Three ways of writing American poetry that really bug me
for Kent Johnson
1.
The years go by
constantly
Two birds
disappear into
a blue sky.
Outside, the
busy afternoon
street is
full of
traffic.
In my house
the door
opens
awkwardly at
first.
The glass of water
is on the
table --
it is there
and I
am thirsty.
2.
Last week I went to the dentist
for a yearly check-up.
The woman before me
was in a long time (her teeth
were pretty bad I guess)
and I heard moans soft first then louder
coming through the white-painted door
with its smell of various
cleaning agents.
Afterwards
when I got home by bus
it was late.
I saw my car still
stranded on the kerb --
two wheels badly
damaged
and no tyres.
With a car
so much depends
on tyres
if you
want to
drive it.
3.
My feet are in my shoes as oxygen is in the air.
The sun bright and hot at two o'clock in midsummer.
I am awake, I am awake, I am awake,
a bird sings to me from a clump of sagebrush
under the raggedy orange trees
out where my son's second best friend
has dropped the basketball
I gave him for his ninth birthday.
A handful of dirt on one side of the path,
a handful of dirt on the other.
Whatever path we take
we will be walking it.
It is the splendor of the equation in the manifest.
Some silence reclarified in the brushstrokes.
More or less everything ticking along.
No wisdom but this wisdom
and this and this.
All photos by Finnegan Boyle.