this is my america   this is whitman's america

too big   too loud   too much

and altogether undefinable   currently

an america saturated with high-cal nastiness

in reality

we get along pretty well

like whitman i see us as one people 

living

not in divisiveness   but doing our best   sharing

not watching out only for ourselves   not always 

doing our best 

trying to do the right thing

this place   this terrace   lends itself to summary thinking

and the wine is good

~

we   marketa and i   meet colin and marcy at the vineyard 

watch the sunset 

which i won't try to describe   drink wine in the dusk

to the rising dance of fireflies   count stars   neglect to keep track

talk 

until sleep seems like the best of all possible things   we sleep  

morning brings out the aerialists   swifts   i sit with my tea

sunning   like the lizards

on the early morning   still cool   stones of the terrace

a corner of my mind is ill at ease   chasing me out of bed

into the light of day

all is not well   but it is good   this place

colin and marcy are good   if all is not well   

it is well enough   life is complicated

~

an hour's drive drive from here is a nascar track

it is saturday  

a race is in preparation   cars   pickups

rv's by the thousands have converged on this small town

in a noisy atmosphere of a fair day 

of abundance   of unlimited possibilities for pure   raw   pleasure

traffic is heavy   last night at the convenience store

the long lines told the story  

this is our america   raucous   perhaps drunken

but also this   a burly fathers holding his infant daughter

with no more avoir du pois

than a helium balloon   teasing and loving her   while mother and siblings

seek out best possible snacks among the shelves of treats so bountiful

as to make my eyes water   i buy a protein bar

~

that was last evening   our world   here

is nothing but quiet

that is until you begin to hear breeze and birdsong 

insects whirring and chit-chit-chittering

hum of vehicles

on the two-lane a mile away   tires on asphalt   shifting gears

this is a still life that is neither still nor silent

my discontent

may be fighting an uphill battle   yesterday does not foretell today

much less tomorrow   perhaps i can let it go for now

the sun

on my up-tilted face   gives rise to optimism  

heliotrope basking in this wine of rarified air   the distilled essence

of what once was common   now   something of a privilege

~

colin makes his way uphill from the stone winery

his stride steady   

steady in all ways   he makes me smile   he is utterly himself

inside and out   the outward appearance as always  

jeans   t-shirt

flannel shirt unbuttoned   flapping rhythmically with each step

blonde hair   red bandana holding it back   long legs   slender body  

blue-grey eyes

quiet   pleasing to the eye and psyche   

i say   good morning   he says   good morning  

while pulling up a chair  

we each wait for the other to speak   but the air and the sounds

and the vista obviate speech   at least for a moment

as it is   it is enough

~

when we do talk   i relate my ill-ease

we know each other   

he understands well enough to let me speak

offers no solutions   he is too clever for that

he listens

if i were a carburetor he could fix me   i am not   he cannot

but it helps more than i can say   we talk of other things as well

lighter fare   morning fare

soon enough   here come marketa and marcy

i am blessed   the disharmony in my soul

cannot withstand these three

not for long   the day is ahead of us   the agenda is wide open  

what will it bring   and will it end with dancing

to an american tune

~

marcy sets a bowl of cherries on the table   cherries

of the deepest hue   

marketa asks what we would like to drink

she and i go to the kitchen   make tea and coffee   pour juice   kiss

she tastes like me  

we bring the drinks to the terrace   this is a blue sky day

blackbirds   a cloud of them   rise from the wires  

make for a distant tree   alight

taking with them most what remains of my discontent  

i think of the burly father   imagine mechanics fine-tuning engines  

a campground thick with trucks and rv's

kids   parents   grandparents   pageantry   it is race day in america

what darkness lives within me is stilled  

i abide in an air of beneficence  

~

the vista is of vines running downhill

of more distant hills

of golden grass and california live oaks   huge   round   ancient

of a more distant range   beyond that   the pacific

beyond that   more pacific

to the south   san francisco   to the north   the russian river   mount shasta

further north   farms farmed by people wanting to be left alone

to the east  

three thousand miles of an american landscape   my america

whitman's america   sacajawea's   johnny appleseed's   sojourner truth's   

custer's   sitting bull's  

abe lincoln's   harriet beecher stowe's   becky thatcher's

tom joad's   woody guthrie's   billie holiday's   marilyn monroe's  

colin's   marcy's   marketa's   mine

~ 

we are nothing if not a place of high contrast   white wine

and mountain dew  

honky-tonks and queer bars   nascar and save the wetlands   

we picks sides   fight fair   fight dirty   disparage   denigrate

shock   impugn

hate   love   forgive   retaliate   pray   curse

we are disharmonious   foul our own nest

are anything but one people

yet   we are   because    here we are   we have no choice

this is our imperfect home   not all bad   not all good

merely huge

unkempt   rude   tactless

capable of astonishing cruelty   compassion   generosity

not one thing   not even many things   but all things

~

it is race day in america   i say   let's go the race   am i insane   

they assume so

later   at the race   among the beer and flags  

star-spangled and confederate   amid decibels

beyond all reckoning

we become part of a lovefest   it may as well be a dead concert

revival   ball game   carnival   art fair   veteran's day parade

shakespeare in the park 

it is an american day   we are strangers in a strange land   true

but no more so than anyone else   our conspicuousness

barely a mote in the scheme of the place

this microcosm   strange as it is   as we are   is ours

we are a part of it   we plant our flag   claim it  

my america   our america   and tonight there will be dancing

~

after we danced i wrote this   i read it this morning

it is silliness

not a word of truth

there is no america   there is only a concept of it

its existence is a state of mind

i live in a country called america   it means nothing

it is a place   i sleep here   i work here

it is an address

i happened to be born here   it could have been tibet

it could have been anywhere   there is no harmony in this place  

there is no us

it is silly to think otherwise   my discontent is back  

it is real   i don't understand it   writing this was a distraction   that's all  

good and bad people are everywhere   here too   here in my so-called america