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Write a blues poem for something you've lost or forgotten.

Blues Poem

I've lost nothing.

There were the years where I looked out of the window and watched the
construction
tall cranes lifting boxes and I beams far below
whole city stretching out and away, fading out into the fog
buildings scraping the side of the bay
glass, steal and concrete fixing into the place the small worlds where
dramas play out

running numbers one time I saw a clipper ship drifting in the bay
it was gone into the fog before the sun rose

there was a time when enlightenment meant closing my eyes on the train
listening to the morning commuters
smelling fresh newspaper ink smudging the plastic keys of phones
wiffs of aftershave, the smell of belts, the feel of pressed cotton
the world flying past through synthetic windows, resting on composite
fiber mesh seats

I've lost nothing.
I worked for a corporation once—one of the biggies—and they gave me a
phone and a map and told me that those states were my dominion. Cart
blanche not even a budget—just do what I have to do and only if my
expenditures reach a mark of several million
would I be 'flagged' by the system

I let my 'dominion' run itself and would stare at a Hiroshige print—a
bridge stretching over the most crystal beautiful blue hue—peasants
carrying sticks on their backs and a white mountain staring up at an
empty blue sky—
while an enraged mother shouted at me on the phone
I stared at that blue hue while her voice broke and she said that I
couldn't silence her family. That this was an injustice and that word
would get out.
Of course
well
So I silenced her with a check. cart blanche corporate power executed
within the time of a few signatures.
corporate machinery

I've lost nothing but I've seen people lose everything
there was a time when the worst of it was walking someone out
shaking their hand while they told me that out of everyone there, I
wasn't a source of the bullshit and it was an honor working with me—of
course they never knew that I had arranged their firing
I was the one who had run the numbers and told the execs that we
didn't need them—now that the company had gone down to bare
bones—chapter 11 and chapter 7 corporate skeleton crew—
I used to think that these things were important
soaking in the summer heat, throwing my Lee's Kitchen tuna-egg salad
sandwich to the little gray pecking monsters at my black shined shoes
but anyway
you only lose something when you write your own story
and when you tell yourself that you 'owned' something
or 'had' something
only then do you 'lose' it
but we all know this—in theory at least—

true—there are things in the world that can kill your sense of wonder
and it can be either the killing of innocents or a plasticized world
where all of the math has been done for you

I've seen both

we all saw the waves and the planes and floods and some of us knew
some of those little disappearing dots—those little humanoid dolls
being swallowed up by circumstance
blipped out and crushed and true—minds and worlds discarded like old puppets
from ten-thousand feet nothing happened
only little things collapsing in on themselves
I laughed when a friend told me, maybe we're all a little
traumatized—locked and forced into our own little worlds just a little
more by all the craziness
and if so then you have my sympathies

I remember my last conversation with Honey being that she was getting
beach front property for her business down in Phuket. I remember
wishing her luck and promising I'd look her up one of these days.
Others I worried about but over time, they all checked in—except
Honey.
I remember going dancing with her—seeing her in normal western clothes
for the first time, realizing that I was probably older than her. I
got to see her without her veil and see who she was as a person. O
Honey Pie where are you now?

I've lost nothing but I know someday I'll go and try to find her. It
sounds stupid and silly I know—in a world where we are nothing more
than our bank balance, where everything has been reduced to the side
of a piece of paper—why would I go and do such a thing if only to fuel
self-mythology or to have a story to tell.







there are motions of the soul
soul being shorthand of course
motions being shorthand too
'there are' and 'of the' merely filler

for mannequins on the river,
dolls littering the streets
a whole room
full of wax parts

begging to be melted
Rox and Orpheus were lucky—
they passed through
kept their eyes on the line

avoided the unexpected expenditures
to the soul's ledger
unforeseen costs to karmic accounts payable
Charon's collection agents

banging down the windows and the blinds
shouting down your sleep
whispering out your life
until things are paid up

any journey there and back
can ruin the sweet flavor
of metal on your tongue
the key to getting back I'm finding

is to trick yourself into feeling alive again
at least those who have gone before me
say as much
today there is the sun so

I'm going to go put my toes into the grass
watch the wings
pinwheel through the light
and hope

that no one asks me what is on my mind
I slip too easily into honesty
more things than money can buy your silence
I've lost nothing but somehow

I can only speak
in empty rooms