Dear Mr. Kimberlin:

Thank you for contacting me to share your support for the
AClean Water Authority Restoration Act of 2005″ (S.912).  I
always appreciate hearing from constituents on issues pertaining to
California’s water supply.

As a strong supporter of the Clean Water Act, I share your
concerns that the Bush Administration is seeking to weaken
wetlands protections based on a Supreme Court ruling (Solid
Waste Agencies of Northern Cook County v. Army Corps of
Engineers).  The Supreme Court determined that wetlands are not
subject to federal jurisdiction under the Clean Water Act based
solely on the habitat they provide for migratory birds. 

At this time, S. 912 has been referred to the Senate
Committee on Environment and Public Works.  Please know that
although I am not a member of this committee, I will keep your
comments in mind should this bill come before the full Senate.  

Again, thank you for writing to me about the Clean Water
Act.  I hope you will continue to write me about issues that are
important to you.  If you have any additional comments or
questions, please feel free to contact my Washington, D.C. staff at
(202) 224-3841.

Sincerely yours,

Dianne Feinstein
United States Senator

http://feinstein.senate.gov 
 
 

When I was in high school, about three quarters of the way through the last century, I had a girlfriend. Her name was Carol, and we went out for a couple of years. She grew up quickly and disappeared. I grew up – if at all – a lot more gradually, but now I own a condo. It happens to be very close to the condo where Carol lived with her family.

I guess I saw her at a class reunion in the early 1980s. Yes, we went together. And there was a wedding shortly after that — hers. The event horizon beyond which I have no idea, but I sure hope things went well for her. A good person, she, and life can be very beautiful and joyful. Or not.

The other day I was out for a walk and decided to try to figure out which unit was hers. I knew it was one of a few in a particular building, but I wasn’t exactly sure. Now I am.

Boy does this bring back memories. See the black door? Got some good kisses there. And that was her bedroom, above and to the right, behind the tree.

Things were fresh then, sweeter, more exciting. But sitting here now, at age 44, knowing what I do … if I could go back and have it to do over … we’d spend less time up there behind that tree, and more time at my folks’ place, playing with the dog.

A bland light is best to see it in.
Middle age brings it to flower.
And there, just when you’re feeling your weakest,
it floods you completely,
leaving you weeping as you drive your car.

— Joe Salerno

[For about 20 mintues on Friday 1.13.06, the name of the blog was changed from metaphor to what happened. Nothing did. –Ed.]

So, you think that’s going to help?

Help what?

Jump start the blog – you know – kick up metabolism by changing the name.

I doubt it.

I just don’t know about you sometimes.

Why?

Well I know what happened, and so do you. And being even more obscure will just make them all go read something better, or watch Larry King.

Good for you, smartass. What don’t you post what you know on the blog, then we’ll all know.

Forget it. It’s too ethereal.

Well I’m posting the best stuff I’ve got. And it’s getting about as many comments as the wallpaper in a whorehouse.

Maybe your writing just sucks.

Maybe you suck. And who’s Ed?

Beats me.

We get coffee, then.

Yeah.

I’ve been thinking about something.

Oh no.

Yeah, I’m afraid so.

Oh good grief, what?

I’ve been thinking of changing the name of the blog from metaphor to

What?

Grilled Cheese.

You’re insane.

Probably.

Oh good Buddha. Why?

I’m bored. My readers are bored. The little kid in the picture at the top of the sidebar is so bored, he’s leaving through that tiny doorway.

OK. You’re bored. That explains ditching metaphor. But why Grilled Cheese?

It’s my favorite food, and I’m on a diet and I can’t have any.

Then why not Sloppyass Cheesy Pizza? I thought that was your favorite food. Or Cherry Garcia? Or Tollhouse? That at least sounds like something.

OK, maybe Grilled Cheese isn’t my absolute, final favorite, but it’s up there on the comfort food scale, up there with meatloaf.

Now there’s a name for a blog …metaloaf.

Not metaloaf, bonehead. Meatloaf.

That’s what I said. So you’d have to tell everybody to change their blogrolls to make your url grilledcheese.blogspot.com?

Nope, that’s taken. No posts on it since August, 2002, but there’s a blog there.

I got it. Get metaloaf.blogspot.com, but call the blog Grilled Cheese.

Meatloaf is taken too. Metaloaf I could get, but it doesn’t make any sense. Asshat.

What about calling your blog Asshat?

Now there’s an idea!

Nobody’s gonna comment on this, Doofus. You’re just spinning your wheels.

Quit giving me ideas!

Ooh, I really got it: metafork.

Yesterday, I told a friend that I am through with writing about war on this blog. It’s just been draining too much of my focus, and is too taxing emotionally. I’m a poet, and I starting this blog to be about poetry, writing, art and culture. And philosophy, metaphysics. Metaphor, metaphysics. Same difference? No. Anyway, regrettably, I started it right before His Arrogance commenced with the shock and awe, which has been a compelling and ready diversion. Oh well.

This is not a post about war. It’s a post about peace, in a sense. We could say it’s about the rule of law and the peaceful endowment, withdrawl, and transition of national power. It’s about time.

It’s about time that we, with gravity and circumspect sobriety, begin the essential dialog of impeachment of President George W. Bush. He has committed high crimes and misdemeanors, failed in his oath to uphold the law, and acted to the manifest injury of the American people. I’m not the only one who thinks so.

Today, The Nation magazine, which has been published since the time of the Civil War, proffered an article calling for investigation and impeachment. [Link]

It’s about time.

