--EVEN BIRDS OF A FEATHER FIND IT HARD TO FLY

Mirror to Sand

 

We are each other’s broken mirror,

shards our lips,

the crunch underfoot our sad song.

We glue ourselves back together,

slicing our fingers in the process

so that now blood becomes our tears

as they streak across smudged glass

which reflects nothing but

the black crib of death.

When I say, “Honey, please believe me.

It wasn’t your fault,”

you convulse and shoot splinters

around the room,

tiny spears hitting the tiny headboard

and tiny pink pillow,

hitting the kitty mobile suspended above

the basinet with its too bright colors.

After a while, you let me hug you

and we shatter again.

There will be more of this.

Of course there will.

We will clutch and shatter,

clutch and shatter,

shatter and shatter and shatter

until we turn to sand,

make a beach of ourselves,

let the ocean lap us

and bring back our baby girl,

cooing near coconut trees,

ready to held,

stared at,

or just loved.

 

--ONLY GRAB WHAT YOU NEED.  GRAB YOUR LIFE.

 

…When you’re lucky enough to be immersed with your tribe for an extended period of time, a ragged bliss exists inside you, overtaking those things that want your breath.

When you are one, married with your tribe, your wariness erodes.  You become acutely aware of life—the depth of color, the different pitches of sounds, the jagged shape of a cloud or the flourish of a well-read sentence—that was there prior to your immersion, yet concealed by the repetitive, mundane dulling of your senses.

When you are with like-minded people who share the majority of your sensibilities, it’s akin to a rebirth, or in the least, a marked re-setting or refocus. 

Wonder returns, and it’s suddenly everywhere around you.  Your eyesight becomes keen.  Your ears get bigger.  Humbleness rumbles and roils inside of you, as does gratitude.

When we feel most alive, youthfulness returns and what mattered so much before is kept in a sealed jar on a shelf in a far off place.  You feel less burdened.  You feel safer. 

For once, it takes no effort whatsoever to be fully present in the moment.  Very little feels superfluous, while nearly everything feels vital, incredibly interesting and exciting. 

Even the small things do.

In a sense, then, you and your tribe become a glued-together glob of love for a while, attached by invisible fibers and tendons, blood and guts.  You wipe off each other’s tears.  You embrace each other’s anger knowing that this show of angst is fleeting and authentically concocted by the shrill voice of freedom and the indefensible strength of emotion that being together has unleashed.

I felt all this, experienced all this, for six days spent with nineteen other brilliant artists, writers, and needy misfits.

It was equal parts magic and stone cold reality. 

I made good use of the time.  I paid attention and by so doing so I received a plethora of gifts, many of which are hard to explain to you.

I tried to stretch myself, writing-wise.  I listened and learned and I applied those learnings in my own voice and hand.

Near the end of our time together, I wrote hard and deep.  The words both did and didn’t sound like they were mine.  But they were mine.  I know they were.

 

I owe a debt to many…Robert Vaughan, Meg Tuite, Nancy Stohlman, Katherine DiBella Seluja, etc…

I owe a debt.

I came away realizing that when I don’t write, don’t create, I am killing myself with all those spaces left unfilled, all those empty pages. 

I won’t do that anymore.  I’ve got my mojo back and it feels fucking great.

Here’s one of those stretch pieces I wrote on my final day in Santa Fe…

I Remember What It’s Like To Be Hungry

 

I remember what it’s like to be hungry,

gorging on concrete loaves, rusty jackknives,
the tips of my father’s steel-toed boots and
his manifestos carved into the backs of church steeples.

I remember what it’s like to fuck a rain cloud

in a froth, the air nutty around our thrusts and hiccups,
shooting semen all over Mars and Venus,
my cum not even sticky, just fleeting like a
newborn dying in its crib.

I remember what it’s like to slaughter a parent,

do it Watch Maker-slow, meticulously, then
fast forward lickety split, chainsaw smoking,
making chili, Borsht, and Sloppy Joes
with the remains.

