I guess I would ask, why wouldn’t you see a poem there? If you were to ask most dog owners, especially those with house dogs, if they could imagine their lives without their dog’s shit being a part of it, I think the answer would always be “No.” Seriously though, I think it works because it’s as much a part of our lives as anything else in nature, as we are to each other. And in this particular poem, the speaker is returning to the familiar, taking care to note what has, or more importantly, hasn’t, changed. It’s just another part of the inventory process. The dog’s shit is another one of those constant reminders, one of those things you can never quite get away from, something that can even be, as weird as this may sound, a comfort, a reminder of one’s responsibility and of one’s past.

 

 

The Sun Also Rises first endeared me to Hemingway. The dialogue, the European fanfare, the characters — oh, god, the characters! I wanted to be Jake Barnes – well, except for that one little thing; I can leave Jake to his own troubles there. What could be more romantic to a writer than being a writer in Paris, drinking with other writers, the dancing, trips to Spain and bullfights, and there’s that damn drinking again, and there’s a bit of love in there for everyone, everyone except Robert Cohn, of course, but even he had a run of good fortune strike him. It’s a book that I return to often for inspiration.

 

In my poem, “I Set Fire to Hemingway!”, I’m trying to figure out for myself, within myself, what made Hemingway so prolific, so untouchable, so brilliant (in the most well-lit sense of the word), and how can I touch that, be involved in that? One way was to take myself to Key West, to his house, to sit on his porch and go drink in his bars. It’s hard not to be inspired there. And I can see why he loved it, can see why he had such reverence for Key West. This poem is my attempt to tap into the machismo, the myth, that great fire that was Hemingway.

 

You know, Moe’s a hard person to please. He’s never at home anywhere, or maybe the problem is that he’s at home everywhere. It’s kind of hard to tell. I could see us having lunch at an outdoor café in New York City, somewhere near 2^nd & 2^nd, and I would listen as Moe would comment on everything: the bread, the soup, his unlit cigar, the 24-hour funeral homes, the coolness of the wind, my haircut, my propensity to talk about my dog, my dog’s haircut, you know, the usual things one talks about with a Stooge.

 

But what would we buy? Moe is probably the one person with whom I would care to step into a place like Macy’s. Fancy, debonair, well dressed, and just awkward enough to be charming, we’d try on suits. I’ve always admired how well Moe could wear an off-the-rack suit. And what’s a new suit without a new hat? Yes, I think we’d spend our day shopping for suits and hats.

 

I think the images of fire and water always carry a heavy connotation, no matter how they’re used, and there’s a reason that they do, and those reasons are almost always right. But I think, for me, it’s also about what those literal images can hide behind them. In my Hemingway poem, the speaker is on an island surrounded by water and trying to set himself on fire just to get inspired; in “Blackbird’s Sadness,” the speaker is running his foot through a rain puddle, considering his burnt up birdfeeder and wishing that he smoked. There’s a certain sense of supernatural power in fire and water, something that can heal or kill us, can make us better, or can hide us when we’re not. So, of course, the speakers in these poems, being merely human, searching for perfection or looking to hide, seek out these elements naturally.

 

 

My first book, a chapbook titled Wild Strawberries, is due out this December from Finishing Line Press. Since sending that out there into the ether, I’ve been working on putting the final touches on my first full-length collection of poems. I’ve also just had the good fortune to be a part of the River Pretty Writers Retreat, and I came away from there quite inspired. Right now, I’m most involved in writing a longer sequence of poems in collaboration with my good friend and poet, Chaz Miller, that follows the masculine intimacies and small town redundancies of two loners, Blackbird and Banner. The poem included here, “Blackbird’s Sadness”, is part of that sequence, and I’m excited to see where that takes Chaz and me, both individually and collaboratively.

 

 

 

 

The outside frost has frozen the dog’s shit

to the ground.  He’s hesitant to go out there

this morning.  I’ve been arranging and re-

arranging three brown glass bottles, perhaps

vases, on the kitchen table for when my wife

gets home.  My new wife?  We’ve been married

for four years.  I’ve lived with her for three.

