I know that smile,
what it means all the way
from the slightest shimmy
to the first itch,
like a reward,
you see,
an omen, a look
at what’s coming.
See you soon,
that’s what you’d say
in the margins
or wherever.
I’ve seen it myself
you know
and can’t be mistaken
every time.
Aimed right
it wouldn’t matter,
but sometimes
it clashes with
the music you played,
from the first rest to the coda,
words you had spoken once
and repeated with
subtle amendments
the second time through.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye
I said goodbye
to another bottle today,
the last of the Traverse City
chardonnay, three swigs,
the gritty remains
of decaying cork spit
into the sink. You left it here
and made me promise
not to drink it,
but it's been nearly a year now
without a word and I guess
you won't mind.
I would like to tell you
that I am starting over
yet again, the lonely nights
of loud music and too much gin,
the frenetic dancing, the tears,
the second-guessing and
tossing and turning,
but I know where once
you would have had
the right things to say,
now you'd have nothing
but cold words that
would only make these
unbearable nights hotter.
I've kissed too many women
goodbye on the rims of
bottles, and now that the wine
is gone, I can work on the whiskey,
a taste that will linger far longer
than the stains on sheets
and the rubber on pavement
stretching too many miles from here.
to another bottle today,
the last of the Traverse City
chardonnay, three swigs,
the gritty remains
of decaying cork spit
into the sink. You left it here
and made me promise
not to drink it,
but it's been nearly a year now
without a word and I guess
you won't mind.
I would like to tell you
that I am starting over
yet again, the lonely nights
of loud music and too much gin,
the frenetic dancing, the tears,
the second-guessing and
tossing and turning,
but I know where once
you would have had
the right things to say,
now you'd have nothing
but cold words that
would only make these
unbearable nights hotter.
I've kissed too many women
goodbye on the rims of
bottles, and now that the wine
is gone, I can work on the whiskey,
a taste that will linger far longer
than the stains on sheets
and the rubber on pavement
stretching too many miles from here.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Another Death Rattle for the Monarchy
*A note from the author*
I was cleaning out my hard drive and found this odd little bit of prose that I have only vague memories of writing. It seemed worthy of the blog site, so here it is:
The other day, long before much of anything interesting had occurred on the lawn, Darryl walked solemnly down the stairs of his palatial six-bedroom bungalow, took the large, college-bound dictionary from his son’s bookshelf and heaved it across the room so hard that it left the imprint of part of the word “American” and part of the word “Heritage” on the photograph of Prince Phillip that his son for some reason deemed important enough to frame.
“Show-off,” muttered Darryl.
And then later, some hours after the firemen were able to extinguish the flames at poolside, just as things were returning to their normal, suburban state, not much else happened beyond his son, Chuck, wandering back home in a daze of sun poisoning and a ravenous boner, accidentally kicked his big toe into the hardbound dictionary that lay out of place on the floor of his bedroom, which caused him to look down and see out of the corner of his eye the black and white photo of Liz’s man with a motherfucking trademark curling above his upper lip.
Another death rattle for the monarchy.
I was cleaning out my hard drive and found this odd little bit of prose that I have only vague memories of writing. It seemed worthy of the blog site, so here it is:
The other day, long before much of anything interesting had occurred on the lawn, Darryl walked solemnly down the stairs of his palatial six-bedroom bungalow, took the large, college-bound dictionary from his son’s bookshelf and heaved it across the room so hard that it left the imprint of part of the word “American” and part of the word “Heritage” on the photograph of Prince Phillip that his son for some reason deemed important enough to frame.
“Show-off,” muttered Darryl.
And then later, some hours after the firemen were able to extinguish the flames at poolside, just as things were returning to their normal, suburban state, not much else happened beyond his son, Chuck, wandering back home in a daze of sun poisoning and a ravenous boner, accidentally kicked his big toe into the hardbound dictionary that lay out of place on the floor of his bedroom, which caused him to look down and see out of the corner of his eye the black and white photo of Liz’s man with a motherfucking trademark curling above his upper lip.
Another death rattle for the monarchy.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Still Life
We consider the voices
that haunt our path,
the brassy tenor of the stage
or the long vowels of others,
the belly laughs, the titters,
the midnight sighs.
Every inch is underwater
but for where these feet
are placed, guided past the
devastation of Winter to where
only the bravest blooms dare
stretch toward a pale sun.
Logs are placed here and there
in a feeble attempt to protect
downed limbs and logs
at a time when the sumac
has yet to arrive to color
the ankles in streaks of red.
The dirty blonde in torn jeans,
the plastic brunette and
the raven-haired vampire
kick the decayed oak
into submission; it would be
a bad joke had only
they walked into a bar instead.
