“Poetry doesn’t know: The air conditioner Not in use in winter Is like my hopes— Half in, half out.” —Jack Kerouac, from “Richmond Hill Blues” (Book of Blues) I have no air conditioner. No dishwasher. I have no washing machine. I am half in, half out—don’t take pity on me because I don’t cook down [...]
Archive for the ‘Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems’ Category
Medium High
Posted: July 21, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: Poetry, Jack Kerouac, Book of Blues, "Richmond Hill Blues", SUV, air conditioner, washing machine, garbage disposal
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Visit
Posted: July 15, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: Midwest, Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, Noguchi, platform heels, Poetry
To climb this side of a grassy knoll in platform heels, to find relief in the reliable presence of a Noguchi sculpture outdoors in the Midwest, to not get lost in America, is to be this alone on wooden planks unafraid of those who barrel through, of a sunset she can’t quite see. It is [...]
Not Really a Dirge
Posted: July 14, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: current, grave, gulls, loons, mississippi river, Poetry, turtles
When gulls and loons take over the wish bone tree branch anchored in a river grave, when yesterday means to widow otherwise, then we’ll be turtles ready to issue a forwarding address through a break in the current.
Death of Scale Figures
Posted: July 8, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: civil dawn, civil dusk, Ferlinghetti, Henry Miller, Jeffers, Kerouac, Poetry, skyway, why
Flip-flopping between Kerouac, Miller, Jeffers, Ferlinghetti, and me, she seeks an answer to her female question: Why! It’s a zigzag route—a skyway network with real weather leaking in. She takes it again and again: bank to bank, civil dawn to civil dusk, Atlantic to Pacific, instrumental to spoken word, digital to analog, fold-out to GPS, [...]
Response to the 55th Chorus
Posted: July 4, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems, Morning PoemsTags: Poetry, mississippi river, Saint Louis, Hennepin Avenue Bridge, Jack Kerouac, Book of Blues, San Francisco Blues
“I also have all space And St Louis too Light follows rivers I do too Light fades, I pass.” —Jack Kerouac, from the 55th Chorus of “San Francisco Blues” (Book of Blues) If this were a poker game, I would be out by now. I would be reflecting on the morning heron [...]
Meniscus
Posted: July 1, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: Poetry, quarry, rose water
Hours the color of quarry beds, a walk that gets extended because of a need to stitch the river to her breath, she calculates how long it will take for the fragrance of rose water to reach the bottom. She wishes it would stay longer on her skin—might as well get the dive over with.
Off Season
Posted: June 23, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: Poetry, moon, soma, civil dawn, numb, hollow
Hollow women seek distractions in you. Numbed into summer is no way to look at the moon each night. That hill won’t hold all these heavy limbs and lids. I’ll be the one to rebel—I don’t want to be distracted. Let me suck sustenance from soma goblets before another civil dawn.
Barnes Dance
Posted: June 18, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: pedestrian scramble, Plan B, Poetry, route
When Plan B could be better than A, it’s time to reconsider the route you keep choosing to scramble home.
Carousel at Lighthouse Point
Posted: June 17, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: naked, New Haven, Poetry, power lines
Another chance for naked thought escapes into a threatening sky before it tips into night. Nothing comes of the gusts. What blows over wasn’t as transparent as she wished. Dangling power lines frighten her now as they did when she ran all the way to the point for a slow spin.
Not a One Is Blind
Posted: June 15, 2010 by Arambler in Civil Twilight or Dawn PoemsTags: Poetry, bat wings, myth, concave
Fold up those black bat wings, try not to break any bones. Would I stay drier with a mature adult protecting me overhead? Getting tangled in hair is a myth. I could see you if these clouds would disintegrate is another. When I look up it’s all concave and vital again.
