A Good Life

back then
they would take their
horses into town
seven miles
they were
from there

and they had
the best beef
they grew it
all right there
at home

and in between
the wet words
coming from
her aging dental
work was her
hands waving
in the air

her knuckles
were fat and
round with
calcium
deposition

every knuckle on
her hands had
enlarged but
after 96 years
of use things
wear out

she
would
show me
how they
wouldn’t
close

‘see look’
she’d say
and her little hands
would try to close
if only halfway
then they’d
lock as if some
invisible thing
was inside her
hands

but she doesn’t let
it get her down

and she loves
her boys

and she loved
her husband

and she loves
her life

‘I have no complaints’
she’d say

‘I’ve lived a good life’

and when I left her room
she rested her head
on the pillow
and took herself
a well earned
nap

Could You?

It rained today.

I thought that maybe
you lost your footing
and reached out for the
table but instead
grabbed the clouds
and tipped them over.

It’s okay if you did
I was actually hoping
for some rain.

You don’t have to worry
about putting the
water back,
I really don’t
mind.

I just wondered though
if that is what really happened
than perhaps you could fall again
or maybe I could push you
and again, you could reach
for the table or chair but
instead - grab my ass,
tug on my wallet
and make some
money fall out.

Or if you could just find a way
to just make it fall
out my ass

well then –
that would be
just fine
too.

Walking Home

At one point
I looked off into the distance
Toward a beech tree
And its leaves were dropping
I could barely see anything
From the glare of the sun
Just yellow leaves in the sky
Yellow leaves flipping over
And over on the grass
And yellow sun

The wind threw the leaves
Up against my pants
And some of them stuck
To the bottom of my shoes
It was cool outside
And the wind in my eyes
And mouth and face
Felt good

Further down
I passed a row of houses
I could smell the food cooking
From within their kitchens
I could smell meat and menudo
And at one point the whole
World smelled like peanut M&M’s
It smelled so good

Later
I was on a wet sidewalk
Walking down a long fence line
The weight of my bag was
Taxing but I held on and kept moving
I had music in my ears and
While on my feet I had the
Only excuse to not be in front
Of a book or have a pencil
In my hand

I had music in my ears
You had better believe it
And while the leaves passed me
On their sidewalk freeway
I sang songs
And hummed
And whistled

My ride was coming
And the closer I got
The more I slowed my pace
Out there in the fall
No one could touch me

I was out of the vacuum
Floating along life like
The leaves that died
Weeks ago and now
Pass me full of color
And energy

And somewhere
Not far from here
Are the missing breaths
I let out

Pushing someone
Or something
To who
Knows
Where

Another Day After School

I know that it has been
too much when you
sit quietly and wet your
face with pure
saline

and then
when I see it drop down
and trail the hairs of your neck
I realize I’ve said too much
I’ve damaged what you’ve spent
all day becoming

I broke every smile
you invented
and cannot ever
fix them

most I can get out
of you is a grin

but when I hug you -
the few times I can
you hold on tight

five years old tight
never gonna see each other again
tight
little boy and his dad
tight

but you’re not
little
and I’m not a
little boys
dad

not anymore

you don’t want to stay
anymore
and in a small way
I don’t blame
you

Stink

no more is
getting in

its over
and not worth
another
try

the trap door
is closed
all the walls
have been
put up
it is coiled around
my cave of a skull
and humming its way
to my dark and waiting bed

arrows bounce off
like sticks from
rock walls

nothing more will get in

and for a minute
if you listen
my brain will actually
fart a little

it is just
too
damn
full

I keep pushing
my ear down
trying to flush it
but it has yet
to work

and pouring it out
like cold kool aid
doesn’t work
either

nope
I’m stuck here
on a Sunday
wishing my brain
would either
go on a diet
or take a shit

my brain is officially
constipated
impacted
and utterly
useless

and I fear
that upon rising
tomorrow morning
it will smell like a damp
cloth that was used to clean
the bathroom sink but was
never properly rinsed
and then no one will ever
want to use it
for fear of making their
hands stink

I don’t want
to stink

do I stink?

