What it is

June 2010: In a desperate attempt to stave off senility, the monkey began writing a poem a day. By summer's end he'd begun to run out of versified political rants and philosophical bloviations. Then he hit on the improbable idea of writing micro fiction in the form of Elizabethan sonnets. Eureka. The birth of the "Sonnets From Other Lives" series. Two hundred plus lives later, he's still at it.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

2
Histories: Others

The Others might appear at any time
& so one must at all times be alert.
to small & subtle changes. In the wild
(& everything is wild) the things that hurt
are hidden, silent, stalking & so
we learn to make connections into patterns.
Seeing people that we do not know
moving stealthily on the savannah
we crouch and quietly plan our attack.
They do not look like us. They are the Others.
They could be hunting us--following our tracks.
They could attack us—steal our daughters, wives & mothers.
This is why we look upon all strangers
with fear & loathing & a sense of danger.

Friday, July 29, 2011

8
Sonnets From Other Lives: Daniel


Rattlesnake beside the highway. Dead.
I pull over, cut the engine, take a look.
A big one. Someone's tire took off its head,
not long ago. It's fresh enough I to cook
up. Meat is meat & rattlesnake ain't bad
so I toss it in the truck. My home’s no prize—
a garden patch, a trailer, & a shack
just outside Ukiah. I suppose some guys
got out of Nam unscathed--I wasn't one.
But then my Dad was kind enough to croak
with life insurance enough to buy the farm.
(The guys from the old squad would dig that joke)
I got a goat, a garden--I grow my own weed
& ask only that the world leave me in peace.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

1
Histories: Initiation

The first time—when he came here as a boy—
they told him he was entering the Womb
of the Earth & that he must avoid
touching anything within the sacred rooms
of stone. In line behind a single light
the boys entered a giant limestone chamber.
The Elders each set new torches alight
& in their glow he first beheld the stranger
world known only to initiates & shamans—
where Bison, Deer, Elk, & The Antlered Man
swirled on the cave walls. Calling to his daemon/
spirit guide, an Elder took his hand,
held it to the stone & blew a mist
of pigment— to show God that he exists.

Monday, July 18, 2011

The Monkey's going on vacation--he'll be back next week.
6

Sonnets From Other Lives: Hiro

See that tree? The little alpine fir?
Planted that one back in '52.
Pruned it like one I saw on Rainier.
A history prof from the U.W.
needed a gardener & he hired me--
a part time student on the G.I. Bill
with a piece of German shrapnel in my knee.
My father taught me bonsai & I still
have his tools. Minidoka broke him down.
They took his store--sent me to Italy...
He’d say—I don’t have time for that crap now.
It was him I thought about pruning this tree.
I’d put a gnarled mountain fir in Laurelhurst
as a reminder—what it looks like to endure.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

5
Sonnets From Other Lives: Peter


The foot sticks out, so I'm obliged to trip,
drop my book, make a convincing fall.
I would so rather launch a double flip
over this jerk and scramble up the wall
&… never mind. I've run the thought experiments,
(for it is thinking that's keeping me alive).
When I compute causes and their effects,
somehow someone that I love always dies.
Tonight I'll swing above the city's canyons,
stand vigil on St. Patrick's tallest spire,
battle mutant villans and their minions,
then rescue someone's baby from a fire.

But first I sprawl and make this bully's day,
as the girl I love, embarrassed, looks away.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

4
Sonnets From Other Lives: Abel


I am hailed at midtown. My first trip
today-- an older man bound for the east side.
who pays with squared-off blue-nailed fingertips.
Congenital heart defect. My next ride
is a yellow tinged cirrhotic alcoholic.
Today I think it will be getting hot.
A New York summer can make me nostalgic
for Harare’s steamy chaos, but I'm not
so welcome in Mugabe's paradise.
A white man in a wheelchair hails me. Says,
--Thanks. Six other cabs just drove on by.
The Avenue of the Americas...
I wonder what diagnosis best fits me--
Physician? Chauffeur? Exile? Refugee?

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

1
Sonnets From Other Lives: Meg


You never called, so what was I to think?
(The cat clock's tick-tock eyes scan right left right.)
I opened up some wine I'd bought to drink
along with you and Fred Astaire tonight
then left another message. What's the use?
(I'm thinking Ginger doth protest too much.)
I imagine you’re rehearsing your excuse.
So how the hell did I end up as such
a cliché? Rapunzel in her flat
waiting just to buzz Prince Dick inside,
'til finally she's reduced to hoarding cats
like some Dickensian rejected bride.
The merlot’s asking-- Notice how it feels
like your life is dancing backwards in high heels?

Sunday, July 10, 2011

189
Sonnets From Other Lives: Hillary & Rolf

Just before the cornice gave away
he kissed her once to celebrate the summit.
There was no time or chance for a belay--
one second’s shared awareness then the plummet--
600 meters down the icy couloir.
They were so full of life –the papers said.
Biking, snowboarding, he used to call her
his Danger Muse. They raced to stay ahead
of fate—going faster, climbing higher,
because they loved the risk, the rush, the feeling
they got dodging danger. The high wire
was where the bullshit disappeared revealing
a cleaner brighter world—or so they said.
But there’s such a thing as too close to the edge.

Friday, July 8, 2011

188
Sonnets From Other Lives: Gary

The kid next to him in the first class section
slouches down & boots up a computer.
His headphones are an implicit rejection
of Gary’s small talk overtures. Commuters
in first class will usually provide
him with some pre-takeoff diversion
(Gary is a nervous although frequent flier)
but this kid’s absolute immersion
in his screen has left Gary stranded in the air
above America alone. He sneaks a look
at the kid’s screen, but what he finds there
is not a shoot up game or an e- book
but inscrutable graphs & dials—funny.
Kid says—I make beats & beats makes me the money.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

187
Sonnets From Other Lives: Carlene

The version I heard first had it that she
got drunk & wound up dancing on the tables
at T.G.I. Fridays. Then a strip tease
appeared in later versions. No one’s able
to verify these stories. Everyone
hears about it second or third hand
from someone who says he knows someone
who was there. I guess I understand
the urge to stain her reputation.
A small town beauty who refused live
out everybody else’s expectations
to marry a quarterback & pop out kids
ASAP then join the P.T.A…
Mostly they’re pissed because she got away.

Monday, July 4, 2011

186
Sonnets From Other Lives: Lily

An icy river tumbling through granite
boulders—roaring, foaming as it rushes
by. The snow splashed peaks where it began its
seaward trek glare in the sun & brush
passing cloud tendrils like threads of hair.
Out of the river’s white noise she can hear
what could be voices in the mix. She stares
into the noise--eyes closed—so that her ears
might reach into the wall of rushing sounds.
What are they saying? She has a perverse
wish that in these sonic overtones she’s found
some hidden mystery of the universe.
But concentration kills this fantasy. Aloud:
It’s like I'm making animals out of clouds.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

185
Sonnets From Other Lives: Rose

For one summer Rose followed the Dead
with her boyfriend in his caravan.
Whirling with a thousand acid heads
ecstatically dancing to the band’s
relentless rhythmic beat machine,
she came to believe Jerry’s guitar
solos were oracles & she could read
them like astrologers read stars.
Once in Oakland in mid Franklin’s Tower
she started feeling all of the emotions
of everyone around her. Superpowers
have their downsides & the oceans
of feelings drove her from concerts & crowds.
She’s working as a psychotherapist now.