Musette

March 26 poem: Man with no hands

I was interested in this image, by edgeplot, via Flickr, because sometimes when I look I see the figure of a man in the gray brush. As for the words, they're a record of today.

 

Man with no hands

“That was God talking.” The first thing the voice says. Not a preacher’s voice. Troubled, but with what? It tries to talk smack with one of the regulars on the street, who walks past fast with a stride that says, “Don’t get any of that on me.” Peripheral vision won’t curve back far enough to put a clear face with the syllables clinging to the wall behind, but the hair on the back of the neck, the whole back of the body, rises for sensing, follows the movement. Voice narrates the bus that pulls up, more about God, God’s pain. Driver gives him a look—how much trouble is this going to be?—and lets him by. There’s no money on offer, no coins dropping. Just stripped wrists placed on farebox, paired knobs so narrow without the bloom of palms and fingers below. The abruptness of the stumps. We all let him pass without looking back to see where he lands. Soundings from the voice: the seats above the engine far behind. Mumbling a while, then picking up, roaring. “So much fuckin’ pain.” More and more words, in another character's voice. Yelling all the way to the valley. Anguish and everything else. A laugh. No one looks. What’s he gonna do, pick up a gun? Until an old woman rolls her cart back there. Her hearing’s bad, but not her eyes. Not the mother in her. “It’s all right honey,” she says first to her daughter, then quietly to laughing, suffering God. “Sweetheart, it’s all right.”

3/26

March 15 poem: Darkness

This day contained a dentist, a glimpse at the world before birth, more news of danger and heroism from Japan—and orange blossoms.

 

Darkness

If the dark speaks, what does it say in a dark time?

                             —Peter Gizzi

We walk through the park as the moon waxes somewhere unseen. Untouched grass shines behind police tape and the citrus grove that has flourished, penned in concrete, fills the air with orange nectar. It’s sweeter, softer-smelling than the fruit, this perfume that drifts with white stars that fall and arrange themselves in constellations on the path. We bend down branches to breathe in the sweetness. Everything glows softly in the sodium pink light that beams from lampposts at the edge, but there is darkness if we turn toward each other and close our eyes to kiss. Across the world waves have washed away whole villages we meant to see, and at the sea’s now-calm edge endless depths lie just out of reach of fires that could destroy us. We hold each other, we and our darkness, we and the fifty men the fire is certainly consuming. In the time before we were born, a thought was enough to leave a mark for life and tonight the darkness carries us toward them, says “breathe in the scent of orange blossoms” says “each of us is the other’s prayer.”

3/15

Photo by miheco via Flickr.

 

March 10 poem: The next stranger I meet on Seventh

Day 10 and I'm realizing that I will have to filter it all later, but for now just let the world find its way in. Today: the texture of the everyday here in my corner of downtown L.A.

 

The next stranger on Seventh

Has a fear of quakes and elevators (mimes swinging a mouse by its tail). Wants Jesus to wrap me in his arms and prays for my salvation. Would like me to take the brochure every day. Never used to wear a jacket while arranging the papers in the cold. Got the sleek red sneakers from a friend at Nike.  Got the blinker snapped to “Vietnam Vet” cap from a vendor down the block so no one hits the motorized chair. Has never once smiled in our quick passage at five till eight, though his dog seems to. Might believe dogs “smile.” Believes, in English and Spanish, that a barking prayer will drop like a coin in a slot to the soul. Believes in jackpots. Yells “don’t you put that in this cart” when the boy picks up a toy that’s all whirl and rainbow. Believes a colt or a kid will test you so you’ve got to be firm. Learned to play the ocarina before blindness. Never learned to sing. Almost has the ankles for those six-inch heels. Wanted to be a stewardess, likes the uniform. Is only visible in the dark at six, waiting for the 38. Wonders how much the melted wedding band might fetch. Wants fries with that. Takes extras from the Sanka sample girl. Didn’t make a dime yesterday. Will be there in five minutes.

3/10

Photo by jshyun, via Flickr.

Meanwhile, the race

We couldn't miss the marathon Sunday. 'Round 6 a.m., or maybe it was seven but even so..., music starting blaring outside. Motown, funk, a little rap. Kind of early for a party, especially in this neighborhood. I thought they were filming outside, but when the sound didn't go away, I went out to see. And was met by--thousands of bicyclists. Plus the owners of the big ol' speakers, generator and the record collection. They were a bunch of Latino bikers in Hells Angels-like denim vests and jackets with their affiliation embroidered on the back in Gothic lettering. They're called something like the Servants for Salvation--a religious group pushing fun and service and neighborhood vibe in our "just starting to be a real neighborhood" hood (tho all that cheer was a little rough on some of the neighbors at first). At 7, it was me, the Servants, a few residents (identifiable by their dogs or cups of coffee) and a couple of homeless guys grooving to the music with big smiles, waving to the bicyclists, then the wheelchair folks.

I went back to bed, and when we went out about 9, the crowd was larger--the elderly Korean folks who live in the building across the street, families dressed up for church trying to cross the street and caught up in the dazzle, the cafe denizens sitting in the sun, one of our wild downtown characters in a fur hat and coat, dancing with the Servants' DJ. We took a spot on a bus bench to await the first runners, sitting near a woman with her two kids, who'd come in from the suburbs, she said, and a guy who didn't talk much but shared his map of the race, torn from the paper. 2 hours into the race, we figured the first runners would be there any minute, but our timing was off somehow and the morning was hot before we heard the helicopters signaling their approach.

