L'aura del Campo

Shots fired, broken feet, stray thoughts

Winter: 19 Sultán (February 6)

Having had a friend just witness the aftermath of a shooting, where the guy died (Sunday morning 2 am), I went looking and found this gem:

TREASURE OF THE DAY

wind exhales colder on
modern day Gomorrah
where predator battles scavenger
for souls freely given
and flesh at a price

enter the wide-eyed drifter
avarice and dread scent the air
destiny advances stealthily
disguised as ambition

condemnation’s momentum -
only the quick and the dead
play this game

from:

slow motion blink  (E) modern day city shooting set to a poets pen #1049628 by girth

Poetically, I like the alliterations, the metaphors and the imagery. The title is excellant. The rhythm seems appropriate for the subject, as does the lack of punctuation. When somebody is shot, everything is a bit of a jumble. I know from experience.

2006-02-06
morning, 34 degrees. 23 in Salamanca, NY.

My cousins in WNY are getting clobbered today with a snowstorm. Winter's revenge! The ski resorts in Ellicottville won't be too upset, but getting it before the weekend is better than a Monday.

Cary saw the aftermath of the shooting Sunday morning. 2:14, he said when the pop pop pop pop left one man for dead and another running. 2:26 and the cops arrived. After the four men yelling at the downed man about a girl had left, after a guy came and gave CPR. Ten minutes more and an ambulance.

The cop shop is two blocks away. The fire department/rescue three. The hospital about 20, a three minute drive, max, when the sirens are humming.

They'll blame it all on the rap concert, for sure. No apologies for the slow response. No resolution in this White-Ass town.

I've seen this before: November 14, 1998, 4 a.m. 18 bullets, execution style. Dipper dead. Story by 5 was that a white van had come from another bar to our neighborhood and executed him. 11-12 entries the medical examiner said. No way to be more precise. Neighbors gathered outside in the cold. Police everywhere, me holding Figaro, my cat, purring. Dipper uncovered, each bullet casing hovered over by a white cup. Photographs taken. Dipper still uncovered at 6 a.m., still dead, still unsolved two years later. An abandoned house on Walden Ave. reading R.I.P. The streets keep their secrets, close to the vest.

And then Cary decides to fall down the stairs this morning, only two steps, but a ride to the hospital. Aimee said he was looking for a few hours off! Should I tell him where to find sympathy in the dictionary? (Hint: between shit and syphillis). He has a funky fracture (good alliteration). May have torn off a piece of bone with the ligament, maybe not. Will know in a week. Until then he is supposed to drag his ass up the steps! I told EVERYONE I want the video. This means, of course, that we get to pick on him for a week. His 3 year old son Finn is already in the act. He has a plastic chicken drumstick and was on the couch poking it between Cary's legs and waving it! From the front it made Cary comment on how that 'didn't look too good'. Well ... get over it Cary! We are all going to pick on you, until you can make cappuccinos again. (I feel a poem coming on ...)

STRAY THOUGHTS

His one note monotone comes out nasal. An Elvis complete with sideburns looking for pot and something to eat. [a]

Arms of the sycamore reach out. White tentacles grasp the wintry sky and the stray notes from the bells. They flutter down the hill as snowflakes. [b]

And what could've been more than so much wasted protein haunts these halls of Blake, dear B. [c]

I want to go like Anne Sexton, a cheerful letter and then I'm gone. Small notice in a small-town newspaper that will not reach your home. Will someone say I was a poet? Will you ever read these words? [d]

And the past has overtaken the present tense ... and won! [e]

Toenjes, shoemaker, 1490. What world awaited Girard, 400 years before his grandparents were born. [f]

My mind does not shift like it used to. Gears grind. Once I learned to drive clutch. Now the transmission is going. [g]

Antennaed, they walk or wobble, cell phones held in the grip-of-death. It amazes how seldom they bump into each other. [h]

Hubb in a gondola, crossing the street 2 stories up. From his bed in the bay window, to his work he rumbles, pulling the rope. [i]

I will leave here washing off the sand and shit. Not because I'm better. But because, I know how to wash. [j]

You pluck the flower. The hail pounds the petals. I retreat to roots to wait next Summer. [k] [162.746 a-k]

A rambling journey. Can one sit and write about the journey that passes by in front? Me, moving through their world. They moving through mine? After reading William Carlos Williams 'The Desert Music' I must ask this of myself. And I will not think of sand without the notion of 'Texas rain'.

Finished reading the Selected Poems of Rita Dove. Now know why she won the Pulitzer Award for Thomas and Beulah.