SELECTED POETRY
by
Dave Morrison
GET READY
Listen –
we've allowed ourselves to be
snake-charmed, lulled, we've
balanced the bowling ball of
our beliefs on the knitting needle tip of wishful thinking.
We are overdrawn, and
under-prepared, we've buttered our bread and
made our beds and the
Peterbuilt of Reckoning is
grinding up the far side of a
near hill.
The roller coaster car is
clack-clack-clacking to the
top of that first heart-stopping drop and
- by the way, they never finished
building the tracks.
What am I talking about?
I'll tell you what I'm talking about.
An event is going to happen that will make
Revelations look like a
Disney movie, make the
Four Horsemen look like the
Three Amigos.
Someday
Keith Richards is
going to die, and when he does you'd
better be ready; you'd better pray to
your God or Higher Power that you rely on
because the transitory and impermanent nature
of Life will be revealed as the
sputtering birthday candle that
it is.
When Keef, our Dorian Gray, the
king of the un-dead becomes
un-un-dead, then we can count on
nothing.
Water will flow uphill,
ice will burn,
gravity will turn sideways,
cats will mate with dogs,
things will cost what they're worth,
liars will not prosper,
fairness and common sense will be the
law of the land.
In short,
utter
madness.
© Dave Morrison
PATRICIA ALONE AFTER 14 YEARS
The little one is just plain scared -
her small-ness dismays her
in the face of Big Changes
I just want to tell her
little sugar-lies until
her new life isn’t new any more.
But the older one puts her fists
on her skinny hips and defends him
and I feel so shocked and scared
that I want to tell her every dull numbing truth -
like hammering in a long nail -
an act that may or may not
be forgivable.
If I could weep just for me
I would, because in almost every way
she is me -
but when she is angry
she is so, so him.
© Dave Morrison
A NORTON COMMANDO, SAY
There's nothing
quite like it.
For one thing, the
smell never quite goes away,
like the musk of illicit
lunch-hour sex, this perfume of
gas, oil, rubber, leather.
The give of the springs, the
saddle that roughly cups your ass,
pedals and grips and pegs that
arrange you like a
supple glove on a
bony hand.
Stand, and bounce on the
starter like a diver on a board,
resuscitate the inert
cast-iron heart, awaken it
coughing and roaring and
hungrily breathing in.
The vibration travels like
a thought – spine to guts to
shoulders to hands and
back again. You've
given life to this
dutiful monster, and now you're going to
hump it down the street, who
cares who hears? You're
riding a wild boar, you've got
a rocket under your balls, your
notion of movement is different from
other people's.
Oh, man
there's nothing like a
motorcycle.
Maybe one day I'll
ride one.
© Dave Morrison
ROUGH TUESDAY
of course it's
the coffee, the
fucking coffee, and
the rain.
it's just the rain and the coffee, and
the job is still new so
it takes some time to
get used to it, right?
it's just the
rain and the bad
wiring, like a bird's nest of
old frayed lamp cord, you
pour a couple of cups of
coffee on that mess and the
sparks fly.
and the smell? like
a fluorescent ballast gone
bad, like a fire in a
used tire yard, enough rain to
soak your pants and shoes, but
not enough to put out that son of a
gun.
it's just the depression, you
know that, it comes and goes like
arthritis – the fucking rain!
you're down, you're up, don't
sweat it, it's bearable.
the coffee doesn't
help, by the way. it shines a light
in your eyes, it makes you grind your
teeth, you take deep breaths like you're
out of breath, what's that?
so you cried, so what?
nobody saw. it's the damn
rain, how can you not feel
helpless in this weather?
you're tired and jacked up and damp and resigned.
don't you see? it's
the coffee.
and the damn
rain.
© Dave Morrison
RED ROSE
With apologies to Robert Burns
My love is like a red, red rose
low to the ground, bristling with thorn,
My love is like a melody
played on an angry alto horn.
And sharp you are, sweet danger girl,
enticing edge of broken glass
and I will rove and ride with you
'til all our time is passed
'til all our time is passed, sweet girl
and the cities fill with sand
I'll cut my heart free, and I'll place
it beating in your hand.
So fare thee well sweet dream of mine
disappearing in the light
I'll paint the windows black and seek
you in the endless night.
© Dave Morrison
GOOD DAY
It's a good day for
moving slowly. "No
false moves," as the bad guy with
the gun always
says.
It's a good day for
gazing, day-dreaming, time-travel.
It's a good day for
mind-drift, for
distraction.
I don't think it's a good
day for writing, but I
could be wrong.
It's a good day to go to
Beech Hill, walk the
long spiral, see the coast
laid out like a model of the
world, walk down with
wind-slapped cheeks and
forget it all an hour later.
