The Handle

THE HANDLE

LUIS GARCIA


dPress < 2006 > Sebastopol
36 pp hand sewn

Cover design by Richard Denner




THE HANDLE


He was the man.
He was the man.

He was the man
who could never find the handle.

He was the man
who could never find

his elevator shoes.
He was the man

who could never find
his pair of invisible sandals.

He was the man
who almost always had the blues.

He was the man
who could never find the blossom.

He was the man
who never really got the news.


He was the man
who could never find the stem.

He was the man
who always seemed to be

the farthest out
on that so-called limb.

Perhaps it was because
those distant trees

were far too short.
Perhaps it was because

those distant trees
were far too tall.

Perhaps it was because
his right hand

was much too big.
Perhaps it was because

his left hand
was much too small.


No matter why.
No matter what the reason.

He was the man.
He was the man

who could never
find the handle.

He was the man
who almost always had the blues.

He was the man.
He was the man

who never really
got the news.



LITTLE ROOTIE TOOTIE
for Thelonious (March 1, 2006)


My train of thought
has left its tracks

in mind.
My dreams

of family ties
are somewhere

in there
too.

Suddenly I realize,
I'm an old man.

Suddenly I realize,
I'm embracing

a boxcar of rainbows.
I'm embracing

a boxcar of violets.
I'm embracing




a boxcar of roses.
I'm embracing

a boxcar of sunsets.
I'm embracing

a boxcar of dew.
And now I know it's true.

I'm also
embracing you.



OPTICAL ILLUSION


Don't look forward
and don't look back

because the Rolling Stones
have painted the White House black.

I'm sure you see what I mean.
I'm sure you mean what I see.

I'm sure you're as mean
as mean as you seem

since you constantly dig up and bury
that same old dream.

Blue women in blue coats
are crossing blue streets.

Blue men in blue coats
are crossing blue streets.

And blue streets with blue veins
filled with blue smoke and blue rain

are crossing themselves.
Crosswalks are also crossing themselves.

I'm sure you see what I mean.
I'm sure you mean what I see.

Now don't look forward
and don't look back

because the Rolling Stones
have painted the White House black.



SNAIL


I carry a pen.
I carry a pad.

I carry my house on my back
in a knapsack.

When I dream I'm a snail,
my movements are slow.

When I move forward,
I don't move back.

When I look forward,
I don't look back.

When I look forward,
I see only

a field of flowers
surrounded by darkness.

Even so,
even so,

voices of light,
mysterious voices

speaking only of light
keep coming back.



DEAR JOHN
for John Bennett (2006)


Dear John
has something to say

but even the lawn
won't listen.

Over there
where the old man sleeps

a tiny hurricane
is beginning.

Over there
a liquid sunset

is being poured
into a dirty glass,

a dirty glass
with no fingerprints on it.

Where do we go
from here?




This is a question
I think

which has
no answer.



PACE


First
consider the feverish pace

of these words
as they dart,

fish-like,
into and out of

this shimmering form
which feels

wetter than water
then

take a deep breath
and get your feet wet.

Forget
about time.

Let the moments
fly by!



THE SEEKER


I'm still seeking closure.
I'm still seeking that window
invaded by light.

I'm still seeking that empty hole
that wants to be filled
hidden somewhere near
the middle of midnight.

I'm still seeking those birds
bearing the words
of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

Those birds that ascend
those steep slopes of wind
on their endless flight.



NEW SENSE


Each new
sense

is a new
sense—

a new world
briefly held

then left
behind,

an open road
through a field

of time,
an open road

through a field
of mine,

on open road
through a field

of mines,
an open road

to a place
sublime,

an open road
to a pit

of slime.
Each new

sense
is a new

sense.
Please, embrace

my doubting
mind.



STILL LIFE AT 65


I'm still here.
I'm still life.

I'm still water.
I'm still running silent.

I'm still running deep.
I'm still running away

from the big sleep.
This is a portrait of the poet

as a periscope
painted

on a tombstone.
This is a portrait of the poet

at sixty-five,
still wanted

dead
or alive.

Now dive,
dive!



THE BLESSING


The sky
is a big black palm tree

which has no bottom
and no top.

I am a flower of blood
growing in an artificial garden.

I am a thief in the night
who stole these words.

I am a thief in the night
who stole the first light of morning.

You who know
nothing of words

know nothing
of mourning.

Please, accept
this crown of tears

with my
blessing.



THE RETRIEVER


As I'm
retrieving

slivers
of broken glass

and bits and pieces
of bone and ash

from the ruins
a big black dog

barks
and I'm suddenly struck

by light
as if

by lightning.
On top

of that
another storm

is brewing—
cups of coffee,

cigarette smoke
tormenting the air

and people
stewing.



