Posts for 2020 (page 102)

Once or twice a week it happens
I’ll talk and they’ll talk
they talk more and I listen
I finish listening before they finish talking
and I look through them
trying to see the space behind
and ahead

I keep your mixtape playing

And hat sitting on my dash

I smoke the same cigarettes as you

And wait for your face to pop up

On my phone.

I replay our sweet moments

When I’m going to sleep

And when I’m driving around

The town we made memories in.

I’ll hold on to the thought of you,

And hope I get you back

Even as just a friend

Because you made me laugh

And you made me feel alive

I’ll love you always, “boodaloodaloodaloo”

       –after George Ella Lyon  

I am from Nottingham’s cobblestones still charred by the bonfire
that celebrated the end of WWII, from the grandmother without
a middle name and the grandfather who went every day by his.

I’m from the Norwegian immigrants only speaking English
to their kids born American in Minnesota and the grandmother
who had died in the room I was born in. I am from the father who never

ceased talking and the mother who never began. From Lake Erie perch
and suburban lawns, to piano recitals and pot plants growing
in the basement. I’m from chicken paprikash and dill dumplings,

fried clams and McDonald’s drive thru. I’m from “If you don’t have
anything nice to say, shut the fuck up” and “Let’s not talk about
unpleasant things,” from “There are certain things you don’t tell your mother.”

I am from Renaissance festival summers and Catholic school winters,
from belly dancers and paisley knitting ladies. I’m from a line of siblings
I do not know and people who either never move or never stop moving.

I’m from Glen Levitt and amaretto, from Law and Order SVU and Monty Python’s
Flying Circus, the spotlight and the dark closet, the questioning
and silence, the feast and famine, the praise and invisibility, the left

and the right, the foreign and the domestic, the believer and the atheist,
the elegant and the tawdry, naked and clothed, built and torn down, safe
and exploited. I am from the field where a dragon collided with numbers.

when we talk about it to others
most of us aren’t thinking much
on
process
from
rhythm

instead
we talk around 
the burning cold memory
a point that makes even
his/her/their death
pale
that usually strikes out
in the deep silence
of an already
bad run

The only thing
that keeps me from
the waves below

There’s no reason we can’t have nice things.  

The camera was forgotten when Dad got a promotion that moved the family to Omaha. Could be it got dropped, or replaced with a newer model. Perhaps the son took it with to Vietnam, and neither returned. Things get broken, taken from us, no matter the care we take.  

The puppy, one of six in his litter, got the name Roller from how he’d tumble while chasing s ball. He looks so big in Lilly’s embrace, but he was only eight days to her three years, his eyes not open to the world yet, still only imagining the source of a kiss. They learned quickly to love and care.  

The little girl in this picture is 73 now, awaiting a coming great-grandchild’s fingers around hers, the large eyes, bigger smile. Time doesn’t ask if we’re ready for change. The puppy died when she was 13, and she cried uncontrollably when she came home from school to the unexpected news.  

We just can’t have them forever.

I do not want your lies.
They will find no solace
in my reasoning, 
and certainly not in my heart.
Get out of here.
I can no longer stomach your hate,
and I can see past your boasting.
Get out of here.
You tune out our cries
with defensiveness and pomp.
You do not listen.
Get out of here.

The lighted mirror blabs
lavish amounts 

of lacking due diligence
in the application of anti-
aging creamy concoctions

The heifer that is vanity
pierces the heart of my forty-
something feelings

Feeble confidence bobbles
on the open sea of faux pas

Is it moon or mood 
that rules the tide

Whatever

My fine fissures shall not
sink the ship

No matter what generosity
the looking glass laments in my face

the only valid point reflected

is the tale of a legend
leading to nothing
but treasure

Mirror mirror
on the wall 

You are not 
a know-it-all

i like the way my high life
splatters the concrete 
can cold to touch
i turn it back
upright
no celebrating tonight
just remembering
with each remaining sip
i raise

FROM THE OTHER SIDE

Stranded
Frustrating
Boxed in
Why me?

Snowed in
Iced in
Boxed in
Why me?

Lemons
Limes
So tart
Stinging
Binding

But God makes lemonade
Removing the sting
And the ties
And frees us..

The snow is there
To say, “Stop”.
The ice is there
To say, “STOP!”

And we
Do not recognize
God’s gift for what it is.

And God just shakes His head
And says, “Children, children,”