Ode For 60 Years On the Planet

Ode for 60 Years on the Planet

--for Joe Somoza,
who is just a little bit older than me,
and I am almost 60 as I write this poem.

Hey, Joe, let's make a pact together.
Let's not write any more poems about growing old.
We'll zap ourselves into mountains of stone inside our poetry.
We will allow oak and pine and cacti
to grow in the meandering canyons of our language,
the deer will feast on the wild grasses,
the mountain lion on the deer,
birds will chatter,
even the bugs will roam through our poetics.
We'll become famous that way.
Our grandchildren will remain perfect forever,
and our children will applaud our heroism,
even though they'll wink and roll their eyes
behind our celebrated backs.

The task, however, will be difficult.
I don't know how you will do it,
but I intend to install a black Cadillac into my poems--
leather seats, the smell of money,
a wet bar, tinted windows bulletproofed.
A black chauffeur will drive.
His name is James.
He used to work for my grandfather.
I will sit shotgun and watch the angels flutter overhead.
Angels are all the rage.
Their wings are idyllic, their voices perfect, their harps golden,
but they have no sex between their legs
and those fancy harps are innocent of mistakes--
thus, no jazz is allowed.

Oh well.

Here I am inside my poetry safe from even the angels.
The radio plays Fats Domino singing "Blueberry Hill"...

The moon stood still
on Blueberry Hill
And lingered until
my dreams came true

I tell James that the problem with Fats,
poor guy,
is that he was living in the past tense.
"James," I say, "from this day forth,
everything will be the present tense or the future
forever and ever.
Amen."
James clicks his tongue and says something in Swahili.
That's when you call me, Joe.
You and Jill are going away on a trip back east.
You have decided not to take any chances, thank God,
so, you are taking your poetry along for the ride.
You get inside the Silver Saturn
Jill carefully hides your bag of poems under the front seat.
You wave goodbye, and...

..."bye-bye, Joe. Bye-bye, Jill."

I go back to my life of poetry.

Since it's the springtime,
I plant tomatoes,
but nothing grows.
I plant eggplants,
but nothing grows.
I plant beans,
but nothing grows.
Nothing.
Damnit!
Nothing.

Rufus my cat is asleep and purring in eternity.
Lee wanders away through the front door.
She waves goodbye.
I masturbate for hours, it's truly delicious and fun,
but I never cum.
My sex is a useless stalk, a piece of marble.
Boredom sets in
like being lost in the Museum of Natural History
on Monday afternoon.
The guards are asleep, the bathrooms are locked.

Six weeks later you and Jill come home.
You climb into the back seat of my black Cadillac.
I am happy to see you in my loneliness.

"Hello, Joe. Hello, Jill."

But you are exactly the same. Nothing has changed!
It is the miracle of modern poetry!
We glance at each other, embarrassed.
We have nothing to talk about.
Nothing at all.
We stare at the ceiling of the black Cadillac
where I've tacked some storm clouds and a broken moon.

Fuck this shit!

I tell James the Chauffeur goodbye and wish him well in the ether.
He smiles with those big teeth capped with the gold of my childhood.
His tongue begins to click.
I don't understand.
"Yes," he says in perfect English, "Swahili
is useless in this current situation.
But what about...?

Cantaloupe.
Honeysuckle.
Watermelon."

The door clicks open.
I step outside.

The angels are gone forever,
and the hot desert wind is blowing,
the sky is dirty with dust,
one of those miserable spring days
where husbands and wives are wanting to kill each other,
drivers are running each other off the road.
I walk inside my house.
Dust is creeping through the windows.
The plants are beginning to wilt.
Lee is waiting for me.
She tells me the plumbing is busted again,
our granddaughter is sick,
--pobrecita, we love her so much--
and we need money to pay our taxes.

"What will we do?"

We decide it's best to take a bath.
Lee, God bless her, has bought a special bottle of wine.

The sheets are fresh and clean.
We light candles.
We listen to Lena Horne sing songs
about love and heartbreak.
We get drunk like young lovers.
We do things to each other we've never done before.
We know that this wonderful and sacred energy
is slowly seeping away from us.
But for a moment,
as our bodies magically release themselves,
we find a peaceful dwelling place
inside the Wheel of Life.

It doesn't last for long.
A few minutes of paradise.
But that's okay.
We look at each other, our naked bodies
still wrapped together
like snakes sated with apples.

Thirty-five years have passed
since we first made love.
Her body has birthed our three children.
I was the man who watched.
She is my beloved.
I can say this now, now that we know
that death is gravity pulling at us.

"Bobby," she says, "you're almost 60.
It's not so bad, huh?"

"Hmm," I say, suddenly serious,
"...nah, it's not so bad.
And besides, what else I can really do?
I can only be who I am."

Lee grins her lazy post-coital grin,
her innocent grin, her holy grin.
She rarely curses, but this time she says,

"Men are so goddamn stupid."


Copyright © 2002 Bobby Byrd
Posted over on Sante Fe Poetry Broadside