Oct/Nov 2003 • Poetry |
Dear...
(after Jim Daniels' "Dear…")
Today I find the beginning
of a letter dated 1999—
who was I writing to?In 1999 I walked the slow
half mile between my house
and school, looking in people'swindows to see what normal
people did on normal nights
in a very normal city.I slept on a tatami mat
next to cobwebs and
half-full ashtrays.In 1999 I drove across the country
to old gold California. I was
stopped at the border and searched—they didn't want any oranges
entering their states and killing their crops.
Good thing they didn't look under the seat.In 1999 I got lost in a national forest.
I drank pond water and ate berries,
just like in the movies.In 1999 I traded majors
like used cars, testing them out and
then abandoning them by the road.Dear... the beginnings
of a letter dated April,
when I loved baked beansfor their simplicity and versatility,
their campfire possibilities. I smashed
a computer in my living roombecause it was mine and I could.
No father to come in and tell me
about common sense or practicality.I hid at a campground for a week,
just me and the raccoons. I believed
in the glowing poets of yesterday.I stalked the dark corridors
of the phone company, listening
to the murmurs of a thousandelectric fairies lost in circuit boards.
I smoked with a truck driver
at lunch. He laughedlike a cannon and told me stories
that should have been published
in Hustler... or Time.I sat on my porch and ate fat
hamburgers and watched old
El Caminos roll by likeancient steel chariots, on their way
to park five to a lawn
and only creak outin the middle of the night.
Dear... I was 19 and did know
better. I lived with the happinessof scribbled pages, stunned
by their foreign tongue. Dear... dear...
Dear... I'm lonesome nowfor that missing ideal;
I crinkle the testament,
the unwritten letter. I rememberthe cracked walls, the cats living in the basement.
I killed spiders on my own wall every day,
on the hour. Often, I killedmy only companions. Far from those days, in these days
of blessed peace, I stare
at my unfinished letters. I take pen to page:Dear... A can of hot baked beans,
the sound of hot rubber on cracked pavement,
handwriting that wasn't mine.