Showing posts with label East Coast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label East Coast. Show all posts

30 October, 2012

O Losantiville, Don't You Cry For Me: Asynchronous/ 2 Poems From the Road

I am open to the guidance of synchronicity and do not let expectations hinder my path. - The Dalai Lama

I woke up this morning to snow -- a light dusting on rooftops and car windshields that's lingering even though the snow turned into a cold rain. I woke up mindful of loved ones up and down the east coast, and mindful of the people I don't know who, even when the weather is fine, have trouble finding shelter. I'm mindful of people like Roger, who I met in the Chicago Greyhound Station and who I will write about in an upcoming post.

While my time in Cincinnati hasn't been bad, and it's taking me longer to scratch up money for the travel fund than I would like, I have been busy trying to find the good work of the world to do while I am here. I'm making some progress in that regard, and I'll write about that as it presents itself.

 Central to the ideas laid out from the onset of this blog, nearly 10 months ago, is the belief that philosophy without application is a mental puzzle, a brain teaser, and nothing more.  It's easy to say among similarly thinking friends that you need to put up or shut up. But it becomes a different discussion when you start preaching to someone besides the choir.

What this means for me is that I have to dig in, while I'm here, and find a way to positively impact the world around me, even if that means contradicting some expectation or another. Yes, I'm looking for teaching work -- and writing gigs. Teaching is part of the good work of the world, but there are other things. I'm still looking for other things to do. And from what I can see, I don't have far to look.

Not by a long shot.

Whitman By Moonlight, The Crossing St. Frank, Plus 2

On Monday, November 5th, I will be adding a new chapbook, Whitman By Moonlight. This one will be for sale or for trade or in exchange for donations to the travel fund. I still have copies of The Crossing of St. Frank.

If you're more of an ebook reader, you can now purchase St. Frank on amazon.com for Kindle:





2 Poems From The Road (Not in the chapbook!)


Shadow of Our Fathers

Downhill side street
leading to the cemetery on Boot Hill.
This place is watched over by it's dead
and the dead do not care care
that the living are waiting to roll them over
and move in.

Do not let the city fathers know, and
do not tell the church matrons either.
The sewing circles and kaffeeklatsches already
have a notion; and they are dangerous enough.
They whisper among themselves with eyes cast towards the ground.

Old men rooted on coffee shop stools know, too.
They grumble back and forth between news reports
that blame the President for the drought
and gastric rumblings they dare not blame on the cook.
There is talk of jack-booted thugs trying to nationalize the granaries,
but only from the agribusiness barons.
The dead do not care – so we necromance ours upon them.
Just one more layer of make-up on the corpse
so we can tell one another “He looks asleep.”

It is true then: the dead do not watch us
though we try and see through their dried eye husks
and tell ourselves the vision is crystal clear
as the fog wraps around Boot Hill
temporarily saving the dead from our intentions.

Three Days in Litchfield

Feet bleeding through my socks
the smell of fir and field grass
and new morning dew
pressed into my skin
with lavender scented Epsom salts.
Bone sore, from the top of my neck
to the tips of my toes,
bobbling like and old man
locked in a cheap motel –
waiting for some signal from the weather
hoping money doesn't run dry
like this past summer's rain.
The television for a companion
Gideon's book for recrimination
and Whitman for salvation.
The plumbing is good.
The bed is bug free.
There is rain coming
and the Carlinville train
is 10 miles away.