Modern Man on the Prowl

Modern Man On the Prowl

Modern man
squelches down the stairs
searching for he knows not what.
His eyes slowly adjust to the dark.
A soft feeling underfoot,
a feline yowl tells him,
"Not fast enough!"
He staggers into the kitchen
opens the refrigerator, and
stands staring into the glare.
He lifts the block of process cheese,
each slice wrapped so cleverly,
so individually, and
puts it down again.
He removes the cap
lifts the gallon of milk to his nose, sniffs, and
puts it down again.
He runs his hand through his hair,
he scratches,
reaches for a pop top can and pops the top.
He sips and makes a face, and
puts the can down again.
He closes the door.
His eyes begin to adjust to the dark.
Dissatisfied, he wanders through the living room toward the stairs.
The cat, forewarned, moves.
The man squelches up the stairs again.
Whatever he is looking for,
he never finds where he is looking.
In the dark he is looking,
never finding in the dark whatever
he is looking for,
dissatisfied.

The Cat

The cat knows better
but he likes to sleep on the mat
at the bottom landing of the stairs.
Every night
he hears the man squelching down the stairs.
Most nights he fails to move
trusting to dumb luck.
Most nights he yowls and moves too late.
He knows a lot about the man,
what he eats, or doesn't
and what he drinks.
Forewarned he moves when he hears the steps
squelching back from the kitchen.
This nightly bit of attention
is painful
even if it's all he gets.



Lump

Having missed the cat
he squelches up the stairs.
Flicks on the hall light
flicks it off again
rendering himself temporarily blind.
His hands stretch out before him
neatly bracketing the open door.
There is a thud
a muffled curse.
The lump in the bed groans and rolls
burying its head under the pillow.
Light blind he stumbles
over the corner of the bed
and sits heavily upon its edge.
Slowly he raises his feet and
swings them under the covers.
He paws for his wife
his hand upon her rump.
She groans and rolls
knees defensively raised against him.
He shrugs and stares at the ceiling
watching black adjust to grey
as his eyes adjust to the night.



The Cat

The cat seizes the opportunity
leaps softly upon the bed
and lays across his feet.
He straightens a foot
propelling the cat to the floor.
Momentarily satisfied by this tiny cruelty
he drifts off to sleep.
The cat undaunted softly leaps
upon the bed,
settling at the feet of the other lump,
its vibrator engine running
knowing who will kick and who won't
and whose feet to leap upon tomorrow night
like last night
and tonight.
He knows a lot about the man
and sleeps smirking
in his dreams.



Dreams

The man dreams worried dreams
hunted dreams
dissatisfied,
while the cat sleeps
smirking.



Modern Man

The cat sleeps smirking
at the foot of the bed.
Modern man
squelches down the stairs again
searching for he knows not what.
His eyes slowly adjust to the dark.
A figure lurks
in the shadows
of the turning
of the stairs.
He walks through it
noticing the unwelcome coolness
a stranglehold upon his heart
noticing it was this feeling
that roused him from his sleep.
He staggers into the kitchen
opens the refrigerator, and
stands staring into the glare.
He shuts the refrigerator door and
staggers into the den
snaps on the tv
staggers back into the kitchen
gets the whole wheat
high fiber
o so healthy crackers and
the pot of sugarless
naturally sweetened
o so healthy jam
staggers back to the tv.
Someone is watching
over his shoulder
watching hating approving
flip flip flip flip flop
channel channel channel
charnal charnel carnal charon
the boatman poles across the waters.
Four o so healthy crackers
the pot of jam is finished.
Modern man scratches,
snaps off the tv.
His eyes adjust to the dark.
Dissatisfied, he wanders through the living room
squelches up the stairs again.
On the turning of the stairs
no shadow lurks
but nestles lurking elsewhere.
Dimly he perceives discomfit
and rummages through the medicine chest.
Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.
Whatever he is looking for,
he never finds where he is looking.
In the dark he is looking,
never finding in the dark whatever
he is looking for,
dissatisfied.
He stumbles
over the corner of the bed, and
sits heavily upon its edge.
Slowly he raises his feet and
swings them under the covers.
The cat stops smirking
slides quietly to the floor and
heads for the landing
where it sleeps
dissatisfied.



Brimstone

Acrid it tingles
at the back of the nose
rasping the throat.
Learn to recognize
the smell of brimstone.



The Cat Watched

Golden eyed
the cat watched
as the man pulled on his socks
first one foot and
then the other.
The cat smiled
in a superior way
knowing
his own fur muffed feet
never
needed
changing.



Appalachian Summer Song

The road winds listening
single lane beneath
overhanging fronds of giant ragweed
along valley bottoms.
Hills loom listening
old lumps of tired mountains
weather worn, time worn
embracing narrow valleys
embracing narrow people
with shadows
stillness,
air close,
warm
horizon close
sky remote
shacks
woodpiles
hungry heavy jowled dogs
deep chested barking,
mufflers barking,
whine of chainsaws,
whine of babies,
drone of bees
lilt of dulcimer
roll of thunder
and the cleansing
plash of rain.



The Wind

The wind frets along the edge of the roof
heavy handed, clumsy, batting at shingles,
baffled by their resistance,
with mindless persistence
tugging, pushing, pulling
in a stolid stupid sort of way.
It has played the game for hours
having nothing better to do.



