i called the time of my father’s death

 — CM Evans

i called the time of my father’s death

now i remember it every april 22nd

the moment is in the morning

looking clear but it also might rain

there’s a strong breeze flying clouds

.

i’m the clock with a brain and eyes

noting how his last breaths go in and out

his pursed lips as if he were taking air

under water through a reed

each breath a little less and a little less

to the point where i had to lean over

and listen & listen all receding into silence

then nothing how could he be so still

.

later we had a wake and cut slices of cake

there were sunflowers

he loved sunflowers

i never knew

there was much about him

i never knew

.

we flow from moment to moment

in this life like we are fixed here

or as if riding on a gentle stream

but the current is deep

and it ends in oblivion

but enough of that

enjoy the scenery with me today

look at the banks of the river

the sky and all the things we can see

choose to enjoy it despite the fact

it ends in so many ways

choose to appreciate it though

in what you receive will be the door

through everything granted

will be also taken back

.

love this and

you will find freedom

i say i will

i say i will 

not shudder

but i do 

and i feel 
a certain injustice 

that says more about me 

than you 

and you 

knew this 

and i do

too

men and women see places in the night differently

men and women see places in the night differently

men see doors and the kind of entrances and exits

women look to the windows and all the glittering 

i lingered by the base of the tarpeian rock on a winter evening

and i imagine the kinds of shadows and echoes that floated

high over plaster ceilings with oil lamps held by slaves 

and the ramparts supposedly secure a night owl calling to another

we are responsible for everything we do hero or villain

the response and magnifications of the world are harsh 

even absurd to the level of myth that keeps one forever wondering

when were we truly innocent &

trying to remember all the feelings

when one was 

that way  

*

 

"Honey, Mr. Bee is not from dimensional space ... "

 "Honey, Mr. Bee is not from dimensional space, so his attempts at humor will be different from ours. But he is not harmful. He never has been." 

"Yes darling, but when he turned your face blue, it was just for an afternoon, and Mrs. Simmons wasn't bothered by rhyming every other word over that 3 day weekend. She said it felt novel. She is a poet, after all, and she still teaches him poetic theory on Wednesdays."

"I will talk to Mr. Bee and remind him, most firmly." 

The caller then noticed me, after he had placed his phone in his pocket. "I do apologize if my conversation was too loud." 

I shook my head.

"In any case, our lab is funded though the public, and anyone is welcome to attend ... a totally open and above board program, with no hidden agendas." 

I nodded.

"Here is my card, you are welcome to drop by anytime and talk to the Departments."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Oh, the Departments? Time, Space, Novelty, Linear Theories, Circular, Things, Clouds, Weather, and Harmony."

The train pulled up to the station.

"Goodbye!" said the caller with the card.

at dusk i hear a man whistling

at dusk i hear a man whistling

just a few notes 

he's going somewhere

on the sidewalk up front 

the sound of the tune

has to bounce just right 

to reach my ear 

in the very back room 

as i type

.

.

.

but how do i know

he's a man or he's going?

or they are whistling

a tune?

i go to the front

and look down

no one is there

*

say i am thinking about nothing

say i am thinking about nothing

i say i am thinking of nothing

what i am thinking about is how we take on new names

i am thinking about when separated we all get older

i am thinking about the soft shock sometimes when we meet

after many years and what that would be like magnified by never dying 

vast trees and mountains with a view of the sea never move except for growing 

what is seen is always in sight for them so they are not disturbed this way

i will never be immortal nor will you always coming and going 

meeting and remeeting each other over waves and foam of beginningless beginning

we should become like little birds that ride on the tides of becoming & destruction 

never ruffled or afraid or feeling away from home as the swell goes up or down

even when time seems to break into a storm 

full of prayers we go along

and then when the air is calm no concerns

**

every day should i allow myself to enter it with grace

every day however i see it and allow myself to enter it with grace

becomes that absolute solace of 'everything is new' but acting so seals the deal 

.

no matter what this is the first day of all the days and my lack of mental control

makes it seem like a bouncy house i blame you for the turmoil

.

later of course i love everyone like the statues of beings that love 

i have gathered a few over my bookcases and paintings

.

they are as indispensable as railroad crossing signals 

or the offramps trucks can ride into when they have no brakes

.

if you are there look at the chamomile blossoms on the hillside and red stone you tread on

i took them all for granted but now let us set that aside and have this new day 

---

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