Growing Up, Revisited

It's kind of seventies in here,
the paper bag spread out
beside the stove, swollen
with deposit bottles,

divorced and withdrawn,
ignorant of disease
the bareback ride into
an unknown desert,

the cheap meals
poured out of cans,
opened and baked,

silence while one works
and another rots her brain,
and sometimes popcorn
can be found tucked

behind the cushions
with loose change
and a comb whose origin
cannot be traced.

But outside, scandal and snow,
inflation, depression,
the listless and moribund
working class, drugged

by hundreds of channels
of saccharine fare,
cell phones and laptops,
internet, American Idol,

a viewed reality preferred
to any lived, a bubble of
righteousness in a world
so many shades of grey.

Mix

It isn't a medley
where the songs meet,

this new mix
of droning and pop,
a genre without a label,

no fan base
or t-shirt line,
no special section in stores,

no Rolling Stone reviews
or award ceremony
adulations,

no hip dance
or hair trend,

no upturned collar
or temporary tattoo.

These tones are new,
without study
and a good ear
incapable of being
understood,

but someday will go
number one
with a bullet.

The Chosen Ones

Sometimes you say
'So much for writing,'

toss it aside
for the night

and try to regain
that sense of who
you were,

tripping through words
and the consequences
they bring

under the light of
the brightest star
you have ever seen,

which is what
sent you here to write
in the first place.

A Murderer in the House

I received my letter from Reno today, a thinly-veiled apology within a list of excuses. Pointless, really. She signed it with her shaking hand, not a stamp. If she felt remorse, it wasn’t legible in her cursive, nor in the empty words that had been typed for her. I don’t blame her.

My dad’s here staying with me, and it’s uncomfortable for both of us. He didn’t bring Jessica, and that’s good. It’s hard enough just the two of us. With her here, I don’t know. It’s not like there could be more silence. He flew here on his own dime, has been here for three weeks since the memorial. I’m ready for him to leave, but he’s still clinging for that last bit of connection to family.

He ran off with the flight attendant, Jessica, five years ago, right after I got out of high school. It was no secret things weren’t good between him and mom, and it was only half-heartedly concealed that he’d been banging the waitress at the omelet shop for a couple years previous. She was okay. I don’t care for Jessica.

Dad and Jessica lit out for Australia, settled into a small town outside Melbourne. There have been calls and cards and letters inviting visits, but I have no interest. The snakes and spiders and the tension are all too poisonous for my taste. Mom had become a fragile figure in those years before he left. And once he did, she moved to Waco.

I am almost certainly the result of the last time my parents had sex. I have often wondered what must have passed through their minds when it was over. Were they hopeful? Were they drunk? Was it angry make-up sex after another bitter argument? Were they just having one last ride on his way out the door when they suddenly realized they weren’t careful?

It’s funny the things we inherit from our parents. Every relationship that crashed on me ended with one last roll. I was careful, mostly. The last time, not so much, but that’s been two years ago and I haven’t gotten any phone calls, so I guess it worked out. My older brother kids me about it, but I think it’s jealousy. He’s been married for ten years to a great woman. He told me once they’ve never had a fight. They don’t know the passion of make-up sex, that angry, “take that” attitude that makes the rest of us shudder and weep. But they work, and that’s good.

I showed my dad Reno’s letter, and he grunted oaths against the administration. A life-long Republican, his heart didn’t bleed. “Shoulda gone in there whole-hog that first time,” he said. “Shouldn’ta carried on so long.” It makes no sense to me, but I let him talk.

There was no chance of it ending well. We knew it from the start. Those things never end well. I know they had their reasons for moving in; Janet’s letter was full of them. But there was no harm in waiting. They weren’t suicidal. This wasn’t Jonestown. This was religion and guns, but nothing more. Sure, the guy was a lunatic, but his people were happy. Those that weren’t were allowed to leave.

You can hear it in a person’s voice when they aren’t convinced what they’re doing is right. I talked to my mom a few days before the end. I tried calling for hours before the busy signal lifted. I talked to David first. He started in on his rant, how they were being abused by the government, how they wanted to be left alone. “I just want to talk to my mom,” I told him. “I know she’s not coming out of there.” And then he put her on, and she told me she was happy. Scared, but happy. They thought it would end peacefully, and that gave them hope. Three days later I sat in an ocean-side bar and watched the compound burn to the ground live on CNN.

My mother had been shot in the hip during the assault, no telling whether it was from her people or the feds. She was wounded by the bullet, unable to leave her room, and burned to death under her bed. You have no idea how much heel-dragging goes on when you try to get dental records for identification purposes.

She must have suffered like hell that day. Koresh took the easy way out with a bullet in the head. He didn’t even have the balls to do it himself and made Schneider do it. What a pussy.

The people in charge always take the easy way out. My dad too. He was the breadwinner, paid the bills, sat at the head of the table. When the time came, when he’d had enough, he made the choice to leave. He left a big check on the table, grabbed some clothes and his life-insurance policy, and he never looked back. When she died, he felt obligated to return, to be here for Max and me, to be a shoulder to lean on, but we had each other and that was enough.

I don’t have much grief about it. She was doing what she loved. She was happy. And yet dad’s doing what he loves, and I want to tear his fucking throat out. If he hadn’t left, she’d still be alive. I blame him more than Koresh. I blame him more than the ATF. He’s the one who killed her. I have a murderer in my house and he won’t leave.

Tomorrow. I’ll ask him to leave tomorrow. Julie hasn’t been here to stay over in three weeks, and that’s too long. Three weeks is a long time to wait for sex, regardless of what you may think. If you think otherwise, you’re too old or you’re getting it plenty. Not that sex is what it’s all about, but I need the comfort of her arms around me, of her legs around me. I need to be as close to her as possible. But she can’t be here now, not with him here. I don’t want them to meet.

It won’t last forever, Julie and I. We work together at the paper, and there’s bound to be an issue someday. She’ll object to a line I’ve written and I’ll take it personally. There will be a closed-door meeting with tense lips and grinding teeth, then we’ll carry the argument home, I’ll insult her dinner, we’ll fuck the balls out of each other, and she’ll leave and not come back. There is no escaping it.

Patience has always been the enemy. We can claim to be strong and confident, but waiting makes everyone but Buddha crazy in time. Dad ran out of patience with the distance at home. Reno ran out of patience with Koresh. My hands are shaking from my own withdrawals, running out of patience for the desire to be touched. My heart hurts. Tomorrow I will take it out on him. It will start calmly, and if he puts up a wall I will tear it down, not brick by brick, but I’ll blast the thing to bits. I’ll come in swinging, and knowing him, how quick he is to turn tail and run, one little nudge will send him burning to the ground.

Metamorphosis

She has those tiny teeth
I like, and that beer
looks muddy enough

to please my palate.
I think of touching
her shoulder or

leaning in to catch
the slightest scent
she carries,

whether sweat or
perfumed skin,
whatever,

and then leaning in
for the laugh
at something I said

and then
dragging me home
and laying me there

among the storm of sheets
stained with last month’s blood
and whispering in my ear

i’ve come
i’ve come
i’ve come.

It's Not That Rhythm

You don’t need an
iambic two-step
to hold me close

or the stress and rests
of trochee.

The young man
from Nantucket
is not that well-built

and someone should have
punched Ogden Nash
in the nose
if you ask me.

You are the person
clapping off-beat

the one there
in the last row
with the torn jeans
and sneakers

who stared up
into the graveyard moon
that night you lost it
in the back of the Buick

and you knew then that
flesh against flesh
was good even when
it wasn’t.

The only form
I care about
is the one
inside those jeans

and once I get them off you

I’ll show you
what rhythm
is all about.

The Selfish Cry for Blood

This pallid sky mocks us. Even the greenest grass loses its hues, casting instead the image of instability, a modernist painting brushed by an artist lacking too many colors. Every shade of gray is accounted for above; you couldn’t paint it, nor would you want to. Too soon, too soon. Or, perhaps, an exercise in Seasonal Affective Disorder, practice for the next half-dozen months.

I sit away from the other parents, none of whom are challenged by the gloom. They are a mass of cavemen cheering savagely at their girls. Their yelling overlaps, a muddy mixture of encouragement more for their own behalf than that of their offspring. If only Ralph Steadman were here to capture this in ink. He would draw them without sympathy, some gnawing on the bloody bones of a mastodon, others standing and hurling red-faced pressure onto the field. A grandfather calls his charge’s name in every other word. “C’mon Betty, get to the ball Betty, that’s it Betty, get to the middle Betty.” Her name has been changed to protect her innocence; she’s got enough pressure to handle without appearing in these words of impractical voodoo.

He yells something about an opponent being slow, capable of being exploited on a breakaway. My heart breaks for the slow child who must hear his words; his voice has that peculiar timbre that cuts through any noise. I hope she isn’t comprehending his words are about her. Were it my kid, I would have said something.

My kid is slow too. She is not an athlete, at least not yet. Maybe she’ll grow into it, into something she likes. Or maybe she’ll sit down at a piano or pick up an alto sax and be able to speak through that. I find more satisfaction is creating a piece of music than I ever did hitting a 20 foot jumper from the corner.

Consider again these animals who guide their children with vague directions. Imagine if these creatures acted the same at their children’s band concert. Would this grandfather with the diamond-edged voice point out the flaws of the first chair trombonist if it meant moving his grandkid up a notch? “He’s got short arms, Betty. He can’t hit the high notes clearly, Betty. Hey Betty, her embouchure is sloppy, Betty.” What kind of world would that be?

And of course that world exists, but thankfully not in my circles. Competition is healthy, but hostile competition, wrongly guided competition, creates self-important jerks. It creates poor losers and even worse winners. It creates Republicans. Ye gods!

I’m glad my daughter has a different coach this year. The guy last year was a nice enough guy off the field, but during games he was only an assault charge away from being Woody Hayes. My kid doesn’t need that kind of pressure. She’s got enough to deal with without that jackass getting in her ear. But he’s not coaching her this year, and instead she’s got a really good guy fronting the team. He plays her regularly, knowing she won’t get better if she doesn’t play. He offers positive encouragement rather than angry shouts of guttural syllables that only served to make the animals on the sideline raise their passionate fists into the air and chant, “ugh ugh ugh ugh” in support.

This is exactly how the Tea Party started.

When she came anywhere near me, near enough that I didn’t have to over-extend my diaphragm to be heard, I calmly offered advice. “Stay with ‘em, girl. Move around, give her a target. You’re doing great, darlin’. Keep it up.” She would look at me and smile and twirl her hair and scratch her ear, ignoring the ball behind her. That’s my kid. I couldn’t be more proud.

As she sat on the sidelines, I considered what direction she might go in athletics. She could be a good golfer. Archery might be her thing. Watching her sitting on the blanket next to a teammate, suddenly throwing her arms around the other girl for a big hug for no reason that I could discern, I considered her as a cheerleader. She’s definitely supportive. Anyone who was there to witness it will never forget how she cheered the opposing team during a game of t-ball last year. So sure, a cheerleader. I feel good about this idea, though perhaps I won’t feel the same in another five years. I can see myself being a protective father. I remember the crushes I had on a couple of the cheerleaders when I played basketball. I also know I spent more time watching them than I did paying attention to the game, sometimes even when I was on the court. I will not be crazy about the idea of some hormonally-challenged boy ogling my daughter. Not when she’s fifteen, not when she’s fifty. Breathe. Breathe. Okay.

Children involved in athletics, if they are any good, at some point turn against their inferior teammates. They stop passing the ball, or they group together outside of practices and games and shun the less-talented. Yes, this is a generalization, but it happens more than any good parent wants to admit. I fear this for my kid. She’s sensitive to how she’s treated, and if such a thing were to happen to her, she’d be crushed. Admittedly, she needs to toughen up a bit. She knows it too. I have confidence that will happen at some point, but hopefully it happens before it’s too late. I hope, at some point, she’ll see what she is capable of and what is beyond her abilities, and make some hard choices. I was a decent-enough ball player in grade school, but I knew when I got to high school that I couldn’t and didn’t want to compete at that level. I hated stepping away from it, but to attempt to continue would have resulted in nothing good. And besides, those cheerleaders were way out of my league.

Her mother doesn’t value the importance of the arts. If my daughter shows some talent as a musician or an actor, her mother will struggle. I question her ability to be supportive, which for an artist is integral. It is up to me to suggest these alternate routes of growth and fellowship. I’d certainly rather hang out with a bunch of artists than with a bunch of athletes. I would rather my mind be strong than brag about how much I could bench. I would rather have dinner parties with copious amounts of wine than sit in a sauna for three hours trying to make weight. I would rather curl up with a good book than ride a bus for three hours only to run around in the freezing rain and get shoved around by a bunch of pituitary cases. But that’s me. My kid can do whatever she wants, and I’ll be there to support her. She’ll never hear me calling for blood, but she’ll hear me saying, “Good job, girl,” through my blue, shivering lips. And that’s enough for both of us.