When We've First Begun

"He's nobody," he said.

"And who are you?" I asked him.

"I'm yesbody," he replied.

Fair enough.

____________________________________

We sat and discussed the matters that must be discussed and listened to things that we didn't want to hear.

I was standing in the kitchen and I watched the nurse across the counter as she waited for my grandmother to sign the papers that would start the hospice care.

I didn't want to be there, but there is where I belonged. I was surrounded by family and boxes of memories- the breathing was labored.

My grandmother spoke of faith and acceptance. I peeled an orange and felt the pulp as it stuck to my fingers.

____________________________________

They were the second car in the parade. They rode high on the backseat of a convertible Cadillac with their grandpa the mayor and they threw handfuls of candy to the children that lined the street.

We yelled their names and they looked at us and smiled. They were waving at faceless crowds and they found us in the blur. One of them threw candy in our general direction while the other looked ahead at the children on the sidewalk, cheering, clapping and eying the sweets with palatable anticipation.

____________________________________

A stool fell beside me. The bar was loud and vulgar. The six of us took a table by the door and I ordered two pitchers from the bartender that didn't remember me.

I had just paid when someone got the phone call. Then they were out the door and I was standing amid spent locals and wasted paychecks with a jug of beer in each hand.

"She fell," someone had said. "He thinks this is it."

I turned to the loud and the vulgar and handed them a round of free beer. They begged me not to leave.
____________________________________

Tomorrow the boys will visit their grammy and they will be excited by the bells they can reach and the dogs that they can fit into their pockets. They will see places to run and play- possibilities where I only see what used to be.

Grammy will love them more than anything and she will wish that they could just be still.

Then they will laugh as we drive away, and they will see things out the window that we have missed. It will be another long ride in another hot car and they'll nap lazily in the afternoon sun, never knowing if they will see her again.

Poetry by Popular Request

Popular is such a strong word, but it came up in passing that I haven't posted any poetry lately and...

Um, where are you going?

It's Sunday morning and I've got coffee in my cup, Joe Williams on the stereo and plans to replace the laptop with the Times. After that I'll play it by ear.

For you, my friends:

URBAN BEACHES

Taste the sea when you lay against me
And not the sweat of a long day’s work-
For I always said we would go there
Every time you brought it up,
But the ocean does not pay the bills,
And the waves of passing traffic
Outside our bedroom window
May never be surfed or waded through,
But there is sand and sunshine
In the park around the swings.

If we were to go there in the morning
With a basket of food and bottle of wine
I could put a towel down for you
To sun yourself while you read
Whatever it is women read on beaches
While the men try not to look
At so much exposed flesh,
Instead wandering out to pee in the sea
And pretend that sharks are coming
To keep their erections down,
But I’ll have no water to hide in
And I will come up with other ways
To watch your skin as it gathers sun.
For example, I may get on the swing
Since it would just be hanging there,
And while watching your breasts
I might say, "Push me. Push me."


THE RAINDANCER

I dance upon the breath of a thousand lies
To unknown breasts
And forgotten lips
Aloof with the pride of man
And the loneliness of one night stands
Wondering . . .
How many drinks to the bottom of a soul?
And how does a heart burn so cold?
But there is warmth in the whiskey,
And a song on the jukebox,
So I shall drink
And I shall dance,
Until the music stops.

I dance upon the breath of a thousand lies
To unknown breasts
And forgotten lips
Aloof with the pride of man
And the loneliness of one night stands
Wondering . . .
How many drinks to the bottom of a soul?
And how does a heart burn so cold?
But there is warmth in the whiskey,
And a song on the jukebox,
So I shall drink
And I shall dance,
Until the music stops.


DREAMING OF DECEMBER

The long ride leaves me dreaming of December.
The shadows of heavy clouds,
The echo of melancholy piano keys
Lead me onward and away.
Hills once caressed by smooth sunlight
Turn inward under their icy coats
With their backs against frost
covered canvas of still warm fields
Left alone for now,Stoic and forgotten,
depressing the uninspired.
I was told it should be spring,
Yet I am blind to the budding and blooming
lost between bouts of mists of rain.
What might I lose but you
If I forget the words to your song
Or the colors of your sky
Even the fruits that fall against the ground
Beneath your tree taste sour when you leave.
Remember my face when you look at his,
And know how poor I will always be.

LIFE ON THE DULL SIDE: A POEM - or 34 ON A TUESDAY: AN ESSAY

My stomach ain’t what it used to be
Iron lining and flat as a board
Now eaten away by glasses of Beam
And expanded by bottles of Bass.
My hair is retreating
And my bones depleting.
I get older and I get along.
One more shell of broken dreams.


Tune in tomorrow for poems for kids!

Slow Motion Weekdays Stare Me Down

"Oh, blood. Somebody must have died there."

He is five-years-old and I'm standing outside the bathroom on the campus of his elementary school. The door is propped open and the floor is covered with paper towels and urine. There is blood on the sidewalk between me and the tile.

"I doubt anyone died there," I tell him. "Today," I keep to myself.

Maybe it is spit heavy with dye and candy.

He is unfazed by the possibility of death or by its looming presence. He is running in the cloudy haze of springtime, fresh from finding a favorite sweater among the memories of the lost and found. He is jumping cracks and lines drawn from chalk.

I am walking a growing distance behind him. My sweatshirt is pulled tight. The springtime wind is sharp and cold.

My head is full of medicine and mucus. The image is unpleasant and the reality is worse. It is a day after my 38th birthday and I am tired and my Facebook wall is full. It is a good feeling to be thought of, but even the warmth of sentiment is lost in the breeze. I pull my sweatshirt tighter.

We are home and the boys are not listening. My wife is listening to the J. Geils Band and everything is a freeze frame.

There are cards in the mailbox full of checks and signatures. I read every line, even the words written by a company that has never met me. I put the money in my wallet and throw the cards away. They've served their purpose and theirs is to be forgotten and recycled. Perhaps they will come back as a love note or parking ticket, a poem or a receipt. Maybe a birthday card is all there is.

I'm behind in my work. I'm behind in my bills. The daylight lasts an hour longer and it is not enough.

There is cold coffee and leftover spaghetti on my desk- a temporary stop before they are a part of me, like the spring and the wind, life and death, my boys, my wife, a wall written on and mailboxes filled. Like work and bills and walks of growing distance, everything is medicine and everything is mucus. It is heavy with dye and candy.

Everything is a freeze frame and for some reason I find comfort there.

Tender is the Night

My children are getting the better of me. They are my everything and then some. Nothing makes me happier than their happiness. Nothing fills me with more love than their love. And yet, they drive me crazy.

They are pushing it.

I hide in my office, in my work and behind fingers of bourbon. I hide from their screams and their need and the non-stop trips from bed for things that never mattered during their waking hours.

I hide from the demons that stir when their voices become fingernails across my blackboard.

My anger is a reflection. I am angrier at myself for being angry than I am with them. It is complicated in its simplicity.

Time is too valuable to waste on moments such as this. Theirs is but a moment against minutes. Theirs is a haiku pulled from the heart of a sonnet.

Mine is gruff and coarse and grown over with callous.

Each scream unheeded rolls into the next and they become one, sharpened upon the stone of my heart and tempered within the sea of their tears.

It is a battle that they wage and they are as unrelenting as I am unarmed.

Tomorrow the sun will rise and their smiles will pale the sunshine. I am ready for this, in fact I crave it. But I need this time. I need this night of solitude and a constant stream of thought uninterrupted. I need to hide, and just for a night I need to not be found.

The Force is Slow in This One