First there is grass at the bottom
of the stairs, and a tree. Just
a generic, unnamable tree.
The street, black with a yellow
stripe, has a name which
doesn’t matter, a family long gone
and their land divided to us who
do not care. Now a field, thirsty
again though it rained last week,
when for days I thought of nothing
so much as of the dead. Then the sea,
which is blue steel, winter cold
and hungry, in need of sleep.
Boats, oil rigs, islands, sea birds
lost and homeless, sick to death
of fish, and then the setting sky.
Ruby, saffron, tangerine, shouldering
cobalt and lapis lazuli. And beyond
the day’s grand finale of water
and terminal light is the great backstage.
Clouds line up for tomorrow’s overture
or tonight’s bland drizzle. Stars fidget,
clear their throats to sing the evening
hymn. Then a thousands dusty scenes
of memory – grandparents, school yards,
car wrecks, sex – all deconstructing
in the dark, and on pages just like this.
The gestures of my dying are rehearsing
there, you know, beyond the sky
and the mind, already breathing, born.


© 2006 by J. Kyle Kimberlin
all rights reserved
2nd Draft January 11, 2006

Recently, I wrote to Senator Barbara Boxer, opposing the confirmation of Samuel Alito to the Supreme Court. Today I received this response:

Dear Mr. Kyle Kimberlin:

Thank you for writing to me about President Bush’s nomination of Judge Samuel A. Alito to serve as Associate Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.

Justice Sandra Day O’Connor’s moderate and careful approach to the law made her the crucial swing vote on a deeply divided court.

I am very disappointed that the President did not choose a successor who would unite our country.

Judge Alito’s record raises serious questions about his commitment to the rights and freedoms that define us as Americans.

On the Third Circuit Court of Appeals, Judge Alito was the only judge to uphold a law enabling government to force a woman to notify her husband before obtaining an abortion, even if she fears him. Thankfully the Supreme Court, led by Justice O’Connor, held this requirement unconstitutional.

In other cases, Judge Alito has said that state employees cannot enforce their rights under the Family and Medical Leave Act; tried to make it harder for victims of employment discrimination based on race, gender and disability to have their day in court; and, argued that Congress does not have the authority to ban the personal possession of machine guns.

The Senate Judiciary Committee hearings on this nomination began on January 9, 2006. With the stakes so high, we must thoroughly evaluate all of Judge Alito’s record. Rest assured, I will only support a Supreme Court nominee whom I believe will safeguard the rights and freedoms of all Americans.

Again, thank you for writing to me.

Barbara Boxer
United States Senator

I’ve really had it this time.  I just don’t see how there’s any hope.  I didn’t eat any blackeyed peas on New Year’s Day.  How could I forget?  You gotta eat ‘em, for good luck!  Now I’ll probably wind up living under a bridge by July.  Dang.

a love story

He is sitting at a table by the door, and stands to use the restroom just as she comes in. She looks at him as if startled, confronted, as though he rose to challenge her, stop her from entering, or keep her from reaching the counter alive. Then she looks away, then back again at him as he follows her by sheer coincidence past the shelves of mugs and bagged beans. She won’t relax until she has one hand on the counter itself – Safe! You’re it!

It could have been a trick of lighting, her curious reaction; just the harsh dark of a midwinter’s late afternoon. Or a lie of the devil in her long brown hair. Maybe something new about his face, which she had never seen before, which surprised or bewildered her. Or something old but lost in fog: resemblance to a teacher from childhood, or a neighbor where she used to live.

It brings him down, like the water circling the drain as he stands at the sink. He doesn’t know her, just the shape and motion of her. But those eyes, with their tincture of worry, of innocence, would be a good place to dream. Maybe a good place to die.

Washing his hands, he remembers his grandfather, who made the children scrub their hands before eating; “You’ve been petting those dogs, so go wash up;” who knew little of women, save one, but knew the want of them will leave a man’s soul spent and dusted with ash.

He needs a shave. Maybe that’s what set her off. This is a classy place, lots of brass, glass and polished wood. She works for a doctor or a dentist and likes to find her own kind here. Men with neckties still knotted after work. No poets in jeans, faded to show where their wallets ride, potbellied in old sweaters, unkempt and existential.

So he may go mad, here and now in this coffeehouse bathroom with its overflowing wastebasket and silent buzz of wireless Internet. His grandpa always said you should wash up every time, and there’s a sign beside the mirror demanding it in two languages. But he wishes he hadn’t; that he had hurried back out to see her again. There’s a post he could hide behind, supporting a rack of funny greeting cards – blank inside – and from there he could see her pay and go. Her shoulders and the small of her back receding in light blue cotton, turning beyond the glass doors, into the night.

He shrugs, and watches himself do it – so it goes, we make what we made since the world began – and goes out. Back to his table, his notebook, and his fine point gel ink pen. And sees that she’s not gone, not sitting at a table avoiding his impecunious eyes by feigning interest in the empty street. She’s behind the counter now, in a burgundy apron, commanding a thunderous blender. Checking his cup, he doesn’t need a refill now. No, not just yet.


© 2006 by J. Kyle Kimberlin
all rights reserved
2nd Draft 1.11.2006

I seem to have gotten rather vividly off track here, as has been brought to my attention. Strayed some distance out of my element. It happens, when one forgets to look into mirrors or up at the moon. Sorry about that. Let’s see if I can’t pull the sleigh back into it’s defensible ruts.

When we get out of the glass bottles of our ego,
and when we escape like squirrels turning in the
cages of our personality
and get into the forests again,
we shall shiver with cold and fright
but things will happen to us
so that we don’t know ourselves.

—D. H. Lawrence

In the dark of the moon,
In the flying snow, in the dead of winter
War spreading, families dying, the world in danger
I walk the rocky hillside, sowing clover.

—Wendell Berry