Harrison Influenced Poetry

On Theory

Nothing here is real:
house, yard, street, landscaped trees.

Frost on the windshield of my pick-up though;
that’s real, notwithstanding poststructural theorists.

My birddog, upset at being cast out of the house for the baby,
craps loosely in his kennel
–Also real.

7:30 a.m. and my daughter needs her diapers changed.
My wife’s back is out-of-alignment, and she’s off to see the chiropractor.

I have this poem to write–whether I want to or not.

I realized last night that the “Blue Angel” pilot, now pronounced dead in South Carolina, was thirty-two-years-old.
Despite my teenage dreams,
I will never be a “Blue Angel,”
will never be an N.F.L. linebacker,
will never be the president, maybe, no president,
will never be a “special-forces” soldier.

I am called “Daddy” ;
it is biological.
Becoming a husband was easy,
so was becoming a Daddy.

The sun will be warm today;
I’m looking forward to my next cup of coffee,
and this knot in my gut, telling me to get my daughter up at 7:30 a.m.,
to stop drinking coffee in the morning after on cup of 8 fluid ouces,
to get to work, to “get’r done,” get’r done,” get’r done,”
is far from theoretical.



Dwelling Place


I read yesterday in Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything
that, statistically speaking, extra-terrestrial life is highly likely,
and that there are like billions–maybe trillions–of universes.

Why have I been so embarrassed everytime I’ve speculated,
with my bite-sized knowledge of astronomy,
that the possibility of extra-terrestrial life is very likely?

My thesis is a clash between theoretical ideas that ring true to my intellect
and essentialist perceptions that I feel in my gut.
Maybe someday I’ll understand.

For now, my friend tells me he is going to “intervene” in his daughter-in-law’s alcoholism,
filing for custody of his five-year-old neice to force the daughter-in-law into rehab.
Somewhere inside me there is probably an ulcer;
Like many of my neuroses, I will be “made aware” of this too.

I was lying in bed, exploring my imagination by imagining myself propelling outward to the edges of the universe,
anxious about it–not the space journey part–but using my imagination.
Then I found out today that Bryson gets paid for taking himself and others on such a journey.

“Poor little blind boy, lost in the storm
where should he go to be without harm?
For starters, the dickhead should get a life.”

Thank you, Jim.