central time

central time

1. conditions that i've known fluctuate
in my shorthand residual mind curiously flighty
where the concerns of socialites run
i've secured little gathered only a few odd pieces
like tattered remnants found after a consuming fire
only i understand the nature of their harsh language
how can i justify sharing such personal knowledge
trying untaught ears at this moment

2. where i lived once i felt the strength to govern my world
with respect for time and its ultimate power over all things
some scraps i keep may give account for future lives
of trivial things practiced by a child defending mankind against ignorance...
it was in central time that i grew and learned
felt hurt and cried and saw changes...
reflections now torment me
there is so much spread out far and near

3. on highways with white lines
crossing over and under great stretches of paved land
toward points of interest
my journey was sacred
made with dangerous ease
blurred quickly by poor memory
"against authority!" was the battle cry
but when reaching into my pocket found nothing
i realized all i really wanted was a sense of freedom
a taste of pleasure
in taking comfort
in me
in my own time
like anyone else would



J.H. Lee ('93)

the slightest (if ever so much)

 Poems/Art by JH Lee

so much
(tribute to ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’
by William Carlos Williams)

so much depends on a little turn
a little tweaking left or right
a red wheelbarrow
might not make it without
the necessary directions
so much depends on just a little
course shift
projecting destinies and such

crayon marked outlines
on coloring book paper
pasted on an asphalt road that meanders
from here all the way to there
a million miles or so
give or take a yard
‘nary a mean ole' man’ can possibly
come to the exact length

so much depends on proper calculations
iotaed on every piece of soiled tablecloth
a revolutionary theory may be in the works
to finish off the year
if not today
with something significant for mankind

so much depends on no more looking back
after this one last year passes
into hardly a memory
some kind of existence merely

so much depends on having
the right tools to work with
kept sharp and clean
not useless, dirty
knowing dull is really purposeless
taking up precious space in the shed
earthly baggage
bladder bursting

it does seem like
so much depends on so very little
if ever truth be known
knowing truth
that big things just get in the way
no need for idiosyncratic postulations
on a global scale
or dogmatic geriatrophs
or a new Regis Sisyphus
sandblasted off Camus, his Godot
or some pedantic mythoscopic
Anglo-Saxon warrior type Beowulf

today's rhyme marks
the heavy cornerstones
of the Catman's great wasteland
so much goddamnit depends on
driving out hatred
pushing it far, far to bay

AND now the rhyme unwittingly comes to an end
pressed time after time immemorial

all, such expectations
all great Dickensian ones for sure
in arousal that's desperately certain, natural
forcing out juices of post-coital ecstasy

so very, very much depends on faith,
faith alone always
a single word that counts
for a ton-weight
of tooth and nail
no abuse would make suffer

because so much depends on intangibles
so much on the weather of course
on rainwater and white chickens
so much on the mood of the moment
so much on the flapping of butterfly wings
in coastal Belize
or any other place, obscure
of remembrance
of years gone and forgotten
so much


JH Lee (’93, ’10)

Chronicle

Chronicle

I slapped a shoeprint on the whitewashed cinderblock wall behind our garage
I read a poem that talked about dog excrement drying
“into white stones that sift into lawns or wash down gutters” (lines from a poem by B. Brown)
I’ve seen my own dog’s excrement do the same—
Dry into white stones but melt into the lawn out back when the rains came
My own, my very own memories stop and start with every tick-tocking
Of my battery-operated travel alarm clock which used to wake me up every morning
Until my daughter took it away one day and kept it for good to use for herself
A cheap heirloom now, I suppose
Funny how almost desperate I don’t know if I’ve gained or lost
It’s my secret I don’t share, and each thought about that one
instant with my brother makes the images clearer
It’s with each drop of rain in early fall
the six tiny legs of every invading ant that scurries across my cement basement floor
thunderous pat, pat-pat, down, down, sinking hurriedly seeking
I watched across a hundred, maybe five or even six hundred, acres of corn and soybean
Partitioned with barbed wire, gravel roads and trees that grew horse apples
All said something about the memory of that one time
The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, Speed Racer and Star Blazers, The Mighty Thor
Captain America, Iron Man and Spiderman, Wonder Woman and Green Lantern
Tyco racing cars doing loop-de-loops
What I grew up with, what I put together as frames of reference to the time
I remember the wasps’ nests, the cheese and mayo sandwiches—they were so good
Then, the “dog excrement” brought it all back, in a crash of unrelenting stinging regret
But I too was young when it happened, as if that might serve as a good enough excuse now
It was the time I caught my brother choking our new puppy
The two of them locked in a cruel molestation episode—a criminal act in violation of ASPCA rules of humane treatment of domestic animals, I’m sure
I suppose I should forgive, I suppose
But I couldn’t
I took hold of him in an instant, and showed him what,
Made him feel how the pup felt
He gasped, eyes popping out of his face
Made him feel firsthand the horror, eye for an eye
Meting out justice but it didn’t make me feel right
Told him I was sorry the next day as we walked to the bus stop
He’d already confessed what he did was wrong the night before
Said he’d never thought about how pups, or any other animal he’d tortured,
Might feel getting strangled


