Poems
The I.V. Waltz
(For my father Billy Glazner. After Theodore Roethke)
The morphine on your breath
Could make a grown man dizzy.
His hands on my shoulders,
he helps to lift himself up.
I.V. stand, maypole ribbons
of tube and power cord.
We step, step, stop,
step, step, steady,
our way to the toilet,
rolling the stand after us.
He can sit up on his own,
I give him a moment.
Snap on surgical gloves,
gently clean him.
Reverse our papa waltz,
lay him down to rest.
Trying to look busy,
listening for his death.
-Gary Glazner
PINK SNOW
Taking a walk with Issa,
my imaginary poet friend at
Green-Wood Cemetery.
We stop and sit on the steps,
on the back side of Battle Hill.
I say something like,
“Heartbeat song of trees.”
He looks at me sighs and says,
“What a strange thing,
to be alive beneath
cherry blossoms.”
Green parrots fill the air.
Pink and green.
The parrots scoop up the petals.
Their nests soft as cotton candy.
We sit in silence until
I remember he’s all spirit.
Then I whistle my way home.
Coffee Science
Gary Glazner
The scientific principle on which coffee works is thus:
People like to feel the blood crank.
To wheel and carp.
Speed up time.
Whirl veins.
Even the richest man enjoys
a golden goose, dangling coins, pulling the
slot machine amphetamine handle of wealth.
The sweet brown juice of Buddha.
The hot cup of Jesus Joe
The Java, Java witch hunt of the Catholic sugar and cream.
Coffee if it were a drug, golden eggs would only purchase,
a demi cup, a piccolo, a pinch of crystal grounds.
Coffee was a drug, before drugs, were drugs.
So Mama please do not let your babies grow up to drink tea.
She has coffee breath, we kiss,
I taste the bohemian splendor of her
Borneo, Kona blend.
Hold on to your berets, my goatee is on fire.
I’m captain cappuccino.
I’m speaking espresso Esperanto.
Drink, drink, drink, maties.
Starbuck started out with
Ahab in the search for the white leviathan now
He is a meager-chain of coffee klatches encircling the globe.
World domination? No, world caffination.
That’s the secret, speed up the neurotransmitters,
Racing through the synapse like a loose fright train,
Release some endorphins, that’s the magic
In the test tube, the reason you reach for the
Black hole, cupa, cupa, cupa Tesla’s coil.
Who put the fee in coffee?
Who put the EE in we?
Who put this tea in front of me?
I prefer the ear in beer, are you listening?
I drink it to forget all the bad coffee in the world.
(Poesia para: 10 trumpets, 15 Guitars, (5 small, 5 medium, 5 large) 6 Accordions, 10 Violins, 5 singers dressed in blue suits, black suits, green suits, yellow suits, thousands of silver buttons...64 Cojones.) Stock footage travelogue from Sonora, Mexico, shot in the 1940s.
In this corner, we have the silvered haired boss of the cigarettes and champagne.
In this corner we have the baldheaded boss of the cigars and scotch.
Silver hair lights a cigarette, drips champagne, his Mariachis begin to play.
They are classical, beautiful, cartoon music with ballerinas,
he cries, he laughs full of joy, tutus. The song flourishes, ends.
Bald head lights a cigar, gulps scotch, his Mariachis are louder, faster.
They sing of brave lips, hips like swords, kisses El Ca-Bong.
They sing of parrots making love, trees shake with tweet sex.
Beaks pecking kisses. Two doves float by, embarrassed by the parrots,
Cooing with respect. Two emerald toucans are jealous.
Parrots don’t notice.
Tail feathers pushing up green.
The waiter whistles
a naughty song,
Parrot’s cha, cha, cha.
Bald waltzes Silver Hair gently.
Suddenly the Mariachis run into a bus,
which speeds away, through many rooms,
chased by unknown, what?
Two bosses embracing, naked no music.
They go to separate tables.
Each lights a smoke, satisfied, no?
Glare at each other, across the room.
It must have been a Mariachi Emergency.
Tea
Gary Glazner
Steam is the first sip,
touching the air with taste.
Scent is the second sip,
the tang of union.
Too hot—
hint of purity, lips recoil.
Now the waiting,
place hands on the edge of vessel.
Listen for cooling.
No one knows where the drink comes from,
it shows up in the kitchen a guest.
Be a good host: ask the kettle why it sings.
Caress the handle with flesh.
Open your mouth to its mouth.
Inhale the last drop of honey.
What pleasure the empty cup knows.