Poems by Raymond Wachter

The Leaf-Flute Master Plays On

I'm thinking of you, this morning, Master Yokoyama, and your crazy-
assed "Leaf-Flute Master" Zen practice. There you are, in the Kaiko
Park Gardens, a Japanese tree-leaf rolled up like a spliff, your eyes closed
to the rest of the world, the wind filling the sleeves of your robes, the
sun on your face. All of this as I walked, mindfully, to get my clothes
from the fucking washing machine which had become 'un-balanced'
and threw off my morning, making me kick it a few times. But ah,

I've come back to you, and Braverman's article in this month's Sun,
and thrown a little coffee on. I think you'd like it – Community Coffee
with Chicory. Too bad I bought it at Wal-Mart, the slave labor capital
of the West. But forget that, eh Yokoyama? Let's kick back and commune
with nature today. Never mind the bad shit, pump up track nine of
The Postal Service: "I'll be the platform shoes, undo what heredity's
done to you; you won't have to strain to look into my eyes…" You don't
have to cover the whole earth with soft leather; just enough for the soles
of your shoes will suffice! It's there; lifting me a little higher; allowing me

to quit worrying about the lesson plan I'm supposed to teach to my sophomore
lit students today: The Belle of Amherst and Old Possum's "Prufrock."
And when I go for a refill, when the poem's over, I'll feel the weight and touch
of my feet on the floor, feel the handle of Mr. Coffee in my right hand, and
notice the clink of the spoon and saucer before I walk back to you at my desk.

The Mood I Was Searching For Was Too Fast For Me

Galloping down the stairs
two steps at a time.

Weaving through the crowd,
deftly avoiding upsetting
anyone, knocking their briefcases,
or getting stuck in their
too-large-for-their-heads hats.

Presently I gave up and settled down.
Down for a leisurely stroll.
And a cup of coffee at the Java House.
And then it happened on me again.

In a matter-of-fact sort of way,
"Fancy running into you here."

Rain at the Bedroom Window

Why does life just keep going and going? It's like
a ball of yarn at a Dalí exhibition – magic and time-
lessness are just a small part of all the things to expect

from a lover: kindness, like the gentle way you handed
me coffee with a saucer, too. There are so many things
to be confused about, Why should love be any different?

Too many times we just keep repeating ourselves, the same
parties, but with different cocktails and roles, claiming:
"I want, I want, I want." So much selfishness at our

fingertips – like an act of God that doesn't make sense: tying a
rainbow to not forget the flood. How many lives and lovers
can we have? And think and think as the rain slows up again.

It's These Kinds of Games that I Love

Like that time we made-out in the
back pew at Salem Lutheran Church.
It was just yesterday, I think.
I thought and thought, but it got me
nowhere – and real quick.

Like that Double Tiger-Monkey
we shared at Jody's Bake Shop:
you and me, all alone with two straws –
like that scene in Lady and the Tramp
where they're sucking up the same
spaghetti strand and wind up smooching.

Our love works like this. And this. And
that one over there. A little of everything,
Please.

Just one more thing. That day I caught you
dancing in the bathroom, kissing the mirror –
It's what made me fall in love with me,
for falling in love with you in the first place.

Days Like These

There's so much I want to do all at once:
listen to Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville – those sexy lyrics
so full of life I could just hang on – better
than college or Christianity or anything around here.

Besides maybe a big fat cup of café au lait, and some leftover
Christmas cookies and the chance to watch Lust for Life for the
hundredth time. Who is more beautiful? Vincent Van Gogh or
Kirk Douglas portraying him? With his big hairy trunk
of a chest – and I thought I was straight!

Or to hell with that. I'll go through Lunch Poems very
methodically and rewrite every damn one of them.
I'll revise O'Hara's 50's and 60's New York references
with 21st century American pop mono-culture: True Religion jeans
and Kate Bosworth and Leonardo DiCaprio and, hell,

everybody. Isn't that what's grand about days like these? Sundays in the
middle of winter when you want to take up drawing with Betty Edwards
or enter into the realm of Pure Potentiality with Matthea Harvey?
Experience Infinite Bliss and Pure Joy: Brew pot after pot
of flavored coffee and argue with yourself about which

is better: Transatlanticism or Plans? Isn't that what everybody wants?
A little time to themselves. Lying around, daydreaming about sleeping with
DIESEL models; reading the words of His Holiness the Dalai Lama;
giving all your spare change to the Salvation Army and saving
the world. One person at a time.

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Raymond Wachter