somedays
are like this
bed head all day
swollen eyes
suppressed stress
contemplating dreams
while lying in bed
taking no action
“is this even pleasurable?”
i ask myself
i don’t wait for an answer
just roll over in bed
and move on
to another thought
If my life were a movie
the whole world would feel my heartbreak.
And you, only but a mere rising action.
I will not let you watch me fall.
Refuse to be a shit redbox movie-
no matter how bad I want you to take me home.
Play my insides on your overhead and listen
I want you to memorize every last line.
My great-great grandfather was a minister.
I think about him sometimes,
living a small life in a town bordered with darkness.
I try to imagine what his reaction was
to a daughter who was round at seventeen,
how he must have wept over the frozen ground
she was buried in not long after.
I wonder if she sat on hard wooden benches
as a child, listening to him preach about the right ways to be afraid.
It seems to me that most children
back then
already knew how to be afraid.
Home never means the same thing twice.
For the ones who came before us,
there was dusty ground, empty bellies,
frozen toes and wet wool.
My line sprung from Ohio
and Eastern Kentucky,
roots meeting at an intersection
in coal country. We survived,
we withstood,
we seasoned the pans
and weathered the storms.
Where the pines burst through
I can trace my blood like the rings inside a tree.
Are you a girl,
or are you a boy?
You ask this question
that now somehow holds so much
weight.
It’s normally so simple.
The world was this or that,
it was defined by very clear
binaries
and you never imagined your
life
would be navigating
or trying to define the
in between.
Did we choose the right
one?
Because it’s a 50/50 shot.
Normally they hand you a baby
and they shout out
it’s a boy
or
it’s a girl
and you don’t ever have to think about
what it would be like to have to
pick the gender
for your child
and shout out the answer
with confidence.
But you did it
because you had to.
You hope they think they misremembered
when you now say
“she”
because you brought home a
“he”.
You hope they misremember
because it’s not their business
but people are
curious.
It’s their
nature.
You know they’d want to know
and you’ll have to explain
about chromosomes
and hormones
and the complexities of the
human body
that you’re not even sure you comprehend
yourself.
You have no pretty diagnosis
to tie it up into a bow with
because even the doctors are upfront
about how
they don’t know.
They have no answers
to give you
about who your child
will grow into.
And you worry
so
much
about when your child is old enough
to have questions
and starts to realize they’re
different,
that they will feel
their body has betrayed them,
no matter how much you tell them
they are
beautiful
and
special
and perfectly formed.
You worry that
no matter how much you tell them
there are others like them,
they will realize that’s only
partly true.
You worry so much
that the gender you chose
for them
won’t be the right
one
and they’ll have to navigate this
all over again.
You worry they’ll never
stop feeling that little twinge
whenever
they have to answer whether
they’re a
boy
or a
girl.
mystery of exposed wire brushes her
she jolts, unwinds and I coil her back into the crook of my arm
tremors rock her back to sleep, sickness is not still
I mimic the widow’s pleading and the nurses vigil
desperate prayers in the night
i put the broken shingles
that fell off my rib cage
in your front yard
you took them out back
and glued them onto
a cardboard box you called
“an escape”
youd sit in there
and mumble for hours
about how the world
is wasting your time
and even though you knew
without nails and a hammer
it would diminish quickly,
you left me in the snow for months
and nevertheless, you returned
with paint and flowers to make this place
feel homey again. but paint chips,
and flowers die and as will we
with longing in our chests,
and the cynical remains
of yet again, another
broken home.
First choice: “Margaritaville”
Why?
You can count on it being the exact arrangement as the original recording and in the same key.
Usually, everybody chimes in on, “Salt, salt, where’s the damn salt?!”
Some folks are actually drinking margaritas.
Other songs where the crowd is on your side:
“Old Time Rock and Roll,” “Hey, Bartender,” “Lean on Me” and maybe “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie” with all of those lyrics.
You do a halfway decent job,
Staying in tune and not screwing up the lyrics too much in your somewhat inebriated state,
And people you’ve never met before congratulate you on your performance.
OK, maybe a stretch here, but cruise ship karaoke might just save the world.
Donald S. Taylor, 36, of Danville,
was arrested
for operating on a suspended/revoked operator’s license,
DUI first offense,
possession of a controlled substance first degree,
first offense (methamphetamine)
and possession of a controlled substance first degree,
first offense (Heroin).
According to the police report,
Deputy Geoffrey Brown was traveling
on west Kentucky 70 turning on old west Kentucky 70
following a Kentucky State Police officer
when he seen Taylor
sitting in the roadway
in the drivers seat
with the vehicle running.
Officer turned around
to check on the vehicle
but it had driven away.
Upon locating the vehicle,
officers got behind the vehicle
and it was all over the road.
Brown and State Police
conducted a traffic stop
and a female was driving at the time.
Taylor was a passenger in the vehicle
and Brown asked why they had switched drivers
before the traffic stop.
Taylor said he had almost hit a deer
and he was scared.
Taylor admitted to switching drivers
just before the traffic stop.
He was given a field sobriety test and
afterword’s
Taylor placed under arrest and searched.
His mom hugged me hello
and invited me downstairs.
Soft Indian dance music cascaded out of the speakers,
while little brothers tackled each other in the adjoining room.
His grandma handed me
plate after plate of food.
I ate it all and told her how much I loved it,
before downing bottles of water to neutralize the spice-filled sauces.
His cousin told me that I would never find anyone like him:
motivated, caring, attractive.
I conceded that he was probably right
but for different reasons than just those three traits.
Someone said I was a part of the family now.
Someone else said they couldn’t see it.
It came to my attention once again,
that I was the only white person in the house.
I suspected everyone must experience the
uncomfortable curiosity of being an outsider
at least a few times in their lives,
some much more often than others.
His family, and those he called Aunt and Uncle, but weren’t related,
all volunteered some short speeches
of funny memories and celebratory remarks.
I wondered if anyone would have said any of it about me:
that I was like a brother to them,
or they hoped they would see me again
on our late-night Taco Bell runs
or all-day sessions of pick-up basketball.
I guessed probably not.
