Another Poem from the Probation Office

NSP Meditations, Poetry , , ,

It has occurred to me

that I’ve written more poems

in a probation office

than any other American poet.

Did I just call myself a poet?

First time for that.

First time for everything

in a probation office.

Why does the probation office

compel the poem

and not the essay or editorial?

The screenplay or short story?

I think it’s because

I can’t help notice

the staccato of nothingness

that happens in the room.

I wrote another poem this morning:

 

Probation Office 8-28-17

The air conditioner conditions

The Coke machine hums

The gray carpet carpets.

I sit down next to a man.

He says:

“I went to jail for three days,

for drinking on my birthday.”

That’s a country song right there.

I am surrounded by country songs in here.

Am I one?

We wait, Waiting For The Man.

That is not a country song.

A young woman walks in

wearing a bra and jean shorts.

“Bubba” is tattooed on her right thigh.

She sits down and fills out forms.

The man brings up the Green River killer.

The Green River killer!

I make a note of it.

He just gave me a great tip

for my new detective novel!

I tell him that.

He shakes with joy.

He reads the newspaper,

the police log.

There he is.

He gives a little laugh.

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Bonnie and Clyde Files 19

Bonnie and Clyde Files, NSP Meditations , , , , , ,

I pulled into the dog sanctuary and parked the car. I powered down the window, picked blackberries, and ate them: drive-thru blackberries. I want a home with drive-thru blackberries.

Bonnie and Clyde were rocking and rolling at the gate. Dog rock lives. The other rock? Who cares.

The two old dogs seemed giddier than usual. Maybe they knew volunteers had recently raised over $9000 for the sanctuary via the rummage sale. That’s triple the usual take and I felt good having a silent hand in making it happen. Good work in silence. That’s the way I’ll do it from now on for the rest of my life.

We hit the pasture. The thistles had invaded and flowered their purple army. Clouds hovered above the clearcuts and I thought about clearcuts and my adventures in clearcuts. I could write a book about them. I think I already ready have, here and there, in that essay, that vignette, that erotica, that editorial, that dog tale, that short story, those photographs. All I need to do is replant them all (not in rows!) and watch how they grow and root into a novel literary forest that would not read like a mono-culture plantation-kind of story. I know who I would dedicate this book to.

My clearcut daydreaming came to a halt when I saw something moving in the grass and thistles to my left. I veered toward it for inspection. It was a barn swallow, newly fledged, grounded, trying to fly, flailing.

I witnessed this frequently while living on the wildlife refuge and I intervened almost every time and thus interrupted nature. So be it. If I can help save a life right in front of me, I will act.

But not this time. There was no safe place to to take the swallow, like there was on the refuge. A hawk would find him in short order and continue a cycle.

I moved past the swallow and Bonnie and Clyde followed. Sadness engulfed me. I wanted to help the swallow, but knew nothing could help. I meandered to the river when I discovered my TV tray and camp stool, upright, in front of the electric fence. What? It was disconcerting. I thought I had it well hidden under a downed alder. One never knows who lurks along Oregon’s coastal rivers.

I carried the tray and stool down to the river and set up the writing studio. I settled in with a blue book and pen and saw a fish jump 70 yards upstream.

There was evidence of cows moving across the river. I was writing about the river when Clyde came out of nowhere and licked my face—for the first time! I gave him a treat. He knows how to work it. Bonnie got one, too. She’s more demur. Every time I visit the river with the dogs it reminds me of my former, better life on the refuge and what I’ve lost inside me since I left that magical place in 2008.

I wrote for 15 minutes and then knew it was time to leave. I stashed the TV tray and camp stool behind a thicket of salmonberries and we started making our way home through the pasture. I retraced our original path wanting to see if the swallow was still there. I knew in my heart he wouldn’t and it wasn’t because he learned how to fly.

