We have a place for him,
the personnel director told Karen,
and I said I'd meet him at McGuire's
where Starbucks' customers
wouldn't interrupt. I brought
my notebook and showed him
how I wrote poems and glue-sticked
4x6 photos on pages.
I pointed out things
he might not have seen
as I turned pages. Pretty soon
he was laughing, and that
was just about that, my last
interview. I knew I was done.
Six years now.
When real work arrived.
6 April 2010
THE POEM IS A MORNING FACT,
whenever it arrives, created
from any darkness. The black
t-shirt is a souvenir.
Using words printed in white ink
creates an image of Oscar Romero.
Wearing the shirt remembers him,
and a friend asks for translation. I choose
from words on the shirt creating the portrait,
La ley es como la culebra,
solo muerde a los que andan descalzos.
There's a toe bone from a coyote
in the medicine bag
given to me at Wounded Knee.
Those who walk barefoot in the world
put the law in the same dangerous bag
with snakes. No sightings
of the coyote have been made.
These curious tracks, bleeding words,
take their place in gospel music,
but they're not found in songbooks.
5 April 2010
Facing the stone
I did not become
what it offered.
and it did not speak.
The stone did not become me.
April 4, 2010