CRAWLING


Once more I'm on hands and knees
crawling from outside to inside,
from inside to outside,

feeling as if I'm inside out,
feeling as if I'm outside in,
inside, outside,

locations without location,
places without place,
places to hang my hat,

places to hang my coat,
places to call my home
when I'm not there.



TRUE LOVE


As usual,
the circus
was in town.

The people
were tormenting
the freaks
and the clowns

while the masters
were baiting
the masters.

True love
had crashed
and was burning
in the wings

after trying in vain
to conquer
all things.



A BLUE NOTE


He does not want sleep.
He does not want dreams.
He does not.

Bluebirds are perched
in his blue houses.

Blue fish are swimming
in his blue lakes.

Blue grass is growing
in his blue garden.

Blue cats are eating
his blue cakes.

Blue snakes are uncoiling
inside his blue leaves.

Blue dogs are barking
up his blue sleeves.

A blue goatee is blossoming
from his blue chin.

And a blue mustache
is blossoming from where

his blue nose
should have been.

Blue words are marching
in his blue parades.

Blue voices are singing
his blue serenades.

He does not want sleep.
He does not want dreams.
He does not.



SAVE THE LAST DANCE FOR ME


Nothing is certain
except at the bottom

of an ice cold stream,
minus your life

and minus your dream.
I am walking far out

on an invisible wire.
I see the flames

climb higher and higher.
My testicles shine

in the dark. I am
embracing the color

of no one. I am
swallowing the voice

of the lark. My
shadow is sitting alone

in yesterday's park.
It shivers when it hears

the dogs of tomorrow bark.



A PASSING AWAY
Kauai, Hawaii (June 1991)


On this island each day
quickly and quietly passes away.
The trade winds also pass

leaving behind a rustling
in the green, green leaves
of the banana trees.

Each night I have slept
wrapped in the warm blanket
of that rustling— until

the presence of the cold gray weather
so common to the place
from which I come has finally
also begun to pass away.

It is a cold gray spirit
which is slowly dying.
My dark brown body
tells of its passing.

On this island where the sight
and the sound of the sea
are never far off
the night sky is also a tree—

leaves of black velvet,
branches filled with tender voices,
glittering white echo
of moon and stars.

On this island feathers of foam
lazily drift through crowds
of brilliant blossoms
as sunlight pours,

like golden water,
from summer's huge,
blue faucet.



FOUR ON THE FLOOR


A little time
and four on the floor

that's all I've got
and nothing more.

I'm ten thousand fathoms deep
locked in a boxcar

with ten thousand hungry shadows
begging for something to eat.

I'm ten thousand fathoms deep
locked in a boxcar

with ten thousand hungry shadows
whose ten thousand stories

are being told to me, one by one,
by a creep.

I'm ten thousand fathoms deep
locked in a boxcar

with ten thousand hungry shadows
that constantly weep.

I'm ten thousand fathoms deep
locked in a boxcar

with ten thousand hungry shadows
whose ten thousand nagging voices

won't let me sleep.
A little time

and four on the floor
that's all I've got

and nothing more!



THE BAKER'S DAUGHTER
for Pam


She's only a baker's daughter
but even so,

she really knows how
to handle the dough.

She's only a baker's daughter,
but even so,

she's also a woman of water,
she's also a woman of air,

she's also a woman of earth,
she's also a woman of fire,

she's also a woman of dust and ashes,
she's also a woman of smoke.

She's only a baker's daughter,
but even so,

she's also a woman of mist,
she's also a woman of clouds,

she's also a woman from heaven,
she's also a woman from hell,

she's also a woman
who sometimes enjoys

sitting in a musical chair,
she's also a woman

who sometimes enjoys
shooting her mouth off

till it sounds like the shattered voice
of an incomprehensible bell.

She's only a baker's daughter,
but even so,

she's also a woman of darkness,
she's also a woman of light,

she's also a woman of morning,
she's also a woman of night,

she's also a woman of dawn,
she's also a woman of dew,

who glistens on leaves
and makes them seem new.

She's only a baker's daughter,
but even so,

she's also a woman of trees
growing from the mouth

of a summer breeze,
she's also a woman of shirts and socks,

she's also a woman of shoes,
she's also a woman who knows how to create

and how to dismantle the blues,
she's also a woman of rock,

she's also a woman of many roles,
she's also a woman of birds,

she's also a woman of bees,
she's also a woman of very few words,

she's also a woman
who never gets caught in the squeeze,

she's also a woman
who never misplaces her knees,

she's also a woman
who never gets lost in a sneeze.

She's only a baker's daughter,
but even so,

she's also a woman of wind
who constantly tells me,

"I'm your best friend
long past the end,

long past the end,
I'm your best friend."

She's also a woman of rain,
she's also a woman of ice and snow.

She's only a baker's daughter,
but even so,

she really knows how
to handle the dough.