J.H. Lee, ‘07

Chosen Spaces

This is a chosen space, this.
Not chosen by me, I’m sure.
Not consciously anyway.
But knowing I would never willingly
Refuse the choice,
I knew the consequences, as well
As I know so well the souls of those who lived here,
This red-earthen basin of a pot.
I know they called out to the one that first did all the choosing,
Just as I know how I used to call out
So hard it would burn my throat.

But then that imposing spirit called on me to make my own choices, too.
And I complied all those many yesterdays ago,
Already chose what point and purpose I desired.
That’s what I always wanted to think.
When those fixed souls in spite or good humor said
I was “just a little shit,”
I grinned, too— embarrassed to hear a word like that.
Yet something I had thought was so bad somehow sounded respectable.
It made me proud, surprisingly— full of myself, even.

Do I know better now?
That being full of me was exactly what that meant?
Full of life-enriching fecal matter perhaps.

And that’s what I gave back, and in earnest.
It merely came in the guise of such seeming ugliness
That so few could comprehend the worth.


J.H. Lee
May ’10-‘11

Meat

Extrude me through your grinder
Pat me, shape me into a nice round ball
Of tender, succulent surceance
Find where you put that cast-iron skillet
The left-over grease from the fat-back
Put it on to melt away the milky white
Start the grill, get it hot
Let the heat permeate through
Smell the acrid smoke rise from the gristle charring

Now scoop the ball and flatten it gently
With a ready spatula
Onto the hot black
See the outer skin of my ground flesh
Fry in the sizzling emollience
Now flip this browning side over
To the pink that’s holding onto raw
Two more minutes basking away
In my own collective juices of thought

Am I done? Am I ready enough for you?
Careful not to overcook me
Some rawness is fine
A rare delight to keep a little
If you ruin me
Well, I suppose you’d want to try again
On some other unsuspecting piece of meat
And I can’t blame you
Cooking meat takes genuine practice

(June 2011)

we have this certain misunderstanding
makes us beg, plead—philosophize
then we think of pleasant turns:
such trees in fine meadows
an oryx jumping out of harm's way
a piece of banded chalcedony
ornaments made from nature's toolbox

i dreamt of Faulkner's Nobel speech
about refusing to accept the decline of man
Did he ever feel guilt for lying?
Did he ever have a one true friend?

my child says we're all "fakes"
some cynical wisdom in that, i suppose
but kindness doesn't turn away
it foolishly accepts but finds reward

flights of angels

something pure about addiction
so pure in its single-mindedness
a purity that doesn't replenish
pure blackness, pure evil
a love that kills
shakes painfully to the core
chews and spits out its victims
in a garbled wad of phlegm-mix
waiting for the next fix

emphathy for a child of a lesser god

restless, i watch the seconds tick off
the moans of my son
the pain, locked-in grief
arching arms useless
unable to reach any object of curiosity
fingers without fine motor
never to pick up needle or coin
and legs my son has
carry him nowhere
don't much serve him
but to kick the air

do i cry for him?
i think, not so much anymore but
maybe i see plain truth make
pure tears swell this fragile heart
to cry for me much more
pity me more
pity me who’ll never cheer for him
taking that first step
winning that first ball game
kissing that first girlfriend
how cruel, unjust to take from me these

sure, truth is, i cry as much now
as ever before, such streaming salty
pain of purest sorrow
come to drown me
doubled with my son’s own
innocence, and mine
of truly bitter anger
anger at a god who won't explain
anger because my son's grief is mine also
grief too damned hard to bear alone
and welcome anger… ohhh,
so much easier to justify
why life is ever unfair


J.H. Lee
May 2011