Occupations

poems

Typesetter 2

Director 3

Carpenter 4

Biologist 5

Landscaper 6

Waste Collector 7

Plumber 9

Graduate 10

Pastor 11

Mathematician 13

Executive 14

Bum 15

Bus Driver 16

Rancher 17

Electrician 18

Mechanic 19

Dentist 20

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Security Guard 21

Lumberjack 22

Editor 23

Baby 24

Factory Worker 25

Barista 26

Stenographer 27

Addict 28

Author 29

Pilot 30

Hotdog Vendor 31

Director

Were I to take the negativethe glaring white and black

of my shortly showing lifeand throw it on the screen,

would I be considered an artist?

Would the throbbing masses

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tack my name upon a signand huddle pensive in the dark

to see my sliver of the something-trueprojected upside down?

Would it be wellto thread myself

in the reels sobackward?

Backward. So reels

the in-myself, thread too well.

Be, it would and oh so nicely,

to cut the scene and watch itspin itself back to

snap and light and nothingness.

What would it mean to seethe empty film?

To see the life so purebefore it meets the lens?

To see the nothingpressed into by light,

again and again,and again.

Carpenter

I would like nothing more than to make something of function out

of the sturdy fullness of life.

Nothing extravagant, mind you,but couldn’t it be so very right to

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knock away all the dirt and grime,plane away all the roughness,

and be familiar with the sacred texture,run your hand over the tender grain of existence?

I would like nothing more than tosplice my destiny in two,

take a peek into its rings andsee the ever-sweeping brownness

of my coming-to-be filling outward half neatly.

In craft, what greater magnificence to sweat for than the molding

of surging wholenesswith the creaking always.

It would take a worn pair of handsa very gentle sort of courage

to carve of life somethingbeautifully practical.

Biologist

tissues are built of cellsand organs are built of tissues

and systems are built of organsand bodies are built of systems

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which means you are not alive, oh no.

You, darling, are composed ofa thousand million of bits of

fantastic wriggling life.

A rich collection of thatsinging, mysterious substance,

you are new, so new and ever growing.

Death flakes off you like skinand I marvel, oh you infinite soul,

at the woven structure of your being.

All vibrancy and breathing, youteem there as I study the sweeping

lines on your palms.

I am me, a microscope and youare so very perfectly small.

Landscaper

My dearest,

I

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planted petunias todayand I know that I

plant a lot ofpetunias, but I

always plant them for you.

And did you know,dearest,

that they can putgrasses and bushes andtrees on the roofs now?

Isn’t it marvelous,atop the square buildings,

a green living, rootedin such peacefulness?

La tierra,La terre,La terra,

The earth is sucha timeless woman.

Gracefully sweepingover all of things

all of usand feeding the flowers.

I hope this finds youwell.

Waste Collector

A funny thing happens

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when people take piecesof their life and

throw them away.

Old television sets andwilted flowers and

pounds upon poundsof unopened mail

they pass by yourhands and tumble

downwards into

some nonplaceunder life as lived

where things become( )

then ( )then ( )

then ( )then -

and then

But no.For they passinto my hands

and I am a manwho is living. here

aside that life as livedwith a strong beating heart

and strong rippling thoughtsamong stacks of odorous whispers.

It is not waste to disposeof something spent or

cracked or stained

It is not waste because there is no

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unbecoming.

it is not wastebecause what is

is always

and there is noshame in

using alwaysto stack up a something

That reeks of a very full

existence.

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Plumber

Sometimes when I seea bright fancy car in

the driveway and staircasesthat curve slowly upwards,

I very accidentally forget to reattach a heating coil.

Then on my wayout I see a warm glossy

photograph bordered withthick brown oak, sneering

at me.

Shower cold,you happy little

bastards.

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Graduate

When the butcher’s son goes off to schooland becomes a painter quite familiar

with the expression of brilliant red

When the farmer’s boy lets his boots lie andamong grey rows of buildings takes up a lens

coaxing life out of the barren slurring city

When the welder’s child clean shears away,and crafts a mix of presentation that reflects on stage

the melding of story’s spirit to the soundness of one’s self

When the mason’s one and only forgoes the solid formand turns to the white and winding of the page

stacking words upon words until they shore up the spirit

What then will support the body?What then will support the soul?

Will the life of art be enough to sustainthe art of life so wistfully flapping at corners of our gaze?

Will the beams and panes and trailing wiresof galleries become the pensive objects of our gaze?

Will the stuff of life at once become the stuff of life, the interminable question on which

we so very daily feed

?

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Pastor

hello God.

do you wake and eatand spend your days

in service of Me,watching? keeping records?

Do I provide for Youa way of passing those

drizzling hours out of space,rolling time in Your fingers

like a loose thread?

Because as far asI can figure,

I make You somethingjust as much as You

make Me something.

so hello God. hello.

I am here, and so areYou. I was thinking

maybe later

You and I could go sit in an

old empty sanctuary with the lightsoff and talk about baseball.

(this isn’t a prayer, God,by the way.

