gratitude is dust) or the

buildings, hills, stairs, the desert at the edge of streets, with or without stars, unquiet moment
someone installed it

June 2011