Cigars evoke the stadium.
Whenever I catch the drift
of a great cigar,
I revisit the Coliseum
where you and I
would cheer the darkest team
In white America.
The tunnels reeked of smoke,
cigars especially;
today I miss the stench.
Cigars evoke for me
our best of times as father and son.
Whatever I meant to you
and you to me
in real life,
together we loved the game.
After reading “Evening Land” by Pär Lagerkvist
As I stooped through the low portal of death,
I saw my human fate
emptied out into a lethe.
Life’s luggage of love and hate
was left behind the wall;
the gardener burned my once-essential freight.
I asked myself if this was all.
Intelligent souls clicked like dolphins in the wind
on either side of the wall,
discerning everything. My mind
came clean; discernment whirled ahead
as soon as I was schooled by the garrulous wind.
Now that I am dead,
I know that God did not create the soul;
the soul created God instead.
Now that I am dead, I know the soul
imagined heaven straddling earth
where God was hired to rule
irascible man and iterative death/rebirth.
I dreamed of an infinite life,
a dream encoded before my birth,
because one life was not enough.
I know that paradise was once inside my head,
now that I am dead.
NOTE: I read “Evening Land” and wrote this poem over 30 years ago. It was published in 2018. We wrote book reports when we were in school. “Now That I Am Dead” is like that. There is a poignant tone of regret throughout about Lagerkvist’s loss of faith. I tried to capture his point of view here.
How is this different from the deep south?
There is no “Whites Only” sign
on the front of the Orange Grove Plunge.
That’s one difference.
The sign says,
“South Pasadena Residents Only,”
and you need an official
South Pasadena resident ID card
to show at the door.
That gets you into the pool.
How do you get the official ID card?
You have to live in the city.
How do you get to live in the city
when every residential property
in the City of South Pasadena
is restricted to persons
of the Caucasian race?
The admitting person at the front desk
of the Plunge
knows this is an all-white city.
If you are a person of color,
you can’t buy a home.
If you can’t buy a home,
you can’t get an ID card.
If you can’t get an ID card,
you won’t get into the pool.
Again,
how is this different from the deep south?
There is no “Whites Only” sign
on the front of the Plunge.
NOTE: This is a memory from the year 1955 when I was 13.
John 12:1-8
The flowing lake is always filling,
but is never full.
Once there was a true sense of fullness—
of which all that now remains
is an empty print and trace.
The lake strains for completion
with waters around it—
seeking in things that are not there
the help it cannot find
in those things that are.
Instead,
there is a chronic ache
that comes from feeling incomplete.
Mother said her father,
my grandfather, had a request.
He wanted to take a drive
up to Mount Wilson for a day
and he asked to take me with him.
Just me.
I thought that was strange,
but I said OK.
It was strange because it was rare
for me to have any alone time
with Grandfather
and to be honest
I was never that close to him
because I feared his temper.
On an overcast Saturday morning,
the two of us took the hour-long drive
from Lorain Road
to the Observatory grounds.
Both of us were familiar
with the telescope
and the public access area
surrounding it,
so we strolled to the edge
of the mountaintop
overlooking the Los Angeles basin.
It occurred to me
this is what he really wanted to do:
look down on the City of Los Angeles.
It was early afternoon
and by now the morning fog
was a layer of unsightly smog
two thousand feet thick
pressing against the San Gabriel Mountains
with only the higher hills of the basin
poking out into the clear air.
There was nothing to see,
but he just stood there
for the longest time,
looking to the south and talking to me.
Somehow, Grandfather found it comforting
to look to the south and talk to me.
Three months later, Grandfather was dead.
Christmas 1958. Grandfather shares a happy moment with his grandchildren.
Their lyrics sealed the promise
of August of ’59,
There goes my baby
movin’ on down the line.
I had a brown-eyed sweetheart
when I was seventeen.
Our worlds were far apart
and the Drifters fell between.
The mournful whine is silent;
the booming drum is dead;
the song has lost its power
except inside my head.
