hearts and bones

Shout Out – Sekou Sundiata

Here’s to three hour dinners and long conversations

To the philosophical ramifications of a beautiful day

To the twelve-steppers at the thirteenth step,

May they never forget, the first step.

To the increase, to the decrease

To the do, to the do, to the did, to the did

To the do, to the did, to the done done

To the lonely, to the brokenhearted.

To the new, blue haiku.

Here’s to all or nothing at all.

Here’s to the sick, and the shut-in.

To the was you been to the is you in,

To what’s deep and deep to what’s down and down

To the lost, and the blind, and the almost found.

Here’s to the crazy, the lazy

The bored, the ignored

The beginners, the sinners, the losers, the winners.

To the smooth & the cool

And even to the fool.

Here’s to your ex-best-friend.to the rule-benders and the repeat offenders.

To the lovers and the troublers, the engaging, the enraging

To the healers and the feelers & the fixers and the tricksters

To a star falling through a dream.

To a dream, when you know what it means.

To the bottom, to the root

To the base, uh boom, to the drum

To the was you been to the is you in

To what’s deep and deep to what’s down and down

To the lost, and the blind, and the almost found.

Here’s to somebody within the sound of your voice this morning.

Here’s to somebody who can’t be within the sound of your voice tonight.

To a low-cholesterol pig sandwich smothered in swine without the pork.

To a light buzz in your head & a soundtrack in your mind

Going on and on and on and on and on like a good time.

Here’s to promises that break by themselves

Here’s to the breaks with great promise.

Here’s to people who don’t wait in the car when you tell them to wait in the car.

Here’s to what you forgot and who you forgot.

Here’s to the unforgettable.

To the was you been to the is you in

To what’s deep and deep to what’s down and down

To the lost, and the blind, and the almost found.

Here’s to the hip-hoppers, the don’t stoppers

Heads nodding in the digital glow of their beloved studios.

To the incredible indelible impressions made by the gaze as you gaze in the faces of strangers.

To yourself you ask: Could this be God? Straight up! Or is it a mask?

Here’s to the tribe of the hyper-cyber

Trippin at the virtual-most outpost at the edge on the tip

Believin that what they hear is the mothership, drawing near.

To the was you been, to the is you in

To what’s deep and deep, to what’s down and down

To the lost, and the blind, and the almost found.

To a Sad Daughter -- Michael Ondaatje

 

All night long the hockey pictures
gaze down at you
sleeping in your tracksuit.
Belligerent goalies are your ideal.
Threats of being traded
cuts and wounds
--all this pleases you.
O my god! you say at breakfast
reading the sports page over the Alpen
as another player breaks his ankle
or assaults the coach.

When I thought of daughters
I wasn't expecting this
but I like this more.
I like all your faults
even your purple moods
when you retreat from everyone
to sit in bed under a quilt.
And when I say 'like'
I mean of course 'love'
but that embarrasses you.
You who feel superior to black and white movies
(coaxed for hours to see Casablanca)
though you were moved
by Creature from the Black Lagoon.

One day I'll come swimming
beside your ship or someone will
and if you hear the siren
listen to it. For if you close your ears
only nothing happens. You will never change.

I don't care if you risk
your life to angry goalies
creatures with webbed feet.
You can enter their caves and castles
their glass laboratories. Just
don't be fooled by anyone but yourself.

This is the first lecture I've given you.
You're 'sweet sixteen' you said.
I'd rather be your closest friend
than your father. I'm not good at advice
you know that, but ride
the ceremonies
until they grow dark.

Sometimes you are so busy
discovering your friends
I ache with loss
--but that is greed.
And sometimes I've gone
into my purple world
and lost you.

One afternoon I stepped
into your room. You were sitting
at the desk where I now write this.
Forsythia outside the window
and sun spilled over you
like a thick yellow miracle
as if another planet
was coaxing you out of the house
--all those possible worlds!--
and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics.

I cannot look at forsythia now
without loss, or joy for you.
You step delicately
into the wild world
and your real prize will be
the frantic search.
Want everything. If you break
break going out not in.
How you live your life I don't care
but I'll sell my arms for you,
hold your secrets forever.

If I speak of death
which you fear now, greatly,
it is without answers.
except that each
one we know is
in our blood.
Don't recall graves.
Memory is permanent.
Remember the afternoon's
yellow suburban annunciation.
Your goalie
in his frightening mask
dreams perhaps
of gentleness.