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Mixtape

I’ve been doing a dozen things
at once all day long.
My Day of the Dead altar
is in its seventh incarnation—
marigolds
and mosaic skulls added,
the flowerpots
wrapped in silver foil.

In front of most
of its honorees
is a single offering.
Chocolate for my mother,
a tiny glass of milk
with cornbread
crumbled in it
for my dad,
a joint for Gloria.

I need to decide between
a tiny book of poems
and a can of Coke for Bob.

Altar rejects
litter the table
and floor around me
and the frames I’ve been painting
around the paintings I should already
have taken to the gallery
still don’t look just right.

But from the iPod,
Mary Gauthier is advising me
to have a little mercy now.
So, although I can’t resist
putting away the Scotch tape
and three pens
and two three pairs of scissors first,

I am committed to writing
just one poem
before first going in search
of the  glass of “Oats Overnight”
I made and then misplaced
and then my phone—
lost for the fifth time today.

I thank Telmex for the house phone
I keep solely
for calling my lost cell phone,
which I find two feet away
from my left hand,
buried under an unruly pile of papers
and a paper maché figure
of a small skeleton
in a sombrero
and hoop skirts
holding an empty basket.

Joe Purdy
bewails Canyon Joe,
surrendering the stage
to whoever recorded
a C&W version of
“Let it Be Me.” Someone
not the Everly Brothers—
perhaps you know who.
My ipod just says “Track 09,”
which sounds like
a Bob Dylan song,
doesn’t it?

And this is the best argument
I can think of
to end this attempt at a poem
and surrender to Netflix.
Or perhaps a swim
in this afternoon’s
still-hot pool.

The dogs will come out
to commune
as well.
And perhaps the white owl
will fly over as it did
that night long ago,
swooping low
over the pool,
then rising to wing
over the neighbor’s house.

The Avett Brothers
are advising me to
“Go to Sleep”
but I resist.
Too many piles to deal with
and perhaps I should venture
one more try at getting my new computer
to sync with the Cloud.
Or watch that last episode
of “Sex Education” which
I cannot believe
I am addicted to.

Griffin House declares
they are “Crazy for You,”
which seems appropriate
to end this poem with.
These songs
have aged well
over the ten years
since you sent
the mixed tape
I’ve been listening to
ever since.