Where Sprinklers Water the Sidewalks

Shot from To Sleep With Anger

Where Sprinklers Water the Sidewalks

11 and cradling
his first saxophone. New reed. Cocked brass
cobra. At an arm’s.
Hesitant mouth, as the song is only edges. American windows
gape in Normal, Illinois.

He knows a scale is just
an alphabet, like getting over anger.

Mother’s tethered to
the stove. Swapped conduction for gas.
More control. More hearth. Father’s gone —
could be anywhere.

From the second story
a perfect solo — once and out of ignorance —
for the world and to no one.

---

A friend of mine semi-recently recommend the film To Sleep With Anger, a great movie about what happens when you let the wrong person in. The movie is bookended by scenes where a young boy plays the trumpet, imperfectly and loudly. The music bleeds out of the windows of the home, leaking into the streets. While this movie is a comic and dark portrait of a family dealing with grief and the past, it says something profound about openness … to ideas, to people, to generosity.

The trumpet playing makes me think of This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody) by the Talking Heads, a song that is rumored to have been written by band members all playing instruments for the first time. I love this inclination toward emergence.

A while back I read a poem by Jim Harrison called “Where is Jim Harrison?” and was taken with the poem and the form. Now, whenever I sit down to write and it’s feeling overly laborious, I try to write a version for myself. It’s a fun way to start flowing. I’m going to start including some down here. To start, here’s the one that Jim Harrison wrote:

Where Is Jim Harrison?

He fell off the cliff of a seven-inch zafu.
He couldn’t get up because of his surgery.
He believes in the Resurrection mostly
because he was never taught how not to.

It’s so good. I love the one, two punch of the self-deprecating humor and the vague revelation. The first one I’ll include is a pretty blatant reworking line by line, swapping imagery that is more personally resonant to me.

Where is Mason Pashia?

He slipped peacefully into a kyusu,
now he’s steeping. Hamstrings too tight to leave.
Big grin on, Ave Maria sounds impeccable in that
porcelain dome, amidst the tea’s soft lapping.

Currently Reading (and probably will be for a while… some big books!):

• Praiseworthy by Alexis Wright

• And the Roots of Rhythm Remain by Joe Boyd

• Siren of Atlantis by Cedar Sigo

With Gratitude,

Thanks for reading Into Wind! If you know someone who you think would enjoy getting these weekly-ish poems, be sure to forward this newsletter along! It’s free… and will stay that way :)