But I’m back now, and that must mean

something.  The latch to the mahogany back door

is loose like it could wriggle free in my hand.

The dog wants to go to the door and have me hold

it open just enough for him too look outside,

then shake his nose at me and back, back

into the house.  Missouri winters don’t bring

much snow, only a little cold, but this mutt

is set in his hearth-laying ways.  I’ve changed

out two light bulbs this week.  Both in closets,

both in the extra rooms that used to be filled

with my books.  I guess it’s time that I started

bringing back my books.  She’s stood a full-length

wooden-edged mirror in what was my closet

in our bedroom, and now I sit in bed with my

notebook and stare my self down as I forget what

it is that I’m writing about.  So I can question

if I’m really even there, or here.  I wonder how

much she knows about me.  I wonder how

much I know about her.  What if she knew

one of my dark secrets?  What if I knew one

of hers?  What if she didn’t know that I knew?

But she knew she knew, my friend would tell me.

To think that I came to know all that I know about

without knowing more than she already knows.

The dog has jumped up and rested his head

on my lap, to stop all of my secret-spreading.

I worry too much about me.  Maybe she has no

secrets.  Maybe the mutt knows that.  I’m afraid

to touch this new brown comforter too much.

There’s a new brown ottoman in the living room.

I’m wearing a damn brown shirt this morning.

Is this the color of my new/old life?  My dog

jumps down and runs to the mirror and barks

at the me in there.  I look skinny and pale.

 

 

 

 

 

Or rather, I would set fire to Hemingway!

Or, I am sometimes Hemingway,

And therefore must set myself on fire!
What kind of fire must’ve burnt

In him?  What strong light led

Him out onto the ocean so many times,

Left him lying on Cuban beaches?

Or, why I do I find myself

Here each year – on this beach

In Key West looking south towards Cuba,

Holding a lighter up under my chin,

The backs of some large fish glinting

In the last traces of the sun, a fire

Spreading across the water?

I read that biblical prophecy of his,

That unlit fire he started in Jake Barnes,

Left him in the back of a cab to ponder

The way we think about fire:

The beaches here turn blood red

In the sunset.  The fishing boats sail

Into that ball of fire.  I’ve let fall

My lighter, see my feet more clearly

Burning me to this place

Where I set fire to Hemingway!

And that is my stake here!

907 Whitehead Street.  They won’t

Let me move in, even with my proof

Of ownership!  Hemingway tried eating fire,

there at the end!  His flame is now my flame:

In the name of blasphemy, I say this!

I followed him here, chased away his cats,

Sat on his beach, drank and then drank

In his bar, and, by-God, I wrote inspired!

I woke up this morning (inspired!) on fire!

 

 

 

 

The title of a 3 Stooges short

where they accidently put super

glue on their pancakes.  My dog

rests on the back of the couch

 

behind me, watching and nodding

his head.  Still looks like rain

outside.  A tornado killed 120

people about an hour west of here

 

this past weekend.  I slept through

it – how’s that for comforting?

It’s the day after Bob Dylan’s

birthday, so I’ve been thinking

 

about him too.  About his song

A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall.

Didn’t he live in a place called

Tornado Valley?  No?  Didn’t

 

he live on a farm and swing

a hammer as a young man?

No?  I’ll never know.  It’s only

Wednesday.  I’ve bathed

 

and gotten my hair cut

which means it’s a good day,

even though it looks like rain,

and Moe urges me, “Let’s go places

 

and buy things,” and I don’t feel

like it, and my dog doesn’t feel

like it.  This picture of me I have

in my head standing outside

 

on the back deck would look better

if I smoked, or, if I could convince

myself that I cared to smoke,

like the classic pictures of a young

 

Dylan in New York, with a stormy

sky behind him, he smoked and

never looked at the camera,

never seemed to cut his hair either.

 

“Can you tell me which room

is the one occupied by the gentlemen

who won the cigarette contest?”

This Dame (and I’m allowed to say

 

Dame in this context, even though

it’s not really the right word for her)

has no money. She has a mink scarf.

She is pretty, for black and white TV.