Renegade

somewhere between your first meiotic division
and last loving exhale a change occurred. some renegade
cell put its needs before that of your wonderful and
beautiful being and turned the other direction. for
years you suffered its selfishness and somewhere deep
in your throat it planted itself. it planted its stake well
within your warm tissue and plotted its life. you found
it. eventually you found it, removed it, and with it – a
part of you. there is a scar there now, and a few others
also nearby the incision, to remind you of that renegade
cell. I guess today he said that you are officially in remission.
the enemy is gone and you can continue living to the
random end that we were all born into. but all morning
I thought about you and how it isn’t fair that you were
pushed to the shortlist of forever. and every year you
will go back and visit the needles and machines to see
if your name is still off the list. and every year I will
hate that it comes. and I will hate that you leave. And I
will hate the wait for the call. I would hate the cell
that did this to you but it was you all along and I can’t
hate you. I can only hate what it has done. I can only
hate the renegade marks and the chemicals they
pumped into you and what it did to your voice and
hair. I truly hate it. perhaps, even now as I flex my
fingers to tap this hate letter there is tyranny within
myself. can I run fast enough mom? and if I could,
can I take you with me?

Days Like Music

first it was wine
then it was gin
then came the
couch

and here I sit
soft in its
cush

(exhale…)

thinking about
tomorrow
and the melodies
I’ll hum during
little moments of
concentration

you know –
days are like chords in that
they’re hard to memorize
easy to botch
varies with mood
difficult to master
and depending on the instrument
may necessitate
a spit valve

I Want To Be A Musician

the way he turns his neck
like his chin is tugging away
at Noah’s lost Arc –
there’s just no way you can deny
he’s giving you everything
he used to make that
very song

and when I play
I put chords through
the washing machine

I itch the string of my guitar
with the determination of a
thousand mosquito bites

sweat rolls down my face
and the flexor muscles of
my lower arm beg
for collapse

he knows what he’s doing
you can see it in his voice
and the hairs he raises
gives you something
to listen to

perhaps
during the energy of it all
he remembers what he
drew the idea from
and secretly plays
to make apologies
or position or some sort of
unified calm that only
he and his struggle
could understand

but we feel it
you feel it and when you do
you wonder – he could be squeezing
the very blood of love from between
his mouth and the metal microphone
only to drip away down the
cords through switchboards and
gold plated connectors and
burned in some dim studio
with the help of a tired coffee pot
with the blue light of a laser
to be read by my blue light
and beamed through a fiber optic wire
to the workhorse of my house -
through speaker wires to shoot out
of the conical apices of
my floor-standing speakers

on my couch
I am energized with
the creation and expression
of music

in my ears
the timber of his
drying voice is committed to
transmitting the incoming
art and complexities
that only earth
can afford

give me my guitar
and I’ll sing into you
a heaven from my own
personal bank of life

let’s put it all down
and listen to music
let’s listen until our
eyes dry out
let’s listen until you
find a reason to cry
let’s tip our glass
for the ears of god
let’s forget everything
and remember only
each other

music
does
that
to
me

Evening Studies

Sitting all alone here
In my room
The little black lamp
Is on
Books thick as dictionaries
Are opened on the desk
And the scattered on
The carpet
Their pages are stained
Fluorescent green and yellow
My watch is off and
Resting on an opened page
The veins on the upper surface
Of my hands are bulged
With what I’ve put in them
Handwritten schematics are
Thumb-tacked next to the computer
For quick emergency retrieval
The cover of my notebook
Has a picture of us still in our
Helmets next to an old
Dried out waterfall
The photo is a distraction
But I leave it and consider my
Glances a crime against study policy
It is one that I willingly commit
My bag is resting against
Our ugly-ass but comfy couch
And it looks so tired – slouched
From too much gravity and not enough
Substance while I look for ways
From behind my book and computer
To make myself bend and breathe
Sitting here behind my desk
Committing crime after
Cognitive crime wondering
When it will be time to
Turn off my little black lamp
And rest my pressured mind
On the pillow next to you

How He Saw It

everything hurts. It all
revolves around the
pain in my knees and
my shortness of breath
and look – see my hands?
see how they shake?
I just, I’m not eating enough
and I made this chicken for
him but he didn’t know that
so I decided to give it you
how is it? I think this one
is my best yet. what do you think?
Ssst oohh – my back, I haven’t been
in for an adjustment in
almost three months. it’s either
my back or my knees, it’s never
right. guess that’s just how
aging goes. well I’d better go.

Just Can't Stop

Looked down
When I was done
And saw my
Soft
Bulging belly
Horribly stretched
With dinner

There were
Crumbs on my lips
There was
Red on the spoon
Shredded cheese
Sour cream
Saltines

Two bowls
Heapin-full
Of crock-pot
Chili greatness

But way too much
Fiber