A WORLD SEEN AS OBJECTS AND STORIES
a white T-shirt, though
I caught sight of it at a bus stop: it was partly covered by
the turning form of a lanky youth massed with other human forms intent upon boarding the bus on which I was riding, tucked in a corner seat on the last row of seats on the bus, the right side, sheltered, watching the surge as it entered the double rear doors that soon welcomed as a bottleneck the half dozen new passengers — tall, he walked back along the aisle until he stood maybe a dozen feet from me, holding a rail with one hand (the right), the other arm dangling, his hips relaxed, every color — hair, eyebrows, lashes, half-day beard shadow, heavy cotton pants, a jacket dangling from the dangling left arm — black except for his white T-shirt, unornamented, the folds from his twist as he stood, deep drapery folds, the cotton heavier than ordinary for such a garment, the trim at waist and short sleeves the same material rolled, eye-catching for its clean bright whiteness, hinting at his beauty, and beautiful in its self: a white T-shirt, an object, he would move slightly, the creases deepen as the twist deepened slightly — at Castro, Market and 17th streets he got off, many did, many boarded, his eyes, a light brown, met mine through the bus window for a moment, the T-shirt at his neck white, an object still * the designs look to be expensive, patch by patch the steep slopes on the east side of Buena Vista Park, the new paths, the size and fullness of the plantings,
contoured to subtle increments of drainage, manicured to wild effects, over several years now areas landscaped so that the first to be developed seem old now — I stood watching the work from above, two workmen laying a cement walk, a barrow and mixing tools, a hoe at hand, nearby, half way to the others a tall worker, T-shirt, jeans, a watch cap, placing stakes to support a new tree — I called to him “what kind of tree is that?” and in a quiet voice he answered something, so I asked again, and this time I heard “oak” — I looked about and in many places grew live oaks, the coastal kind that shed half their leaves each year — they qualify as evergreens, never dense — slowly three stakes were driven into turned earth, pulled and pushed to secure firmness, then the distance measured between each, to secure order, and a thick elastic triple bow, like rubber, threaded to support the sapling through its youth, the workman bending, rising, driving the stakes further in to new roots, the performance patient, delivered without rush, applied as if a craft, unlabored labor, how simple all this is, the morning sun, the new tree nodding in a light breeze, the workman — gardener — handsome as if breath were never strained, infinite variables, the beauty of the scene * never benign. yucca treculeana, the Spanish dagger nickname imbuing its most rapturous appearance an elegant threat, its clotted cream blossoms massed in a towering crown, the whole plant the size of a man, the figure a volcanic fountain of etched emotion, crown yielding to muted green through the sword-like leafing, so sharp, so vain, a cascade of whirling knives, a throat, a face, a finial of ivory, fifty petals, fifty stamen,
the tongue of sensuality fuzzy, a pasture for bees and creeping insects — this is the tower of sex and death, a brocade where thought is silk and pointless, a hint of sleep cushioned on ripe cheeses and heavy wines closing a repast of many courses, the bloom-crown looming one spring month each year, cold, sharp winds radiate as memories, so too roasting heat — this is a desert plant — its display meant for creatures already versed in the detail of pondered observation, the wash of moonlight in every sun-washed brilliance, the fleece of razors, flesh dying as it is born * a rat in the subway, at the Van Ness Station, again after years not seeing one underground in human space, now in that exact place, the electric rail where the first car stops, this rat huge like the one I saw before, a bloated wine bottle, rounded some at the sides, moving in bright light, slowly crossing the wheel tracks, sniffing garbage fallen in its way, its right eye a brown blank, assessing what? a train screamed over it, a long train, and when minutes later the train left, I moved to the edge of the platform looking straight down, and there was the rat beneath me, then suddenly it disappeared, the bundle of life now a thing, as its space became a place, the abode of a sentient being, when the next train screamed in, I boarded, the great
