“How to Build a Shed”

By Robin Meister

Build the floor and call it quits. After winter, discover the lawnmower won’t start. Notice your teenage son’s bike has rusted. Watch him paint it black to match his mood.

When your wife says, “Build the damn walls,” paint them yellow.

Lose your son to silence. Keep the ceiling beams loose and put a window in the roof. Later, when he’s on his back with rope burns around his neck, hear him say, “Shit. The stars are amazing.”

“Morning” by Frank O’Hara

I’ve got to tell you

how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

 

A mama tiger lost all of her cubs when they were born prematurely.  She began to show signs of unhealth despite suffering no physical ailments.  Attributing her illness to depression over the loss of her litter, veterinarians sought and found a solution.

“I don’t want to say it’s kind of like a death, but it’s kind of like a death.”

-The counselor

And then I remembered there are people who don’t take life or people who love them for granted.  People who are eulogized with festivals and yearly commemorations.  I want to finish the mourning and get on with my day.  It is all. So. Brief.

A Quiet Thursday

Aside

The Creations of Sound
by Wallace Stevens

If the poetry of X was music,
So that it came to him of its own,
Without understanding, out of the wall

Or in the ceiling, in sounds not chosen,
Or chosen quickly, in a freedom
That was their element, we should not know

That X is an obstruction, a man
Too exactly himself, and that there are words
Better without an author, without a poet,

Or having a separate author, a different poet,
An accretion from ourselves, intelligent
Beyond intelligence, an artificial man

At a distance, a secondary expositor,
A being of sound, whom one does not approach
Through any exaggeration. From him, we collect.

Tell X that speech is not dirty silence
Clarified. It is silence made dirtier.
It is more than an imitation for the ear.

He lacks this venerable complication.
His poems are not of the second part of life.
They do not make the visible a little hard

To see nor, reverberating, eke out the mind
Or peculiar horns, themselves eked out
By the spontaneous particulars of sound.

We do not say ourselves like that in poems.
We say ourselves in syllables that rise
From the floor, rising in speech we do not speak.

“You Were a Kindness” The National

“La Infinita” Pablo Neruda

Ves estas manos? Han medido
la tierra, han separado
los minerales y los cereales,
han andado la paz y la guerra,
han derribado las distancias
de todos los mares y ríos,
y sin embargo
cuando te recorren
a ti, pequeña,
grano de trigo, alondra,
no alcanzan a abarcarte,
se cansan alcanzando
las palomas gemelas
que reposan o vuelan en tu pecho,
recorren las distancias de tus piernas,
se enrollen an la luz de tu cintura.
Para mí eres tesoro más cargado
de inmensidad que el mar y sus racimos
y eres blanca y azul y extensa como
la tierra en la vendimia,
En ese territorio,
de tus pies a tu frente,
andando, andando, andando,
me pasaré la vida.

Good God, somebody love me that much.

“Mirame” Daddy Yankee