This is that subtle nodEveryone practices returning

in the mirror of abathroom downtown)

c’mon, it’ll be good.hell, I won’t even

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make that stupid jokeabout the Angels.

You probably hate los angelesas much as anybody anyways.

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Mathematician

by definition; f(x) = youby definition; g(x) = me

f(x) g(x); which is to sayf(x)  ∩ g(x) = Ø; we are disjoint.

butby definition; ∫f(x) - ∫g(x) = our love

(for you encompass me)and domain of f(x) = [0, ∞)and domain of g(x) = [0, ∞)

∴ ∫f(x) - ∫g(x) = ∞which makes it so much betterwhich makes it so much worse

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f(x)

g(x)

Executive

I wish there weren’t somany people who hate me.

Even more so, I wishthere weren’t so many people

pretending to like me.

I wish people wouldlook me in the eye more often.

I wish somebody wouldask me something about

my day and actuallymean something by it.

I wish I didn’t have to sit around all day. I getso bored. People think

it would be so easy, doing what I do.

But it isn’t.

I get to sit here and watcheverybody think that theyknow me, think that they

understand who I am.

Everybody looks at mebut nobody sees me

and there’s nobody to explain itto because all my buddiesare in the same situation

Which is why wedon’t talk much and

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generallykeep to ourselves.

Bum

I wish there weren’t somany people who hate me.

Even more so, I wishthere weren’t so many people

pretending to like me.

I wish people wouldlook me in the eye more often.

I wish somebody wouldask me something about

my day and actuallymean something by it.

I wish I didn’t have to sit around all day. I getso bored. People think

it would be so easy, doing what I do.

But it isn’t.

I get to sit here and watcheverybody think that theyknow me, think that they

understand who I am.

Everybody looks at mebut nobody sees me

and there’s nobody to explain itto because all my buddiesare in the same situation.

Which is why we

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don’t talk much andgenerally

keep to ourselves.

Bus Driver

Today I woke up in my bed

at six seventeenhad half a grapefruit

and went to work.

I drove from seventy ninthup to Columbus and back

for four hours onthe express route, and had a thirty

minute lunch. Ate a hotdog. Watchedthe people swarm as they will.

Then I drove from Central to sixteenth for five hours and

traffic was per usual it wasn’ttoo busy or too slow

or anything really.

I had pizza at mom’sand told her I didn’t feel

like I was going anywhere.She laughed,

and told me I do goodhonest hard work and that

is enough.

I took the four homesat on the couch with a spoon

and held an old tub of ice cream

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and then went to sleep in my bed

feeling like a liar.

Rancher

I hear freight trainwhistles like

awakening bird songs

wafting byand I stop what

I am doing.

I just

stop.

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Electrician

You weren’t home last weekbut I got your landlord to let me in

by telling him I had to change your light bulbs.

nine compact fluorescent bulbs at sixty watts eachfrom three fixtures, two lamps, and that silly mirror;

all together four hundred and fifty watts of pure sharp white striking light bouncing aboutyour bookcase, your dresser, your vase of flowers,

that box where you keep your morning crosswords.

And now I’m sitting, in my green chairthe one with plaid print, and the patch on the arm

doing inventory orders, gazing out the windowWaiting for sharp white light

to come streaming out of yours.

Then you’ll call me on your land lineand you’ll say “It’s doing that thing again”

and I’ll walk over to meet you in a dark entryway, your keys tossed on the table.

You’ll flip the switch a few times, shrug a little, scrunch up your eyes.

Then I’ll walk into your bedroom while you’re making tea, talking about your students,

I’ll take off the panel, uncross the fresh blue and red wires,

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and say loudly, “you really should let mereplace this crummy old switch”.

You’ll glance out of the kitchenand reply with lifted corners and upward inflection

“But how would I keep you around?” And you’ll smile and I’ll smile

and laugh a little bit (O our love,such a brimming circuitry.)

and we’ll both stand there a minuteso wholly in love,

thinking we’re so clever

and then you’ll say “By the way, what are you doing for dinner?

Mechanic

A well paved back road issomething like a stillborn

murmur from the God that’s moving

underneath a quiet sky itlurks and coils pendulous

while I breathe mycoffee from a can. It’s

Wednesday, nearly, softly.

Resting stately on the floor of the garage is a

portrait of my wind-joyedwife, twenty two mountain

ranges, the vast sweepings oftime, a lazy piece of stretching

Idaho, the smooth-pressed cheek ofmy son, every psalm I’ve

ever silent-voiced

in abeautifully

twistedcrankshaft.

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Dentist

The strangest bit of wakingis the non-surprise with

which we are once again.

This is the secret trickof morning, the birthing hours;

when the stirring lightbrings souls to its lips

like an ember justbegun.

It is so gentleas to invoke the

turning of none toyes with without a

murmur left between.

Bless you, colorless breathof the unwholeness of time.

Bless you, peaceful everbeing transferal,

from one whosits and watches

you work.

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Security Guard

They told me to write something for this book deal and

I got to doing a little researchand now I’m wondering

why it is that so many poetswrite so many wistful poems

that hinge upon the what of poetrythe someness of poetry

the properties of poetryand the very why of poetry

as if

most poetry isn’t readby poets who write poems

about the whatness ofpoetry too

…

I’m terribly sorry aboutthis one, I know it’s not

what I’m supposed to do.

