John Walker.Seal Point Series #VIII

The Year I Went Without Winning at Anything

—for John Walker

I started with the letter that I never sent. How it might tell one about the sea. And the ease in which I steered through it to shore. Tried to put it all to rest. How from here on in, it will return to us not only in song. Churning up notes. That go back far as stones. But in the way that the boats sway in time. Keeping beat against their algae-d slips. Their oars sworn to a now unheard-of silence. As a gull laughs off a near fall. And then I tried settling into an inlet for a spell. Where at low tide another side of this world might be shown. Almost worshiped by sunlight. And its unceasing stare. Where I might be relocated for life. Shot off like a flare. And continue on as an afterthought. Opting out of these poetic doings. And thus, stop looking, so steely and tele-eyed, out past the sea. Where it straightens out its act and then esses, endlessly loops and then pools, spends the rest of eternity either too tired denying the moon’s influence or eddying. The colors slow-heated, steeping like tea, or cooled off and foolishly seen for themselves, charmed back to earth. Miracles are like this. Not worth the ink one tried thinking them less than true. Chances are you have found yourself in the same spot. Sitting atop a hill. A sound down below you. Unimaginatively still except for that gull, its near-falling. If not, I will send you a clip. Or better yet, see that I pencil you in.

The Year I Went Without the Sun Was From

the fire. Or so it was formulated. A monster sun though not big on details. Or getting it right. Not really into anyone’s suffering. Or even having some fun with them. I saw it first thing this morning. Right here where the surf is frustrating the sand. And a tiny bird’s landed. This wren or that. Seemingly new to the area. New to this mess we’ve recreated. With the eye of the same god. (Aren’t there are always some willing to be seen as blameless?) But still singing its way into my memory. How I’d fuss over it! Have a little fun. It was truly, truly frightening. How the sun was from the fire. How it gets like this. When it hasn’t been fed. Read to. These deafening winds. Storms in name only. Alabaster. And Betty Lou. Confused with the thing itself. Or the fleas that have taken us up as their own. Recasting us. Only to find ourselves signed in again. Aligned with the bored and the cross. Light is like this. Reformulated. Nothing but the details. So, let’s get this right. Life is suffering? Too monstrous to get in a word? Yes, you heard it here first. Early this afternoon. We’re so over the birds. And their tiny little songs. There’s more than enough room for no one. What fun. O what fun.

The Year We Went Without Frozen Particles Forming in our Mountains

Another easeful though sometimes nuclear proclamation is that of the pogonip or “dense winter fog”—that old standby métier of numbskulls and/or others like them, who’ve long been researching this sort of prefrontal thankfulness for those almost funereal directions we’ve been given to sample—the U standing for upbeat and the “Pneumatic 14” maybe attempting to re-define how for each U that you are thankful for, you picture the 14th upbeat following it in your diet, then repose that same U with its original. So that, in other words—“Mighty oaths from little acrimonies grow” becomes “My tie owes its lack of money to its many gurus” so that later the latter’s dewpoint is not only enveloping, but apparently medicinal, apparently unprofitable, along with others like them, seeming to echo the pogonip’s further researching of fronds and their charged opinions—a polemic that promises to be both pestilent and well worth excerpting.

The Year I Went Without Starring in My Own Life

—for Marguerite T. White

The word always was. Truth be told. That in a family of runts. And runt afficionados. I had the best smile. Which worked out well since I worked on a farm. Where the rest of the crew had but one tooth between them. Earlier on, I was reared by an astronaut. Which had lasted for hundreds of years. What with all the time changes. And after that, was pursued by a human in a turnip suit. Who wanted to include me in their supper plans. But I denied them. Ending any chance of dessert. Or a slow dance. Only to be left with this acre of well cared for seedlings made from felt. So lonely, I’d settled for the cranes all a-blush in the field. And what was far less this dance. Far more this commentary on flight. And the word often was. That of all the towns run by farmers. We either had us more stories to tell than the rest of the towns. Or more arms to deliver them. And that because of this. We would not only be shadowed by our own thoughts. But those of the owls. Our town fathers would lower down with wires. If the towns people got to being well-oiled enough. And how that would be followed by this untoward sun. Cut out from foil by the town mothers. Along with this fourth wall. Thrown together by the town children. And the word sometimes was. That in a city of rivers. We sold as canals to the runts. And as lakes to the farmers. We were not drawn to scale. Even though we had won us an award. For this drawing we’d done of me. Doing my best to smile. Play host to those ghosts who had outstayed our charades. That we’d working titled “The Lame Took to Walking While the Mail Took to Talking” but then switched to “The Turnip Returns Their Suit for a Pint of Ale and an Air Tank.” And the word never ever was. Unless we figure in our curiosity for the sea. And sea captains. And the ships that oft-punished them. Softened their fortitude. But then would raise them like light and as asterisks in the same breath. That the world was as flat. As any mention of death. And where I’d be welcomed back to the stage. As its sidekick, designated sickly presence. Stick-figuring in all of its grievances. Oh, how I had howled and sung. And fronted the band. Had even handled a joy buzzer. As well as a toy sword and gun. Even once, stunt doubling for my guest star’s one solo. Who, in fact, had never had her an acting class. But still went on to become. In a word. A bit of an ass.

The Year We Went Without Fables

We were shaking. Well before the black death. Well before there were babies conceived in the lab. We would carry this broken history on our backs. And the crowbars we’d need. To uncrate them. Let the sun read all kinds of things into them. We had aches where our chairs were. And chairs where our aches. We held our breath for weeks at a time. Then watched as it circled our heads. Thought of us only in terms of a funeral wreath. Or some crown. They’d have a child labor. To punch out of cardboard. And then have a teenager. Hand out free with our fries. We had cable. And nuclear blasts. Labels on our clothes. From countries we’d never heard. Or had ever showed interest. We were wearing out sacks. Well before the class action suits. And wore our shoes without socks. So far after Labor Day. The locals would bray at us. As if we had rabies. Or bared our asses to their ancestors. We were too ecstatic for our own good. Best, by now, at the art. Of chatting up strangers. And then forming stranger attachments. We would carry so much cash on us. Cross our foreheads so often with ash. What we had for faith ate at us. Had for hope developed sores. But to our credit, we shook. Well after it looked cool. Well after it was. Saw our likeness in each lens. Our finest traits in everyone we befriended. Even though we lacked words for everything. Thought the world of next to nothing. We loved hating it. Less it fit in a text. Outwaiting yet another thing. To blur into another. Be rubbed wrong. And then wronger. Growing so tired of dieting. Of the miracle food that might tide us all over. We would throw out our voices. For what little it was worth. And then would black out. In the back of a cab. Dribbling our ABCs on our bibs. Where they’ll eventually crab. Into yet another brand. To refreshen the void.