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Dave Bonta
Is it or isn’t it?
The sugar pill isn’t saying.
The line that bisects it
was intentionally left blank.
It’s a go sign, perhaps,
or a one-bead rosary.
Its zero gives birth
to all other numbers.
Since opposites attract within
bounds of reason & good breeding,
it must be in love
with a salt tablet.
It can be anything
the salt wants,
including another condiment
that cures vagueness.
I take a left,
And another,
I head straight,
And then a right,
A dead end staring back at me,
I try to retrace my steps,
Uncertain of where I’m going,
Uncertain of where I am,
I turn around,
And see open space,
Trying to recall my previous steps,
But my memory seems distant,
Hesitation then tossed to the side,
As I march forth with reckless abandon,
A look of determination fills my eyes,
Uncertain of the beginning or end,
a kind of nervousness, an impending change
to doom or to flourish? a change in any case
an uneasiness, an excitement; nerves in any case
about to burst, about to fall, impending thirst, precariously balancing all
too much coffee? no, none at all
a heartsickness, a longing; is it here or is it far?
an embarrassment, a harassment; is it me or is it them?
this feeling wobbling like a wave, reminiscent of what saudade gave
the feeling of soaring
Red sun dropped below a psychiatrist’s
left brain, not
to mention the Cascade Range.
The psychiatrist’s opinions rose:
“Computers aren’t anything,
and no one knows how the brain
produces emotions. Anyone who
claims to know is lying.”
On their tiny platform, window washers
dropped into view, 17th floor.
Patient and psychiatrist looked
at them. They looked back.
The patient promised to call the psychiatrist,
especially if the patient were to feel
like a blackbird flying over ice-fields or
to sing obscure anthems in retail stores.
In the spring I asked the daisies
If his words were true,
And the clever, clear-eyed daisies
Always knew.
Now the fields are brown and barren,
Bitter autumn blows,
And of all the stupid asters
Not one knows.
As men whose bones are wind-blown dust, have sung,
Let me sing now!
I'll sing of gourds, and goads, of honey, and the plough.
I am a raw uneasy parvenu,
I am uncertain of my time.
How can I pour the liquor of new days
In the old pipes of Rhyme?