How many poetry books = 1 Nissan Pathfinder exhaust system.
How many bluebirds? Money is how we thank people for what makes them special
How we express our love and gratitude.
Weight and moods, up and down, with weather and outcome of meetings.
I am so sick of humanity, people. Wouldn’t I prefer chickadees?
Then I get home, that is the comfortable tree hole I’ve been longing for.
Aaron pitches and plays piano. Zach likes lacrosse and math.
The mound was soft, sand, with a hole big enough for an urn or to hide a plover
But Aaron pitched carefully anyway, slow strikes and the opposing team scored.
What would God’s work be? Meaningless question. Today’s schedule:
Write fund raising letters, conserve small farms. Local food, local jobs. Don’t transport
food coast to coast. Save fuel, less CO2.
In my opinion the dislocations resulting from climate change and global warming will be
within man’s adaptive capacity. On the other hand.
Also, green industry will open a vast employment market, a job for every grackle, crow.
The good life, unsustainable, we’re poisoning our children although my children are not so
poisoned. They’re bald. Unusually bald. Good looking bald. Future of man bald.
Bald eagle. Nesting, mating near Karen Sheldon’s, a conservationist, philanthropist, on
the river, whose husband recently died. During romantic dinner on a second
honeymoon in Paris, so I’ve heard.
That’s Jake’s spirit come home as an eagle, Karen said. Isn’t that great, I said, and the
she-eagle he’s nesting with!
I’m gonna kill that bitch.
Compare Captain Carpenter and In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One Day. In each
case the hero’s (heroine’s) body declining
Under life’s duress. Anything located in Secaucus, NJ could not be considered
prominent, could it?
In the end, clack clack takes all. Hard to end a poem better than that. Clack clack the
crow’s beak, upper and lower mandibles meeting. From hunger, or it just does.
Crows clack clack to communicate.
Whitman’s greatest poem is Out of the Cradle . . . also involving communicating birds, in
what is initially an embarrassingly emotional display. All that italicized moaning and
yearning. Get away.
Then, clack clack, he turns on you. Death lisping, straight into your eyes. Suddenly you
realize you should have taken him seriously, been paying attention.
In the meantime, traffic, corn, new exhaust system, ask for money, save farms, poor
people, sun on garden, whole wide world, wars, stars.
I gave up long ago on a quiet world. Now going deaf. Then it will be quiet, too quiet.
No more birding by ear. “No more fucking.” I mean really . . . I was moved as anyone by
Hall’s honest poem about Jane dying and I guess fucking can be music to someone’s
melody, stand for living, but not me.
No more birding would have had more meaning. I’d rather bird than fuck. No more
fucking, no more worry, no more war.
Which is why I’m gonna kill that bitch is so funny, such a life-affirming comeback.
At first I worried Karen really believed the eagle is her husband. Maybe she does,
But that punch line makes her the kind of woman I want to know.
Copyright 2012 by Robert Ronnow.