P o e m s • J i m M u n k r e s • 2 0 0 2
Birds and Bones
Poems 2002 - Jim Munkres
Scraps
Birds and Bones
The Company of Worms
The Sea of Tranquility
The Daily Disappointment
4 am
The Tao of Glen
Putting Up with Crap
The Damn Cat
All the Stars Inside You
My Love Forever Lovely
The Sea and the Stars
We Tell Ourselves
And She Shall Have Music
What My Son Will Never Know
The String
Shot in the Dark
Schism (Raskolnikov)
Stumbling Towards Byzantium
Lazarus
Chekhov at the Waffle House
Chrism
True
Cover art by Darryl Prather,
Gauntlet Studios • Norman, Oklahoma
4
Scraps
The notes that you left me made no sense. Just windblown scraps like leaves in the wind that I gathered like litter from the tattered ground and stuffed into pockets of a ragged black coat. A blackbird lit on a barbed wire fence.
“Courage,” he said. “All will mend.” Red feathers flew on the hammered sand as battle cries crawled from a battered throat. The notes that you left me made no sense. I’ll piece them like patches till the journey’s end. The north wind shreds and I don’t understand. Faith is my threadbare coat.
5
Birds and Bones
Some of us just don’t get it –
our heads are filled with birds and bones. We stumble between the here and the not yet star-struck, we are the shaken ones.
Frozen like fawns in the floodlight, half-lit hobos hopping glory-bound trains. Our loved ones learn to settle for less. We’re hopeless when it comes to money. What the world laughs at fills us with sadness while the world’s sorrows seem laced with irony. We turn from their progress as pointless, a chasing of the wind; dumb vanity. Our eyes linger long at the cemetery gate. Our tired ears tuned to a thousand secret dawns. Our clothes don’t match, our shoes don’t fit, just dead-weight dreamers and unfunny clowns. Some of us just don’t get it
6
The Company of Worms
Talk about your sensory deprivation! No light, no music, just cool walls of pine. More cruel than any man-made prison. And a longer term than any judge can assign. No cellmates there but the company of worms and they’ve got their own personal designs. Crawling in and out of your private rooms. Talk about enabling! Just picking your poor brains. “That ain’t him,” I said. “It’s an empty shell,” as they lowered the lid to lay him low.
“I know that suit, but where’s the man I know?” “It’s a sleight of hand, where’s the rubber ball?” The four winds blew back vague and hollow. “Flown,” they said. “Where he was born to go.”
7
The Sea of Tranquility
Snowfall on blacktop.
No monuments on this road – what is past is gone.
Vain shouts of violence. This is no place for pilgrims. The blue light flickers. Dog-tired and listless,
the hours sink slow and heavy. A long cold summer.
Mars reigns in madness. The Sea of Tranquility distant as the moon
8
The Daily Disappointment
The daily disappointment plops down on the lawn. Six am and the neighborhood aches.
Wound up tight, foreboding and grim. Soggy with oil-soaked nostalgia.
So when did we learn to despise the dawn? To give up hope for convenience’s sake? It just gets worse all the time.
9
4 am
I pull into the Git-n-go before my last office. One last cup of coffee before the homestretch. Sandy’s no sweetheart, but she doesn’t always charge. All depends on her mood I guess.
Three more hours and the architects arrive in a haze. Sooner if there’s extra work to be done.
Staring down a long workday as I finish mine. Sometimes I say hi, sometimes I’ll dodge their eyes. The sleepy street flickers with scattered cops and trucks. Sandy’s feeling fine and the coffee is on the house. I clean three buildings in nine hours.
My veins are racing in desperate surging ticks.
There are those of us who wrap up the day with sunrise. The company of the night. The red-eyed losers.
10
The Tao of Glen
You can’t never stop it, you know-That line, it just keeps on clunking on.
You stand your spot, do your job, send it down the line. Do what they pay you for and let it go.
They ain’t paying you to think in here. That’s what the guys in the suits are for. They always got their nuts in some uproar.
They pace, frown, grumble, stare over your shoulder. When I was a little boy, we lived by the river. In springtime, it would rise and rush.
