Catalytic Converters

I can’t stop thinking about catalytic converters.

Don’t say it like “Cadillac” converters,

it’s “cat-a-ly-tic”. Catalytic converters –

they’re in all the cars, everywhere.

And thieves are everywhere, under all the cars.

At a dead hour the thieves slide under

and cut the cat-a-ly-tics

right out of the exhaust lines.

Right in and right out in 2-3 minutes

and then off to another one.

Off to another one!

It’s organized, apparently.

Organized crime for metal organs.

Metal organs that sell well all over the city.

And if you read Nextdoor.com, “The police don’t care!”

(I don’t have a car, so I shouldn’t care about them either.)

Thieves like pit stop mechanics

who ditched the pit

for a wilder ride with greed,

for a thrill you can sell,

a thrill you can hear

as each poor chump in the city

turns on their car the next morning

to a rumbling sound that roars with the gas pedal.

Rumbles, roars and coughs,

like a confused lion,

like a band marching into walls,

over and over again.

Over and over again,

with each loud sound,

with each rumble, roar and cough,

dollar signs rise into the air like music.

Music that only the thieves can hear.

You Feel Alive 

In the wide mouth of the river 

waves paw at our little boat. 

Water laps and curls on our bodies 

This is living, she says, and rows with an intensifying energy. 

Water is life-giving, yes, but have you ever seen forearms like hers? 

A blue-green roadmap of pulsing veins.

And because I want to sleep with her again, I say something 

along the lines of agreement. And because I’m the poet in the boat 

I say that her rowing reminds me of the acceleration of hope. 

But really, in my mind, all these little ripples on the water unfold like consequences. 

Our energy reminds me of the expanding influence of people on this place 

how wild it is that we thrive so well that we destroy nature by our own nature.

Energy drives and drains us. 

Anyway, we make our way down the river some more

and I walk back these cynical metaphors in my mind.

And I return to a place where metaphors aren’t yet named

Because language hasn't evolved beyond growls and grunts. 

Because the Aspen along this river are now only the emergent thoughts 

of the soil, where clay is just magma and magma the unformed crust. 

And the two of us, her boat, the splashing and her beautiful veins 

are all just the idea of a million gods and before that, only matter and force.

Like Water

All day the water has turned on and off in this apartment.

pulsing like arteries in the walls,

flushing, washing and

draining the limp linguini.

I splash my face with water and soap,

organize dishes into the machine,

close the dribbly tap.

My grief is something like this.

feverish in the angry teapot,

poured and still in the cup,

wet on my body, dripping on the floor.

I walk up the hill to visit my godson for bathtime.

he shows me how to splash, splash, splash!

with his arms extending out like rows,

face firmly directed at mine–

he points at the water in between his toes,

and he remembers to close both eyes

as I hold his forehead and pour.

Like some sort of deliverance.

I pour from a tiny blue plastic bucket,

slowly through his light toddler hair

washing down his little shoulders and back

and then, I embrace him like water,

into the wide towel of my arms.

Meeting Her Aunt

She told me that she didn’t need help,

“I only have one mandoline, anyway.” 

So, I sat next to her at the counter and waited it out.

We got to know one another

as she pushed through the heads of cabbage.

Pressure down. Shavings drop. 

Shift. 

Down. 

Shavings.

“Pets” entered the conversation.

She said that she hadn’t been a dog person, 

but then a client gave her this dog. Now she loves this dog.

But maybe it’s only this dog?

Maybe she is a dog person, she’s not sure.

This is how I learned to make slaw.