I remember what it’s like to actually care about

your paper cut kisses, your anvil heart and
circumcised portfolio assembled with I.E.D.’s
and sermon paste.

I remember too much.

Every passing Greyhound bus is a crush
reminding me that
I am not legend.

But what do you remember?
Would you wager for it now?
Race for it?
Murder to have it restored in your hairy breath?
I’m willing to bet you’re still
dismembering babies and
using their chubby fists as bookmarks
for the diaries you so ostentatiously
forgot to
set on fire.

 

 

--THIS IS HOW THE SUMMER ENDS, IN A FLASH OF PURE DESTRUCTION, NO ONE WINS

 

Carousel

She rides her white horse to the moon at a wild gallop.

The animal foams and paints scars across the sky with its bloody hooves,
leaving brick-colored stains that can only be seen by astronomers or loved ones
like us.

After a while the beast gives out,

but there are plenty others if one knows where to look,
past the drained arm veins,
to the plump toes perhaps,
or calf muscles,
a neck with its bulging, green cords so delicious.
The needle will always find a way.
 
I tell her, “You are not who you think you are,” and she cackles,
shatters the mirror with a spoon.

Our girls want to know about the ruckus.

They are clever and crafty just like her,
as stubborn as steel.
When Abby asks, “Who’s that ragdoll lady in there?”
I get a gun and do what I should have done so long ago.

***
On the first day,
her taunts and slurs are mere toothpick spears.
It’s the shrill screams that boil my skin.
I worry they’ll melt the locks,
my will.

On the second day,
my wife bangs her head against the door, a dozen booming canon bursts
that send her unconscious.

On the third,

she convulses; a saggy, skin-and-bone puppet
shedding streams of sour sweat.
She pees herself and slaps at the puddles and pool.

Fourth day,

she spends groaning, lolling on the cold, tiled floor,
whiter than the clinic’s wide walls.
“Pony,” she moans.  “Give me back my pony.”

On the last day,

the day of release,
I show her a photograph, and when she asks what it is,
I say, “That’s your dead horse.  We killed it, together.”

She cocks her head for one last look.

She bucks against me even as she clings.
Her tears smell clean
while her words
ring sheer but true in my ear.
“This time,” she says, sucking down menthol,
breathing in prayers,
“this time I mean it.”

 

--YOU’RE LIKE THAT CIGARETTE, THAT SHOT OF 100 PROOF…

 

...Nine times out of ten there’s a look of recognition that will answer the question for you.

…The only person you can make say “Yes” is you.

…I don’t always know what I’m doing here.

…I keep getting it wrong.

…It’s raining today even though there’s not a cloud in the sky.

…Sometimes the person to fear the most is the one you used to trust most.

…When I was young I was quite naïve.  Once, around age seven or so, when it was nearing the end of December, my brother told me a burglar broke into the North Pole, that Santa heard some noise in the giant shed where he kept his toys, and after he turned on the light, the burglar stabbed and killed him.  I was heart-broken.  “That means no more presents for you or anyone,” my brother said.  I went to school and asked my classmates if they’d heard about Santa being murdered.  Turned out I was the only kid that age who still believed in Santa.  Turned out I was teased and ostracized the rest of grade school.

…Sometimes you just have to ask questions.

…If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.

…You either go through metamorphosis or you calcify.

…Sex is an itch you just scratch, but love is the itch so far down that you can’t even reach it with your own hand.

…Butterflies and tsunamis; they’re both nature.

…Smolder is a pretty great word.

…Coagulate is a word that sounds like what it is.  (I think there’s a name for that.)

…Nothing seems to make much sense.  It’s all just Greek to me.

…Maybe I don’t want to know the reason why.

…You only give up your power when you think you don’t have any.

…Flowers are wonderful.  Really fucking wonderful.  Hopeful, too.

…Keep your head down and you’ll be fine.  That’s what they say anyway.

…Who is “They”?

…Even if you don’t think it, don’t feel it, it’s probably a good idea to breathe.

