Saturday, September 25, 2010

Second Person in the Morning


The morning always works slow.
You wake up and have no idea
what to do with it, any of it--
the sun, the breeze, the traffic
pouring down the road like mud
through a miner's wooden sluice
another accident, another incident
another reason for you to leave
this town, this state, this smog cloud
hanging over a dead-dead city.

"See the world," your dad told you
half an eon ago, over english muffins
dripping butter and raspberry jam.
"Have an adventure, I wish I had
when I was as young as you are,"
And you remember hoping fences,
running from the police when parties
got too loud for that urbane shithole
that your hometown could be...
Remember standing on stage at the
Palladium, guitar in hand, told the
woman from the radio station you
would do anything, anything to get
a song played...  "Eric said he's 
going to strip for us tonight!" she said
and all you could do was hide behind
a Marshal stack blushing the color
of raspberry jam, slick with butter...

Remember the night she told you--
she of the wild North American gypsy
brown eyes so intricate with care
and laugh lines that you had no idea
what to do but gaze back into the
labyrinth of wonder and complexities--
she told you she would love to have
your baby if that was what you
want.

All you could think of then
was what you want...
All you can think of now
is what you want.

And now, in the late morning
as the fire of the east has risen
behind gray haze
and smog clouds
finishing breakfast with your dad
you can't think of one adventure,
accident or incident~
that has not already happened.

You sit down to write a poem
and all you can think of
is what you want--
and what to do with it all.

And only now do you wake up,
truly see the world in this new light.

10 comments:

Dulce said...

At least we are alive to say that... alive to see the morning in all the ways that it might come and write about it despite what he said- dad.
And at least we still have the chance to go and do it and maybe come back. So many did not and passed away...

Hey thanks for the followers stuff
Great poem
:)

Anonymous said...

Wonderful. You are really writing of late!

Sometimes I say to myself, if I were only a kid and knew what I knew then.

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Whoops.

Durn word verification.

The above was me, Ivan

eric1313 said...

Dolce

That's the truth. We're alive and we have all these stories inside of us. So few of us ever do anything with them.

And yeah, thanks for reminding me not to neglect my blog. I used to have a huge following... in 2007! lol... I'm just happy to have this space where i can write.


Ivan

Thank you sir, high praise indeed coming from a master. And yes, you are a master, only now is the world catching on to what we and a few others in Canada already knew.

The server is screwy again, can't log onto your blog right now... i'll try it again soon...

Charles Gramlich said...

I'm thinking right now of all the things I wanted that I didn't get.

eric1313 said...

No time like the present, it seems... the only limiter is time itself.

There is so much that I want to do still that I sometimes have no idea where to start.

Anonymous said...

Eric,

Thanks much for the kind words.

Yep. Here In Canada, for this scribbler-- not one hundred per cent luck of late.

Seems to me, philanthropy in Canada is richly lavished on those writers who follow politics, who are sort of in a Sixties frame of mind, not realizing, perhaps that their attitudes, and therefore their novels, could be retrograde. And you can only be angry or happy only over the prescribed, politically correct issues. Canadian writing, it seems to me is modernism long afte modernism was over. I mean, modernism has been around for a hundred and eighty years, beginning with Poe, and many of the Canadian writers I have read for the past thirty years seem to be po, po, po-- whether that's in Greek or Redneck...At leat that's my take on the talent in the room

But it's Post-modernism now. Certainly, thanks to Google, we can all get our two cents in.
To wax a little preachy, I'd agree with old John Stewart Mill that only through the collision of contrary opinions can the truth be supplied. But there can be only one opinion in Canada,.. you know, all the attitudes held by the Democrats in the U.S. What are those attitudes?

Heh. These shibboleths can be wonderfully and hilariously rendered for us in an SNL skit which has Kristen Wiig acting as House speaker Nancy Polosi.
I'd like the use the full text, but blogger won't let me...something abut that text exceeding 4,o96 characters.

The skit had the speaker of the hous saying,



Good Evening. I'm Nancy Polosi.
The Democratic Party has been accused of so-called "San Francisco values."


...that so-called rough sex can be a necessary and fulfilling adjunct to a better sex life - partiularly when it involves fantasy role-play scenarios, such as kidnapping or forced interrogation, provided, of course, that both participants are willing and disease-free, and have agreed on what we call a "safe word" - for example: "Palomino"



............

This is pretty well the tone of literature and film in Canada today. It had one French director at the Cannes Film Festival complaining: "Sick Canada!
"

But we are far from sick. We are a lot like Americans, and this is probably why "Canadian" SNL, and, partially Canadian Startrek had worked so well.
But American good will towards Canadians in the arts is almost legendary.
In America, for me at least, I found philanthropy generous almost to a fault.

It was through American profs that I got my first tuition scholarship and editing and help with my first novel.
I remain in debt to one Tom Mayer, of the writing school at Harvard (Tom now probably dead), who had convinced me that my Black Icon could actually work as a publishing project.
I took The Black Icon to Canada and they almost kicked me in the teeth.... But shucks, I somehow got the book out anyway as I had friends in journalism.

Lord I'm long winded tonight. What time is it getting to be?

What I should have said, simply that I always have better luck as a writer with Americans than my fellow Canadians.

Last major novel here was about a cockroach.

Well, they had said it to me, but I'll say it again about somebody else: "Hey, there's one more asshole in Toronto who thinks he's Franz Kafka."

O hell. I'm jealous. I had intended to do a novel about a dumpster diver, a sort of Ragged Dick the Recycle Boy.

But then I was beaten again by an Amerian Master, ole Horatio Alger. "I'll give you a bully shine, Sir."



What i mean to say is that I always seem to get a better response to my efforts from Americans, rather than my fellow Canadians.
Well durn. Detroit seems to be sending up a well of support anyway.
And here's to Detroit writers!

--ivan

Princess Pointful said...

It's a different style than what I remember of your words, but I love it. The narrative just flows so very well, and I love the smattering of vivid details.

I also hate mornings. They either feel overwhelmingly full or as slow as molasses. I can never capture the in-between, like I seem to be able to with the night.

eric1313 said...

Princess

Yeah, I've been reading a lot of poetry by Raymond Carver, he has a much more narrative-based style. I've changed a lot in my absence. I may not have been posting a lot but I have been reading a ton.

As for the mornings, it's like that a lot. I could not wait to move back, but now that I am, I notice how much i miss living down south. Had a lot to worry about, but I managed to take care of it. The mornings are a time of reflection, it seems. It hits me hardest then how hopeless it feels in this area.

Glad to see you back in the blogging world, and I hope to read your words often.

eric1313 said...

Ivan

Detroit likes the hail outa your stuff, bro... as they would put it down on the 8 mile corners. You have a sensibility very akin to the Detroit mindset. After all, this has been a dying city for quite a while, and it's just about funeral time.

We're just trying to live any way we can. Me included. All I want is to make it through life, making it as a poet is not even tertiary anymore. I'm starving, and so are many others.

No worries about being long winded. I have been known to be the same way, as you have witnessed.