It was somewhere near here
where a corkscrew clinked
and a couple paper cups held
a cool Chardonnay,
and it was in this spot someone
discarded a crushed can
of bad beer, so early in the season
for such neglect of the body,
of the woods, of the soul.
Those few faces that appear
through the trees are tight-lipped,
the loud voices quick to quiet
under the weight of this
expanse of limbo,
the water in the lagoon
cresting against the planks,
lapping like the hollow pangs
of an empty stomach.
that haunt our path,
the brassy tenor of the stage
or the long vowels of others,
the belly laughs, the titters,
the midnight sighs.
Every inch is underwater
but for where these feet
are placed, guided past the
devastation of Winter to where
only the bravest blooms dare
stretch toward a pale sun.
Logs are placed here and there
in a feeble attempt to protect
downed limbs and logs
at a time when the sumac
has yet to arrive to color
the ankles in streaks of red.
The dirty blonde in torn jeans,
the plastic brunette and
the raven-haired vampire
kick the decayed oak
into submission; it would be
a bad joke had only
they walked into a bar instead.
It was somewhere near here
where a corkscrew clinked
and a couple paper cups held
a cool Chardonnay,
and it was in this spot someone
discarded a crushed can
of bad beer, so early in the season
for such neglect of the body,
of the woods, of the soul.
Those few faces that appear
through the trees are tight-lipped,
the loud voices quick to quiet
under the weight of this
expanse of limbo,
the water in the lagoon
cresting against the planks,
lapping like the hollow pangs
of an empty stomach.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
An Endless, Awkward Dance
The sticky keys
of this old piano
stutter and lisp
from B major
down to G,
flitter around in
some minor mood,
a flash, a moment of
light at the end
of some dark hallway,
and then the damper
knocks against
the casing like
a body hitting the
hardwood floor
head first, and
for another night
the scales put a finger
to their lips
and whisper, "No."
of this old piano
stutter and lisp
from B major
down to G,
flitter around in
some minor mood,
a flash, a moment of
light at the end
of some dark hallway,
and then the damper
knocks against
the casing like
a body hitting the
hardwood floor
head first, and
for another night
the scales put a finger
to their lips
and whisper, "No."
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Kind of Boy Who Could Lose Ohio
He may have lost track
of the buildings along his route,
the shapes and colors,
the sizes and the textures,
or perhaps has been
negligent to notice
construction crews
as they backdate
and weather.
He told me once
how difficult it was
to move forward
with only one cigarette
in the pack, and I replied
in the manner of a
skagged-up sideman
at a cutting session
how much I like splitting wood
in theory, but how in practice
it is too rough
on the hands.
Under analysis,
he would calmly say
he didn’t care
about the evolution
of the inanimate,
the dead wood aging
under the blank stare
of the sun,
his morning prayer
the opening trill of
“Rhapsody in Blue.”
He had once forgotten
the names of his children,
confused them with
books of the Bible
or reindeer or planets.
He wrote a book
about forgetfulness,
later abridged in
some magazine or other,
and with carpet nails
he tacked responses
to the corkboard
above his desk
until they grew
so thick and plentiful
that the nails gave way
and reams of praise
floated down around him
like New Hampshire snow.
And it is here he would
place the ending of this poem
had he written it,
leaving no net to catch
whatever scraps of life
fall from its ambiguity,
restless to move on
to the next lesson,
be it a song
or a kiss
or a smile.
of the buildings along his route,
the shapes and colors,
the sizes and the textures,
or perhaps has been
negligent to notice
construction crews
as they backdate
and weather.
He told me once
how difficult it was
to move forward
with only one cigarette
in the pack, and I replied
in the manner of a
skagged-up sideman
at a cutting session
how much I like splitting wood
in theory, but how in practice
it is too rough
on the hands.
Under analysis,
he would calmly say
he didn’t care
about the evolution
of the inanimate,
the dead wood aging
under the blank stare
of the sun,
his morning prayer
the opening trill of
“Rhapsody in Blue.”
He had once forgotten
the names of his children,
confused them with
books of the Bible
or reindeer or planets.
He wrote a book
about forgetfulness,
later abridged in
some magazine or other,
and with carpet nails
he tacked responses
to the corkboard
above his desk
until they grew
so thick and plentiful
that the nails gave way
and reams of praise
floated down around him
like New Hampshire snow.
And it is here he would
place the ending of this poem
had he written it,
leaving no net to catch
whatever scraps of life
fall from its ambiguity,
restless to move on
to the next lesson,
be it a song
or a kiss
or a smile.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Analysis of Fear
Fear is like a corrosive disease to those who are plagued by it. Once it gains a handhold, it begins eating away more and more of the pathetic strengths that contain it. Whatever these are – these strengths – work perfectly well without fear. They are airtight, watertight, impermeable to almost any force. But fear brings doubt, and the two of them together are nearly indestructible.