The winners flew by, first 3 men, whose dark skin seemed to stretch tightly over bone--how could anyone so thin be so strong and fast--and then the first woman, who was the only one smiling for a good long time. Mr. DJ led the cheering when the runners came past. "When I hear that music, I want to take up running myself," the lady from the suburbs said.

In the lull between the wheelchair athletes and the runners, a 3-wheeled racing wheelchair rolled up the street and its driver turned into our alley, waiting for something. I heard him say his walker hadn't arrived yet, and I thought he meant someone was joining him and perhaps walking along. But no--when we looked up later, he'd strapped on prosthetics and was walking, step by slow, difficult step, with a walker--the metal kind--for the last mile and a half of the course. Having walked to the finish line ourselves, we marveled at what it must've taken to do that. To do any of it. Heck, it was all amazing. But that man, who was accompanied by at least one film crew, was unforgettable.

We left the race to eat brunch, and when we returned, the Servants were handing out cups of water and high 5s to the thousands who passed us, teaching us how it's done, that generous community thing. The fire guys on another corner were turning on the hose to spray anyone who wanted to cool off. We walked up the course, stopping to yell for the grandmas and regular folks and students in aqua t-shirts--just kids--who were turning up at the finish line just at hour 6. That's a long day. And as it wound down, the Servants got on their loud bikes, loaded up their 6 or 7 vans, and took off. I hope they come back next time.

Poem o' the day

I missed the rain. When I walked out in the dark, the clouds were pulling apart like cotton across the broad twilight. Deborah gave me her ticket to Disney Hall, so it was up near the billows of the ceiling. I fancy that sitting in the hall is like being inside a guitar, the whole chamber resonating. It was beautiful. Christoph von Dohnanyi conducting 2 by Brahms: Symphony No. 4 in E minor and #2 in D major. I was stimulated and soothed. I want to hear it all again.

One odd thing about writing these daily poems is the "go with what you've got" factor. I have ideas I'd never play out if I weren't pledged to write *something,* and it's interesting to see what happens when I do. I cling to the "one good line" lifeline--the idea that even in something bad, there will be one good line that will lift something else, become something new. It's probably true. Anyhow, this is a strange one having something to do with the feeling I have that I have always known how to read and write. I wish I could remember what it was like before that.

#22

Unlearning the words

I move my fingers over the letters
as though touch could tell me their deeper
stories again—the stiff disappointment
of M, desultory memory
of the S, the way it loses itself
mid-thought. Once they were the edges of
my fingers, taste of painted wood, smell
of apples. I pull them apart with great
effort now, the diphthongs clinging, shapes
interlocked in chains of meaning that
won’t easily come undone, so
reluctant to yield their first sounds, the
pleasure of an unbroken code, nothing
hidden yet, and everything singing.

Poem o' the day

It's late tonight. We visited Mark and Rose in the Hotel Figueroa, curious to see a room. "This hotel is made for night," Mark says. A Cornell box of a place, one of his hotels, perhaps. Or so it seems just below the deep sienna sponge-painted surfaces. Its hallways are places of almost--they almost smell of the '40s and people who might've lived there since then, almost disorient as they switch back, almost lead to Andromeda when they end in the rippled glass that opens onto fire escapes.

Tonight, another sijo. Which, if nothing else, perfectly reflects my state of mind....

#21

As many thoughts as stars

A woman walks out to sweep sand from the desert’s endless floor.
This is her task, a clearing, however temporary.
How the mind, filling itself up again, longs for bare ground, a broom.

The fire

You could smell the fire in our hallway, though it was blocks away, an abandoned building at 4th and Broadway. We were wowed by the YouTube version that a post on New Downtown led us to the video you may or may not be able to see below. Here's the link, if the scene disappears and you want to click.

And now a break for carbonara

We interrupt the musing for this bit of deliciousness: New restaurant! We had lunch yesterday at Colori Kitchen, a new place on 8th street between Hill and Olive--next to the Golden Gopher. It's a surprisingly good Italian place run by the lovely Paola, working the room, and Luigi, half of the two-person crew in the open kitchen. Colori looks on first pass like a hole in the wall. It used to be a Greek diner, and as a nod to its past it's so far keeping its battered old sign and the spanikopita on the menu. But inside, it opens onto celadon walls and exposed brick and excellent spaghetti carbonara. I suspect all the Italian food is great--among the specials were pumpkin ravioli and Linguini Vongole (linguine with fresh Manila clams in a white wine sauce)--we saw the vongole go by and wished we'd ordered it. It doesn't seem to be the place to go Mexican--the fajitas tasted like they'd be great over pasta. But with dozens of nearby places to find Mexican food, who cares?

Best news is that they're open beyond the "stayin' alive" lunch hours. Breakfast starts at 7:30. They close at 3. BUT they're open til 10 (or was it 10:30) on Friday and Saturday. The sign on the window says "We're prettier at night." And it's probably true. One small step toward an inhabited, well-fed downtown. Prices are great.

     Colori Kitchen: 429 West 8th St.  Phone: 213-263-1530. Italian spoken gorgeously.