3 Poems by
RD Armstrong
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City: [no e]Scape
I'm so tired
of living here
alone in this
sprawl of lights
and concrete
and sweat
of placing one
foot in front
of the other
huffing my way
around this concrete
racetrack with
one eye on the carrot
and the other looking
over my shoulder
waiting for the man
to slap me on the back
and say, "Come on, boy
we got your sorry ass now"
Living on dreams
working all the angles
getting love whenever
and however not just
from sex but from a smile
or the way light bounces
off a car window on the street
from the smell of midnight
blooming jasmine from a song
on the radio while you
know you're driving your
life sideways away from
the current dream that keeps you
moving along and you know
that at that moment that
song can say "love" more
deeply than all the late-night
kisses and penetrating looks
your lover can give you
And you can only appreciate
and savor that moment alone
because you are alone mostly
you and your ride a clean
window and light traffic
the music sometimes beautiful
sometimes ugly beyond belief
but always there even
when the radio is silent always
there in the stillness of that
moment in the presence of
the cityscape that rolls past you
like a silent movie with a
separate sound track of
whoosh and roar of song and
chatter and honk and sirens
wail and tires hum & whine
you watch it day in and
day out from the safety
of your head from the
theater of one
What is it that keeps us
in a particular groove?
What force keeps us from
jumping right out
and sliding into another
like some miraculous
recovery?
There is a longing a
gnawing in the gut an
aching in the soul that is
always present always
your companion like an old
injury that never healed
right or an unpaid debt
or a piece of karmic grit
that may or may not
become a pearl of wisdom
a knowledge that something
ain't right here you sense it
but mostly you ignore it
block it out this feeling of
incompletion as if it could be
buried beneath the daily
input the daily ration of
numbness another course
of bricks another coat of paint
another hour of the silent
movie in the theater of one
another moment rolling past
where you look out and in
the absence of a star look
instead at the lights
on Echo Park lake and make
a wish for a theater of two
for someone to share the
silent movie with for
someone to confirm to
bear witness to the silent movie
to the magical play of light
and sound and the wonder and
horror of it all
Left foot right foot
step step stepping
huff huff huffing
roll roll rolling
Right foot left foot
keep moving
don't stop now
where's that carrot?
who's that behind me
left foot
right foot
going
going
gone
THE IRONY OF MEMORY
Paul and I stood
Under the roof of
His "smoking shed"
He had just brought in
A load of Sea Bass
And was curing it.
Have you ever had
Smoked Sea Bass?
Naw, I replied. But
I'll bet it's tasty.
We had a deal one
Summer, I traded
Him homebrew for
Smoked fish. He said
My brew tasted like
Harp and I thought
His fish was real tasty too.
I was handing him a beer
When he suddenly got
A lost look in his eyes
When I started to ask him
What, he just held up his
Hand as if to say, wait!
For about a minute he
Stood stone-still then
He popped the beer open
On the edge of the smoking
Rack. Everytime I hear a
Chopper go by, I think there
Must be Cong in the area.
I noticed a thin bead of sweat
Had formed on his brow. It
Was 1975, his tour of duty
Had been over for three years.
I thought it was odd, but not
Unrealistic. Now it's twenty-
Six years later and it's my turn
To cringe everytime a copter
Circles overhead. Like Paul
I know it means there are
Baddies in the area, waiting
Somewhere close by.
LETTER TO A FRIEND IN ALBUQUERQUE
Todd; I was listening to your poem
About Tornado Jones on that CD
Mark sent me and when you talked
About the music calling to him
Especially when the moon was rising
And the wind was in the trees
I knew exactly what you meant
I too have felt it, tasted it, even smelled it
Even though the moon I see rising
And the sound of the wind in the trees
That I hear is only in my imagination
Because when I look out my window
What I see through the bars?
There is no moon
No trees
And no wind
Only the dusty brown sky
Or if it's late
The shapeless steel blue of
An urban California night
Silence punctured by
The slamming of doors
The siren's wail
And the laughter of someone else's woman.
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