tunnels far ahead, far behind me, what of the rat? an awareness of space shared, we the rat and I knew, if no one else a city here, ants and candy wrappers and the horrors of serene understanding engulfed, absorbed, the silence of a distant echo, the rat spinning in its bottle infinitely, the glass seems to press against me our eyes crazy again somewhere! Somewhere catching a breath * startling! a single wail, a call, right by my ear, less alarming than amazing, a cry, a scream of sorts, repeated often, regularly, the sun horizontal, the flash and gleam of rays from the glass hummingbird feeder just beyond the plate glass of a wall-sized window by my bed, dawn — a gambel’s quail, a pet escaped from a nearby apartment, the strident call as he bobbed his long plume, a giant mobile teardrop, the black face outlined in white, the intensely rich chestnut crown bobbing with the whole head — terrified? likely, yes, bird balancing atop a ledge and a dense row of potted plants stretching yards from the quail’s grasping feet, looking about, what to do? no food here, gorgeous in the sunlight, my eyelids flick, my head rising from a pillow, the bird flapping rapidly to escape the shadowed movement, onto the nearest branch of a jacaranda not now in leaf or bloom, the quail naked too, in fear, a single cry, noisy, sharp, nodding as it faced me, now standing by the window, an apparent supplicant, up and down, bobbing, bowing — two ravens swoop, landing within a yard of
the stranded ornamental bird, their ebony surfaces great lustrous capes of focused purpose, but then my form, what must I look like to these birds? the corvids toddling for balance on the twigs fanning denuded on the jacaranda, then the gambel’s quail flew off, the ravens too, to elsewhere — the quail still calling, a sound fainter as time passes, the sun rising, a hummingbird now at the feeder, breaking fast, its quick bill slithering into the faux flower, lapping sugar water, the quail’s voice like the wind surrounding * Wide corridors in the California Spanish building — the cornerstone says ‘1926’ — even the finely tiled ornamental wallwork, would have passed unnoticed to the high school students spread beneath their lockers over the floor. Just kids, paying attention to one another. Which suited the lingering gaze of the mask high above them, an almost invisible Cleopatra impression pressed into the plaster near the angle of the tall ceiling. This gaze had been in this place since shortly after the school’s dedication, that of the very first Latin teacher at Mission High, even then known as “Miss Cleo” to her students. Her subject was no longer taught; memory of her had disappeared as well except as random knowledge — information merely — to family members possessing objects she had once owned. Cleo neither knew nor cared about such memories, or hand-downs as she thought of such surviving trivia. Early on, as professoressa, she liked to think of herself, she understood the fine classical education she had acquired in her native Italy — her father had taught at Padua his entire life, her mother tutored private students in Venice, where they lived — this education which spanned the entire Roman literate world, Republic, Empire, Byzantium’s remnant influence throughout her beloved Venezia — ah, these cherubs! so easily sucked into her nourishment, so visibly, wonderfully innocent in their postures of budding sexuality — Cleo knew! And savored, as she savored each emotion, each physical quality, each quirk of character and body she had learned to play with the racing
finger skills she had mastered on the harpsichord and pianoforte as a child. Some piano-piano, some fortissimo, some just fast — this was not an age to acquire elegy, nor did she so desire — her eyes caressed the day-old facial growth of the powerfully handsome Latino, whose speech and movement suggested athleticism; ah! those thoughtful inward stares of the curly haired beauty toying with her backpack by the Latino boy, she had to have them, the what was there in these moody glances, each child — what else could she call them? — a feast of life Cleo drew upon at will … sometimes they noticed, felt the pull, she distracted them, planted lust, affection, moments of fear, it always worked. * In the final hours of his administration, President Obama has indicated the pardons he is giving convicted federal criminals, a custom famous and infamous in previous presidential administrations. The pardon for Bradley Manning is likely to dominate this custom’s history for decades to come, and is certainly remarkable considering how hotly Manning’s conviction was pursued during this same president’s terms in office…. [New York Times, January 19, 2017] Jacqueline Kennedy had considered options when selecting furniture for the State Dining Room at the White House, her final choices of several Italian antiques surprising even her closest consultants for her ambitious redecoration effort of so many historic rooms in the presidential dwelling. Of particular interest was her choice of a credenza from the residence of Lucrezia Borgia and her third husband, Alfonso I d'Este, Duke of Ferrara, a masterpiece of the final decade of the 15th century. Only one pair of eyes caught it. Maybe not surprisingly since the International Space Station is a busy place, human activity programmed in detail. But those eyes were rewarded. The wings were alabaster, a light alabaster, they folded the entire earth and drew back to a thin equatorial line, immediately unfolding again and spreading to envelop — a dimming, then an interruption, an arm of the station cutting the view.
