Stumbling Into My Old Age

Shadow Self-Portrait

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA 
 

OTHERWORLDLY



I say to myself


These are the faces


Of people from dreams.

They are constantly surprised


Like drunks suddenly


Seeing themselves in a mirror.



Not a single event here


Has any kind of order.



The sky is a scrim


Overprinted with unreadable


Characters, important


As lucid dreams and


Worth about as much.


When I lifted the bedcovers,

All was embalmed and preserved,



Waiting.  I walk up to your


Door.  “This what happens


Tomorrow.”  You are reading


It now so as not


To be alarmed when


All dissolves before


You while you are having


A morning coffee.



I soon will be dead


Or, perhaps, it is you who


Will be mistaken for 


Someone else, and tomorrow


Evening I may still be here,


Telling this same story


As if it were an entirely


New and wondrous thing.

 Face With Damaged Eye

LIPS OF INK



Your ink child made of springs


That build alleys in our bloodstream.


“This will take you there,” and tears


A great hole in a subway car.


Telling you, “This is a door.  See


That pretty yellow dog is looking back


At you to see if you want to follow


Him to the top of the hill.”



Jason and his Argonauts have


Rushed in on the high tides.


They have set up another room


Where we may feel comfortable


Without a context, without identification


Of any kind. 



Keep your hands


Off my crotch.  I am a different


Kind of motel.  You do not have to leave


The room to find ice or a string of pearls.



A mouth full of glittering, still black and white.


A tongue made of photographic film.


I’ll trade you these meat stars


For the blood on your lips.

 Front Porch to Community Garden, Locke


AFTERNOON-ATTACKED



There is a sameness to all the afternoons.


This shouldn’t be.  Afternoons are not instruments.



I am able to pull 
Constellations of stars


From what must be my mouth.



I am become


A lens.  It is because


Of this that you can help me.



Have the faith to lift me


From the knives, the steady


Plinking of the guitar images,


To rise above the sidewalks


And become the city 


I have always imagined I am.



Tell me now, before this line


Ends.  Have I died?


Have we both died?

__________________


GRAY INTO WHITE



Here, where I am gray into white,


Eros spreads my fingers and wraps


Them around the root as a flaming


Joke, lights a candle



To see if one can still see


That light from the back row


Of the garden and perhaps


Find it interesting enough


To find a way through the


Darkness, through the gates, to the


Door, up the stairs


To where there is a bright


Old man lying naked in


A lovely bed, singing to


Himself, transfixed by


The song, the lovely beauty


Of the visitor and the howling


Of the wind through the open doorway.

 Martin's Front Porch, Locke
 
 

 PASTEL



It was you, dreaming on the balcony


That night, above the street.



A tenderness bound by song


That just as easily could


Have been a candelabra


Burning in a vacant dining room


Just now forgotten.



The moment silvers itself.


You become pastel as the


Sky becomes pastel.



I find you much later


In the evening 


As part of a verse.

_________________


THE EDGE OF TOWN



I regret that I cannot be with you here.


I so enjoy the lights coming from


The house here as the streets 


Are ending and the light that


Strikes the walkways has been


Bounced across the evening by


Candlelight and kerosene lamp,


With a few flickering of fluorescent


Tubes slipping through an unrevealed


Kitchen window to show itself


Against a creek bending through


What might be a neighborhood.


(It is too dark to see if this is true.)



You will notice as you move close


To where the houses begin to cease


That somewhere a radio is playing


A beautiful tango that will remain


With you into your old age.


(Should you acquire this moment).



Try to recall the beauty of its melody


It will bring comfort to you someday


As you find yourself here,


At the edge of town, once again.

 Feral Cat in Locke
 

“BUT THERE ARE FEW 


WHO READ DEEPLY”
                   

                 —Robert Duncan

I.



And is the poem


Successful?  Now,


What do you know?



Can you tell me where


I misunderstood?



The sand slips beneath my feet.


I will never turn my back


On the sea.


The sea has no ideas.



Better, build a fire on the


More distant shore and


Still know we are prey


To the waves.  The flicker


In your eyes across the


Flame. Assure me you still 


Know exactly where the sea is.



II.


Can you tell what


What happened when


The wave struck?



Personally, I was cut


Apart by the wind.


Did you hear the wind?



Once again, the harp.


Each string pulled into


A scale that would keep


Us wondering for years.



And I grow impatient


As I do in dreaming.


I will have the wind alone.



III.



In this visionary moment,


Stumbling into my old age.


I remain a harp, 


That which is played upon.



A collection of names


Of stars that no one


Recalls as having anything to do


With the origin


Of those monsters who


Gave names to the constellations.



I will still reach through


Each moment and


Want to hold you to my body


As these moments explode.

 Feral Cat II, Locke

“AND THE LITTLE PLACES, 


COOL AS COURTYARDS“
            

                      —J. L. Borges,
            

                      Recoleta Cemetery



I see the souls pass


From one to another.


Nothing stops being, except for


A name or a forgetfulness we have


Regarding miracles.



See, here is the sun once again.


I will place it in my mouth


And ask you to walk with me.



We will laugh at the


Winds full of birds.



We will realize even more


Than a few times.


This remarkable miracle,


Larger than the most exquisite


Music.  



Here in space and time,


Flaming like candles,


We ourselves become


These instruments of the soul.


________________

Today’s LittleNip:

STUNNED



I have waited all these years


To love you.



The shadows across the 


Water in the cistern.



Is this the poem?

________________

A big thank-you to D.R. Wagner for today's fine brunch of poems and pix in the Kitchen! Note that tonight (5-8pm), there will be a Sac. Poetry Center Art Reception: 30 Years Inside: Paintings, Drawings, and Prints by Jim Carlson. Exhibition also includes work from incarcerated artists at Cal. State Prison-Sacramento (New Folsom). Comments by Jim Carlson at 6:30pm, and presentations by JoAnn Anglin, Poet; Susan Kelly-DeWitt, Poet: Gabriel Becker, classical guitarist; Carol Hinds, Prison Program Advocate. 25th & R Sts., Sac. Free.


—Medusa

 April is National Poetry Month!