The Wind Sings

The wind sings
through meadow grasses
whispers dry leaves
along wooded edges
raps broken branches
on bare trunks
rap tap
it plays myriad melodies
thrumming wires
clanging trash lids
down deep fenced alleys
kicking cans
slamming doors
battering eaves
stealing small boys caps
sending them
shrieking
laughing
down city streets.
The wind sings.

Seedling

They inscribed a heart in moist concrete
cleverly divided by the seam between two slabs.
Giggling each wrote the other's name in one half the heart.

Aerodynamic
seedling
spinning on a gentle breeze
resting in the seam
between two heart enclosed words.

In spring new growth
will sink deep root
sundering concrete and heart
forever.

They sit, lovers
hands clasped, adoring.
She adoring to get married
he adoring the movement of her body under his.
Neither adoring the other.
Neither knowing that the bonds of marriage
cancel the delights of fornication
leaving only the challenge of
intimacy.

Words Heard At Coffee Hour After Sunday Service

She used to be a hooker
she and her sister over there
squat dowagers decked out in finery
reminiscent of spanish scenes upon walls
and purple velvet coverlets
in a motel not far from here.
You know the one,
just under the bridge.
They pour coffee now
unrepentant with assumed respectability
casting wanton eyes
at the preacher man
who parts his hair in the middle.

"Built for comfort, not for speed,"
one sister lisps in a lilting sort of way.
The preacher rolls his eyes toward heaven
and mutters to his god,
"Two soiled mattresses with broken springs
from carrying twenty nightmares a night
for twenty years or more."

Thirty Nine Steps

Up the tower to bells
where one rang proudly flat
by the cheap golden window
muscled from a dying methodist meeting house
at the turn of the century.
The river mud once raised
twenty steps
to the nave floor
flooding it evenly
all the way through the nave
into the south transept
a sort of benediction
of like to like
amidst air greyed paint
water spotted from porous brick
"fired on location"
by builders long since
adding their own clay
for the making of more bricks.
We are built upon the foundation
not of apostles and martyrs
but of hungry eyed merchants
buried with their treasure
in their best blue suits
starched collars
empty sockets
and the usual leavings
not pilfered by their families.



Dirt Ring

Slicked along the riverbank
for miles and miles and miles
from the foundry up the Licking,
by old town reconstructed houses,
no places for the poor,
grey brown mud, tangled
flotsam,
beer cans, dead birds,
savaged limbs of trees,
whole trees themselves
dead reaching
for the cities,
one swallowing by the other,
the swallower righteously parroting
ring around the collar, ring around the collar
and not looking at its own riverbank.



What Was Buried By the Tree?

He could see it in his mind's eye.
An old pin oak shadowing over the bare bones
of brown earth
in the middle of the yard.
He could see her standing motionlessly,
staring out the kitchen window at the spot.

No trace of emotion flicks
across her face,
nor across her soul,
that dubious entity
that in an older culture
acted as
a magic cipher
for what she was.




Her lips are slightly pursed,
the little vertical lines around the mouth
long since permanently engraved by ancient habit.

Her back is ramrod straight
like a diminutive drill sergeant,
her clothes excessively tidy.

"Beverly!" demands the cigarette coarse voice in the next room.
She stands absolutely still, the lines around her mouth deepening slightly.
"Beverly, dammit!" rasps the voice.
Her mouth relaxes.
She smiles slightly and picks up a china saucer and
holds it at arms length over the sink.
"Beverly, dammit, answer when I call you!"
She lets the saucer drop.
It hits the empty sink with a tremendous crash and
fragments into a thousand pieces.

"Beverly, What the hell ? . . ,"
The sound is lost
in the roar of the garbage disposal
as she sweeps the pieces down the drain.

"Yes, Joe", she says sweetly,
"Did you want something."



Five, Four, Three








They are five, or four, or three.
The same five, or four or three
Always sitting in the second last pew
Of every church I've ever seen.
From them a visible steam arises,
Not a steam of honest ungodly passions
But a subtler vapour, less direct, and
considerably more perilous.
But not the same steam rising from each of the
five, or four, or three.
From one a vapour calls out "I'm all alone
take care of me, take care of me, take care of me."
From another "I have no voice at home
no-one listens to the silence that I make."
Another spews smoke and fume of old abuses
long buried in the primal memory.
Still another, prim and always master of her ship
and yours, and yours, and yours and mine.
The last hungry eyed and hungry wombed
smouldering in endless discontent.
They are five, or four, or three.
From them a visible steam arises, saying
"No! Not now! No change! Too fast! Everybody doesn't like!
Everybody doesn't like! No! Not now! No change! Too fast!"



Abuse!

The child was bothersome,
So she slapped it up
the side of the head
and it yowled,
which bothered her
even more
challenging
her control
which she barely had.
So she slapped it up
the side of the head
again.
Then the child grew up
never understanding
why it bothered her so much
when her child was bothersome.
So she slapped it up
the side of the head
and it yowled
which bothered her
even more
challenging
her control
which she barely had.

Liar















His smile is always
ingratiating,
his manner mild and
inoffensive.
His voice falls softly
upon the ear
His body language is
open and receiving.
He is well liked and
approved
by all who know him.
Only his eyes
tell the truth.