It’s been a month since I entered the Substack tent. Holy shit! I must have been busy. When people ask “how’s your day?” or “what have you been up to?” or “got any plans for the day?” I just smile and think, “What the fuck have I been doing? and should I have a plan? I spend way too much time in the present, I guess. Not too much time for me, but I let things go easily, or maybe I just spend all my energy dealing with the present? I don’t know exactly. It’s become more of a “problem” (if I want to call it a problem) since I “retired” or quit the daily, hourly job—the routines that marked the calendar and demanded my mind work on another schedule. Another consequence of that existence is forgetting about the infrequent routines I’ve established like writing in this space.
What difference does it make? Well, the whole money thing, of course. All that conditioning comes back, the rules in my head: a days work for a days pay! do your fair share! money doesn’t grow on trees! All that, which has become fainter since I have claimed more and more time to myself. So, to all of those who were, are, could be contributors to this panhandling for anything from rank bullshit to the clumsy articulation of “wisdom,” sorry I only delivered one effort this September (and just under the gun). Here’s one from those clock punching days dreaming of those endless days of freedom ahead (heh, heh).
Sleepy Inn working again trading your life for money delivery driving and stopping picking up and dropping plotting your route watching the clock traffic lights braking for the oblivious idiot behind the wheel on his cell and listening to Dylan watching the river flow, now, you sit eight deep in the left turn lane on Broadway waiting for the green arrow when you spy an older woman shuffling along the sidewalk in front of the aging brick motel across the street, circa 1950, her right arm extended to feel for wall, door, or window air conditioner, whatever's solid, her makeshift handrail every other slow-mo step her fingers or palm touches then pushes off, her left arm tightly cradles something in a paper bag to her breast, as she reaches her room door cracked open she disappears in the dark when an '86 Chevy Blazer pulls into the lot then backs into the first diagonal parking spot off the street, quick and slick like he's done it a time or two a couple with handicapped plates the driver gets out, shuts his door less than six zippity-feet from the motel room door he enters without much trouble doesn't look back his biggest handicap appears to be obesity when the passenger door opens and a woman slowly slides out he's already inside she closes the door to feel her way along the Blazer coming around the nose you note the glazed belly of her zip-up hoodie, lime-green and her blue pajama bottoms with white silhouettes of bunnies and carrots but her feet steal the style-show those zebra-striped zipper- slippers make you smile, say oh, baby, you know what I like when the light changes you drive away assume she followed him inside to continue their day like you just trying to get to some kind of social security as soon as you can if you're lucky enough to make it that far, maybe there'll be a Sleepy Inn with cable and a bottomless pot of Boyd's in the office some retro accommodation your age where the women outnumber the men two to one, and all the ice you can scoop is free where they'll run you a tab for liquor, put it on your weekly bill, and deliver till midnight any day of the year
Cool shit did happen for me now that I think about it: we made a trip out to Seattle when the smoke was thick here and had a great time with Sean and his crew out there; I’m putting another book of poems together, Sister Buffalo, a collection mostly written almost a decade ago around the time my sister died; I was invited to present at the UM Irish Studies West conference in Missoula by Traolach O’Riordan; I watched the UM Printing Arts class under the direction of David Axelrod put together a broadside of the title poem of my new book which includes art by Dirk Lee; and I’ve managed to really enjoy the wonderful September weather we’ve had here with Pam and all the great folks we know. Missoula is full of lots of good souls. We are truly blessed.
So, there ya go. Now I will leave you with a poem I wrote for my sister (who left this world in late 2015) on the verge of her birthday, October 1st, same day as Jimmy Carter, and right before mine, October 2nd. She was a gem, but ravaged by 35 years of Parkinson’s. She was ready for a rest. I miss her. She knew all the important stuff.
October Mourning To save this moment of golden light in one slice of the season before leaves fall and bind it with the mourning violet aura over the horizon in that hour just prior to our first October sunrise, captures the sweet pleasure I always cherished about our birthdays butted together, you leading the way, pulling me along until yesterday. So you won't be calling me today, though you came to help me contemplate the melancholy trip I struggle to celebrate every day. Miracles, mysteries, and monsters dominate my view. You knew the Buddha drank Tab and ate glazed doughnuts, loved babies, basketball, board games, and baked beans. “Jesus Christ” was his favorite expletive, but you never cozied-up to “fuck” though you agreed it had its place, and sometimes was the perfect word—not that you ever needed it. Give me another year and I'm sure I'll be fine without you still suffering here. Allow me this October birthday blues for you this time, and I promise to buck-up next year if I'm still here without you.
I’ll put out the dope on my new collection dedicated to my sister and her man, Butch, in the next week or so, after I turn the calendar on 70 and prepare for a fall reading with friends at Montgomery Distillery. Details forthcoming!
More than a couple of bucks worth of words.