June 2016
I am an attorney in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and often write or think about writing poems while I'm sitting in court. My chapbook, The Lawyer Who Died in the Courthouse Bathroom, was published by Parallel Press (University of Wisconsin Libraries) in 2013, and my book, The Biology of Consciousness was published by Pebblebrook Press in April, 2016. I am a member of the Hartford Avenue Poets in Milwaukee.
St. Augustine
Everything is the oldest here—
the oldest house, the oldest mission,
the oldest park where they walk past
the bromeliads and seashell geegaws
for sale on the site of the oldest slave market
in North America.
There are firsts here too—
the first fort, the first Catholic
mass, the first permanent outpost
of European civilization, the first infliction
of the white man’s burden.
The man and woman are getting older
and neither of them are firsts.
She swims in the waves in her peacock
colored swimsuit; he tries to body surf
on a boogie board but ends up
looking for seashells.
At night, the terrace door is open
the dreams come in increments.
For him, it’s Martin Luther King and JB Stoner
and Woolworth’s lunch counters and beaches
in this oldest and first and most segregated town.
Then the dreams go back even further,
to the first slaves, the Fountain of Youth,
the blood on the beach.
For her, it’s the water and living things
under the water and how she wants to go
there and hide from this heavy, plain
history and fold herself forever
into the lullaby of the surf.
The Quiddity of a Thing
In this room, we pretended
this bed was a boat. We were
in the middle of a storm and I
rocked the mattress almost
tossing you off or I was a bridge
and you would crawl over me
above the dangers of Snake River.
In this room, there is a large bin
of legos and building blocks.
We constructed our manors
and castles before tumbling them down.
In this room, the glow-in-the dark
stars are falling from the ceiling and
there is a bed where we lay
on our backs and gazed
at the universe above our heads.
The Tree
Early one morning
an Amsterdam city worker
will drive his truck
to 263 Prinsengracht Street.
He'll take his chain saw
and cut a wedge-shaped
piece of wood from the base
of the chestnut tree
that is now over
a hundred years old
and blighted (the tree may
creak in the wind).
He may not even notice
the attic window
where Anne Frank gazed
down on the tree.
He’ll tie a rope around
the trunk and pull
it down. The whole operation
won't take more than
half an hour
not counting the wood-chipping.
Everything is the oldest here—
the oldest house, the oldest mission,
the oldest park where they walk past
the bromeliads and seashell geegaws
for sale on the site of the oldest slave market
in North America.
There are firsts here too—
the first fort, the first Catholic
mass, the first permanent outpost
of European civilization, the first infliction
of the white man’s burden.
The man and woman are getting older
and neither of them are firsts.
She swims in the waves in her peacock
colored swimsuit; he tries to body surf
on a boogie board but ends up
looking for seashells.
At night, the terrace door is open
the dreams come in increments.
For him, it’s Martin Luther King and JB Stoner
and Woolworth’s lunch counters and beaches
in this oldest and first and most segregated town.
Then the dreams go back even further,
to the first slaves, the Fountain of Youth,
the blood on the beach.
For her, it’s the water and living things
under the water and how she wants to go
there and hide from this heavy, plain
history and fold herself forever
into the lullaby of the surf.
The Quiddity of a Thing
In this room, we pretended
this bed was a boat. We were
in the middle of a storm and I
rocked the mattress almost
tossing you off or I was a bridge
and you would crawl over me
above the dangers of Snake River.
In this room, there is a large bin
of legos and building blocks.
We constructed our manors
and castles before tumbling them down.
In this room, the glow-in-the dark
stars are falling from the ceiling and
there is a bed where we lay
on our backs and gazed
at the universe above our heads.
The Tree
Early one morning
an Amsterdam city worker
will drive his truck
to 263 Prinsengracht Street.
He'll take his chain saw
and cut a wedge-shaped
piece of wood from the base
of the chestnut tree
that is now over
a hundred years old
and blighted (the tree may
creak in the wind).
He may not even notice
the attic window
where Anne Frank gazed
down on the tree.
He’ll tie a rope around
the trunk and pull
it down. The whole operation
won't take more than
half an hour
not counting the wood-chipping.
-all poems from The Biology of Consciousness
©2016 Thomas J. Erickson
©2016 Thomas J. Erickson