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April 2019

Missing

I tried to grab you chase
the cat’s eye marble 
clouding your eyes so startled 
as I pulled you back
from the edge of wherever you stood
the boy who refused to carry a standard.
Tried to wrap my arms 
around why you
remained an empty outline
a Morse Code of dots and dashes
a password of avalantic disaster.

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You Tell Me

The new senior housing development on MacArthur Blvd just below High Street used to be a haven for prostitutes walking within shouting distance of a run-down motel called The Seasons. But prostitutes in leather skirts and thigh-high boots were chased further east more than ten years ago when a new mayor in City Hall tried to distinguish himself from the previous administration by “making the streets safe.” Crack cocaine users replaced the prostitutes and pushed the county hospital toward being first in the nation for emergency room care, which attracted medical students to do their internships here. I guess you could consider that a positive outcome. Owners of The Seasons who have seen the crack epidemic subside in the wake of gentrification are spiffing up the place as they look forward to visitors coming to visit relatives. I guess you could consider that another positive outcome, which I think is more about adaptation than anything intentional. Or is it? You tell me.

WGoldberg, Boulder: Have you ever known any one to do something intentionally? Sometimes people think they are doing things intentionally but it’s for all the wrong reasons.

Today I drove by the work site. The exterior of the buildings are grey with white trim, a 35-unit development which sits opposite a major freeway about 1000 yards away. As far as I can tell, there is no landscaping, but by the end of the year, I may recognize potted plants in windows and cars burrowed beneath the building’s parking lot. Residents who have filled out realms of paperwork to qualify for these subsidized one- or two-bedroom units that rent from $500 to $1400 per month, will put down roots in this unlikely corner of East Oakland. In the meantime, The Seasons has installed one of those inflatable WindyMen to welcome new visitors. But now it looks like a car dealership, not a motel.

AACummings, Oakland: My mother had to wait two years to get into one of these units. Her intention was to live there until she died. She did.

It’s possible to be intentional about the smallest things. Suppose for example, I want an omelette for breakfast, but have no eggs? My intention becomes frustrated. I might call a friend to see if I can stop by for coffee and hope that he’ll ask if I want to eat something like eggs maybe? At first I’ll say no, don’t bother, and he’ll say no bother, at which point, I’ll say, okay. Why not? So what started as the first meal of the day has become an evolved intention, which is my point about The Seasons and the housing development I mentioned above.

DarnellJ, Shreveport: Don’t get the point, budwinkle. Answer this: What happens if a law enforcement officer’s intention is to stop a crime, but he ends up blowing off your head instead? Like my friends in high school used to say, I really hope you get ahead because you need one!!

Didn’t ask you to agree with me or even read my post. How do we live together on this planet under one atmosphere? The Ten Commandments used to be the designer playbook. It’s been replaced by something I can’t understand. Did I mention? On my way to the gym this morning, crepe myrtle trees were being planted along the perimeter of the development. Pink.

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Song of Tapachula

All he wanted was to stop burning
–Dahlia Ravikovitch

she stands behind a kettle
ingera, poulet yassa, pupusa, plaintain,
cabbage, pasta, cassava, yams, rice and beans
food for migrants
migrants
from every country           continent
waiting days       months                         years
to cross a poor excuse for a river
a crook in a broken arm
a stinging slap in the face
starving rats
in a black rubber raft
along a zig-zag route
from Guatemala to Chiapas
where a lady stands
in pink flamingo earrings
stirring
stirring with a wooden spoon
stirring
her cooking pot

To all my readers: Scroll down past the links. I invite you to leave a reply in the comment box below!

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Kiwi Crying: Christchurch, March 15, 2019

Sometimes I feel an underground river
forcing its way between deformed cliffs.
—Adrienne Rich

I’m on the elliptical
music streaming
eyes glued to the pall-bearer of morning news
three overhead screens
report another shooting
50 people
killed at Christchurch—

The Prime Minister
refuses to air the killer’s name
wears a hijab in solidarity
with the people of her nation
mourns New Zealand’s loss of innocence
the last place on Earth where
this was supposed to happen
and on the world’s tallest building
Dubai’s Burj Khalifa the word peace
shines across the oceans in Arabic and English—

I barely move
more like a puppet my legs up and down
on a machine I visit three times a week
to ward off heart attacks
and my own inevitable demise
increase the incline by several notches
work harder
and to my left and right
and to the row behind me
to the news anchor hanging above
speak a silent prayer—

To all my readers: Scroll down past the links. I invite you to leave a reply in the comment box below!

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