Alan Gann

Nobody harks the herald
while taking down the lights
on New Year’s Day—
thrum of an almost hangover
reminding you that champagne
and late late nights are no longer
your domain. Nobody jingles the bells
while wrapping ornaments in tissue.
The evergreen branches
beginning to brown and you have already
reminisced over every blown glass bulb,
told the story of the wooden Santa,
picked your favorite ceramic angel.
Nobody sings joy to the boxes
resealed and banished to the attic
where all the jolly accruements
dream of being taken out
and allowed to shine.

half a fool
juggling half as many
telling jokes
only half as funny
but really
isn’t life only half a waltz
music stopping
half way through
half scrambling
to find half as many chairs
half a lukewarm beer
waking up
half an hour late
half remembering the night
with half a grin
half regret

half of us
half nostalgic
for the way things used to be
when in our half-assed way
we half way tolerated
so much
that was way more
than half way wrong
half innocent
holding half ourselves
half responsible
we offer up
half a prayer
to gods and half-gods
half believed in
and trusted less

negative b
plus or minus the square root of nobody
ever used eighth-grade algebra to find
love or beauty in a storm
but this spinning world is full
of unknowns and inequalities
poverty curves and inflection points
cotangent of a rainbow
radius of a door slamming shut

if the x-axis is melanin and y equals fear
plot the curve that separates
hooded teen from bullet

if n is the number of students
crossing the graduation river
at illiterate words per hour
and z is the cost of a prison bed
how many words does a politician need
so fifty-one percent of voters
sleep well at night

played or sung
without trying to sell you anything—
not a Nintendo, not a Savior, not a download,
compact disc, or another worthy cause.
Imagine a Christmas song
sung because the winter darkness is crisp
because each rising star reminds us
every newborn is holy
because your breath turns crystal
and the coyote howls.
Imagine finding yourself
staring out at the predawn moon
humming a song about a silent night.

red riding hood and superman
spin together
negotiating who saves whom—
man of steel offers to kill
every wolf in the forest
but red has known
too many woodsmen who believe
blood is the solution to every fear
who wear brawny biceps
like a mask
and she doesn’t want to be around
when he catches
lois and jimmy getting it on
in the archives of the daily planet—
not that lois doesn’t love the suit
but playing second fiddle
to every quake and two-bit super villain
leaves her feeling less than special—
and red doesn’t want to be around
when fifty pent up years
explode

she would teach him
what it means to be human
the kryptonite of desire
to live
so the lack of a caress might sting
like the punch of an exploding star
so anyone might love him without fear
without adrenal aftermath of falling
and caught in the nick of time
red could love him
for twinkle and laugh
if only
he would share a dream or two
if only he would let her inside
his fortress of solitude

chipped
and placed with the care of spooning lovers
whispering rise to a pulse of flowers
a yes to summer’s green
a wall that whispers let go
to gold and crimson leaves
whispers sleep to everything
beneath the snow

imagine a wall
so confident it doesn’t have to scream
go away you are not welcome here
a wall that stitches seams together

low and humble
sinking beneath the surface of a small pond
crawling out the opposite bank
winding between maples and oaks that one day will
grow large enough to dislodge
a wall whose beauty will not be lost
in the scattering of its stones

after Storm King Wall by Andy Goldsworthy
1997-98, Fieldstone, 5’ x 2278.5’ x 2.7’, Storm King Art Center

We are not jazzless angels
every harp note perfect and predictable, every chess game
a draw. Freewill cannot dazzle if every foul choice turns gold.

Hunger gnaws and starvation
waits
a mountain lion invisible against the rocks.
Claws celebrate emaciated flesh
so we plow and plant
but the god equation is not so simple as
a good life equals a good life. Rains turn
on a butterfly’s hiccup.

Sometimes children lose hair to chemo because water flows
through lead or perhaps a gamma-ray spun off from a distant star—
capricious freedom. Mothers could die
young enough they never pose difficult questions nor lose
young names in setting sun.

Suppose the world a coke commercial, everyone
singing, holding hands, and sweet fizzy drinks didn’t make you crave
another and another until insulin shots circle like vultures.

Beauty sans purpose is boring as certainty. Healthy forests
need wildfire and satisfying years need
2nd period bullets, outlawed loves, unjust lash. Bombs clinging
to hopeless chests, desire for more more
trumping children of the poor.

And what of love?
Imaginary, impossible
if we did not throw while the coin spins high
all our money on the table.
Place your bets; hold your breath.

We do not have to, crust will not collapse. We get to
say maybe, just maybe, bend the universe imperceptible—
hallelujah a prayer of sweet,
sweet sweat— muscles obeying best they can or not.
Revel in unpredictable effort.
Pity jazzless angels— no reason to wake except to praise.