Me and my Daddy would take these old rubber tires; fill the tubes up with air.
Jump on them and give one little push, then close our eyes and drift away unawares. That’s the way you’re gonna have to do it. That’s how you stay sane around here. You just pump your head all full of summer. Let yourself go, man. Just lay back and float.
11
Putting Up With Crap
I know what work feels like.
The back stiff and sore from pulling up posts. The hands shredded red from the February winds. The head swimming in the August asphalt. What I do is not work.
Honestly, I get paid to put up with crap.
I listen to clients who don’t know what they want.
I bear the stupidity of salesmen who don’t know what I do. I listen to what they say. I nod. Smile if I can.
Do my best and count down the hours.
I’m not complaining, it pays better than working. The secret is to just not give a damn.
12
The Damn Cat
I finally figured it out -The damn cat loves the kids, This keeps her out of the pound.
She tolerates all manner of tail-pulling and eye-poking, Lassoing, near-drowning in the toilet.
She curls up softly around the feet of my wife. Who, as often as not, launches her across the kitchen. But not me.
Oh, no. I who feed and water the ungrateful beast-I sit barefoot at the table and my toes get shredded. I, who clean her litter box, pet her head gently, I get cat farts on my pillow in the middle of the night. I finally figured it out
-She thinks that I am a servant, her inferior. This is true, of course, and I hate it.
Just look at her there! Tail held high, the very picture of haughtiness. I, who gush for humanistic love for all suffering humanity.
I who writes stupid songs in honor of the rocks and trees. I plot murder on this five-pound feline
While I sit, toes bleeding,
Ashamed at the pettiness of my pride. And all the hidden hatred in my heart.
13
All the Stars Inside You
All the stars inside you, sister I love lie buried, clouded by the smoke from a hundred lost and bitter wars.
And the terrors that undid you, sister they move across your surface, take hold and choke
all that would be beautiful and paste it with scars that no wind on earth can blow away.
I’ve tried, you’ve tried, and we’ve prayed. But all that was taken has not been restored. So we wait, and we hurt, and we long for the day when all the scars that hide you
turn as demons fast in flight. When all the stars inside you burn as diamonds calm and bright.
14
Two for Terri
My Love Forever Lovely
My love forever lovely There is no one else like you.
Your eyes hold my stars and my skies and my seas My love forever lovely.
Your heart harbors treasures of magic and fires That cannot be taken by troubles or years. My love forever lovely
There is no one else like you.
The Sea and the Stars
Let us not lose heart from them that lose. Or let the jokers say it can’t be done.
True love won’t be troubled when trouble grows. Or turn its tail when tides and tremors turn. Ten years ago we set out to
sea-Younger than we thought, wiser than we knew. No souls had ever loved like you and me. Or sailed on waves so clear and bright and blue. Tonight the prairie sky is thick with clouds.
We’ve seen worse. And we’ve seen the heavens blaze. Salted sailors now, the north star floods our heads. The sea is in our bones and in our eyes.
So if some clown now still doubts this love of ours-Let him doubt the sea, let him doubt the stars.
15
We Tell Ourselves
We tell ourselves that we found what we meant to, That what we do is what we want to.
That the place where we are is where we set out for, That what we’re missing out on isn’t important. I tell you I don’t mind working the overtime, You tell me you don’t mind the time alone.
We tell ourselves that today is better than yesterday, And tomorrow will be better than today.
Yeah. It’s getting better all the time. That’s what we tell ourselves.
16
And She Shall Have Music
And she shall have music wherever she goes Her songs are bright arrows she strings in her bows And rains down on monsters that scatter like crows And she shall have music wherever she goes And she shall have music wherever she goes Unsinged by the lightning she laughingly throws Half fairy, half badger, she glowers and glows And she shall have music wherever she goes And she shall have music wherever she goes A furious princess, a wild okie rose
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes And she shall have music wherever she goes
17
What My Son Will Never Know
Half a mile north of my father’s house and we’re stuck. The red dirt road is a narrow brown swamp.
