five poems
by dan raphael
Race-ism
“speaking in tongues of champions yet to come.”
— mark sargent
tongues no longer needed, just electricity
pouring out of every nerve and cell
winner gets what’s left
no groceries, no clothing stores, just fulfillment centers
from one time zone to the next, parking lots shrinking
as the percentage of robot employees grows
all this hubbub about trans gender athletes is nothing
compared to what will erupt when the mechanically enhanced
(the ME generation) takes to the field. Will it still be a majority rule—
at least 60% flesh and blood—or like pre-civil war when
just one dark great grand-parent would minoritize you
some say it’s a race to the bottom
but that’s a matter of perspective
as skyscrapers are just trying to get us closer to heaven
it’s my constitutional right to have windows that open—
life, liberty and defenestration
it’s a race for when the elevators stop working
it’s a role-playing game where the movie changes
each time I drink: is it half-time, third-quarter,
let’s take five ,with the bats, balls and javelins
let’s see if a wild pig half your size can drive your car
not a game, not a sport, not a way to live
no refunds, no anonymity, whatever medal I earn
is either unrecyclable or radioactive
I can see the minutes fraying before me
like the mammalian delta of life’s many guises
more sludge and fewer choices than ever
I don’t want to go upstream or down just out
knowing it took this long to see how close together
the start and finish lines always are
Looks Like from Here
fire on the mountain, fog on the lake, concrete on the breakfast table
a transparent animation dancing on the 4th step
sounds like a cat, smells like vegetarian pizza
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wood is the next phase of our chronal evolution
like a watch to tell me what color now is, on what spectrum
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I’ve never dreamt I was sleeping but have woken from a dream
then woke up again
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what starts in the hand demands action as an approaching storm might
or seeing a dust devil at the door, you don’t know what I might do
til you smell it, almost far enough, almost jumping to the next level
unsure how to land
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little that can happen without potential risk—that variable compass point—
like when north is an hour late, or I get so still something I won’t like
is more probable
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I can be sure of uncertainty, committed to the random,
ready for several minutes of another planet’s jazz
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a fire inside my heart, rain in the solar plexus
my anxiety is about to set
As if December’s Only One Day Long
if my house had no door to the outside, people passing by
wonder how long this house will stay abandoned
will it make room for four or six residencies
or maybe become a parking lot for all the neighborhood’s
non-functioning vehicles, slowly being de-metalled
into heaps of fabric, plastic and souvenirs
now that used cars are like old photo albums
we have no idea who these people or where they were
maybe the sky was taking selfies and people kept getting in the way
with all they accomplished, created and smiled about
I have no way of knowing the fog surrounding my house
only extends a few blocks, or that the light in the night sky
moving too fast to be a star actually is a star cut loose
as I know the majority of satellites are not there for communications
it’s too dark to be this early, too soon to be this dark
as the wind pauses to catch & examine its breath, its intake
what to give back or wish it had somewhere to store
clouds won’t cooperate or might not know their capacities
when the 3-diimensional becomes 2 I haven’t the attention
to look up or down
rain or sweat? wind or speed? shirt or tablecloth?
wall or smeared glasses? chips or kibble? telephone or telescope?
the news or a mirror? is that my name being called or the neighbor’s dog’s?
I hope there’s enough of me that hasn’t forgotten how to sleep
needing neither sunlight nor a self-starting radio
to claim it’s now tomorrow
On Our Ways
doesn’t matter what you knew, accumulated, recovered from
the road you didn’t want to take, spark and air are not enough for fire,
fuel without friction, flooding the engine, clogging a filter
not enough time to let the sediment settle
wanting to stay aloft, part of the solution,
exchanging ions across a zone science doesn’t recognize
our shared aromas have nothing to do with scents or sprays,
micronutrients from the soil and air I grew up in, never washed away
or outnumbered enough, some subtle medicine, tuning my body
like a crystal radio--what else could I be pulling from the air,
examining million year old light to see how the sun’s diet has changed
breathing to eat, spewing more water than the body could hold
convincing light to slow down and become microdots of rain,
a slow-motion pointillistic sneeze releasing my body’s internal traffic jam
personal GPSes sending us down alleys and driveways
when it was only someone slowing for a hallucination
or just to see what happens behind. cause the horizon
might be gaining on me, today’s in a much greater hurry
to get to tomorrow than I am
bunch of people taking every available shortcut
to get to my house before I do and yell surprise
most of them strangers & it’s not my birthday
but a day I’ll never forget, a day I can celebrate any time
drawing a map in the air then realizing I’m somewhere else
a city of mass transit, rationed fuel and few doors without keypads
I keep trying the same number and someday it will work
whether inside is already full or no one’s been here for years
stare at a wall long enough and its history appears
in one-panel cartoons or elaborate anecdotes
being changed by what I cannot believe
building memory bridges to connect these random blossoms
whether viewed from many stories above
or down where the roots are so busy they glow
Say That Again?
wear the echoes in our head
stepping through the floor or ceiling
much easier to get in than out
somewhere between momentum and inertia
down the hill and under the brook
it could rain grasshoppers, moon becoming
a rip in the sky, could leave a scar
could pulse and swell, slow motion lava
tensile strengthing the skin’s ability to hold back
a river disguised as billions of rain drops
aa every city square mile has free-range water beneath
following or editing a path, slightly downhill, no reason
to stop here, skin flaking from friction and uncertainty
look up to 12th story windows, to helicopters
attempting to mate, 40 crows calculating volume
waiting for the food carts to open their back doors
and dispose, fumes so thick they barely get off the ground
cause Noah was actually stocking his ark with takeout
two pizzas, two burger combos, two bowls of duck’s blood soup
so much topsoil the boat could barely float
the prairie room, the swamp room, the room you can never
get to the other side of
my echo is now in someone else’s voice and language,
soprano dogs and bass sparrows, a six string walrus,
double reed giraffe—we won’t play anywhere there’s not room
to dance but we can dance with two dozen friends in a phone booth;
I’ve never had surgery since anything strong enough
to stop me dancing could stop me for good
I don’t follow scents but beats, I see the wind
pushing clouds’ organ stops, imagining what a wide scroll of iowa
sounds like going through the geologic player piano
the last ice age was just an intermission, we jumped
from the 3rd movement to the 5th amendment,
like painting a landscape without two of the colors I’m seeing,
the string section switches hands
every vine we swing from uses our weight
to imprint, to change, to build up for later
keep pulling, keep falling, confident my inner stillness
will be honored wherever I land, my left palm’s life line
is my passport, stamped by so many countries
I seem to be gloved, maybe when I’m dead
my flesh can cover a globe with wide gaps
where the oceans will eventually rise when the mists
of my memories and deeds cool and accumulate
not taking this exit, past the sign saying
last fuel for the next 48 hours
I’ve found the same station seven places on the dial
when I switch to AM all I get is bingo numbers
with a secret code to get enough fresh chickens
to find my way home, scratching the ground til an escape hatch
is revealed where on the other side of this flat planet, in another time
that never mentions hours, the sun’s alarm clock
more random than a 5 cylinder roulette wheel
Photo of dan raphael
BIO: dan raphael’s chapbook, How’d This Tree Get In?, will be published this spring by Ravenna Press. More recent poems appear in Unlikely Stories, Red Tree, Abstract Magazine, Indefinite Space and Mad Swirl. Most Wednesdays dan writes and records a current events poem for The KBOO Evening News.