Pinnacle

FADE IN

THE CAMERA MOVES IN TO
CLOSE SHOT
A MAN

The man is standing
in his kitchen
late
at
night

He
stands in front of the
open pantry
tired
and
hateful
of himself

He
is not hungry.
He
does not want food.
He
looks at an unopened bottle of wine,
black wine,
and says (VERY CLOSE SHOT),

"I wish I were
an alcoholic.
I wish I drank so
uncontrollably
that every one knew,
and hated me for it."

Hated him
because they accepted him.

WIDE SHOT, STREET LIGHT
THROUGH KITCHEN WINDOW
MORNING IS COMING
CUT TO MOON
TIGHT SHOT OF MAN
WITH MOON-SILVER FACE
LOOKING OUT WINDOW

SERIOUS SLOW MORNING MOON FADE
TO BLACK

ROLL CREDITS

Conditioner

My love has a problem.
The kind of thing
that will make both of us
crazy
eventually.

At the store she means
to buy
shampoo
and conditioner,
but
returns
with
shampoo
and shampoo.

"Remember the time?" I say.
"Yes," she says.
"You mocked me, because,
in my colorblind
ignorance,
I painted my new speakers
forest green
thinking
they were charcoal
grey?"

"Yes," she says.
Yes she says,
but she is ready
to defend her shampoo
snafu.

"And when I
used colorblindness as
an excuse," as I often
do, "you said,
YOU KNOW HOW TO READ."

"Yes," you said,
"but that's
different.
I would think
you would pay
more attention
to a can of paint.
I would
check
check
double-check
check-check
the label."

Conditioner
is just as
important.

Orchid Oolong is a Comfortable Tea.

I get nervous
When
there are only one
or two
buds
rattling at the bottom of the golden bag.

The tea reminds me of
your stories
the same stories
told
over and over,
comfortable stories
rattling at the bottom of the golden bag
of experience.

Tomorrow I will try
Black Currant.

Pure Life

I heard
every
muffled word
of your 101 degree
conversation.

I thought it was
funny
that you were still
dripping with
discourse
when you
pointed
to the water bottle on my desk,
a towel around your
neck
saying,
"Write me a poem about that
water bottle."

While you were
outside my window,
I heard every word,
but understood none
of them. But when
your friend
came in the room,
I looked at the water
I saw the water
and you
and her
and then she talked…

When she left
I told you to marry her.

"Just write the poem
about the water bottle Pegg."
So here it is:

Why would you ever
drink
tap water
again?

Newspaper Walls

I do not live in
an apartment down
town
with leather chairs
reeking of smoke
and old
books

I do not live in
a dirty
stinking
rats, you know,
rats, kind of
weekly motel
with yellow ceilings

I do not live in
the country, in an
old
farmhouse
sitting at a lead-base-painted window
or drinking FOLGERS
on my porch

I do not live in
a shack
on the
rez
in
Coeur D' lane
Idaho

I live in a neighborhood where
minivans
drive by every so often.

When I come in this room and close

the door behind me, I am allowed
to do whatever I like.

And so I ask, what would you like
to do? or where would you like to go?
Doesn’t matter to me,
however, choose
quickly.
The coffee is entering
the general population of my
blood.

Here is what I mean:
I am writing this in Chinese.
I am in China.
In China hearing Neil Young sing
Ohio,
wondering what the hell it’s about
because I can’t understand it and
I’ve never heard anything like it before.

Now we’re in a blimp with…
well,
I would tell you,
but I hate name-dropping poems.
So just pick someone.
See them?
I do, and I like your selection.
Although I thought that he (or she) would have been
taller.

Not to be selfish, but this next one is for me.
You may stay if you like, but it may make
you feel a little awkward.

My mother and I are walking at dusk
and she feels no pain.

Please Send Head Shots

I once saw a play with three Ty Cobbs.
The Georgia Peach, Cobb the man,
and the cursing, curmudgeon Cobb,
all represented on one poorly lit stage.

During intermission, I could not help
wondering what a play with three of me
might look like on the same poorly lit stage.
And which three of me would there be?

Maybe there are three of all of us
from the three stages of our lives.
Or, maybe there are twenty living
across the grid iron of all time.

Only a casting call, a paranormal formal,
could realize the true number of me,
and the terrible truth regarding division
of self and the exact age of my death.

The poorly lit stage, is again, poorly lit,
and the three Cobbs return to their marks.
Then it hits me, with a two handed Cobb grip:
There was never one of me.

Brokeback Cooper

My favorite spot to zero in on
while zoning out in my office
is the High Noon poster on the wall.
The story of a man too proud to run.

And for the first time, I pause,
to think about what Gary Cooper
was really thinking by turning around.
Is it really a story about a man and his pride?

The difficulty with this statement,
the catch in packing the entire film
into this one summarizing sentence,
is it's failure to mention Princess Grace.

