untitled
will tomorrow look brighter than today
because hope is hard to come by
and I cannot encourage myself to look
Sittin’ with my girlfriend, edge of her momma’s bed.
I reach down between her knees ,she goes upside my head.
She asks me “What you doin’ boy? You think we’re gonna breed?”
M.J.B.T.W. babe, it might just be the weed.
Might just be the weed, boy
It might just be the weed.
Whatever you think is happening
It might just be the weed.
I look in the rear view and see a big ol’ cop.
He turns on his flashing lights and I roll to a stop.
He says “What’s the problem, son? You’re drivin’ @ 1/4 speed!”
“It felt like 60, Officer, but thank God for the weed!”
Thank God for the weed, son.
Must have been the weed.
Whatever you thought was going on
Might just have been the weed.
Showed up late to class one day so the teacher called my name
What I did then to Chaucer’s poem was a low-down dirty shame.
She said “Mr. Wheeler, do you even know how to read?”
I said “I’m sorry, teach, but I think ol’ Geoff mighta been on the weed.”
M.J.B.T.W. Geoff,
Might just be the weed
You think that it’s you writing
But it might just be the weed
M.J.B.T.W. Larry,
It might just be the weed.
Thought I was writin’ down this song
But it might just be the weed.
Ribcage claw, hard as steel, grabs the truth from the air.
Left to stir in a wooden box, it emerges to reclaim secrets left exposed.
Like a great gate, it holds firm against all intrusions.
People are walking, their love kept in a tight grip.
Only freed once the skin is gone, to permeate the ground it lies in.
People will come and speak soft praises, and they think their words disintegrate in the air.
But they’re held close, and kept safely guarded, encased in hard bone.
When all is done, and our time is up we will still be grasping at shreds of our lives.
Seeking to hold a bit of immortality, firmly in the ribcage claw.
11:00 PM, my cell phone rings.
Nobody calls me this late.
My heart catches when I hear
the dead tone of my step-daughter’s voice,
I thought you should know.
My ex sister-in-law.
Advanced pancreatic cancer.
Months to live.
I close my eyes.
She and I are standing
in a friend’s kitchen.
A noisy party.
I’ve already drained my bottle of wine.
Jenny looks me in the eye, cocks
her head upward,
to the top of the refrigerator,
where sits a jug of unopened red wine.
She raises her eyebrows,
in a conspiratorial arch,
one naughty girl to another.
We claim that jug, laughing our asses off.
Jenny. Her big, compassionate heart; so suited
to be a social worker. We’re drinking wine
on her back patio. The massive oak tree spreads
lacy leaf shade over us. She is spelling out
my positive points, doing her best
to lift up my self-image. It’s good to hear.
Who knows, maybe she’s right. I still want her
to be my daughters’ role model.
I will send her a note; hold her hand, kiss
her cheek in spirit. It’s too late now
to rekindle our friendship and too late
to wish I had.
In your eyes, I saw
my euphoric demise:
Earth, honey, Eden
Your lips are adorned
with our first,
so take it.
If Bonnie and Clyde had
the stomach to kill for love,
surely you have the guts
to steal a
kiss
I’ve heard talk about
Liquid courage:
A double scotch to shore up his ego,
A few glasses of wine to ease her reserve.
Disguised cowardice all dressed up in a sparkly glass,
Bravado soon evaporated,
Culpability denied,
A poor choice that leaves you dehydrated in the morning.
Liquid courage
Isn’t courage at all.
Still, there’s beauty in the thought of courage
That could be liquid.
Dynamic bravery that takes the shape
Of each of us,
Holds steady our unique volumes of power and strength.
Grit that’s unafraid to admit,
To gently sift through the grit
From the shores of our fears and faults,
Daring to move and erode us into new forms of
Purity and harmony we never knew we could hold.
We were in Paris. Maybe even crossed on the sidewalk, by a restaurant he couldn’t afford and she’d refuse to be seen at. The street photographers seemed to follow her. The white cowl and overgrown Peter Pan collar were intriguing, alluring, in contrast to the stay-away message broadcast by the hound’s tooth suit with its knee-length skirt. She and the cameras might well have been in a snow globe bubble, unaware of and unshaken by the larger world. He was a traveling student and minstrel, of little interest to anyone for long, even when he chose the wrong street, stepping into a colorful riot of bricks and tear gas, flaming bottles and the bullet of a gendarme who mistook his shoulder-slung guitar for a rifle but didn’t take his life. And I? I was a passerby, an involved witness to their lives, oddly in love with her while she loved both of us. I don’t believe we ever met the shooter. The three of us lost track not long after. This is the way this poem ends, as this is the way most worlds end: With neither a bang nor a whimper.
The thrum of guitar strings
resonates richly in
the hollow wood of his Martin guitar,
then drifts up the stairs,
my father’s rooster crow
to let me know
he is awake.
And music loves company.
I stumble downstairs.
It’s too early for a teenager
on a Saturday, but I find my own
guitar in the corner.
Play this.
Wait, tell me what you’re doing.
He shakes his head.
Just watch.
And now I know
that this is the way
a parent teaches a child,
by forging ahead.
In time, I will learn to keep up.
Many years now, since
those coerced duets,
Funny how the tone
of acoustic guitar in my ears
will always be the sound of home.
To my father I would say:
You are worthy. You belong.
Music is our love language,
and I
will always write you songs.
And even after nightfall,
the heat did not fade.
Hunger welled up within us,
threatening to consume.
The cry of a coyote
sending chills down
our sweat-covered spines.
No door, and at
the edge of a forest.
Waning moon and dim stars,
covered by a straw roof.
But nothing about that
night struck me more than
the sheer depth of the darkness
and the fear.
I can only imagine
the pain you’ve suffered
living in this world
as a woman.
Now imagine a little girl
picking up Sorceror’s Stone
wanting to be Hermione,
poring over Chamber of Secrets
and crying with Myrtle
for being different,
too.
Imagine that girl
growing with these kids
that you birthed
out of your biological
imagination,
growing in this world
where her hero
won’t acknowledge her pain
as a woman
with testicles
or an extra chromosome,
won’t sympathize with the story
of when she learned about
her clitoris
and how the doctor called it
a “micropenis”.
I can only imagine what it’s like
when half the world is against you.
Now, can you imagine a world
where your hero is,
too?