Cat tails swish in the swollen ditch, a heron lights on a stump The cattle don’t give a damn about our luck.
I scrounge for sticks in the ditch and scare a snake.
I’ve been stuck here before; there’s a plywood board I left last year. I hop back in and shove it into low gear.
My son watches an armadillo in amazement; this is exciting, exotic. He plays hockey, soccer; walks to school with a rich kid.
Kicks a scooter down an oak-lined drive.
He’s got a room full of things I could never have. Cheers loud as I lurch loose from the mud.
But I’m still stuck in a time that I can’t hang on to – thinking of things my son will never know.
18
The String
“God made dolphins out of blue sky and love.” He’s four, he said it, and he knows it’s true. There’s a stream that runs through all things blue. That shakes as every atom moves.
God made boys out of dinosaurs and stars. Plato on the playground ponders as he runs. The pauses to inform us that the universe is one. And the far flung galaxies quiver as he roars. The dolphins and me from the very same stuff. He said it just like that and he knows its true. There’s a string that runs through all things blue. God made dolphins out of blue sky and love.
19
Shots in the Dark
Warm evening in October.
The sun rolls easy over the rim of the horizon – sinks into a sea where time no longer matters, Chased off by the drumming of leather on cement. The universe is nothing but a sphere, a circle. Picture this: if you hold it in your hands just right, if your steps are straight and your eyes are true, the sphere pierces the circle.
Ten times, a thousand times. Always. If your steps are true.
There exists a world where the righteous suffer.
Where goodness counts for nothing and power is everything. Where the labors of the poor feed the passions of the rich. Where I’m lost, messed up, and don’t know what to do. But here now blackness swallows everything.
The world becomes a leather sphere in the hand, arcs into a moment where time doesn’t matter. Where there is no noise
20
Schism (Raskolnikov)
Do you find it so strange?
Two men sharing one suit of skin? Look. I raise my foot.
Two men climb the stairs.
Listen. I knock. A door creaks open. Two men stumble in my boots.
Touch my hand. It has raised the axe for two killers. Two men have scrubbed it raw to wash away the blood. So do you find it strange?
Sonia cried in terror when I told her. “Go!” she cried. “To Siberia if you must.” But first to the crossroads –
Kneel down and kiss the filthy street. Shout to all the wretches,
“I am a killer.
I have sinned against heaven. And I have sinned against all men. And I have sinned against all the earth.” “But it wasn’t me.” I told her.
“It wasn’t I that killed the louse.
It was the devil that crushed the old woman’s skull. I destroyed myself alone.”
Am I any different than any other man? I am a man in schism, split in two. Two men clothed in one suit of skin. “Do you really find me so strange?”
21
Stumbling Towards Byzantium
A beatific vision clouds as I awaken...
I climbed the stone steps, opened the tall gilded door. There was a feast going on.
Pilgrims of all shades were drinking in the vast hall. Clouds of images on every wall.
Shadows and substances clasped in the corridors.
Another staircase led through cell after cell of ancient books Which open, cave-like, to a chapel in the desert.
Where the floor melted into dust, the ceiling turned to glass And a stream knifed through a widening sea of sand. Here was the marriage of earth and sky.
My son raced ahead, bounding on rocks as he went. I rested my feet in the water.
I wondered at the shady trees with the leaves of healing. There was nowhere else I wanted to be.
I drink my coffee, dress for the office, drive down the backstreets. A cubicle, a fluorescent light, a pile of stupid messages.
Building books of inconsequence. A printer of indifference.
They came from the old country, followed the railroad. Built two temples in eyeshot of each other.
Out by the malls where the rich people go.
All of us Baptists and rednecks would never know they were here. The prairie swells and lengthens in the gulf.
Is there a stream that cuts through the tallgrass? Is there a ship that sails from here to there?
I had a dream, I was stumbling towards Byzantium. It isn’t going away.
I’ll get there if I can someday. I mean it. I really will.
22
Lazarus
Some men monuments of stone, memorials to lives lived in the flesh. I am a monument of flesh, a memorial of a life pulled from the stone. I was sick a long time.
