Friends of Bill W.

[LeftWriteFemme]

September 6

FUNK AND WAGNALL’S BACK PORCH



Bottoms come sealed in envelopes from unknown accountants. Amazing how many nominees and how few winners! The audience, filled with past recipients, holds its collective breath and prays for this year's finalists, and prays a bigger prayer of thanks to this year's donors, the ones who prove with their lives that it hasn’t gotten better out there. The speeches are the same, a gratitude list and maybe a punch line, the smiles and tears fresh but familiar. And when the lights go out on this night, the days of diligence begin once again so no one need lose their seat and we can all celebrate here, next year, together.


Open even though the hinges are hidden.
*

Nightcrawlers and Nightingales



I wriggle blind eyed through the dirt;
friction, my friend giving me something to push against,
resistance aiding my travels.

I worm my way through life
and believed that was all there was; having never seen the sky.
I traveled far and wide once I had taken to the air.

Open eyed I push against a thing I cannot see
and peer down on the dirt I left behind.
I soar rather than struggle
and go the distance leaving my mind open to the next frontier.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

September 8

WILL YOU GET TO THE OTHER SIDE?



Chickens stand together on the edge of the road pecking and scratching; people make fun. People tell jokes but it’s not so funny when we are the ones playing on the tracks. We forget that all the excuses about longing for excitement and not wanting to be cut off from the world sound like so much cackling to the ears of people who value their lives. Life in the pasture or the backyard is fulfilling if you want it. That kind of life is no adrenaline rush, but then again isn’t adrenaline just another drug?


Tell the truth as if it were the weather.
*


Helping Hands?


Why would you go to a rattler for a snakebite remedy?
It feels so much like the hair of the dog that bit me.
The truth is I must, must stay away from the quick answers.

I am a slow healer, but I do heal if I allow myself to do so
unencumbered by poison or untruth.
When I am returning to the vomit of my past
it is incumbent upon me to search for the old lies
and/or the new ones, either or both will get me drunk;
do I even need the help of a prescription pad?



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[LeftWriteFemme]

September 9

HARVEST TIMING


The harvest fits in the growing season and the oak fits inside the acorn. My sober mind fits right in my sober time. The soul of everything rubs across the hind leg of a cricket to sing. The infinite machinery of the universe spins but you stand there questioning the existence of a Higher Power. Well, that’s who you are, but I have only one question for you. Who else could have made all the best tomatoes come from Jersey?


Catch rain on your face.
*


Barnum, Bailey & Me


When I wake to find a whip and a chair by the side of my bed
I know I am in for a circus of a day
and the tears of this clown will not change a thing.

I ready myself for the tightrope walk
and watch out for stray elephants.
All the trained poodles in the world
can’t make this into a day in the park.

Painted ponies prance through their paces;
I try to stick to my own act,
meanwhile remembering that no matter how difficult
these routines may be it still beats a seat in the stands.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

September 12

WHY NOT HOME?



Power is not production and production is not art. I have to keep pulling the car over to the side of the road so I don’t miss the train of words sent to me from out of the dark blue life I am on the edge of living. But I still want to go home. I will never give up these roadside excursions into the river of thought, though I do wonder why the cable shoved into my house never gets this channel? Why is the connection so strong on the bus not the bed? The minefields of thought explosions seem seeded anywhere as long as it’s at least five miles away. Power is not production and production is not art. I let it pour through me; it’s not mine to sort.


Learn to read God’s handwriting.

*

Hypothetical


Is my inability to understand what creates mystery?
If I were brighter, swifter, keener,
would life be free of unknown communion?

Would comprehension eliminate revelation?
Would I lose perceptual apprehension
by arming myself with knowledge of forethought?

Could I end mysticism through education?
Should I even if I could?



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[LeftWriteFemme]

September 26

SCREAMING LETHARGY



The screaming lethargy of being alive after many years of wanting something else, the exhaustion of pulsing, breathing, waves and waves of thinking. Yet as tired as I am, I am. Here without a doubt, I stand. No crawling for I have not fallen, no climbing for I have reached the plain. I wait for the rain to wash over me, the truth to run through me, time to pass by me. As if on a free trip to an unwelcome destination I arrive with randomly packed bags and low expectations. I’m here now. The train doesn’t seem to be moving on. I might as well leave the station, nothing to do on the platform. There may be points of interest or flowers to be smelled. I step haltingly and fear making any connection to this unbidden place. My name is unknown; I befriend the lamppost, the birds, the street. I am tired of travel, fearful of arrival. Fury courses through my veins but the weather is pleasant, I might take off my coat and stay.


Plan a trip with no destination.
*

One Street off Amory



Apology holds change at arms length.
Apology is the thing I was taught to wait for
as a sign that things will improve,
but apology is not a harbinger of change.

It is quite the opposite
it is the guarantor of business as usual;
no amendment need occur,
apology has been made and life goes on with no alteration.

Without variation we all stay sick
and apologizing for that won’t get us better.
Restitution, amends, revelation, revolution
these are the things which make the world bright,

Apology is just a scrap with which to wipe your ass.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

September 27

PIROUETTES



I turn and spin; the world flashes as I go. I am erect, proud of my self-possession. I can stand the forces of vector rotation, public opinion and gravity. Sobriety has made a dancer out of me. I sprint the stage and take my place. I know the moves and trust, as best I can, the choreographer and the choreography. I feel the wind move on my body as I revolve, the blur of existence spreads out before me. I can let it all pass. To spot myself and keep my upright posture, the only place that requires my clear and unobstructed view is the line of sight from my sponsor’s eyes to mine.


Let your work speak.

*


A Verse to the Wise

Encoding truth into poetry
makes reality survivable by giving readers
the opportunity to dig truth up like diamonds.

Throwing certainty in people’s faces like cold water
gives them a wakeup call but nothing to embrace.
The beauty of semaphore is the dance
that need not be understood by everyone who sees it.

Communication through device
leaves headroom and breathing space
while acceptance might be reached.

The current of a conversation
often leads me to face the facts,
but a tsunami of candor could drown me.



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[LeftWriteFemme]

September 28

LINEAGE



People stand in the queue and I stare, lost in contemplation and compliance. I weigh the conflicts and complications. Is this the method to clear identification? I think I am better known for the lines I’ve crossed, the times I press between warm souls and force myself to the area beyond. How can I wait my turn for generational stew when the fruit trees bear life for those who break free from ruts and rumbles to bite deeply the flesh of the future? I can’t stand here though I love so many in this line, I cannot love the line itself. I must step through, breathe, stretch my legs and mind, take leave of grids and locks, to live a lonelier but healthier life, all caused by a change in direction.


Enjoy change like flowers before the fruit.

*

Kicks


New balance is more than a brand of sneakers.
New balance is a joyful revelation
made possible through constant vigilance.

I am tap dancing into a vision,
no more soft shoed wishfulness.
I can lift my feet knowing I can keep my up right posture;
my musculature robust from climbing
the steps and accepting direction.

This bright tempo delights me;
I feel stretched, subtle, able-bodied.
Life off the balance beam offers me the world
in which to embrace my equilibrium.



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