And Memory Became A Fading Melody








I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.


--Walt Whitman
“Song of Myself”


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And Memory Became A Fading Melody

by

Justice Putnam




I



My vision was hazy
As I stumbled
Into the alley

And it was hard
To remember the reasons
Why I'd been
Shot in the stomach.

The more
I tried to focus
My eyes
Mind and body

The more clouded
The details developed.

I could only see
Myself as a child
In Corvallis

Running
With Tippee across
An emerald
Expanse of pasture.

"Jean!"

I could hear
My mother calling
From the porch
Of the farmhouse,

"dinner's ready!"

Turning
I could see the old barn
In the distance

Dulled red with a gray haze

The green pick-up
Parked next to
The chicken coop

Lady
Our black Labrador
Came running
Fast and low
From the farmhouse

Tippee bounded
Past me to meet
Lady

Both sliding
To a stop
Licking each other
In greeting
And then racing to dinner.

As I broke into a run
I perceived out
The corner of
My eye

An angular
Dark shape
Moving in the woods.

I felt a tearing
Grip my stomach
And stopped
At an evergreen
To compose myself.

I leaned my head
Against the tree
And felt the bark
Press indentations
On my forehead.

Slowly I slid to my knees
My head never
Losing contact
With the bark.

But I was
No longer
In Corvallis
As a child.

I was crumpled
In a dirty alley

My head against
A concrete building
My forehead
Bloodied and wet.

I staggered
To my feet
And felt my
Midsection
Tearing loose.

I grabbed
And tightened
My shirt

For surely
To do
Otherwise

Would mean
Spilling guts

Here and now

In this
Wino piss tank
Alley

This alley
In LA

That was it

A flash of clarity
Lit my memory

I had been shot

And I was in
An alley
In LA

Somewhere near
The Greyhound Bus
Station
Judging from
The sounds
Of the street.

I leaned back
Against the
Concrete wall

And attempted
To focus on the
White dumpster
Across the alley.

Stenciled
In black

Block letters
Were the words

LA SANITATION

I figured
If I could hold
My attention
On the white dumpster

I might
Then be able
To resume my quest
For the reasons
Why
I had
Been shot
In the stomach.

My eyes began
To flicker

And then strobe

I saw interposed
First
The white dumpster

And then
Metallic barn

Then the dumpster

And then
The metallic barn
My father contracted
To have built.

It housed
Hay and alfalfa bales
Farming tools
And supplies

And the farm's
Only milk cow.

I was walking
From the
Farmhouse
At four in the
Morning

To milk
And then collect eggs
Feed the geese
And dogs
Tend to the
Horses and goats.

As I walked

A crystal radio
I had built
Bounced slightly
In the pocket
Of my coveralls

An ear-jack cord
Snaked its way to
My left ear.

I was listening to
Early morning
Weather reports
Local news
And political
Commentary.

I was
Seven years old
And lived
In Corvallis,
Oregon.

Hatfield was
Governor and
Kennedy was
President.

The farm
Lay outside
The town
Proper

Among
Hilly pastures
And wooded valleys.

But I perceived
Of something
Beyond the farm
Beyond Corvallis
The Nation

Even
The world.

Often
When I was
Doing chores
I pretended
The metallic barn
Was a space station

Or at least
Part of a
Space station

I pretended
The livestock
The supplies
And my
Responsibilities

Were integral
Parts to the
Survival
Of the whole
Contained
Cosmic community.

To have purpose
And meaning

To benefit
Others

Were Virtues
I was taught
And came
To believe

Even at that
Early age.

As I continued
With my early
Morning chores

I again noticed
The angular
Dark shape

But moving
Among
The hay bales.

I felt a burning
In my stomach

As I retreated
From the shape

My hands snagged
Splinters from
The rough planks
Of the pen

As I moved back
Until stopped
By the corrugated
Metal of the barn.

Beside
The hay
And alfalfa bales

Were twenty-five
Pound sacks
Of rock salt

String-stitched closed
Stacked ten high
Four deep and
Eight across.

I was staring
At the sacks
Of rock salt
When

Involuntarily

I blinked
Quickly
Several times.

My eyes
Began to tear

Blur

And when I focused
Again

I was in the
Dirty wino piss tank
Alley

Near the Greyhound
Bus station

Staring at the
White dumpster
With the stenciled lettering
That read

LA SANITATION.



II



As I became
More cognizant
Of my place
My body and
State of mind

I took mental inventory
Of the immediate events.

Beginning with the
First acknowledgement
I had been shot.

I was sure
I was dying

Had not I read
Somewhere

That one's
Life

Flashed before
One's eyes
Preceding the moment
Of death?

Except
My will for

Survival was strong
Always strong

I laughed silently
To myself
As I
Remembered
A couple of lines

From a poem
By Jim Morrison,

"Did you have a good life?
Enough to base a movie on?"

I thought how trite
My movie would be

High-angle
Long-range shot
Of young boy and dog
Ambling over the
Gentle slope
Of pasture
And woods.

Close-up
Head-shot
Of young mother
Calling for dinner.

Regressing
Dolly-shot of
Young mother on porch

Then
Frame
Farmhouse.

Cross-cut
To boy and dog
Responding
Turning

If the dog
Wasn't a mutt

This could be a scene
Right out of
Lassie.

I chuckled
At that vision
Of ridiculousness

Gulped some of the
Sandy Santa Ana's
That blew
Newspapers through
The alley

And abruptly

Painfully
Became aware

Of the whole
Awful sequence
Of events that
Led up to
My shooting.