He was there! I couldn’t believe it. It was impossible. I moved closer toward the swallow to see the struggle and then…he… began flapping his wing in earnest….and then he….lifted up, higher, inches higher, and…lift off…five feet, ten feet, then a magisterial bank around toward me, over me. The swallow joined one of his buddies in flight, and they commenced that special undulating swallow flight, the metaphor of how we all want to live, or at least I do.

I started clapping and then crying. I said aloud: “Bonnie and Clyde did you see that!”

Perhaps they did. The came over to me and sniffed around. I was asking for corroboration because it was the most unlikely beautiful non-thing I’d seen in a long, long time. Yes, there is occasional beauty in unlikely nothingness. There is also non-poetic poetry in the swallow’s liftoff above the pretty purple seed flowers of the thorny jagged thistle. I saw it all. I took note. Not notes. Note.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Husky on the Detroit Dam

NSP Meditations, Poetry , , , , , , ,

I had a dream about Sonny,

my long gone husky.

We were fishing together

on the Detroit Dam.

We had never fished in real life.

Detroit, Oregon.

Dumb.

Molalla, Oregon.

Smart.

Portland, Oregon.

Dumb.

Klamath Falls.

Smart.

I cast my line into the fake lake,

for phony rainbow trout.

I smoked a cigarette

I never smoked.

Sonny was giddy at the wall,

primed, spring-loaded.

She shook that husky look:

mischief.

A blue-eyed mischief in one eye.

“Matt,” she said.

“Blow up the dam!

Let the Santiam run wild!

Like I once did!

Put me in your new novel,

the watershed novel,

let me ride shotgun,

I’ll be the sidekick,

a funny sleuth,

howling clues,

bolting the detective

into adventure

and revelation,

like we used to.

I pulled the car over

and wrote this all down.

The novel was right there,

in my husky’s one blue eye.

Ruminations on V-Neck Sweaters

NSP Meditations ,

It is 2:00 in Astoria on a late August afternoon. It is also 61 degrees and overcast. I am wearing a gray Eddie Bauer V-Neck sweater over a Western shirt to keep warm. I have owned this sweater for over 15 years, taught in it, hacked blackberries in it, written thousands of words in it, rambled thousands of miles with dogs in it, drank whiskey around a burn barrel in it, and…I believe, gigged in it.

This sweater is torn and frayed and falling apart, as is my only other V-Neck sweater, a blue J-Crew argyle straight from the Archies. I bought the Eddie Bauer at a thrift store somewhere on the Oregon Coast, possibly Coos Bay. The J-Crew was a surprise back-to-school gift in 2004, from my then girlfriend, Rose. She wanted to “class” me up for my new teaching job at Taft High School. That was her word, “class.” At the time, it was the only new article of clothing I owned. And indeed, the argyle did somewhat “class” me up (a little) and I’ve cherished it ever since.

I am writing this from my back yard, looking at Youngs Bay, and ruminating on these two great veteran sweaters. In recent years, it has been impossible for me to find V-Necks in my size at thrift stores. Here and there, I discover one, but a corporate logo, mauve color, or weird frill dissuades me from buying; I just can’t see myself wearing it or dying in it.

Do V-Necks reek too much of old man? So be it. Old is the new Debonair.

I used to wear white t-shirts under V-Neck sweaters all the time. In fact, I employed this look all the time. Where did it go?

I’ve always wanted to own a Shetland rag wool V-neck but they only seem to come in crew neck.

Crew necks just aren’t the same to me. They choke me.

I wonder if everyone else has a specific type of clothing choice that defines a particular part of their lives. I certainly do. I remember when I wore vests all the time while teaching in the Portland area. They didn’t survive the immigration to the ocean.

As I write this, I feel quite certain I am only the writer in the world writing about V-Neck sweaters in such an assaying or memoir-like fashion and I am doing this while wearing a V-Neck that is 63-percent lamb’s wool and stained with mustard and blackberries.

The sun just came out! I’m going to take off the V-Neck, fling it on the deck, and start reading a Ross Macdonald Lew Archer novel.

