SHARK REEF
A Publication of the Lopez Writers Guild
October 2001
No. 2

Poetry
by John Sangster

OBJECTS

from time to time become needy, call out for attention. The stereo drops
the left speaker in mid-song causing Dylan to withdraw even further into
himself. You peek behind the components rack--a hopeless tangle of
wires -- tap the side of the preamp: What is it? What do you want?
Dylan stays hidden, his disembodied voice croaking from a distant
corner. The toilet runs, you rattle the handle, shutting it up for now.
Why can't you be like Andrews, across the street? your wife wants to
know. She's in the kitchen and you can hear water dripping. You look
through the window. Andrews is in his garage, surrounded by tools and
machinery, tinkering with his outboard motor. It's not enough that you
provide for your family. Why can't objects just do their job? Reverse
gear is acting up, she tells you. Last week the bag boy and some
stranger had to push her out of the Safeway lot. Maybe it's a sign, you
think . . . Across the street Andrews gives the outboard a rip -- he's
clamped it in a brown plastic garbage can and the hose is running on the
sidewalk. Maybe it's a sign, maybe we aren't meant to go backwards --
just straight ahead, no matter what. The outboard roars to life, all blue
smoke and gushing water, as Andrews guns it in the garbage can.

WORDS

once spoken, don't dissipate, never to be heard from again. Most people
aren't aware of this. Another thing is that words stick around pretty
close to home. Sure, they might shift about in the breeze, collect up
against the curb (we're talking sound here, they won't plug the drain),
but they don't ride the wind, vanish on the jet stream. If I ever see you
pouring pop in that cup holder again, you're dead meat. Understand? I
came across those in Lane 2 at the Anacortes Ferry Landing. Not a car
in sight. Obviously that mom had had it -- she'd probably just had the
van washed, $16.95 inside and out including turtle wax at the Elephant
Car Wash, and now this. Most people go through their day oblivious to
latent conversations -- words uttered, then thoughtlessly left behind.
They say it can't be learned, hearing what was said before -- either
you've got it or you don't. Like perfect pitch. Maybe in the morning,
honey -- Room 101, first door past the ice machine. It can be distracting,
the cacophony -- sometimes I lose my own train of thought mid-
sentence. The way people look at me when I shout to be heard.

 

THE EYE

receives information upside down and in reverse, leaving it to the brain to
unscramble the mess. It's unsettling since I'm not sure the brain can be
trusted . . . For example, just how clearly do we see ourselves -- in the
mirror, in our minds? Okay, right side up but . . . My guess is that the
brain filters and spins information because it knows we're not really
interested in reality. "Self deception takes you only so far, but you can't
get anywhere without it." I read that somewhere and I'm not sure I
understand it, but it has the ring of truth. The brain is a crutch we're
forced to lean on (a design flaw, it seems to me) -- I don't know about
yours but mine's suspect: prone to slipping out from under me on wet
surfaces, to questionable judgment. Even the great brains of our
progressive thinkers -- the ones that gave us such advances as modern
"difficult" poetry, twelve-tone music, free jazz . . . Ever try to listen to
that stuff? What were they thinking?

© John Sangster

John Sangster has published personal essays and poems in several publications. Recently he has been writing prose poems, a form he is drawn to for its freedom and flexibility, and because it is a form that "defies definition."

 

LOPEZ WRITERS GUILD HOME	SHARK REEF HOME	CONTENTS	NEXT SELECTION	CONTACT US