Frogs

I was sleeping with a window open, because the house is winter bound and a bit musty. Spring cleaning in order. Walked in at the ridge, so there'd be transition between the world outside and my sanctuary. Carried in a full pack, but I wasn't in a hurry, a saunter, really. Some movement, in the frog puddles; ripples, like a perch slurping bugs from a lily pad. Salamanders wondering where the tadpoles have gone. Weather extremes had killed off an entire generation, a hole in the food-chain. They may be newts, what's the difference? I made a note to find out. Then make a list of all the things I should have done. Like shut the window. Bull frogs fucking in the dead of night will get your attention. 4:30 in the morning, I make a pot of coffee and read about newts. Their defense is irritating secretions. They live for several years, mostly under rocks, coming out at night or after a rain. For the first year in forever I forgot to read the prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Middle English. I can remember the first few lines but I can't find a copy. Glenn can do the whole thing, Harvey could, maybe it's the test of a real poet. It's the most beautiful language I've ever heard, and I've listened closely my entire life. Off-Broadway, Richard Burton reading the Manhattan yellow pages; anyone doing Shakespeare decently; coherent conversations in a string of literate pubs; any situation where language is treated with respect. Like Aretha said. Some of the best poetry I've ever heard, was Harvey, as the world became crepuscular after a hard day at the press. We'd be sitting on the floor, nursing a quart of Ballentine Ale, passing a joint; and from a dark corner, off the top of his head, he would recite Lorca, in Spanish, and the hair, on the back of your neck, would tingle. The end all, and be all. I still cry, remembering his voice. I try to write like that. Taking off the blubber in long strips and melting it down. Oil, for lamps, so I can read at night. Trying out. Oh, wait, acting. I get it. Life as performance, nothing you can't be, do, whatever verb. Living is simply a matter of diagraming sentences. You make sense of the information you've gathered. There's no choice in the matter, other than the avenues of thought. The bifurcations. Consider this or that. First Whip-O-Will, 6:19 in the morning, April 8, 2011, another millstone. Consider you have to listen to them all summer. Rain on a metal roof. What's your sanity level? Take the most beautiful map you know, locate yourself precisely, now, who is a saint?

Three crows ---
they seem to be saying
something. Just noise
really, not anything
to write home about.

Something to think about, as the light begins, another day. Drumming rain drops. Heat some water, wash your hair, shave: do, as they say, what you need to do. Time is precious, and this place is ephemeral. Tuck and point.