note
i look at a note I jotted down
a thought
a revelation
an expression of truth
I trace my fingers over the loops and bends
I cannot remember what I wrote
and I cannot read my writing
-zumwwalt (1991)
i look at a note I jotted down
a thought
a revelation
an expression of truth
I trace my fingers over the loops and bends
I cannot remember what I wrote
and I cannot read my writing
-zumwwalt (1991)
She serves yogurt
Stupidly, like a dying man stumbling into a life insurance office,
I asked her out.
“What night did you have in mind?”
“Thursday would be best.”
“Sir, I don’t know how old you think I am but I am sixteen.”
Stunned, I made no reply and she took it for composure
and said yes,
warning me that her mother would have a fit.
-zumwalt (1991)
slabs of concrete
grab
pen
man
hold tight as might can
put the reigns in teeth of steel
in jaws of iron
neath mind of gold unmined
steer this silent steed sub-subway speed
over common ground
which tread upon
was forgotten
remembered
and cast incautiously
... permanently?
... coherently?
such hunkish chunks of memory
unevenly
into hand-picked
brick-thick
quick-hardening slabs of concrete
-zumwalt (1991)
backpack and acolyte
with you on this trip
although suspicious of where you’re going
helping you carry suitcases you can’t lift alone
-zumwalt (1991)
search and rescue
one thing I learned from the fire fighters was how to search and rescue
to comb the hills
looking, looking, looking
taking supplies so I won’t fall prey to the wilderness
My greyhound sits on this tabletop
iced down with no staw
the cigarette puffs out its short life
and I peer into the dark
i could use a flashlight
i could use you
i could use you using me
does anybody here need help?
is anyone lost?
is anyone searching?
will anyone here say hello?
is anyone still looking?
is anyone even sympathetic?
one thing I never learned from the fire fighters was how to ignore and
abandon
to forgive and forget
living life in the present
building a future that isn’t based on you.
-zumwalt (July 1990)
the wreck of goodwill
every dime counted
seemed to count itself
but the pennies were the trouble spot
and the cost of all goodwill.
— zumwalt (1998)