The Oldest Living Thing in L.A.

At Wiltshire & Santa Monica I saw an opossum
Trying to cross the street. It was late, the street
Was brightly lit, the opossum would take
A few steps forward, then back away from the breath
Of moving traffic. People coming out of the bars
Would approach, as if to help it somehow.
It would lift its black lips and show them
The reddened gums, the long rows of incisors,
Teeth that went all the way back beyond
The flames of Troy & Carthage, beyond sheep
Grazing rock-strewn hills, fragments of ruins
In the grass at San Vitale. It would back away
Delicately & smoothly, stepping carefully
As it always had. It could mangle someone's hand
In twenty seconds. Mangle it for good. It could
Sever it completely from the wrist in forty.
There was nothing to be done for it. Someone
Or other probably called the LAPD, who then
Called Animal Control, who woke a driver, who
Then dressed in mailed gloves, the kind of thing
Small knights once wore into battle, who gathered
Together his pole with a noose on the end,
A light steel net to snare it with, someone who hoped
The thing would have vanished by the time he got there.

Larry Levis

Shoot, shoot, shoot and dang dang dang

Just got this in my email:

Fri Nov 10 -- Patricia Neal, a Kentucky native, will be a guest of honor at the Frankfort’s downtown Grand Theatre on Friday, Nov. 10. There will be a gala reception at 6:30 p.m. followed by a 7:30 p.m. showing of the classic movie, “Hud,” which earned her the Academy Award for Best Actress in 1963. Following the movie, there will be a question-and-answer session with Neal, who was born at Packard in Whitley County, near Williamsburg and the Kentucky-Tennessee border. Neal will autograph copies of Stephen M. Shearer’s Patricia Neal – An Unquiet Life Saturday as part of the 25th Kentucky Book Fair.


It would only take me 2 1/2 hours to get there,
but I've made no plans.

Oh, wait. I forget I have no money coming
in these days. Hmmm...still have plastic!

The book fair is tomorrow, though, and Neal
will be signing books. I can go there, and then
I can go stay with Dawn in Lexington (and see
my son and daughter-in-law as well) and not
have to pay for a hotel. Cool!

I think I am going to Frankfort and Lexington this weekend!

Today's Peanuts Classics:

Charlie Brown is lying in bed, covers pulled
up to his neck. He says:

Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, "Why me?"

Then a voice answers, "Nothing personal..your name
just happened to come up.."


That's how I feel lately.
*sigh*


*******************************************

Here's what my book says about seeing the owl, or having
the owl as your totem (I think the owl I saw was
a short-eared owl):

The Owl

The owl, like hawks and other birds of prey, has a third
eyelid. This nictitating eyelid moves from side to side. It cleanses
the eye, clearing its vision. This symbolizes so much about new
vision opening to you. It often reflects that you were born very
perceptive--with a vision of others you may or may not have
recognized or acknowledged.

and more:

The short-eared owl is one of the few owls that will hunt
day or night. This in itself reflects that its medicine
is powerful day and night. It is also unique in that it
will meticulously build its home. It will also migrate.
The markings on it are flame-like, reflecting its
scientific name (Asio flammeus). This fiery aspect
is reflected in its personality.

...The short-eared owl has a unique ability to show
up overnight wherever there is an eruption of field
mice populations. This sixth sense, of being in opportune
places at opportune times, is what this owl can teach.

Must have been why the owl was there on the shoulder
of the road looking out over the field. Lots of little
field mice out there.

and finally:

This owl is courageous and playful...strong and fast...
few birds compare to them in aerial ability...is a versatile
and curious bird...has no fear...reflects a blending of fire
and air...has a stimulating effect upon all energies...
awakens the imagination

now to go read about the opossum...

Last Night's Drive


Spotted owl perched on the shoulder
of the road, overlooking the recently
harvested fields, waited until I slowed
at the curve to see him well before he
opened his lovely wings and flew
over the fields, away from me, into
the dusk.

Persian tabby I mistook for a groundhog
at first, had sense enough to run back
into the woods as my car neared her body,
missing her by 10 feet or more, grateful
she knew which way to turn.

