The Journal of Bison Jack ®

The rites of passage

.

This morning,

I turned the house upside down

looking for my reading glasses.

I looked in every room: behind

every cushion, under every chair,

in every drawer and on every shelf.

Along the way, I cursed the table

in the hallway, my bicycle, my bed,

the laundry basket, my cellphone,

the passage of time, the years

of futility, the failed relationships,

the sadness of things, and ultimately

my very own existence; before

I eventually found them in my

bathrobe pocket and celebrated.

Come to Me

.

As far as my eyes could see,

past the Belgium café

and the Korean deli;

past the Chinese laundry,

the thrift shop and the

Rite Aid pharmacy;

past the hairdressers,

the French restaurant

and the fancy new

apartment building:

I could see her coming.

But still, I could not

get out of the way.

The Well Thought Of Affair

Liminal

.

The sky is black with

Up and down rain;

The wind is howling.

Again, the world is

Inside and outside

And divided.

The excuse

.

The shadow of a leafless tree spilled across my desk

this morning; its limbs climbing over a stack of

books and putting a crack in my favorite porcelain

cup, but somehow managing to bend around

the picture frames that decorate my desk.

In one of the frames is a Walker Evans photograph:

It is 1929, a young black woman is standing by

the entrance of the old elevated train on 42nd Street.

She is wrapped in a fur collared coat, a string of pearls

and a cloche hat and is looking directly into the lens.

Standing next to her, in a tanned leather frame,

is a photograph of Buster Keaton posing on the

steps of a cruise ship. He is leaning; his elbow

high on the railing and right hand cupping

the side of his face. He is looking away.

Behind him, in a larger wooden frame, is a painting

by Andrew Wyeth of an old man, asleep, on

top of a quilted bed: All three of these frames

are positioned on my desk, like you might

arrange pictures of your family.

When I thought of you and looked at the time,

a scowling wind swayed the shadow from

the stack of books and revealed the left eye

of  Raymond Carver staring straight at me.

All of this, is why I am late. I am sorry.

Hart Island

.

Murdered by ambition

Murdered by success

Murdered by failure

Murdered by regret

Murdered by accident

Murdered by blame

Murdered by jealousy

Murdered by rage

Murdered by love

Murdered by lies

Murdered by revenge

Murdered by suicide

Murdered by secrets

Murdered by neglect

Murdered by disease

Murdered by booze

Murdered by cigarettes

Murdered by vanity

Murdered by debt

Murdered by steel

Murdered by lead

Murdered by paper

Murdered by pen

Floorboards

.

In a room, full of smoke

perfume, the sediment

of sentiment sits at the

bottom of a forgotten glass.

For company: an upset

chair, a worn-out sofa

and the sound of someone

moving around upstairs.

You (and me and you)

.

You are the girl in the window of the train

You are the girl who serves me food in the café

You are the girl I am dating’s best friend

You are the faintest touch of a dress

Against the back of my hand

You are the open window above my bed

You are the secret between us

That everyone knows

You are the late night phone call

You are the lips that kiss my eyes to sleep

You are the girl in the laundromat

Who doesn’t mind me staring

You are the hand that tugs at mine

When I want to stay

You are the photograph I cannot take

You are the girl, who, like me,

Doesn’t know what to say next

You are the love letter that

Doesn’t  know where to begin

And now you are this clumsy poem

Forever and Ever and Ever

.

In a late-night parking lot, across the street

from the local bar, an eleven year old boy

sat behind the steering wheel of his parents car.

His mother had turned the heater on to

keep him warm, while his father made an

amusing song and dance routine out of

trying to tune the radio into the game;

assuaging his guilt by promising to return  

with a big bag of chips and lemonade.

Then they were gone.

The boy sat, looking out of the window,

watching a Korean man turn off the lights,

lock the door and roll down the security

gates of the video store. In the supermarket,

he saw a young Latino, listening to music,

while he filled shelves with boxes of cereal.

The dry cleaners was already closed, but he

could see the figure of a man, in the back,

still working. In the window of the diner,

two men ate alone at separate tables and the

boy wondered why they didn’t sit together.