The springtime of her final year, in 1519, found Lucrezia often ill, her eighth pregnancy proving even more trying than those previous, none of them easy. While presiding at the Easter banquet, she chanced in conversation with an itinerant priest from Mantua to sample a wine he recommended to assuage her discomfort — a carafe had been drawn, she was served by the principal taster, all in her party savored its richness — and all found ease and merriment. From the empty bottle winged insects flew onto the credenza alighting here and there — the very wood sparkled as they paused. The room was filled with joy, roasts and breads grasped by gluttonous hands, many raved in prophecies. By evening several guests had died in ecstasy. Michelle Obama wandered the state rooms, nodding to the few scattered attendants and servants she encountered on this last progress she would make before joining her secretary before their review at her final staff meeting. She felt growing pleasure rise in her as she paused in the dining room, vacant now, only a few lights on, and the thought passed, “I won’t miss this.” She almost glowed when it occurred to her, “tomorrow I’m going home, really. I miss Chicago.” Only an irrigation ditch, straight and unbroken for half a kilometer, divided the vineyard from the footpath. Overgrown rather, this late in the summer, the grapes gathered here a week already, though a few remained, plump, overlooked veterans of a good harvest. A scum pooled in the ditch water, curling, driven perhaps by the slight breeze that swept the utterly flat terrain of these fields between Ferrara and Ravenna. Only insects clustered and buzzed about, in the silence of a light wind. And then too, along the woody stems of several vines slightly larger insects crept, a few only, and only on a few trunks of some of the vines, their diaphanous wings slowly folding, in certain lights opaque, a light alabaster. * From beauty that is cast out of a mould In bronze, or that in dazzling marble appears, Appears, but when we have gone is gone again … -from The Living Beauty, W. B. Yeats
the street, the street, layers of asphalt rise with each repair until the curb is quite shallow, the street is often repaired — dismayed, waylaid from beauty that is cast in bronze — my guess is brothers, the two who push brooms, shovels, the arch of their eyebrows, their thin faces, a body language, a form, structure, yes, fraternal identity is almost certain, what can be certain, their Spanish tongue, their ease as each gesture, motion smoothes the work of sewer replacement, the infrastructure again disturbed by age, by wear, the brothers healing what cannot be healed dismayed the bright jackets of city workers, the white hard hats, now the younger of the two directs traffic from the lane as earth movers rumble by, as city traffic seeks passage, waylaid, yes, the older prepares the city street for a steel plate to seal the project for the day until the next, dismayed. waylaid appears, is gone again
dazzling the quick look the eyebrows housing * By chance of age and culture, throughout my lifetime I’ve often heard the sentimental Full Moon and Empty Arms, but I never think of Sinatra’s well-known rendering, but of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, from which the melody derives. In the decades following the Second World War in the United States the song was a media staple, crooning from teardrop to teardrop through weathers stormy and luscious. Full moon and empty arms Tonight, I'll use the magic moon To wish upon I noticed the reflection of a full moon on a panel of glass as I peered from a window, and immediately moved to another vantage to see the display directly. My best easy view was through a large avocado tree that, in a light breeze, swayed slightly, especially in its upper reaches. The pulse was Sinatra as leaves would for a moment mask a part of the glowing orb. A night like this could weave a memory And every kiss could start a dream for two As I watched the moon itself gained a degree or two up and to the right, but a step to adjust my view held the pop tune pulse of the event admirably, the avocado branches improving on Sinatra’s form with their complex, very graceful sway. All silhouette against a sharply defined astral radiance. The caress of vibrating strings, the precision of the racing piano keys, the concert figure poised, a fruit bat enveloping an avocado, the tree an utter darkness, moonlight touching a branch, a leaf, only for a moment, the bright circle fractured as the full throat of the masterpiece soared
And next full moon If my one wish comes true My empty arms will be filled with you But moon song now, as if a clear, just hinted plastic covered every surface, the moon itself foremost, the basking creatures, shapes and memories wrapped in degrees of what might have been luster, seemed terror suddenly, a shroud * a language that has no word for colors — a culture where the visible players cease to exist when they are out of sight or sound the Pirahã culture is concerned solely with matters that fall within direct personal experience, and thus there is no history beyond living memory — one of the strongest Pirahã values is no coercion, you simply don’t tell other people what to do — there appears to be no social hierarchy — the Pirahã have no formal leaders — their social system can thus be labeled as primitive communism at first the abrasive, rough-grained surface undulated in even waves, the motion of a heavy flag in a strong even wind — variants began to appear, and in any case all this was happening on an horizontal plane, without context — no background, no color, soundless, perspective hesitant in the awkwardness the Pirahã build simple huts where they keep a few pots, pans, knives and machetes — they make only scraping implements (for making arrowheads), loosely woven palm-leaf bags, bows and arrows — they take naps of fifteen minutes to, at the most, two hours throughout the day and night, and rarely sleep through the night something suggested the abrasive potential of this surface, a few of the large grains (of sand?) displaced, displacing — at first I noticed a hint of sound, of grating — I was listening to silence the Amazon breathes everywhere it glows
