Sunset
(After “Painting with John” HBO)

John says, “Write a poem about the sunset.”

The sun sets in the west.
red, orange, even a hint of purple.

Red sky at night – sailors’ delight
Red in the morning – sailors take warning.
Of course, now it is almost always red because of air pollution.

Close your eyes.
Listen to me.

The air is absolutely still
you can hear the grit and pebbles grinding under your shoes.

A totally blind person
will get it
without the light show.

The night critters
will take over from the
day critters.

The street lights will go on
the children will run home
sweaty and mosquito bitten
hungry and still wild.

A chill will grow in the
slightly spooky darkness.

I am tired of the past.
The stories bubbling to the surface
oatmeal burning in a pot on the stove
driftwood caught in a forever eddy
the Pacific Ocean garbage patches
stories told and re-told making the same point
from a different direction.
My mind drifting in circles.

Every sunset is new
every sunrise
there is no beginning nor end to the day
the clock is an illusion
time is an illusion
the earth spins effortlessly
the sun shines in the center
of our system
Each of its planets has sunrise and sunset
even though at the greater distances Sol
is just another star and night lasts forever.

John says, “Write a poem about the sunset.”
He is standing on a Caribbean Island hill overlooking the sea
and even with my large TV screen
the sunset he is enjoying looks kind of dull and distant.
It is clear to me that in that moment
he is feeling God-damned beautiful waiting for the light to fail
and the darkness overwhelm the sky
and the stars to shine.
He is writing the poem himself.

I face death every day.
When riding in a car I think about all the accidents that
DON’T
happen.
How interesting and miraculous it is that so few people die
considering how many people commute
down the same stretch of freeway
day after day after day.
You would think that more people would just decide that
ramming into the diverter was the best way to end their endless commute.

John says, “write a poem about the sunset.”
He back tracks on it later in the show and says that
he recognizes that it was unfair to ask me
to be able to get out a pen and start writing
about his sunset.
He was happy that night, looking at the sunset.
Good for you, John.
He’s something of a jerk but every once and a while…

He always gets pulled over by authority figures
TSA
cops
The Man.
So, he’s at the airport
the TSA agents always take him into a side room
they always go through his bags
they always frisk him.
He’s annoyed but after a lifetime of this he is patient
he doesn’t make things worse for himself by
adding fuel to their anxieties about
pulling people out of line and searching their stuff and frisking them.
But in telling the story I can hear the
bitter whining in his voice,
Always. Always. Always.
At some point my sympathies are lost.
He must project a certain assholeness that attracts
cops and TSA.
But let’s face it, he is a large man with wild hair, a beard, and a bent nose.
He looks like a criminal, an assassin in the movies.
In fact, he has played criminals in the movies.
Of course they worry about him.
Duh. What could he expect?
I start to tune him out.
I am getting ready to turn him off
But he keeps going with his story;

He finally gets on the plane and
nearby he sees a family
they’ve been through a lot
the man, his wife and 2 children.
The older child is a 10 year old girl.
She’s too big to be climbing all over her father
trying to get comfortable
she’s restless and anxious.
Nevertheless, the father is calm.
After much thrashing
the girl falls asleep in her father’s lap.
The sun comes in the window and falls on the daughter’s
face and the father holds his hand up
to shade her eyes.
For hours.
John forgives humanity
and that is when I forgive John for whining and being a jerk.

“Write a poem about the sunset.”
OK, John. I will.

The day can be hot or cold
dry or wet
but the sun will always set.

01-03-2024
Happy new year.