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Lumberjack

I am the hushed thunderof trepidation trickling

through gently

your quiet spaceof only you.

I am the spirited airyou heave in and the glistening luster you

wake for early just this place alone.

I am grumbling yes orstraining or reaching, taut

bridling all of what is everywhere nearly and

you are cupped up gently, swaying in a net betweenbranches, staring, blank

ever so.

I am me here in my placeand you come staggering up

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to be less of youless of all of you

weekenders like gasping fish

while I go to workand spend the weekends

reading the paper, cleaning window sills, waiting for oil changes.

Editor

At once the insufferable clichérang true, the whole ink as blood

miasma, that pitifully worn image,as I lay primed to leave

my own insipient stain upon the world.

And what, then?When I pop open like a

nesting doll and a squirming little inside me

is then outside meand becomes the beyond me.

How pale, the irreversible. Howcompletely un-erase-able I am to

become, the headwaters of my one, like mirrors staring past another to eternity.

I feel a preemptive inner surging, as if the wind is what I am

becoming, always in motionseeping forever into the corners

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of towns, concrete bridges,whispering pines

and I do not know if Iam of that much energy to

go on going indefinitely.

Baby

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Factory Worker

this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!

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this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!

They gave me employee of the month today

and that makes me feelalmost as good as

this makes me feel.

this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!this is how I feel today!

! ! ! ! ! ! !

Barista

let it be that Iam not just a fellow

behind a windowbut the fellow

beyond the glass

may I simmer ofyour thoughts a while

and under pressure bea sliver of the day to be undone

sketch me on a napkin, curl a namearound the modular

person that is I within you

for I am rich andsavored in my own right

and I imagine youpeeling oranges with your

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teeth on the L

you are to me thescrap of heart I dally on

like crumpled paper.

may I flit acrossyour eyelids when you

grab a handrail, waitfor the bus or

gaze to the sun in youroffice chair.

may I come into your own meso as to be alive awhile

beyond this cold counter.

Stenographer

I sat in a room full of poetsand very smart people yesterday

and listened to themdiscusting the molecules of translating

an old dead man’s poems.

There must have beenfifty of them, all lined up in

folding chairs, folding their handsfolding their note-pages,

scrawling notes in the margins.

I sat in the back and watched thembecause I don’t speak german or austrianand I’d never heard of this dead poet guy

but there’s something so odd abouta crowd of educated poet people.

Sterile, sequestered lecture-halls.

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three of those folks wore bright orange, eight wore dark blue

and the rest had black or white.

I sat and watched the ritual. They squabbledwith themselves and poor withered poetman

for an hour and a half, and thendoused the whole pyre in cheap wine

and bad cheese.

At home, I put on a green pairof wool socks, and danced about

my kitchen, flailing to the ceiling cornersuntil I found the poetry again

and laughed!

Addict

I never should have let you passhe said, with a loaded smile

and walked off chuckling,

the rest of the bums in lineshuffling towards the aqueduct.

That night in the shelter,the cots were stiff,

the sheets were course,and the food tasted like

fuck you.

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Author

Writing yourself into a storyis very easy; we all do it butthe best ones’ll tell you theydon’t. It’s a selfish trick; one

that feels of fire and boldnessand no

it doesn’t. not really.

donot listen to people who say so.

Writing yourself into a story ishow you write a story; the crux

of genesis (o muse of ages) turnsinto a stained slab of porcelainand we curse ourselves at the

impulse. Well, they do; but I do

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not. I write myself in to my booksAnd not because I want to live for( )ever.

No I just want to live twice at once. Here and there; all

of me separate and still true.

Pilot

Why no, I do not!The sky is always changing

something new of the clouds,wavering like water

like they are.

Do you look up? Do you seea space, a nothingness, a solid

somewhat? A home forstars? for sound? The envelope

in which we send a dream

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for humanity?

Do you gaze, or gawk, orglance quickly, stare, dart? Do

you think of the thicknessthat is every where complete. Do

you wonder why they are called windows?

Hotdog Vendor

I saw a man lying on the street today,skin green like liquor, the silent massesstepping over him on their way to work

a little boy walked up and asked him how it felt to be drift-wood.

The man rolled his eyes up andsaid “Ain’t you a sharp one?”

in a voice course like a busted radiothe kid gave him a nickel and walked away.

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I thought about this as the train homedragged out of the city center .That boy, floating beneath thebeating hooves of the masses

and that man, marking the ivory city up, like some living stain.

It didn’t seem right, thatthat was all they were to the

half-blooded suits and metropolitans of Chicago, the shining lanterns of success

so unaware of their cold shadow. It seemed wrong.

I should like to be a piece of driftwood,yes, o yes!

battered, lost, and free.then

I turned off the lightsin my apartment, and said a thousand

good nights to these orphaned, impossible thoughtsthat appear at once so inexplicably,

like a fish, sleeping in a puddle of rain-water.

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