There are no characters that wear V-Necks in the book. Has any detective in popular culture worn V-Necks? This is something to explore.

I almost forgot: both sweaters have Sonny the husky’s fur embedded within the fabric. I’ve washed these sweaters dozens of times. The fur never comes out.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

A Trailer in Mind

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches , , , , ,

I took this photograph of a trailer several years ago. The trailer, pretty much abandoned to the naked eye, rests very near the ocean. I once looked through a window and it appeared as if no one had been inside for years, perhaps decades.

The trailer is located on a huge secret lot, surrounded by shore pines, on a secret part of the secret South Coast of Oregon. The beach near the trailer is perhaps the most interesting beach I have ever visited. I’ve seen everything from a man panning for gold to a pagan wedding and heard strange music from a hidden loudspeaker broadcast by an alleged cult leader living in a nearby clifftop mansion preposterously made of stucco and tile in a place where it rains 80 inches a year.

To me, the trailer seems full of secrets and awakens interesting secrets within my mind.

Rain is eroding the trailer. How much longer can the trailer stay intact?

I want to live in this trailer, with someone, and a dog. I want to write and grow a garden and have bonfires. I want to host hikers and bicyclists and driftwood fort nuts and regale them with Oregon Coast tales of free beaches and encounters with wise coyotes and distressed human beings. I want to meet the cult leader.

Who owns the trailer? (Rumor says he’s from Eugene.) I want pitch an idea to the owner, a great notion, and see what happens. Probably nothing. Perhaps everything. You’ve got to pitch great notions in life, or at least I do, to survive. Sometimes when these great notions are received, the people who did the wild receiving smile a unique smile.

Look at this place! Look at the view! Look at this trailer and hum “King of the Road” by Roger Miller.

We must repurpose things in this life: dilapidated people, stray dogs and yes, abandoned trailers, too.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Oregon Tavern Age: Eclipse Part 2

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age , , , , , , , ,

As I waited to call the Old O and get the curmudgeon exclusive, I sat outside with two of my best friends, and their great dog. We had macaroon and chocolate chip cookies and French apple brandy, Calvados, as our quasi eclipse brunch.

I surveyed Youngs Bay, Saddle Mountain, Tillamook Head and beyond. The sun was shining and barely a trace of a cloud appeared in the sky. It became obvious: a perfect day on the Oregon Coast to observe the eclipse, dialed up by the Sun Gods. There would be no rain on their parade. Not even drizzle! My Oregon Gods had failed me and now I would soon hear singing from Whoville and feel enraged.

Then it began, slowly: the invisible moon moving into alignment, the partial darkening, the strange,crisp reflective light, the odd behavior from birds, the temperature dropping, the increasing silence. We donned our special glasses and watched the subtle show, the Ms. Pac Man in the sky. I started writing a few notes. I felt a tinge in my heart. Perhaps it was growing a tiny bit. The dog got up and came over to me. I gave him a chunk of a macaroon.

I called the Old O. It rang a long time before the bartender answered. I greeted her and gave a quick briefing. I asked her her name.

“Lena.”

“Okay, Lena, can you help me out?”

My pen and notebook were primed to record curmudgeon history.

“I’ll check and see for you.”

I heard a muffled asking of the regulars.

“Everyone’s going outside, me too.”

“How many are in there?”

“Nine or ten.”

“What are the drinking?”

“Bud.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I ended the call and laughed. I put my glasses back on, sipped the Calvados, petted the dog, informed my friends of my OTA findings, and stared at the sun. Wondrous. Exhilarating. Atavistic. Far out.

In the distance, I heard clapping and cheering. My heart grew and grew and then blew out of my chest and it felt pretty damn good.

Perhaps my Oregon Gods had answered my prayers after all. We had all stopped and looked up together at something that brought us all together.

To quote Gandalf from Lord Of the Rings, “Hope is kindled.”

The next day, Astoria was socked in with fog and drizzle ruled the landscape.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

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