…Someone told me they’re burning me tomorrow.  I hope they were joking.

…I get sloppy when the Cab does its work.

…That’s not me talking; it’s just water in the air pipe.

…There are hardly any trees anymore.  No oxygen.  No air.

…If I die tonight there will be a million things I never said.

…I’m feeling a little threadbare, but at least it’s quiet here.

 

 

--I’M JUST WAKING UP SO DON’T QUOTE ME

 …I have come to believe that life is a gift and love is the point.

…We all have things we’re dreaming of, it’s just that some people are actually doing something about it.

…I am functioning in a thin space, so it’s good I’m not claustrophobic.

…Everyone has an ache that might be trying to tell them something. 
I'm pretty sure I know what mine is trying to tell me.  I'm pretty sure that I'm pretty sure about this.

…God knows that love can be hard to find, but we can’t give up.

…It’s probably a good idea to rejoice every now and then.

…Sometimes the best thing we can do is to just show up, to be there without expecting anything.

…Sometimes it’s hard for me to accept good news, to accept it without feeling guilty.

…Something I’m actually proud of is being done with abundance.

…Being defined by what you lack shouldn’t be allowed.

…One of life’s most challenging things is to be present and alive in the moment.

…My least favorite road is a one way street.

…Another thing I’ve learned is that it’s impossible to be sad while being around a cooing baby.

…I’ll admit I didn’t know Jerry Lewis was still alive until yesterday.  I’m sorry he passed away.  When I was a kid, my mom would stay up all night watching his telethons.  I never understood what my mom liked and didn’t like, and why or why not.

…In Cinema class I learned that France considers Jerry Lewis one of the greatest actors of all time.  That’s another think I couldn’t quite understand.

…I am a big fan of anyone who tries their hand at writing poetry, even if their poems suck.

...My car had issues the other day.  It would only go 40 mph on the freeway and I didn’t know where my safety flashers were.  People behind me were not happy.  I didn’t blame them.  I’m going to try to be more tolerant of slow drivers from now on.  You never know.

…The first song playing in my loaner car was “Love Hurts.”  “Jeremy” was the second.  Hmmm.

…I saw a bumper sticker that said DRIVER CARRIES NO CASH.  HE’S MARRIED and another that said IF YOU’RE GOING TO RIDE MY ASS, AT LEAST PULL MY HAIR.  That made me smile.

…Nobody gets to own the sunset, yet it’s quite beautiful.  The point is it’s there and we can enjoy it if we choose to.

…One thing I’ve learned is never say never.

…I’ve seen a lot of long shadows this week.

…I’m not a Fix-it guy, but I’ll stand with you.

 

--I’D GO HUNGRY, I’D GO BLACK AND BLUE. 

 

…I haven’t actually looked, but I think there’s still a lot of candy left in this piñata, so go ahead and beat me.

…Ten miles is a lot different depending on how you get there.

…If there was a solar eclipse every year, do you think people would even care?

…There were a lot of snakes around our house when I was a kid.  All kinds… I found a blue-tailed racer once and kept him as a pet in an empty Folgers Coffee can with air holes in the plastic lid.  I named him Louie.  One day I came home and my father was not happy.  No, not at all.  Louie had somehow gotten loose and was found dangling around a water pipe above the work bench where my dad tooled leather.  He used one of those belts on me that day, but it didn’t hurt all that much.  I still suspect my brother let Louie loose.

…I think sunsets top sunrises.  The ones here are always shades of plum and pink, soft ribbons of color.

…“When it rains, it pours.”—Not always.

…I wonder what dogs dream about.

…Sometimes I think my mind is trying to tell me something.

…A sabbatical is a good thing, a hiatus not so much.

…My office always smells good.  I tear the cologne strips out of magazines and open them up.  It’s pretty effective.

…My office is currently a pig sty, which says something about my state of mind.

