Carl Kavadlo

creating it is always
fresh.

talking about it is always
stale.

she does not want to know the dark side
she wants to know if the green napkins are
the right color green for the catered affair
if the band will play the bride
and groom’s special song
if the cute little candy bar wrapper
which had been especially designed for this occasion
by a very hip paper products company
will have very cute pictures of the bride and groom.

there is no room, no space for the blues.

she has done what scientists
buddhists
psychologists
philosophers, eccentrics
have not been able to do –
squeeze out the dark side

ennui
spelled e-n-n-u-i
pronounced ON-WE.
french
every major 20th century american writer
addressed it.
hemmingway in the 20’s
kerouac in the 50’s
bukowski in the 80’s
dissatisfaction with the conditions.

even when the material things are okay,
something’s always peeving us.
yes,
something isn’t right
   not just right.
even this little wedding as it is.

i keep thinking of my writers
and their stories
about episodes of their lives.
sitting at a small desk, taking a pen pencil paper
typewriting instrument
and getting the feeling on the page
sharp
hard
clear
really etch it
so you know it hurt.
none backed down.
they stayed in rooms and cried;
their words
played blues as well as anybody ever did.

there’s always somebody with a longer pipe,
a bigger hose, a higher car, a louder voice,
a holier prayer, a furrier cat, more modern p.a. system,
bigger book, crazier look, jazzier hook.

more bark-filled branch, more experience in romance,
fancier pants, better dance. more charm, longer arm,
higher IQ and more and more and more of everything than me and you.

there’s always somebody with a louder voice,
wider choice, bigger wit, more brawn and grit.
there’s always just somebody with more,
makes a grander exit out the door, owns a smoother tile floor,
lives on the street of greater jones, elicits bigger moans.
always someone who can outdo you.
so don’t try, don’t sigh, don’t rush, push, squash
swelter with bristle and gristle and effort.
burst with will, over-kill. let go. don’t try.

listen to the breath run out your nose for
one pure second, that’s all.
if you could forget who you are for one-quarter of a second
you could be more than you.

there’s always somebody who could out-run you,
out-gun you, out-smoke you, out-fight you, out-joke you.
show you his mansion in the back,
turn your palace into a shack.
meet you on 4th street and turn your feeling into second place.
predators, workers, normal people with intention or without
un-do you before you try–

hang it up, let it alone, be still.
don’t ask, don’t try, don’t pull-push.
if you forgot who you are and released,
you’d be satisfied. and there would be
no place to finish, first or last.

you’d be everywhere without dis-satisfaction.
you’d be in the center with everything and if you could see the rose,
you’d realize it’s bigger than the entire cosmos. then.
if you forgot who you are in that way,
in the center with everything, larger, then you could be found,
while the rest are holding tiny straws of false gold.

ah, fools!
musicians,
writers,
card players,
lovers of the
night – always
looking for that
perfect time,
willing, oh, so
willing to sacrifice
so much
for that one hour,
one day,
one gig – oh, fools – musicians
booking endlessly;
writers
sending out the continually
rejected manuscript.
meanwhile concocting
new things on paper
and to anyone who will listen.
card players, horse players
throwing away life savings,
dreaming, dreaming
for the bite,
the bite
the biological high of huge winnings.
lovers, with seven wives,
seven husbands,
still not finding it.
mesmerized fools.
here’s another one,
immortalizing you.
and don’t forget
the surfers looking for that perfect ride.
this one’s
over.

everything in
the simplest
moment of
life is felt
with the greatest
intensity
just as it is.
the taste of an orange
in a bowl,
the juice, the sweetness.
the yellow, golden banana
at its side.
the sight of a swirling squirrel
on a branch,
suddenly by
the window.
the pebbles along
a garden path.
momentary cracks into
another world: this one.
rarest gifts, again, measured
by the scarcity of an open soul.