* a nail, a headless nail, and why
is it just there? just alone on a piece of cloth, maybe it’s halfway to being put back into the toolbox, not needed for whatever it was taken for, now damn! so clumsy! just try to pick it up and I knock it to the floor, no! I don’t see it, and it so small, a thousand things around, under that elevated bookcase, under the carpet ending just about where it fell, I’ll never find it, damn! not quite headless, but headless nonetheless when I see one, for some unexplained reason I’m drawn to an image of Christ on the cross, I feel tension in my arms, the weight his body will tear the nails in his hands through his flesh, his bones, and he’ll slump S-shaped down the cross, a messy slither of torn gushing skeleton head lolling I’ve got a flashlight and a magnifying glass, the rug really dirty, dust and crumbs, under the rug? the nail’s thin, it might have rolled there, me, I might have pushed it there getting down now the nails in His feet have torn through bones, skin what a mess! the whole body’s falling forward I’ll never find it
* a five dollar bill, that’s that’s all it is, Lincoln’s face and the rest of it, the colors of American currency, ostensibly, on the face of it, so to speak, why am I so angry at this situation? My neighbor knocked on the door and, his version of shuffling, asked me if I wanted anything at a nearby Walgreen’s, so extensive it has come to serve as a department store for the area, and when I said ‘no’ he launched into a complicated story about having been scammed online, the details overwhelming and overwhelmingly absurd — I told him I would lend him five dollars until his check came in, which I had done before, a successful small transaction — while he rushed in to tell me all about how for two hundred dollars he was to receive twice as much in due course for transferring a two thousand dollar check to someone, some such thing but more detailed, more complicated, more absurd — his bank advised him the check in question was larger than his usual activity, it would have to wait to clear, but they would approve him withdrawing two hundred dollars against the total from an automatic teller, which he did, then spent it on himself immediately instead of sending it off to some destination advised by the scammer — my friend now proud of the fact he had only lost two hundred dollars when the bank next day not only found the large check worthless but then closed my friend’s accounts, that had but pennies in them anyway, saying he was part of the fraud — indignantly he had gone to the police, who told him to back off or they would charge him with fraud — this street-smart man born in southern poverty, hustling all his life, compulsive talker, energetic, alert — I asked him what he’d lately done to punish himself so grotesquely with failure? after lecturing him about ‘nobody does things like this online, everyone knows you don’t!’ all but screaming — of course he got my token sum ($5!), his entertainment for a few days, even telling his social worker and psychologist about it, this dance of death we all live
* Perhaps she calls the plastic tennis ball thrower an atlatl though I think this unlikely. I do, and have for years. I also would not mention this were I to talk to her, a chance remark, a neighborly smile of sorts, the decisions we make knowingly or not, “Hello!” or some such for motives not entirely clear, what is clear? atlatl is for later, an ornament of conversation but already it is launched, the myriad calculations framing the social move of a step forward, a facial change, a move that must account too, of course, for the dog, who likely will notice before she does that this atlatl-thinking stranger has taken an interest in the master, the range of reasons of no importance to the dog, though both canine, then human quickly will play through their colors to be broken only by decisions, “Shall I talk to this man?” or “I’ve made a mistake, nod cheerfully to her and move on” — yet much has already changed, in future there will be recognition, a possibility of small obligations absent before atlatl entered, to set an occasion, this fragile, very minor occasion — clouds fast moving, tiny and changing, the tennis ball … the dog dashing, head glancing toward its target, the day-glo plastic pink atlatl so other from its Aztec model, a kind of secret one scarcely shares. *
animal
the goldfinch is a gift, its squeaks its call, a stuffed
Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen I asked for a translation and it came Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent in Wittgenstein’s language — the black crown, the black wings, the white wingbar and primary tips, the rest yellow except white under the tail, the beak a deeper yellow, not by much but, yes, a deeper yellow Wovon man nicht sprechen kann is one hearing here? perhaps like all birds, the goldfinch stares — a glance or look is possible, but this stuffed animal stares — one must turn it with one’s own hand to change its posture in any way darüber muss man schweigen with its message invariable, a toy of course, by intention, a colorful ornament at all events, the stare motionless, the posture intent Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent a silence soft or hard, continuous,