…Yesterday, a half block up from the bank, there was a group of young men standing under a large American flag with a sign that read: STAND UP FOR TRUMP!  STOP HERE.  They’re probably the same guys who drive their car, and sometimes even their boat, with a confederate flag sticking out of it.

…When I was a teenager, I had long hair.  Not really long, but long.  My dad called me Sally or Flower Child.  It never offended me.  I kind of liked it.

…Some things I can’t handle are: a child in fear, a child crying when it’s being disciplined, a child in pain.  Basically I can’t handle anything with a child being unhappy.

…Every child is made of love, made of gold, made of diamonds.

…Songs that were stuck in my head at some point while picking blueberries Saturday included “Body Like A Back Road” and “Mercy,” both country songs at the end of each other’s spectrum.

…I don’t know what I’d do without music, but if I had to choose between being deaf or blind, I’d have to go with deaf.

…I think single moms are heroes.

…“If I were any better, I’d be twins.”  That’s something I’ve never said.

…I’m not good at fixing things and I’m perfectly fine with that.

…Italian is such a fun language.  If I was Italian, I’m pretty sure I’d talk to myself when I was alone.  Pretty sure I’d be smiling a lot more, too.  Pretty sure I’d be fatter.

…I’m pretty sure this is going to be an interesting week.  Pretty sure it’s going to be one of those rollercoasters where you scream and try not to throw up on yourself doing the alley oops.

…It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.

 

--ALL MY FEARS ARE RUNNING WILD RIGHT NOW               

I Would Have Loved You Anyway

In the end,

there is nothing left to scrape or pick at,
no detritus,
empty apple crates or
discarded cores.
Yet time unwinds without prejudice
and so your fruit puckered
and wilted,
the ages wearing on your
wounded pride,
you an old woman sooner than later,
never one for apologies or regrets
and certainly not now.

But I would have loved you anyway,

in spite of the lava you flung,
the fumes you made me suck
and the picture windows you shattered.
I would have loved you
if you’d just once said
you needed me.

 

Chaperone

Your mother and I

loved the pitch dark
and once we tripped over spools of barbed wire
on the way to a coronation.
But you
prefer clean slates and light
while I
have run out of wisdom.

On stage now,

some kid quotes Dylan
wearing a wire headset.
Beside him, you pose upon a Styrofoam stage,
your bare parts peppered with glitter.
Your arm goes wild waving
and I notice, not for the first time,
how you have her hands,
the same skinny fingers.
Even your eyes from this distance
have a similar gloss.

There aren’t many ballads,

but by midnight one comes on
and then I take you from him,
leading the way with your waist.

“You’re thinking about her,” you spit.

“Even on my night, it’s all about her.”
The song says love can be a torture chamber.
The singer cautions me, “You’re going to get
what you give.”

 

Living Arrangement

Here I am again,
bloody hands and bleeding mouth,
eating raw venison,
or maybe it’s duck liver.
Whatever meat it might be
you should know that I was starving and
grabbed the first thing in the fridge,
realizing too late that it was yours,
but of course,
I’ll pay you back,
maybe buy you dinner,
like on a date,
that is,
if you’re up for it,
because I know this whole living arrangement is supposed to be
platonic but, hey, what?
Wait, what?
You’ve labeled this container?
Yeah, that’s your handwriting.
Michael J.
As in, Michael J., your last boyfriend?
The one that supposedly moved to Europe?
The guy you continually curse?
No, no, no.
Oh my God,
I think I’m going to be sick.
I am sick.
You’re sick.
Look at this is mess we’re in.
Maybe we deserve each other after all.
What do you think?
Still up for that dinner?
We don’t have to call it a date.
 

 

Faith

She lived on faith

that the dead could not
get even.

And still sleep became an angry ocean,

jeers and slapping waves,
dirty sea foam spilling across the bare-bellied
beach.

Overhead a cluster of gulls hovered,

halting their search for prey
to watch
her row the boat against the tide,
miles out into the midst of the wicked water
where she first said a prayer
before dumping his body
overboard.