Picture one of those dreams where you need to escape from someone or something, and the only way of escape is to run. But when you run, it’s like you’re running in water or quicksand or hardening cement. Your legs pump, but you cannot find foothold anywhere. The killer may be on your heels, or the ground may be dissolving behind you and you are about to be swallowed up by the earth, and you just can’t get away. This is what fear and doubt bring to the table.
When it happens to those who suffer its affects the worst, the most primitive, primal instincts take over. We hide. We become defensive. We shut down. We shut others out. We protect ourselves from the things that cause us emotional duress just as we would protect ourselves against physical duress. We take shelter and don’t come out until the coast is clear.
Those who don’t fear consider the rest of us as weak. “Just move on,” they’ll say as we cower in the corner. “Why let it bother you? Forget it. Who needs it?” To us, those people are cold, emotionless, distant from everyone and everything in all aspects of their lives. They do not find our issues meaningful, and in return, we find them cold and heartless, at least when it comes to the advice they insist upon offering.
Tragedy strikes in many ways, but almost always involves loss – the death of someone close, the end of a relationship, a country in the throes of economic depression. To confront any of these events is overwhelming to those of us who suffer fear and doubt. It is far easier to bury our heads in the sand and wait for the tragic events to unfold and for the next leg of the journey to begin. It may be easier for us to join the voyage from the middle rather than the beginning. We have a hard time taking the first step in any direction.
At the same time, we are completely helpless in almost any tragic situation. Of course the potential of an adrenaline-fueled event to cause us to perform some rash act does exist, but those moments are purely situational, and as such, rare. Mostly, we wait.
Speaking for myself, I have no ability to make big decisions. I am not a go-getter. I wouldn’t know where the bull kept his horns, let alone would I attempt to take them. To what end would that adage serve if taken literally, anyway? I understand the point: take control. But have you ever actually been close enough to a bull to take it by the horns? Have you seen how strong they are? One angry shake of the head would pull my arms out of their sockets were I holding on tightly enough.
This is a shitty way to go through life, but I can’t change that part of myself. I’ve made so many bad decisions and will be suffering their consequences for the foreseeable future. There are so many times where I just want to run, to pack a few of my most important things and just go. Somewhere. Anywhere. If we only have the chance to live one life, what a mess I’ve made of mine. I want a reset button, a do-over.
This isn’t to say I am unhappy with everything I have. That is not true at all. I have a wonderful daughter for whom I would do anything. But because of all kinds of bad decisions, I don’t have a job to help me better care for her. I have a college degree, mostly useless, because I allowed a relationship to hijack where I wanted that degree to take me. I have a new woman in my life whom I adore, but she lives so very far away, with very little chance of getting closer on a more permanent level for at least a decade to come. I will be almost 50 then. What good will I be then? My time from there will be limited. I am already middle-aged. I don’t want to be old by the time we get to be together every day.
So this brings an aimless resent for the nameless state of being where I find myself. It may seem convoluted, but I assure you it is accurate, to my life at least. It is horrifying to think some of this may be passed on to my daughter, who already shows signs of the sensitivity and strong emotions of her father. The feelings this leaves me with are conflicting. I am thrilled she has emotions, but sad that she’ll face some of the same struggles that have held me back in so many ways.
I will never swing at the first pitch, but when I swing at the second or third or fourth, it is never a checked swing. When I swing, I swing for the fences. Sometimes I connect and round the bags for my home run, but far more often I fan the air in painfully dramatic fashion.
I am disgusted with myself. I’ve put on twenty pounds in the last few months, happy weight to be sure, but now I cannot stop myself. I have no control. Living life in slight but almost always hedonistic ways is all I know how to do. How can I expect the patience required for others to understand me when I barely have the patience to understand myself?
The worst of the struggle comes from being unable to make the changes I need to be truly satisfied. If my daughter were cold and vacant like her mother, it would be easy for me to pack up and move away, but she isn’t like that at all. She needs me because I give her the emotional care that she requires. No matter how much one person can tell another, “I need you,” the need my daughter has for me will always be more important. For the moments that quickly pass in which I consider going west, I am grateful. Grateful because in the moment, leaving feels right. The idea of being in the same place as the woman I love feels like the only cure. Grateful too that the moments are always fleeting, because when I come out of those moments, it always hurts, but thankfully, briefly. I have enough pain on a daily basis as it is.
And so another day is about to pass without any change. My stomach is tight and uncomfortable from the fear that consumes me. I will struggle to sleep. I will think bad thoughts. I will worry about things beyond my control. I so desire to rid myself of the disease placed in me over the last three years, because I know that is such a huge part of my problem.
There is no relief to come, except in the few days I can get away and hide in the arms of the right woman, where my cure is complete but short-lived. Something must be done. I wish I had the answers.
Picture one of those dreams where you need to escape from someone or something, and the only way of escape is to run. But when you run, it’s like you’re running in water or quicksand or hardening cement. Your legs pump, but you cannot find foothold anywhere. The killer may be on your heels, or the ground may be dissolving behind you and you are about to be swallowed up by the earth, and you just can’t get away. This is what fear and doubt bring to the table.
When it happens to those who suffer its affects the worst, the most primitive, primal instincts take over. We hide. We become defensive. We shut down. We shut others out. We protect ourselves from the things that cause us emotional duress just as we would protect ourselves against physical duress. We take shelter and don’t come out until the coast is clear.
Those who don’t fear consider the rest of us as weak. “Just move on,” they’ll say as we cower in the corner. “Why let it bother you? Forget it. Who needs it?” To us, those people are cold, emotionless, distant from everyone and everything in all aspects of their lives. They do not find our issues meaningful, and in return, we find them cold and heartless, at least when it comes to the advice they insist upon offering.
Tragedy strikes in many ways, but almost always involves loss – the death of someone close, the end of a relationship, a country in the throes of economic depression. To confront any of these events is overwhelming to those of us who suffer fear and doubt. It is far easier to bury our heads in the sand and wait for the tragic events to unfold and for the next leg of the journey to begin. It may be easier for us to join the voyage from the middle rather than the beginning. We have a hard time taking the first step in any direction.
At the same time, we are completely helpless in almost any tragic situation. Of course the potential of an adrenaline-fueled event to cause us to perform some rash act does exist, but those moments are purely situational, and as such, rare. Mostly, we wait.
Speaking for myself, I have no ability to make big decisions. I am not a go-getter. I wouldn’t know where the bull kept his horns, let alone would I attempt to take them. To what end would that adage serve if taken literally, anyway? I understand the point: take control. But have you ever actually been close enough to a bull to take it by the horns? Have you seen how strong they are? One angry shake of the head would pull my arms out of their sockets were I holding on tightly enough.
This is a shitty way to go through life, but I can’t change that part of myself. I’ve made so many bad decisions and will be suffering their consequences for the foreseeable future. There are so many times where I just want to run, to pack a few of my most important things and just go. Somewhere. Anywhere. If we only have the chance to live one life, what a mess I’ve made of mine. I want a reset button, a do-over.
This isn’t to say I am unhappy with everything I have. That is not true at all. I have a wonderful daughter for whom I would do anything. But because of all kinds of bad decisions, I don’t have a job to help me better care for her. I have a college degree, mostly useless, because I allowed a relationship to hijack where I wanted that degree to take me. I have a new woman in my life whom I adore, but she lives so very far away, with very little chance of getting closer on a more permanent level for at least a decade to come. I will be almost 50 then. What good will I be then? My time from there will be limited. I am already middle-aged. I don’t want to be old by the time we get to be together every day.
So this brings an aimless resent for the nameless state of being where I find myself. It may seem convoluted, but I assure you it is accurate, to my life at least. It is horrifying to think some of this may be passed on to my daughter, who already shows signs of the sensitivity and strong emotions of her father. The feelings this leaves me with are conflicting. I am thrilled she has emotions, but sad that she’ll face some of the same struggles that have held me back in so many ways.
I will never swing at the first pitch, but when I swing at the second or third or fourth, it is never a checked swing. When I swing, I swing for the fences. Sometimes I connect and round the bags for my home run, but far more often I fan the air in painfully dramatic fashion.
I am disgusted with myself. I’ve put on twenty pounds in the last few months, happy weight to be sure, but now I cannot stop myself. I have no control. Living life in slight but almost always hedonistic ways is all I know how to do. How can I expect the patience required for others to understand me when I barely have the patience to understand myself?
The worst of the struggle comes from being unable to make the changes I need to be truly satisfied. If my daughter were cold and vacant like her mother, it would be easy for me to pack up and move away, but she isn’t like that at all. She needs me because I give her the emotional care that she requires. No matter how much one person can tell another, “I need you,” the need my daughter has for me will always be more important. For the moments that quickly pass in which I consider going west, I am grateful. Grateful because in the moment, leaving feels right. The idea of being in the same place as the woman I love feels like the only cure. Grateful too that the moments are always fleeting, because when I come out of those moments, it always hurts, but thankfully, briefly. I have enough pain on a daily basis as it is.
And so another day is about to pass without any change. My stomach is tight and uncomfortable from the fear that consumes me. I will struggle to sleep. I will think bad thoughts. I will worry about things beyond my control. I so desire to rid myself of the disease placed in me over the last three years, because I know that is such a huge part of my problem.
There is no relief to come, except in the few days I can get away and hide in the arms of the right woman, where my cure is complete but short-lived. Something must be done. I wish I had the answers.
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