Would I be very different
from others turning gray
who marry good companions
and never rue the day
when I riffle through my files
where the dead events belong
and turn aside discretely
to touch a treasured song?
Sometimes on my morning run,
I hear the call and response
of two owls.
They move around,
never in the same place twice,
but I know who they are
because the smaller of the two
is one white note higher
on the keyboard,
and each has a pitch
always the same.
No one owl initiates the call
every time.
They take turns.
The 2-hoot call is followed
by a two-Mississippi wait
for the 2-hoot response,
then they take 15 seconds
to think about it
before the next exchange.
I imagine both
are saying the same thing:
“I am yours.
I am here for you.”
Amos 7:7-17
With a plumb-line, the wall of Israel was erected
with closely-fitted, well-joined stones.
These perpendicular stones were the very bones
of a great nation, but a careless people neglected
their promise to the Lord. They failed to stay the ruin.
And now the Lord is holding a line and plummet
against the wall. It is used for building up;
the line is also used for tearing down
as the demolition crew decides how much to raze.
The Lord bears long, but the Lord won’t bear forever.
The herdsman Amos foretells the coming days
of desolation for an errant nation who lost its way.
The bowing, bulging wall is put to the measure;
by the sword of justice, the edifice is swept away.
I’m feeling special standing in the temple.
I’m such a sight to see!
I lift my words to you my Lord.
Behold: take a look at me!
Indeed, I have risen above the rest.
Lord, you know it’s true.
Unlike these fools, I mind your rules.
My bearing says, “Better than you.”
[Chorus]
Better than you,
better than you.
Lord knows
he’s better than you.
Who needs to ask? I tithe and fast.
My piety’s beyond compare.
It makes me proud to show the crowd
how to strike a righteous air.
My public look is by the book.
My face is pale and wan
and I raise my hands at the proper times.
I show the people how it’s done.
[Chorus]
Better than you,
better than you.
Lord knows
he’s better than you.
The temple is blessed to witness the best;
it’s all about the show.
I’ll close my hour on the temple floor
with this, a truly grateful prayer:
Thank you, Lord, that I am spared
from living a life of sin
like that tax collector over there
and all the others in this room.
[Chorus]
Better than you,
better than you.
Lord knows
he’s better than you.
The best manager is a gracious guest in my house.
As host, I am pleased to do my best.
We both get what we want.
The best manager is hardly recognized.
Good results come naturally
and the workers say: we did it all ourselves.
The worst manager is known too well:
from below—resentment, hatred, fear;
from above—a ruthless rising star.
Results destroy the worst manager.
Until that day, how many broken lives
will litter the shop floor?
If managers have no further desire
than to embrace and protect, the workers
will have no further desire than to enter and serve.
NOTE: From Bud and Mary. The year was 1956 when I was 14.
The Gillette Cavalcade of Sports–Boxing
from Madison Square Garden
with the Look Sharp/Be Sharp theme song
and Jimmy Powers announcing
was a regular Friday night event
for Dad and me.
Dad never boxed himself,
but he loved the manly art,
the sweet science
as it was called.
I was fascinated
by the different styles of boxing:
the peek-a-boo face shield defense,
the flailing perpetual-windmill offense,
the powderpuff jab while backing away,
the lethal left cross,
the unexpected uppercut,
and the thunderous knockout right
when the victim drops his guard.
For entertainment,
the best matchups paired
the buzzsaw free swinger
against the cautious counterpuncher.
It was fun to watch.
But buzzsaw vs. counterpuncher
was no fun at all
when the parents squared off
later in the 1950s.
It was Friday Night Fights
every night of the week.
Mother was a free swinger,
always throwing the first punches,
launching one haymaker after another:
accusations of bad faith
and compromised loyalties.
Dad deflected the blows
with his annoying fact-checking,
his claims of innocence,
and by pointing out she needed help.
There was alcohol, always alcohol,
to juice the aggression.
In the olden days,
boxers used to fight
until only one was standing.
My parents fought and fought and fought
every night
and all they did
was hold each other up.