of course one stares as well
* the term seems quaint today, black mariah — paddy wagon, also quaint, a police vehicle meant to hold arrested people in sweeps of group events, protests, illegal assemblies — somehow married to film noir, though in fact the term is at least from a
century earlier, perhaps the name of a racehorse in 1830s New York City — hastily parked by a curb by some warehouse, cops busting labor pickets from a worksite, the large rear vehicle door swinging open, “hooligans” hammered by police batons, bloody noses, blood-stained shirts, resisting or passive, the messages clear — my friend was talking about visiting his mother, in full decay in a Minnesota “convalescent” home, unresisting as death closed around her, a fetid air of urine and detergent smells, but his clearest memory was of a patient in his mother’s ward, invisible in some bed across an aisle, a metronome calling “nurse!” and, seconds later, “nurse!” every waking hour, unattended anymore, the call plaintive and aggressively pathetic, “nuuurse! nuuuuuu-rse!” ever more faintly, only to be renewed, the measure of time in a timeless setting, wrinkled bedding, the squeak of a visitor’s chair, an attendant passing along the central aisle, a glass in hand — the last of the strikers have been herded into the van, the black mariah’s cavity still open, legs visible but unmoving, handcuffed prisoners quiet now, readying for the trip to the station, maybe get first aid before being booked, into a tank overnight readying for court tomorrow, a few sounds, angry some of them but “nurse! nurse!” ricochets from the van’s paneled walls, a rolling sound, like the smells of urine, disinfectant, the sweetness of death creeping as funereal flowers insinuate quiet horrors, black mariah, perhaps a racehorse snorting in the hollowness * bent almost double, well groomed, in his 70s, a café patron and local house owner, a
retired architect, he recently told me, I’ve noticed him for several years and occasionally talked to him, never long, never at any depth, he’s popular with the clientele of the café, understandably, one of those people immediately recognizable as ‘a nice man’ — it’s his measured expression and gentle voice that does it, I’m sure, plus the fact he conspicuously is crippled so severely – today’s remark a slight surprise, “It pisses me off so many of my friends are dead,” to which I answered conventionally, “At our age it’s inevitable,” and he answered, “It still pisses me off” — then becoming specific, after a pause, “You remember Mike, I suppose …” and I nodded saying, “… the retired military officer who used to drive down and sit an hour or so, reading the paper, talking to you, Hasan the owner here, others here, he had a regular group of friends …” “yes, him, and his Mercedes … he died in his sleep last September, a coronary…” “he was overweight” “yes, he was … I couldn’t go to the memorial” and my question, “was he cremated or buried in some military cemetery” to which he answered, “both: his urn was interred in The Presidio.” I had not much liked the man so changed to “I plan on cremation too …” which brought out “I’ve a friend in San Mateo County who had a funeral home, he lost it to a cremation, it’s a real danger, the obese, the grease spills over sometimes, it set my friend’s building on fire, he lost everything.” What to say? “I heard in India sometimes the fat runs down the pyre bubbling, very visible …” “… lost everything …” “… pretty repulsive …” I added “… the building kind of exploded, my friend said, the fire department couldn’t do anything …” * I wonder when wind was discovered? visually its effects on the visible have been known since eyes emerged, I’m sure — certainly since humans noticed
the movements of the branches of a tree and passing tumbleweed bouncing over a landscape, the same forces moving whatever trembled in view, caressing the skin of the observer — wind as in the window, Windy City, or wind-blown infinitely supposing these, each one of these little theses is united in any way, that paper flapping in the icy blast is but escaping from unpleasantness, the pinafore upon a clothesline is but a dancer caught up in loving reveries, a swaying bridge above a great chasm is but toying with the fears of those crossing its span, those clouds scudding through the sky are an armada hunting beauty great and small, smothering any rival to their majesty, their inevitability, matches fail to burn, fearful their tiny fires will tempt a gust to extinguish to a darkness never to be broken, a breeze feeling an oily cream softening tissues to puddles feeding the roots of massive stones, old things insensitive to the memory of heat that was the sun wind * Tomorrow is the full moon the ducks could not wait for, their russet jackets craving moisture, and for three of them, a black rain cloud over each formed and spilled a drenching downpour, but a fourth swam on ahead, in the sunshine, tail pointed high like his colleagues, and head too: why no rain on him? no explanation but the promise of a full moon on the following day — we have watched its approach, over days of gibbous fattening, dim in full daylight, but we all know — the shock of colors, of new forms, the water too, all will change: we have seen this before. Unexpected only is that one duck is spared, is in sight, and floats on.