a poem about memory, and about
two green pens, and miracles,
and grief, and defying Plato,
and energy and disposition
i have 2 green
energel pens,
pens with a
name that
sounds like,
if they were
beverages,
you’d find
them – nat
urally, in the
ever-expanding
energy drink sec
tion, which is, to
my senses (and
i would like to add
just plain common
sense), filled with
bottle after bottle
and can after can
of distasteful swill.
anyway, the thing
is i swear a few
weeks ago i threw
one of these two
green energel
pens with green
ink into the trash
because it had
begun to refuse
to make any
marks, as
pens are
wont to
do once
the ink
runs out,
or if it’s
shoddy ink,
or a poorly
architectured
pen, perhaps.
But here I am
with the two
pens before
me, one in
hand, through
which the ink
is flowing as
smooth as a
crystal clear
stream with
out any rocks
or limbs or
structures
jutting out
from below
the surface
at all, and
nary a pad
as far as
the eyes
can see
either up
stream or
downstream,
no pads nor
any natural
or unnatural
palettes of
any kind
covering
the surface
of the crystal
clear stream,
be it frogged
or frogless, and
in fact, no lazy
animals one
might find
enjoying the
stream, either
half-in, half-out
or just under the
surface, no birds
dipping down with
a splash, just that
crystal clear water
flowing at just the
right rate, not too
fast nor too slow,
smooth as can be.
that’s how the ink
is currently flowing
from my green pen,
just as smooth and
even as the curlicues
of my grip can swivel
and circle in the air
just above the paper,
where the thoughts
that run apace inside
my head may all be
juxtaposed, one abutt
ing the other, being
of a mood, as i am,
when, for whatever
reason, typing seems
inappropriate or the
incorrect way to go
about things today
(this can sometimes
be the case; in fact,
at least for me, even
though i’m generally
quite versatile when
it comes to the meth
od by which i stream
words in such a way
or in the hope of
making something
once might call art
or special or poign
ant of the accumu
lation of words –
for example some
days i might record
lines, other days i
might dictate them
into my phone, into
my little handheld
super-computer,
as i think of them
these days, only
recently have
these things
become so
advanced
that they
can at
times be
worthwhile,
one of the many
options we have
to construct these
conglomerates of
words, and so,
being “old
school,” as
it might be said,
meaning, simply,
old, it’s a pretty
exciting thing for
me to use my tip-
top pens, like this
green pen which
hastily, and a bit
too sloppily, is
now scribbling
this first draft.
so what turned
out to be at first
a mild dilemma
has become in
stead something
of an unexpected
blessing, since from
now on, whenever
i come across these
lines, or even see
the title scrolling
down through all
of the little pack
ages i create in
order, among
other things,
to rattle my
memory a
little bit, i
will – indeed –
remember; this
silly moment will
forever be a part
of the history of
me which i can
recall, wax no
stalgic, learn,
even if about
how and why
i might write
something
that is per
haps a bit
too lengthy
about a day
when i dis
covered that
i had two of
my favorite
green pens
when i be
lieved i on
ly had but
one. i
could men
tion that one
way that i tend
not to be able to
build a poem, and
am envious of those
who can, or at least
it’s not very often
that i can, is by
building a poem to
near completion
within the simple
confines of one’s
own memory, hav
ing the words arrive
in your head in such
a way that the struc
ture, the words, all
is remembered and
built strictly in one’s
mind – no can do.
i mean, i’m the guy
who writes primarily
because he cannot
under normal circ
umstances remem
ber; writing creates
a rememberable his
tory of me, which i
appreciate so much
that i do it, like this,
most every day. the
ongoing force that is
within me cannot but
write these various
and often eccentric
or so mixed up jumbles of myself that
once assembled are
stories unto them
selves, which, by
the way, is the
other bookend
of the poem that
completes it, the
other being to
write things in
such a way to
remember act
ual times, places,
events, simple
moments, mon
umental ones,
and all that
might be said
to be in between,
no matter the
fiction that
might be
added, in
fits and starts,
there is, above
all, this tiny
record of my
existence,
one to which
i can refer,
while still
here at it,
and one
which gives
me great joy
and enlighten
ment, and may
even do the same
for others who find
themselves reading
one or two of them,
at some point,
should such a
happy accident
as this occur, but
of that i am not the
expert, i leave it to
the reader. and
the words then,
at any later date,
often elicit memo
ries of literal times
i experienced. and
it is this archiving
that becomes imp
erative to me,
without which
i would seeming
ly have so little to
work with, no means
to really compare, to
learn from, and to use
in order to grow or to
mature as a human, a
good human, which is
an aspiration, at least
for me. these create
little sounding boards
from the past towards
which to toss out ideas
and to see what then
might return, with
which to brainstorm.
there’s the constructed
piece, archived, which
forever lives with an
old me, toward which
i can, from some dis
tance yonder, look
back, and with which,
with whom, i can even
converse, and we can
assess whether or not
we are doing okay, or
whether we’re regress
ing or backsliding, mov
ing into dangerous or
treacherous territory.
so, as i was saying,
there are many means
by which to create these
sounding boards for the
many archives past that
exist with all of the ver
sions of me that have
come before the ones
that i am now, and
yet today, i hold in
my right-handed
grip my favorite
pen, with green
ink, and, with one
hand holding down
the tiny notebook
upon which,
gripped in the
other hand, this
pen is smoothly
issuing forth, and
at quite a speed,
what you or i
are now reading
in front of us at
some possible
distance into
our individual
futures.
again, with
my left hand
i hold the
small notebook
that is being written
upon, and in my
right i have
a green pen,
whether or not it was
the one i thought i threw
away, i have no idea, and so,
after getting this far into what
has become a rather tall structure, i
might feel it necessary to go about switch
ing pens, to see how the identical pen might
act when gripped and swung to and fro,
over and about the small notebook, what
its tip might offer the paper that is now be
ing filled, page after page, by the pen
which i am presently holding so as to
build. and so i switch. could it be the
one i thought i tossed into the trash
which barely left a stain, which left
almost nothing but a few scratches
and green sputters upon the paper,
when last i had it in this grip? let
us see if it is. and. lo and behold.
the identical green pen has what
appears to be the capacity as
the one that was being written
with before it. there is no
sputtering, no stuttering,
the lines of ink are as
solid and smooth and
are written with the
same ease as the
ones before it.
could this
be the
pen
that i
had meant
to trash? was i
so wrong in believing
that the life of it had
all but left? that it
was, for me, of no
more use? or might
this pen, or the one
that came before it,
somehow miraculously,
or by some odd act of
serendipity (i have no
visitors, i haven’t bought
a writing utensil in many
months, could it have
arrived but by some
magic?) is now in
my hand writing
the end of this
long piece
about many
things that are
centered around
the two green pens
that i now have that
each work perfectly?
plato was wrong when
he said that for every
thing there was an i
deal template. what
i have here are the
absolute ideal plato
nic templates to the
perfect pen for my
hands, and they are
identically perfect
with which to build
these structures,
particularly if they
are tall and wordy
like this one. am
i saying that clear
ly plato was wrong?
and furthermore,
would either of
these green pens
be the ideal tem
plate of pen, if
we were to ask
plato? may i
venture to say
probably not?
so haven’t we
just learned to
defy one of the
greatest philo
sophical (and
otherwise)
minds ever
known to have
lived on this
beautiful plan
et, just with a
simple, some
what tedious
stack of lines
about, among
other things,
two green
pens?