 

She sees her self as upper class,

and carries an umbrella out into the rain.

My grandfather and I would watch

the Stooges on Saturday mornings,

 

and he would always go outside

and check for rain, pray for rain, start

his truck and sit in it while it rained.

He lived through a tornado.  He never

 

listened to Dylan.  I listen to Dylan

when it rains and I sit in my truck

and pretend that I’m wealthy,

and I ordered the rain to keep everyone

 

away from me.  My dog has turned

away from me now.  The wind is blowing

a bit easier in the window.  Or maybe

it’s picking up.  It’s hard to tell

 

with these Missouri hills and my apathy.

Or, as I was told, it’s my depression.

Tornados and Dylan and all three

Stooges on a Wednesday in the great

 

Midwest and the dog is snoring now,

and I’m the only one here, smiling, quietly.

 

 

 

 

 

Blackbird sits on his back porch

of the morning, rocking himself

and throwing sunflower seeds on

the ground so he can watch the redbirds

creep in to feed.  He counts down from ten.

He breathes a breath deep and holds it.

He tosses a handful into a patch

of wild strawberries nearby so

he can watch how they strut to get

to them – like the way Banner struts

after spending the night with Sadie

then coming over to sit on his back porch

and smoke about it, all hyper and out

of breath.  Blackbird lets out a sigh.

It rained last night and there’s a puddle

next to his chair on a warped board.

He swings his boot through and through

it without noticing.  He thinks now

that he oughtn’t prayed for rain

the other day.  Once, he remembers,

Banner told him he should pray for fire,

that nothing sets things back to nature

like fire, or firepower, or Sadie.

Last night, someone burned up

Blackbird’s homemade birdfeeder,

left it ablaze like a candle in a tree,

he could smell the toasted seed

the next morning still.  Blackbird wishes

right now that he smoked, wishes

his hearing was as good as his eyesight,

wishes he knew a girl like Sadie,

wishes he could calm down like Banner,

who lights a match, lights a cigarette,

holds the match up in the light and counts down

from ten.  It goes out on one every time.

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting on the side of a raised flower bed,

swinging my feet and whistling between

sips of mojito.  They’re nice flowers

 

(the ones with all the primary colors)

here on the boardwalk in Key West,

and I’m leaning back into them a bit,

 

the sun setting into the water (that’s why

we’re all here – the ventriloquist,

the dog walking a tight rope, the magician

 

in the straight jacket, the cameras held above

the crowd, the black man with the broken

guitar, the kid doing back flip after back flip).

 

The edge of the walkway has been delicately

stenciled - NO SWIMING - about every three

feet for half a mile or so.  No one here is “swiming.”

 

The pace is as slow and surefooted around here

as this poem is to get going.  I’m as caught up

in these flowers, my fingers as twisted up into them,

 

as they are me.  As all poems are me, are flowers.

My wife is in the crowd, moving deliberately

into the wave of people, waving back at me

 

so we can share some sort of bonded excitement,

a taut blood line just above the ocean line.

And later in the room, she’ll tell me how she

 

got lost out there, couldn’t see me anymore,

for just an instant, she became a part of the

wave, and once free could only see flowers

 

where I sat, only see the part of me that isn’t

what she thinks of as me, my legs hanging out

and down the side of the flower bed like

 

the roots of a banyan tree wanting the little

bit of sunlight that’s left.  It’s a melting of sorts,

but not like ice.  I didn’t turn into water,

 

evaporate into air.  I hung on there, the ledge

my legs, and my hands and hair adding

to the plethora of flowers already sticking

 

out of the dirt, ready to be praised by passersby.

And I’ll agree with her then, there in the bed

together.  But back on the ledge, I don’t feel

 

any different about myself, about this poem

about flowers.  The me that’s here is letting myself go,

getting caught up into what is, and isn’t, real:

 

the woman waving herself back towards me

through the crowd, the sun just out of my petals’

reach, the warmness of stone on my stemmed legs,

 

the sweat slipping from my mojito, the young girl

who just plucked one of my lovely flowers…

How long have I been there still, since then?

 

How sad I must’ve looked to be happy there.