On the other side of the car, he could see the  

lights of an apartment building; reminding

him of an advent calendar - which made

him think of Christmas.

And then it began to rain; and then it poured.

Inside the diner, the two men turned to look

out of the large picture window; a waitress

stood between them, holding a coffee pot,

and staring up at the sky.

The man, in the back of the dry cleaners,

had come to the front of the store, holding

an armful of shirts, talking to someone on

the phone; the young Latino in the supermarket,

was leaning up against the glass with his

hands cupped around his eyes to better see.

Meanwhile, high above the parking lot,

a sodium light bulb, which up until now had

been keeping an eye on the proceedings,

flickered its discontent.

It was then that the boy saw the girl’s face;

she was sitting in the rear window of a white

car - barely visible through the rain.

The street light flickered again; the boy turned

the radio dial until he found music.

When he looked for her again, he lost her

in the mist of condensation.

Too small to lean over the steering wheel,

he slid across the bench seat and with the

palm of his hand, wiped away some of the

moisture. The car was still there, but he

could no longer see the girl.

At first, he thought she was gone or that

she might be hiding, but then, just as the

condensation began to return, he saw

the love heart she had drawn with her

finger on the window.

On the Eve

.

Pressed against the back seat

glass of a passing car, her face

dissolves into pixelated gold,

and a kind of magnificence,

before the car accelerates into

darkness, and she promises

herself, that next year, things

would be different.

Seam

definition: a similar line made by joining
together two sections along their edges

.

Wearing a faded yellow I Love Belize

t-shirt and oil stained pants, an ageless

black man, his eyes clouded with cataracts,

stood in the office of the Sunset Motel,

trying to buy a little time from the out

of sight voice inside the unlit room

behind the front desk.

In the space between them and the pause

that followed, an episode of Baywatch

returned to the muted TV, a station

wagon, with a trailer hitched to the back,

emptied a family into the parking lot

and the last of the sun dipped behind

a building across the street; persuading

a yawning black & white cat to sit up,

arch her back and change seats.

The undertaking

.

Would you thank my friend,

who picked me up when

I could not stand and carried

me the rest of the way in

his arms like a father might

carry his son.

Would you thank my friend,

who sat in the waiting room

when they lifted me on to a

gurney and gave me oxygen.

Would you thank my friend,

who looked through the window

in the door and saw the doctor

shake his head.

Would you thank my friend,

who will still be here when I go.

Would you thank my friend,

whose name I do not know.

The Christmas Party

.

In the years since, she had fallen

into traps and been wrong about so

many things, including forgiveness.

But, when she saw him across the

room, standing behind padded shoulders,

between raised glasses, smiling with

people she didn’t know, laughing

at something she couldn’t hear;

she could only remember why they

had broken up and not why she

had fallen in love.

It wasn’t recalling the bad times

that bothered her - because in some

ways she blamed herself - it was

having to remember the good times,

that she couldn’t forgive.

measure

.

At seventy three, Alice Ward had long ago

resigned herself to the inhumanity of man,

but still, as she lay on the floor of the bus,

unable to stand on her own, she was deeply

saddened when no one offered to help.

As the sun’s reflections flicked across the

ceiling and the bus gathered speed,

she was calmed by the sound of the

road beneath, and somewhere in the

distance: the sound of children laughing.

Temporarily blinded by the brightness

of the sun, Alice opened her eyes again

and found the sound of the road had

become the sound of an ocean being

pulled across the sand.

Gently lifting herself with her elbows,

Alice licked the taste of salt from her

lips and using one hand to block the

sun, watched a small group of children

playing in the surf; open and upside

down in the sand, was the book

she had begun.

Diapause

.

He drifted with a lingering

gait; forged by years

of self-doubt and the

weight of expectation.

She, was a collision

of panic and grace;

pieced together from

the twisted remains;

over and over again.

Together, they stood

in windows: watching

the first snow as if

it was the last; like

attic flies in winter,

trapped behind

two sheets of glass.