Joseph Somoza

Mostly

"Express yourself completely, then keep quiet.” --Tao Te Ching

Pretty blue writing book that
came to me from
somewhere, that someone
may have given me
in my hands
to fill with words to
express
where I was,
or am
at that moment
or this, or wanted to go to,
and might,
if we find a cheap flight
or, better,
drive
with whatever belongings
we feel we can’t
live without
for the duration, the duress,
of being away from
the place where we
live mostly,
​and most.
​

Makeshift


How about if I just start?—
mosquito-spray perfume
on my hands,
the dog next door
making demands,
September partly cloudy
for some unseasonable
reason—
although I’ll take it, as
Studs Terkel would advise
when he was alive and on live
radio. But let’s not dwell
sentimentally on the past or
passing, as my brain
likes to do when put on
“automatic.”
My sinuses are stopped,
throat raw, mind somewhat
spacey, but I do
feel a breeze rubbing my face
and enjoy watching the swaying
rows of tiny locust leaves
draped over the cinderblocks
that cement my enclosure,
my space and angle
on the world, the world I hear
driving by,
just past the house, quietly
now, but to pick up
at lunchtime.
As for me, there’s nothing I
have to do, nowhere
to go. Right here
was always the best place
anyway
and I’ve arrived,
work-tools in hand,
or head: notebook
and pen, eyes, memory,
​words.

September Song


Inside this enclosure of leaves,
pickets, and cinderblocks, I
ruminate, while a dove
pecks at the fleas under his wing, rolls
his neck & head, then continues
to perch on the trellis. He has nothing

to do either, except
live, which is mostly
perching these days;
in my case, under
a tree, beneath
the September sun that’s been

coming up later each morning,
while the radio in the bedroom
was blabbing, and my body
was refusing to crawl out of bed,
preferring to rub up against
the warmth
next to it for just
​a little while longer.

Election Day

--à la Ted Berrigan

Take the glasses off, put them
down (I can read
without them anyway),
see the world
manifested
in a few backyard trees, faded
pickets, bits of houses, and a leaning,
giant yucca (to add sex appeal)
this Election Day, such perfect
weather I don’t care
who wins (“we’re all winning, we’re
alive,” said Frank O’Hara), Jill
volunteering at Democratic
Party Headquarters,
calls people
to remind them to go vote, put
politicians in so they’ll become
incumbents
and be voted out, with
no big change, though things
were fine already—the cloudless sky, leaves
that turn
colors, fall, and
decorate
“the ground we walk on”—
to go inside, warm up
some coffee
(with a cookie),
take a nap.
​​

Windfall


In between all this
ruminating,
there are times to be
alive
you take
for granted, such as
going for “second breakfast”
because you’re hungry
and want
the pleasure of eggs with
hash browns and sausage
set down
before you by the waitress,
the coffee warmed
with a smile,
while you watch
the trucks
go by
outside.


 

​
--
Joseph Somoza retired from college teaching (New Mexico State University) and editing (Puerto del Sol) some years ago to devote more time to writing. He now sits in his back yard most mornings and tries to educe a poem his way. He has published four books and four chapbooks of poetry over the years, most recently SHOCK OF WHITE HAIR (Sin Fronteras Press, 2007). He lives in Las Cruces with wife Jill, a painter.