I had become
A man
Who still believed in
The power
Of Boy Magic

Except
In this part of
The world

Magic
Doesn't work
Anymore.

I had become
A man
Who still believed
In a Soul

Something that was
At the core of
Conscious and
Moral
Intelligence.

"That in us,"

I would often
Quote Plato,

"whatever it is,
in virtue of which
we are denominated
wise and foolish
good and evil."

I knew the
Function of the
Soul
Was not just
To know
Good and evil

But to direct and
Govern ones’
Actions
So that
Evil was
Avoided and
Good achieved

Except
I had compromised
My virtue

I had come to
Believe
That the mere
Pursuit of
Beauty
Was enough to
Justify meaning
And purpose.

Except
In this part
Of the world

Meaning has
No purpose
Anymore.

But
What of this
Part of the world?

This society
Without culture?

What kind
Of TV dream
Would
Motivate
Generation
After generation

To pursue a
Vision of
Beauty
With obsessive
Narcissistic
Pride?

Except
In any part
Of the world

Life is Suffering.

And I was dying
From a gunshot
Wound in
The stomach.

Almost
As if
I was reading
A book

I could see
The words

LIFE IS SUFFERING

Float
In front of me

But like lifting
An overlay
From the overhead
Projector
In junior high

LIFE IS SUFFERING

Changed to

LA SANITATION

And I lay
Bleeding
Slow
Suffering
Life.

I was taught in
College physics how

Time

Like particles
And waves

Could shift
From red
To blue

Move fast
Or slow.

But in that
Alley
I perceived in a
Constant
Rhythmic
Chill.

I could see
Molecules of light
Play on the
White dumpster

And the low
Stone black
Wings of death
Shadow colors
Refracted from
A multitude
Of broken bits
Of glass.

I could hear
The scratching
Of the electrical
Transformer
At one end
Of the
Alley

Harmonize
With the
Reverberation

Of traffic
At the other.

I felt
The heavy
Bass
Of buses
And semi's
Mix liquid
With the
Treble
Of car stereos
Gained-up

Playing
Classic rock
Rap and
Latin.

I could also
Taste my own
Salt tears
Barely dilute
The thick blood
From deep inside me

And excreted
Out my
Mouth and nose.

Tears
Falling
On paper and dust
While
Blood rusted
A path over
Flesh and metal

Discarded and crushed.

No longer could
I blame
Collective insensibility

Only my own

Alone.

Yes
It was stupid
To confront
The young hood
In such
A belligerent manner
As he accosted
The elderly
Woman walking
Across the street.

I could have just
Ignored the episode

More than likely
The occurrence
Would have passed
Without incident

Everyone
Would have been
On their way.

But
The scene
Was ugly

In an
Ugly surrounding.

"Hey!"
I yelled a
Little too
Aggressively.

"Whaddya gonna
do about it?"

The hood
Approached me
In a posture
Of hostility.

"What the fuck
do you think
I'm gonna do?"

I said.

My arms
Spread
Like Jesus
On the cross.

"What the fuck
you gonna do
now
muthafucka?"

The hood
Spit
As he shoved
A gun against
My stomach.

I continued
To hold my arms
Outstretched
And looked him
Dead
In the eye

I drew a breath
Between
Clenched teeth

I said in
My best
East Coast accent,

"Fawk You!"

He fired
One shot
And ran
Away.

"Help!"

The old woman
Squeaked
As she
Limped
To a nearby
Liquor store.

I stumbled into
The alley
And against
The concrete wall
Sliding
To my knees

A white hot burning
Radiated in my stomach

As an angular
Dark shape
Wavered
From
Across the street

It was the old woman
Returning
With a
Vaguely looking
Middle-Eastern man.

They both
Stopped close.

The old woman
Was praying

The man
Leaned over me

"You be ok,"

He said

As my eyes
Fluttered

And slowly
Rolled up
To my brow.



III



I could
Remember
The days

When innocence
Was blowing
Like across

A Van Gogh
Meadow

Caressing the
Hillsides and woods
With a
Fragrant
Shimmering
Color.

Innocence
Rising

Above the
Vulgarity
In which the
Existence
Of nearly every
Individual
Is spent.

But I had become
Bound by guilt

And dubious
Of the truth.

I came to believe
That in a sense

Innocence

Was the same
As failing

Holding onto
Innocence
Meant becoming

Dog-lipped
And stranded
In the park

Alone.

I came to believe
That the measure
Of love

Was the amount
Of emotional
Hurt
I could survive.

Not quite
Like a crushed
Butterfly
Picked apart
By a colony of ants

But I had often
Cut my finger

From the beauty
Of a long-stemmed rose.

So I realized
In those final moments
What had actually
Happened

My life was
A series of patterns

A self created
Maze that offered
No escape

So overwhelming
In its
Awesome-ness

That I was
Incapacitated
By its weight

I had no
Resiliency
Left to survive

I punctured
Myself
With my own
Pursuit of
Beauty.

Again
And again
I had sought

Compassion
And heart-pure
Connection

Between the legs
Of Beauty

Only to make
Visible
My own
Impure

Weakness of heart.

I would

Give up.

I would

Let sadness
String itself
Between my fingers

And memory

Became
A fading
Melody.



From: The Nature of Poetics Collapsed Outside My Window

© 2006 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen