Archiving

One of the reasons I started a blog was to gather together the various stories and poems I have written over the past twenty or so years. Some of these are so old that I am not even sure I can read the files anymore, but I’ll try my best to dig everything out from the grave. With that said, however, here is a recent poem that I wrote during a visit to the Columbus Museum of Art. It is a free-for-all spilling of spontaneous prose in response to this three panel modern piece by Robert Bechtle called ‘61 Pontiac. He painted it between 1968–69 using oil on canvas. Here’s what it looks like: 

So here is what I wrote about it: 

american bald corduroy 

Response to Bechtle's ’61 Pontiac 

all-american family / intellectual serious matter-of-fact dad does not care for communists or poetry / button-down short-sleeve / cigarette-pack pocket / Spanish-rice dinners with whole white milk / proper undershirt / self-aware nurturing mom in bangs and sandals / sews just a bit and likes Gunsmoke and Roy Orbison / a skirt and long-sleeve sweater / modern / liberated / cautiously experimental / wants to look together, successful, perfect. 

all-american family / and maybe they are / maybe he does wrestle with the boy and play peek-a-boo with the girl / belly-laugh when junior pretends to read the New York Times /  believes he is lucky to sip Maxwell House on Sunday mornings while he and she do the crossword and sometimes make love / thinks his new ’61 Pontiac station wagon is exactly what his family needs / maybe she is perfect / not pretending at all / maybe she was the toddler in her mother’s arms in front of the black ’42 Olds with her US Army father / maybe she knew even then about perfect all-american families and patriotism and gratitude and grace / maybe he works with a black guy and chooses not to bowl with free-masons and bookies / maybe together and often they piously bow their heads and recite the lord’s prayer and have even seriously considered becoming leaders of their church’s youth group / maybe he inherently knew about kicking the tires before buying / maybe the tow-headed boy will grow into a football-star and marry the cheerleader and have two beautiful white-kids and no miscarriages or lumps / maybe they will stand in front of an red ’84 Chevy and be the all-american family /  maybe the baby will become the first american astronaut and marry a culturally sensitive California wine maker.

or maybe the way the father stands ever so slightly on his heels reveals that he is not really leaning in / that he actually is thinking lustfully about Joyce who works in the deli / that he wrestles daily with angst and ennui / that behind the beard is skin scarred with anger and regret / maybe the mother’s wide foundational-stance is hinting that she is trying not to fall over in tears swallowed by stained-laundry and bacon-grease / will he suffer a stroke in ten years and spend the remainder of his life in a hospital-bed next to the living-room window with slurred speech / will she start drinking too much gin and resort to eating TV dinners in a thin housedress and chain smoking filtered-cigarettes / will the all-american boy drive this ’61 Pontiac in ’74 (then a rusty junker), listen to Jim Morrison on an eight-track and pick up a hitch-hiker who will offer to do him for a few bucks and some weed / will the baby eventually drop-out of Ohio State, marry an abusive engineer, hide her black eye behind gigantic sunglasses, have a hyperactive child

for now though, this all-american family will remain forever still-lifed into this painting and allow all who sit on this bench and glance at their bliss to know exactly where we have gone wrong