Anthony Watkins's Blog, page 37

How We Die

“We need to change

sides of the river”,

he said to me

as he died

at that hospital

in a Boynton

Beach strip mall.

While his neighbors

looked for bargains

on either side

at Publix and

the One Price Cleaners

next door.

“We need to chain

sides the river”,

then he let

go my hand

and let go

the chains

as well.

– just now in boynton

I Meditate

with rice,

a non-believer carnivore,

I meditate with thick onion and almond based sauced

laced with cardomom and curry

or simply thin dark brown

roast beef gravy.

I do not journey inward,

no destination there.

I journey back,

to knee pants and creeks and ditches

and crawdads, and tadpoles

and daddy and fishing

off abandoned bridges

with holes you could fall through

in swift muddy waters of springtime

and never be seen again.

We fished in the hot-sluggish-watered summertimes,

but the story of warning pulled in the spring rain.

I journey back to cotton fields and pecan trees,

little and grand.

Mama and okra, in the field, in the truck,

going to market, or in the kitchen ,

cooked in the magic way nobody ever seems to remember how to do.

The sound of locusts in the trees

now stays permanently in my ears,

but at age eight was a secret message from god.

If I meditate with rice or without

soon I have written a poem.

Though you should not read it,

it will break your spirit of beingness

and send you

spiraling back down the staircase

into the rooms of your childhood.

Entrepreneur’s Log

Slick slick wheels,

A rusty gearbox

And God’s own very first

Three-fifty

Blowin’ oil

And unleaded

Into a cloud of dreams,

For which I borrowed all

I could on enthusiasm.

This here load

Is the beginning

Of my vast, far flung

Empire of the Sun.

Distributions centers

In Dallas and Des Moines,

Semi crisscrossing

These forty-eight,

And freighters loaded,

Lord knows I’ll ship

‘Round the world.

I have to get

My load of dreams

Off the shoulder

And down to New Orleans,

Those fools in Memphis

Don’t know a thing.

I just wonder how

The world made it

So long without

My perception and understanding

Of the wants and needs

Of the ordinary man.

Yes sir, i got no more money

But for a tow and to get

This rig arunnin’,

I’ll give ten percent.

That’s like a piece

Of a gold mine!

Yes sir, this is

your lucky day.

Ok, twenty-five, no more,

Now be reasonable

I’m giving you half of an empire.

For a half a day’s work.

Yes sir, and Empire of the Sun.

Well, then drive on,

You’re just as dumb

As them fools in Memphis,

I’ll get there somehow.

Yes sir, officer,

I’ll be moving this thing

Right along any minute,

Seems to be a slight problem

For my Empire of the Sun,

temporarily, it won’t run.

Anthony Watkins

written a long time ago

(to every dream and dreamer,

for every time the world laughed at us,

remember, as long as we have the dream,

they are the fools!

But this poem is most especially to my father,

who taught me how to dream)

You May Think

because you read the book,

or because you heard someone mention it

sometime in an English class

or at a cocktail party

(is there really any difference?)

the answer to the universe

and everything in it is 42,

but that is just one man’s opinion.

A pineapple is equal to everything,

as is the square root of a coconut.

not a little brown scabby looking thing

you might find in a white people’s grocery store,

but the big green one

still filled with coconut water,

to be chilled and the end chopped off

with a machete and then with a straw,

you drink think magic coco frio,

and return the hull to the man

with the machete.

(a white man cannot be trusted with a machete, he will want to start a war or something)

and he will chop it in half

so, you can scrap the coconut meat,

the consistency of an under cooked egg white,

out of the shell

with the chip chopped off top

(you should know to save that piece when it is cut off}

yes, the square root of all that.

Own Happiness

Some happiness defended

by oak leaves is an assault

on peach blossoms.

Lily pads have their own happiness.

unlike most of my poems, this one “means something”

Inspired by a Joseph Massey post on Facebook, of a Cid Corman translation of a

Canada

Driving your white

Mercedes,

top down, in

the misty fog.

Florida must feel

better if you’re

from Montreal.

I got the heater on,

wearing socks

because it’s sixty degrees

We are in

that lost soul

space between

Christmas

and New Year’s

nothing to do

but wait in

the Florida grey.

Blue Light in a Cup

he’s talking about

blue light in a cup,

how it looks

like a heart,

like a bird,

you might draw

as a kid.

 

Though

still a kid,

he means

little kid.

 

I don’t see no light

blue or heart-shaped

I see I need

some coffee

and rings

go forever.

Keeping One Foot

in the fire,

flawed translation,

no doubt

but apt,

 

one foot in fire

stirring my charred

stub in

embers and ashes

 

the foot is

my brain.

 

 

If I Had a Norton

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I don’t want a motorcycle

anymore than I want a gun,

but if I wanted a motorcycle

I would want a Norton

A 1969 Norton Commando

Not a ‘67, by ‘69, when risk of fire was reduced, though, as with many British motors,

carburetors were forever in need of a tinkering, often as not, outright replacement.

 

Though I

would never ride it,

one set ought

to keep me.

 

And I would

keep it in a dusty shed

that smelled of gasoline

and straw

and motor oil

in Earle, Arkansas

and in the afternoon

the light

would filter through the slatted door.

 

Maybe I would sit in the dark

and smoke hand rolls

or Pall Mall Reds,

probably not.

 

I don’t want a horse

I have no interest in riding them

But I used to want a mule,

a white one, but now

I realize a black one would do.

 

I wonder if there is

a donkey big enough

to carry me?

 

I like black donkeys

I could keep a donkey in the country in Florida,

It’s only the motorcycle

I would need in the delta.

How Racist is Poetry?

This is not a poem, it is a complete failure as a poem, but I am trying to say something, and poetry is the only language I understand.

 

I don’t mean some

hip-hop-spoken-word-sistah

slam poetry.

 

But the kind of poetry

who’s fans

probably like

classical music,

ballet,

Monet,

Picasso,

and Verdi

and folksy old

white man poetry.

 

Every word,

a letter at a time,

is it building

and rebuilding patriarchy?

racial superiority?

Am I some sort of code

or coder

or blank paper

or a blank white sheet

over me

 

Is it?

Am I?

 

How much more

should I say? Have I even spoken?

Why does this have so many questions?

How racist is the question?