III
How to mix a Vodka Martini
6 parts
vodka
2 parts dry vermouth (or to taste)
Olive
Combine liquid ingredients in a cocktail shaker with cracked ice and shake well. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and garnish with olive.
this poem
is a hand grenade
in your pocket
pull the pin
stand very still
watch
and listen
to the words
splinter and rip
it doesn’t feel
good to remember
I got lost easily-- in supermarkets, malls, on the highway—on my way home. There are no two situations exactly alike. I remember the day John Lennon died. The air was crisp, it smelled fresh. I had a hangover, a blackout from the night before but there was a vague memory of flashing lights and sex. The threat of violence lingered—then I heard the news on the radio. Right after a Beatles song, Yesterday or A Day in the Life. I couldn’t eat the rest of my breakfast—thought about my girlfriend and the way her hair got tossed by the breeze. Stepped out on the back porch, didn’t wear a jacket. Turned my head from the cold and lit a cigarette. I still get lost but mostly I am inattentive and sometimes preoccupied. I remember the day my father died. I had quit drinking, quit smoking—it was hot and I took a walk around the neighborhood. I heard a gunshot about a block away and cursed under my breath at the sun.
Schroeder ends his affair with Frieda
The street gets narrower every time we pass until all that’s left is a small door—
I’m not sure of anything but if you dye your hair back to its original brunette
you might remember my name. There are two ways to get from here to there
one is to close your eyes tight, lean against the bus stop and pray for rain.
The other is to press your hand to your face and wait as the sting turns into a warm burn.
Either way I get afraid that when the singing stops you will decide to leave me stranded
on this road with nothing left to hold but this ragged look. Li Po wrote of rivers
that were ready to burst and I can relate to angst that is still and green but can’t see
the envy in swollen banks. When everything becomes clear I will still be baffled
by words put together with nothing but misdirection to hold them together.
How many lies add up to the truth when you divide everything into tidy piles— yours,
mine, nobody’s business--I’m not sure anymore on which side of the street the sun rises.
Being uncertain and incomplete, it’s not easy for me to imagine how much time
will pass before you become a mythical figure—a mermaid who performs miracles
or the mother of Athena, swallowed whole but still kept for your wise counsel. You say
true honesty will snap a person in two--but your smile tells me I’m already broken.