Prufrock on Facebook

How many friends would be on your list?                                                              Would you seek out those who ignored you in your youth?
Would you obsessively send friend requests and then spend your nights
awake, waiting for their reply?
Would you check your alerts every ten minutes? To see if someone
responded to your clever status?

What would you be like, dear J.A., in this world of social networking?
The chance to reconnect with old acquaintances
to have all that old business back in your face if you allow
The chance to manipulate your whole story
down to your profile picture
“a face to meet the faces that you meet”
Would you be so honest? And would you dare?

(c. HCS Feb. 20, 2009)

PS

He doesn’t look around to see if anybody notices him.
He doesn’t speak in a loud voice to impress anybody.

He walks directly to the counter at the coffee shop
and unassumingly orders a chicken ceasar wrap
and a hot chocolate.
Softly, in a Southern baritone, he answers questions
about his next show
his students
new songs he’s written.

He looks like a jazzy cat
Rainbow striped knit tobogan,shoulder-length hair sticking out from under
Beatnik glasses
goatee and mustache
black fleece jacket
old jeans
navy blue Crocs with socks

Everyone in the coffee shop is sure to say hello to him.
But what they really mean is:
“I like thinking I know someone sort of famous.”
“It makes me look good to say hello to you.”
“Your approval makes me feel good about myself.”

Of course he’s graceful and gracious.
“Do your thing, man,” he says to the other musicians.
There are too many songs to sing to leave it up to one guy.

3:48 AM

Dream Sequence
The opening scene is of a woman alone in a room
filled with books and papers.
Enter a man with a diamond ring, prepared to sweep her off her feet.

They begin dancing and the room is somehow filled
with grandiose, stereophonic orchestra music.
Their waltz is free and floating.
She thinks to herself, “I didn’t even know he was a good dancer.”

The music suddenly changes to
Perry Como singing “It’s Impossible”.
“Ask the sun to leave the sky, it’s impossible.”

And she is no longer being lead in the dance
her partner has stepped aside to take a phone call
and she is still dancing, even more weightless and lovely.

“Wait,” he says, “how can you still be dancing?”

“Why, I have my own rhythm. I don’t need you to show me how.”
And the funny thing is, the awareness just sort of happened.

*********

The moon was bright in my room last night.
Oh, the romantics would say, I slept in a place bathed in moonlight.
Rather, I tossed and turned and sighed.
I wondered about what the next day would bring.
I thought about life a year ago
and wondered about a year from now.
I made shopping lists.
I thought of all the cards I should send.
I thought that I should buy some thick curtains.

the secret life

perhaps we all have one

and so what do you do when it is uncovered?
two years kept hidden
no battle between ego and self
no public eyes peering to test and talk

what do you do now that your plane has touched down?
no more running
no more countries to visit
no more money to fuel the journey
How do you say,
“Yes, it’s true. No, I’m not who I was when I left. I can’t go back.”

 
and what are you going to do?
months of murmurs
private agendas
not answering questions with blacks and whites

what do you do now that your grey areas are filled in?
no more talking behind closed doors
no more tracks to carefully cover
no more excitement to fuel the journey
How do you say,
“Yes, it’s true. No, I’m not who you thought I was. I can’t come home.”

********************

He thought she would be easy to forget.
He never imagined that there were so many reminders.
Months have passed and it’s still so fresh, too fresh. The lines are blurring; he feels like he is stuck in dream sequence.
“I should just come out and tell someone, anyone. Maybe then I could just let it go.”

********************

Being awake to the secret, being able to keep some things like pieces of candy, your favorite candy, hidden away from everyone, some thing that is a little sweetness to savor while you’re washing the dishes or sitting in traffic or talking to someone who bores you

Something for a New Year

A blue honest sky reflects
and water ripples from a winter wind.

This path is worn and muddy
so it isn’t hers to travel.
Hers is a not-knowing,
a “what will be?”

She remembers
the campfire
the dance

“I will begin again”

wonderings from wanderings

400 years of silence
“Silent, but not absent”, I hear him say.
What was it like from Micah to Matthew?
Dark?
Lonely?
What about those faithful with watching eyes?
How could it be possible?
Incarnation.
It is so wild, so mysterious, it just has to be True.
Man’s greatest dreams couldn’t even attempt.
dark turning to Light in the midst of such circumstances.
But why? Why did it have to be this way?
I look up at the sparkling lights,
I hear the chords,
and I know that I have touched a Moment
and that is why…
so that those Moments will never end.

Winter Sun (a draft)

He is wearing the dense clouds like a shroud
veiled in grey, snow bearers.

Maybe a strong gust of wind will come
and take away these few lingering leaves
so we can all surrender to the Winter
as you have, Sun.

* ** *

Why don’t I write about you?
You’re an echo that lingers above my head:
Sounds of words
banjo strings
feet crunching on gravel.
And yet you remain silent in most settings

A kind of Wonder

Because it’s become a bad-country song-cliche
You’ve become a little wary.
Because it at times seems like a cop out to hard times
You hesitate to make it public.

But you can’t lose that sense of wonder.

Yes, you grew up in a higher place.
A little morning snow was commonplace
in November,
December,
January,
etc.

And it would be easy to make fun
and act smart and experienced.

But when you pull up the blinds for
that little person
and he points to that piddly mid-state dusting
and says “Snooowww. Wooow.”

You can’t lose that sense of wonder.
It’s all things amazing and fun
to wake up to snow,
no matter where you are
and how old you get.

After Pecan Picking

It seems the best time
is a windy Saturday in November.
You can stand out under the tree
and practically catch them as they fall
off the tree.

The little boy who is outside with you
twirls, arms up, like the falling leaves
and falls down laughing.
He gathers a few “treasures” in his empty coffee can.
Then, laughing more, he throws them all up in the air
to rain down around him.

You stuff your pockets until they are bulging.
You feel dizzy from looking down for these nuts.
And then your thoughts turn to all the recipes
that need these pecans to taste just right
Sweet potato casserole, pecan pie, cola cake
and Meemaw’s brownies.

And that is when she is clear as day in your mind.
In her chair, shelling pecans all winter

Telling of her deep southern upbringing,
there is very little she cooked that doesn’t
require pecans.
And you know that she would be so amused to see
the two of you,
scurrying even more than squirrels
to pick up pecans
and she would be so proud of your effiency
preferring to harvest these
instead of paying $8 for a bag of pre-shelled, pre-chopped
store bought nuts.

Yes,
efficiency,
tradition,
heritage.

Who would have thought
you’d come all this way
to have a backyard with a pecan tree?

the last night

Usually
on the last night of class,
I read lines of wisdom and farewell
maybe from Tennyson’s “Ulysses”
or Swenson’s “Universe”.
I tell the students that I would be
glad to give them recommendations
in future employment opportunities.
I tell them what a joy the semester has been.
I tell them how much I have learned.
And we often all lament, a little, the end of the course.

This time
I want to tell them how disrespectful and lazy they have been.
I want to tell them that there is a world outside of this podunk county of which they think they are the center.
I want to remind them that the factories are gone and that isn’t a choice for them.
I want to tell them that I have decided I hate teaching and almost hate literature because of how miserable they have been to work with.
I want to tell them to put on some clothes that fit, that aren’t too tight on their round rumps and fat thighs or fall off their skinny, wormy backsides. I want to tell them that every second I have been forced to look out into a sea of cleavage has been embarrassing.

But
instead
I will tell them “Good luck”.