It's a good day to drive to
Rockland, buy some strong
coffee, smoke a cigarette and
watch the ferry come in, or
go.
I don't think it's a good
day for writing, but I
could be wrong.
It's a good day to
cry. Or walk. Or
play the piano.
It's a good day for that
empty floating feeling, that
lonely noble feeling, that restless
unsettled feeling,
for waiting…
It's a good day to think the
wrong things, dream
the wrong dreams.
It's a good day for a
shadow-show, for
sleight-of-hand. It's
a good day for someone else's
daydreams, cobwebbed fears, long-gone
players on forgotten teams.
Sometimes you can push it,
steer it, shove it
back in the water.
I'm not sure this is
one of those days. I
don't feel like walking through the
burnt house saying
"This isn't so bad, we can
fix this…"
I just don't want to
fall through. I'm willing to
lower my sights and get through
the day without doing
anything heroic.
Some days you get
mail. some days you do
not. In this case I'm not sure that
staring at the mailbox will
make a difference. I could be
wrong. Maybe I need to steer into the
skid.
It's a good day to
sleep. It's a
good day to
lie still. Draw the blinds. Curl
into a ball.
It's a good day to stare at the
pattern in the carpet and watch your
life like a
movie. It's a good day to
figure out what songs the
wind chimes are playing.
It's a good
day to weep; for
everything that was, for everything that
will be, and will never
be; to weep for the sorrow that
belongs to the World, and
the sorrow that belongs only to
you.
I don't think it's a good
day for writing, but I
could be wrong. It's a good day
for sadness, but
it doesn't have to be.
It's a good day to wish. It's a good
day to want, to long, to
yearn, to hunger. It's a good day to
not know. A good day to
give in.
It's a good day for tasks. Meaningless
chores. Unimportant details.
It's a good day for cigarettes.
Coffee? So-so.
Liquor? Absolutely not.
I don't think it's a good day for
expecting, or demanding, or judging.
I don't think it's a good day
for measuring or comparing. Planning
or deciding.
It's a better day for wishing than for
hoping. It's a better day for
poetry than
prose. Better for listening to music
than for making it.
I don't think it's a good
day for writing, but I
could be wrong.
© Dave Morrison
EXPLAINING POETRY
I am wind chimes.
When a breeze blows I ring the bells of a
tiny cathedral.
When a storm comes I
heave xylophones down
stone stairs.
When there is
no wind I am
silent.
© Dave Morrison
TRUCE
When I was a
young man I would,
on occasion, sneak up on the
Devil and break a board over his head, and
drive my heel into his red face, running
away before he could
get up.
He would always smile, knowing
that he could sucker-punch me
so hard, that (while trying to behave)
I would double over in alarm, my
heart seizing like a V8 that had
leaked out all of
it's oil. Then,
at one point, we
got each other in headlocks, and
stayed that way,
grinning and panting until
it finally turned into a sloppy
yet elegant
dance.
© Dave Morrison
WHISKEY
I don’t drink whiskey any more
It’s a choice I’ve made, for better or worse
A stony path I’ve walked before
too old to be the party whore
who wants to hear it, even in verse?
I don’t drink whiskey any more
a outlaw turns into a bore-
choose between the quiet thirst
and a stony path I’ve walked before
when caring is just another chore
feelings bitten off, untasted, terse
I don’t drink whiskey any more
a battered boat, a broken oar
a heavy sleep, an empty purse
a stony path I’ve walked before
phone unanswered, blood vessels burst
survival last, hunger first
I don’t drink whiskey any more
a stony path I’ve walked before.
© Dave Morrison
READY
If a poem is a gift, then
I should not come to this day
empty-handed,
If a poem is a song I
will clear my throat,
If a poem is a painting I will try
to find a subject that
interests someone besides me,
If a poem is an inheritance then
I will sit in the lawyer's waiting room,
If a poem is a fossil, then
I will fire up my backhoe,
If a poem is lightning I
have climbed to the roof with
a length of pipe,
If a poem is a beautiful woman I
have combed my hair and
put on a tie,
If a poem is rain I
have put out buckets and dishpans,
If a poem is a beautiful bird I
have strung fine net between the
trees,
If a poem is fire I
have kicked some crates into
kindling,
If a poem is death I
have given everything
away.
I may not know what it is, but
I am trying to be
ready.
© Dave Morrison
HAFIZ
STEVIE RAY VAUGHAN
CHARLES BUKOWSKI
IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE
EAST OF EDEN
BIG BAD LOVE
GOOD WILL HUNTING
HIGH PLAINS DRIFTER