Author: stevekuusisto

There’s nothing between uncle history
And his relatives—he’s the good uncle—
Quiet, respectful,
Happy (when it rains)
To play Monopoly
He speaks volumes
With his eyes
His sister, La Religieuse
Has loads of children
Game time lasts months
And the green, democratic
Springtime sneaks up
The way seasons do
Silently, infused
With death
They keep rolling
The dice—
Chance, no chance
Fireflies appearing
At windows

When spring comes
Uncle History puts away
His winter carvings
Raises his checkered face
Walks in the open
Whispers the oldest sentence
“Live a little, after all…”
His home-made nick-nacks
Tell another story—
Shuman under Clara’s piano
Music, the refuge
Of color
Weary eyes
Blood spatters
Of tuberculosis
He carves these things
Because they are true
Little chatchkas
That resemble birds
You can go in his house
And look

Uncle History loves drunks
Van Gogh sitting under a tree
With absinthe
Grant on horseback
Waving a bottle—
“Watch out Vicksburg!”
And Hemingway
Who drank so much
You could see his liver
Under his skin
Like a worm
Joe McCarthy
Hunting Communists
With Scotch…
He’s known them all:
Churchill
Kerouac
Veronica Lake
Sultan Selim II
Alcibiades
What a list!
His favorite moment:
The Greeks
After a night of drinking
Nursing their hangovers
Inside a wooden horse

The birds are singing sideways
Urgently calling
“The world is fucked up!”
“Fucked up!”
“Fucked up!”
Bird to bird
Across the globe
It was the Luddites
Who first discovered it
Uncle’s heard this song
For three hundred years
Satanic mill
Ned Ludd
Nightingales
“Fucked up!”
“Fucked up!”
Such cries
High in the branches

Uncle History owns four things
Of zero use—
Cable from the Brooklyn Bridge
A pile of Polish zlotys
The first ever fur coat
And a mini Rosetta Stone
Covered with mistakes
These keep him going
He fingers the cable
Dons the coat
Spends zlotys
In a mind-brothel
And translates hieroglyphs
Of nonexistent gods
Now he rings a little bell
Calls for tea
Though he has no servant

Buttercups

It’s best to not climb the mountain
Dance where people live

A mirror reflects
So much hope

Tipping vivid small flowers
In the sun
A good dance

I should say more
I should always say more

After Creeley

I wanted poetry to love me
So
I promised
To
Take it
For a ride
“But you can’t drive”
It said
Then: “For
Chrissake
Look out
Where you’re going”

No one comes to the shack
Where Uncle
Lives with his wife
And her beautiful art
There’s no term
For what she makes
Even a blank wall is thrilling
Especially this one
Where a spider walks a fine crack
She turns lonely
Into loneliness
The way priests paint eggs
For children—
The analogy
Can’t be explained
Uncle loves to watch his wife’s hands
Moving through the air
Like snails on broken glass
(Another one
That can’t be explained)
This is how art occurs
In empty roomss

Uncle History is a pointillist masterpiece
When he leans to his mirror
He’s all colored dots
It’s time to jump into the day
But in public
No one spots him
“A trick of the light”
That’s what they call him
Pins of sun
On fresh snow
Imagine going through life
Both known
And invisible
Central to all
And easy to forget
Beautiful, that’s what he is
Picture the smallest flecks
In the world
Falling where you walk
He’s “dot-daddy” alright
Sadly people walk over him

Aunt History is sad because
The aleatoric bubble of joy
Has been stolen—
It was created by accident
This happiness thing
That lives inside
All creatures
But by God
Its been snatched
You know how it is—
You’re walking a street
And feel a sudden burst of joy
Well, some bastard
Has swiped it
And so, there are blank pages
In the book of life
She rips them out
Puts them on her face