My sisters were no help.
Martha was always doing something, no matter how dumb. Mary would just sit by my side and bawl. As if that would help. Then Martha would chew her out, Mary would cry more. All this time I just lay there worthless and weak.
Believe me, I was glad for the rest. Still, leaving them was sad.
Who knew what would happen to them when I was gone? Nobody ever said Jesus. Not once.
It was like they were going to spring him on me. “Surprise!”
Mary would turn from my pallid face at gaze at the window wistfully. Martha was clearly pissed. Her eyes shot daggers at the door.
I mean, we paid his way to heal half of Judea, Doesn’t that count for something?
Where is he when his friends need him? As you know, I died.
I felt my life leave my fingers first, my toes. Then the cloud slowly crawled over me. I remember every last second of that.
I thought “I’ve still got plenty of time, I can still feel my legs.” But then my time was up.
Yet somehow I wasn’t surprised when he called my name. How long was I gone? An hour? A year?
I stumbled slowly towards the light and air. The stench was awful. How can a man forget his own stench? He can’t.
People shook their heads, disgusted. Jesus had gone mad. Or maybe he was deluded all along. Pitiful.
Or maybe he was another charlatan whose bluff had been called. Then they gasped when I fell out of tomb. I suppose I was screaming.
23
Then chaos. Women screaming. Men screaming like women. Everybody running around. I heard Thomas shriek, Peter cuss. Somebody finally unwrapped me. The sunlight was knives. And there he was, the one that called me out.
His eyes were seas of sorrow swallowing mine. And then I knew that he knew everything. There’s a faint blue streak fading on my forehead. My fingers still don’t work right.
But I’m getting better. It’s been a long time. I’m looking more like my old self now. The Cyprus sun has done me good. I smiled the other day.
A thief was taking a large pot. “The clay steals the clay.” I said. But no one laughs when they see me. Not Mary, not Martha, nobody.
It’s as if I’m a leper, unclean, out of sorts. It’s as if my fingers still hold death. “There he is - Momento mori on a mule.” Impossible to ignore, too terrible to touch. I know how sweet the sunlight tastes. I carry with me the chill of the tomb. So what’s the difference?
Between this side and the other? That’s what everybody wants to know – What’s the difference?
24
Chekhov at the Waffle House
Nobody eats at the Waffle House at 2 am on a Tuesday.
Counting me and the cook and the waitress, the room holds three souls. Amy pours me coffee.
It’s funny - they give you these little plastic mugs Then give you eighty refills.
Jake is eating a bowl of cornflakes.
He may know something I don’t, but I order waffles anyway. Amy’s thinking about dumping her boyfriend.
“I mean, he’s never gonna find a job if he just sits around watching Girls Gone Wild all Day.”
Jake nods his head and keeps eating cornflakes, “A good man is hard to find.”
Jake is clearly a man of letters, a philosopher, a composer of country songs.
He puts down the sports page and picks up his apron. Amy steps out for a smoke.
Jake brings me the waffles himself.
Everything is absurd and laced with wild significance. Suddenly the sky leaps with stars and planets and meteors. And here comes the parade. There’s the acrobats.
Oh look, the bishop has arrived.
A clown tumbles by, coughs up blood, and wheels away. A box rumbles by stamped “for oysters.”
And I have it on good authority
25
Chrism
All of my inklings now fulfilled
The windblown scraps, now gathered, bound. All of my wounds now scarred and healed All of my winding journeys wound. All of the things I used to know Now distant lanterns washed with oil. The half-light that I thought was true Now swallowed by a single pearl. Dross and shadows burn and drown The swirl of smoke, the mighty cloud. The dripping myhrr, the branding sign Sanctified. Washed. Illumined. Sealed.
26
True
Every good story ends in grief That’s how you know the story’s true. Every good yarn cuts the thread of life Every good story ends in grief.
The cover slams shut when the tale is told
And there’s flowers and dirt on a room dark and cold. Every good story ends in grief
Prairie Dog Press • Norman, OK • 405.360.2688 • prairiedogpress@cox.net