Opossum next, to the right, coming
from a ditch, not sure what to do,
hesitated, turned in circles a few times
as my car approached, then made the right
decision and crawled back
into the ditch from which she came.

Shooting star, fifteen minutes later,
across the same field the owl stood watch
over. My heart joyful for the gift of their
presence, for mysteries of the world
which we cannot know or understand
but must give ourselves to, for seeing
the owl and star and not hitting the other
two because I could see them in time,
for the synchronicity of our encounter.

Need to look up the animals in my Animal
Speaks to see what the significance is of meeting
each one last night. Generally, I just see lots
of road kill, as I did last night as well--lots
of deer--one decapitated--it was startling
to see and I almost had to pull off the road.
Worse to see one whose body is there in its
entirety with no head than one whose body
is badly mangled or just obliterated all over
the road.

I think last night is going to make its way into a poem.

Interviewed yesterday and it went well, but you never
know about these things. It's an 80 mile round trip
to and from the job, but it's all parkway. Would
like something close to home, but nothing has come up
yet.

Should know something Monday.

A few Linda Pastan poems this morning:



October Funeral

The world is shedding
its thousand skins.
The snake goes naked,
and the needles of the pine fall out
like the teeth of a comb I broke
upon your hair last week.
The ghosts of dead leaves
haunt no one. Impossible
to give you to the weather,
to leave you locked in a killed tree.
No metaphysic has prepared us
for the simple act of turning
and walking away.


***********************************

Excursion

I am a tourist
in my own life,
gazing at the exotic shapes
of flowers
as if someone else
had planted them;
barred
from the half-lit rooms
of children
by an invisible
velvet rope.
The dresses in my closet
are costumes
for a different woman,
though I hide myself
in their silky textures.
The man asleep
in my bed
knows me best
in the dark.

**********************************

Who Is It Accuses Us?

Who is it accuses us of safety,
as if the family were soldiers
instead of hostages,
as if the garden were not mined
with explosive peonies,
as if the most common death
were not by household accident?
We have chosen the dangerous life.
Consider the pale necks of the children
under their colored head scarves,
the skin around the husbands' eyes, flayed
by guilt and promises.
You who risk no more than your own skins
I tell you household gods
are jealous gods.
They will cover your windowsills
with the dust of sunsets;
they will poison your secret wells
with longing.

Exhalation


I write of my life—the southbound
that sings to me at night when loneliness
comes calling and sleep is elusive,

the cardinal who perches on the holly
next to the porch, unaware of my presence,
eyes darting, beak snapping up berries—

the way he takes wing when he catches
a drift of the cigarette I neglect
to inhale in my attempt to keep him
there a moment longer,

the children with runny noses
and ragged clothes who live
in the roach-infested house
across the street where the cops

are called in every other weekend
or so to break up the drunken fights--
the abuse momentarily halted,

the copper lakes filled with run-off
from the raping of this earth in the name
of progress, the empty hands

I turn upright in my attempt to reach
some quiet level of understanding.



****


Revisiting the archives.
Should be doing stats.
Rainy morning.
Day after my birthday.
I feel less pressure today
because no one will be paying
much attention to me.

Another old one:

**********


Work Song

I don't want to work
anymore. I want to write,
write, write all the wrongs,

etch them in your body
like a Durer, preserve
the shapes pain lends

itself to. I want to arch
my rights out over cathedral
ceilings, in dimly lit abbeys

and musty catacombs. Hide
them for years from the curious.
I want to write your wrongs,

create an arcane melody,
paint it cherry red.
Strum it like a Stradivarius

and dream my fingers are yours
playing the most complicated keys of me.



*


How 'bout that first line?

Guess I got my wish.

This is my first birthday


...without my father. Somehow I feel worse
today than I did on Oct. 14th--his birthday--the first
time I did not have a father to go visit with, to take a card
and gift to, to share a cake with, to throw my arms around
his neck, to say I love you to.

He always brought my gift to the house--usually
without my mom. He'd stay and talk for a little
while. I could not have known last year that I would
not have him here this year.

Dad, I miss you.