The disappointing story of a man
lacking the sense of eyesight and,
the horrible faux pas of turning around,
to leave a nineteen year old Grace Kelly.

If only he had kept driving that wagon,
there may be a large enough gap
for Princess Grace to escape
her horrible fate.

Hymns Ancient and Modern

I found the instruction manual
for myself, in the pages
of a dictionary of dates.

Inside, the past predicts the future,
while the present waits at this desk
listening to Today Is the Day.

How would I have faired
as James Madison (1751-1836)?
Not very well, considering

the insatiable need to christen
vice president George Clinton
"Atomic Dog" every time I see him.

Over thirty years later
I could have given my name
to the unit of electrical resistance,

securing my identity on the back
of speakers, good and bad,
tinny and warm, bookshelf and sub.

But the place to be on this date
is France. Call me Prudhomme
and I will sing a poem worthy of Nobel

and twenty-one years after my death
I will linger near the Seine, waiting
to see myself as Jerry Lewis on television.

The Incident Before Work

We were all shocked
When you hid the bird in your pocket
The tiny thing was still moving
And then you handled it like a dove
This was more terrible than the thump
Of its warm body against a window

Could you feel its wings struggling
To spread and fly from your hip?

During lunch, no one ate, or spoke
While you stood eating your sandwich
And nothing could prepare us for you
Holding the pocket open with your thumb
And commanding the bird to fly, fly, fly
From the dark triangle you made of the pocket.

I was the only one scared enough to ask,
"What are you doing?" as the bird shot to the sky
Like a winged rocket, unmanned but alive
You said, "I'm preaching the gospel to every living creature."

Diddy. You're Crazy.

Public Broadcasting

Do you think our neighbors watch us
and think we are cute? Me standing here
with a glass of wine and you cooking chicken.

I imagine them sitting in chairs every night
at five-thirty, veging out to you and I,
visible in the yellow light of our kitchen window.

Every night is a new episode, that looks
strangely like every other, with different
wine glasses and brown rice in place of white.

When the wind blows horizontal rain
against the pane of their window,
I wonder if they get up and smack the screen.

And at six before we head for the dining room,
they watch us grab napkins and silverware
before switching the light from this room to the next.

Failed Attempt

While in the bank today
I was all smiles and hellos.
I mentioned the weather,

the cashier reciprocated.
There were long, "Yeahhh"s
and short controlled bursts

of surface-to-surface eye contact.
All the appropriate civil chivalry
before the passing of numbers.

Stamping and key punching underway
and I am already half way through
knowing where each camera is perched.

I will have to keep my head down,
wear a hat and sunglasses, skip the
weather report and slide the note.

I will Strunk and White that note,
"I am a bomb, pass the cash."
Sustained eye contact, through Ray Bans.

Then I notice a basket of Dum Dums and
nestled between a cherry and a grape,
the Coup de Grace, the cream soda.

And have a nice day, here is your balance.
The cashier is done and I am yawning
to mask my nervous grabbing of the sucker.

Crepuscule with Nellie

I am asleep right now on my couch,
an afternoon nap on a windy day.
Walt Whitman has taken my hand
to lead me into the quiet hour before dinner.

I am inclined to ask him some questions.
To start with, "When I write this poem,
should I say I was reading someone else?
No offense… but someone less cliché?"

"Write what you see," he said, "it worked for me."
A car hummed past the front of my house,
the windows rattled. From the wind? The car?
Walt asked, "What do you hide behind your back?"

"My thumb in your book and Monk and Trane."
I felt like asking if I should leave that out as well.
And I did, because Walt said, "Carnegie Hall?"
"Yes. Monk, Trane, Carnegie Hall, 1957."

At this point, he reconsidered his previous advice.
Leave it all out he said, even the part about me.
Mention the napping and the windows,
the wind and the quiet hour before dinner

and leave it at that.

Karissa

But when he turned
Dust ejected from beneath his boots
Making a bigger target
Or so it seemed

The lead, swat his chest
His fingers searched
For the butt of his gun
To no avail, and the earth caught him

Not so bad to die
On my back, facing the sun
He thought, bleeding
Not so bad to know it's over

His killer shaded him
A stately evil
Not so bad, to kill a man
He thought, bleeding

Mighty Warrior

I bring death
To the winter-slow wasp
Slam! Crunch!
Goes the cracker box

But Wait

In my sink sits a knife
Its edge dangerous as ever
And I recall what I have cut:
Every sort of vegetable
Every sort of fruit
And tomatoes
Potatoes
Chops
Rumps
Tofu once
Bread and cheese
A shirt tag
I have spread spread
But, I have yet
To cut a tin can in half.

I Had No Idea

I sat outside the circle
A satelite,
Listening...
To flashes of light
Bright behind
The napping eyes
Of poetry in my small town.

Nervous Finch

Stay still
Don't leave
Face forward
Sing for me