She shivers every time, a quaking
You fork your way into night, pickled
envelope of humid air and streetlight blur–
the thought of them on your bent-low head
as, smoking, you turn dark again to dark.
When they call your name, you appear–
or maybe this is a dream you both shared
once–smoke and sulphur, the cloven needs
of a pair of bodies brush against each other.
You return to your warren, the hollow
where you keep your bed. In the waning
of the dawn, the world resets itself anew
again. You remember and forget their face.
“Only people of a certain disposition are frightened
of being alone for the rest of their lives”
– Rob Gordon, High Fidelity
Liftgate lowers; last equipment carried, stacked, accounted;
spatter of rain fights gravity, flung against your exposed neck,
your tie long-since loosened, top buttons undone
to let your skin breathe. Fresh water mixes with salt-sweat
trickling down your chest, underneath your clothes. You climb
behind the wheel, muscles aching, heart still
throbbing—from the sound, the adrenaline; everyone else left
an hour before you–venues painted red by taillights;
thoughts lingering in word bubbles from the past
half hour…
“You guys have been great tonight. Hope you had fun,”
“Headed off to a honeymoon? Safe travels and thank you
for trusting me with your big day.”
“No, thank you. For letting me share in this day with
you.”
“No problem. Really. Glad you liked it; it’s a special song to me too.”
The dashed-line bubbles pursue; ghosts along the road home;
darkness and more taillights—the ones you didn’t say…
“I really hope you beat the odds.”
“Remember today. When it gets rough.”
“Don’t ever stop fighting for what matters.”
“I’d rather not play that one…it reminds me of her.”
So much magic, so much finery. So much money. So many couples–
dancing, holding, kissing,
in love.
It reminds you that there is someone for everyone.
Nobody goes to a wedding
alone.
The road stretches in front of you. Hidden horizon. Twenty minutes left
in the day. But you’ll arrive
tomorrow.
Alone.
Until it’s time
to do it again.
An inappropriate outburst
during church raised eyebrows
of onlookers, Pharisees, keepers
of the law. But what about his law
the one inside his head that plays
the autism card? Trumps all;
game over. After the final Amen,
he brought me an apology note,
letters scrawled on the back of a bulletin,
hugged me, and said, “Grandaddy, please
don’t be mad at me.” An appropriate time
to demonstrate forgiveness.
The air was heavy with the sticky, sour smell of goblin men.
Introibo ad altare Dei.
1.
Then there was the winter it seemed we said goodbye to the sun.
Noches frías. Manos heladas. Hands immovable, guitar
impossible to play, tongues frozen behind the teeth.
On such a night, pinned between a distress and craving to please,
this fantasy came to be between the buildings and the balconies.
The moons float in alley water
like eggs embosomed by tin cups,
The moons coast in alley water
like eggs embosomed by jeweled, tiny tin cups.
Consume this simple meal given now to us.
2.
To know uncomplicated you is smoked bourbon steak hearts toasted
with black tar tobacco chicken wings together,
and the nuzzling of all of you is all of you and I— but
for the fear to see her face reflected in yours.
My ruin.
She follows in every face I choose to love.
She follows. As the bull’s bloody corpse who fought gallantly
in the arena, his manhood, ears, and tail removed for memorabilia.
Her three gorgeous emerald eyes within triple eyes of green,
and wild claws clenched to tear at my Earth,
the ones to pin pesetas and saetas on the Virgin
in the churches of the gypsy quarter—
I know there’s forgiveness for her.
3.
I know the taste of bluegrass moss on the ochre morning’s stone,
and the salt caramel fog on my tongue acrid from the bright flooded sea.
Starlight rises rudely to end our breakfasting on the midnight, crabs we shelled
beachside, opened, cracked, and crucified to a toasted, gutted rapture.
I thank all that is all and is for the glancing softness of your moonlit walking beach,
your taste whether foul, for once I don’t care. All I want is you.
Draw the curtains so tightly, light a candle to spit in the eyes of the sun.
Set out cups to catch the moonlets, take raw shots of memory for breakfast.
I wonder
If everyone else
Looks at the mundane:vitamins and ants
And dust that’s probably from Africa but it’s floating through my yard like birds
And hears a cadence in their mind
That trips over and through the temporal regions of my brain
Until I have to get it out and let your eyes read the kaleidoscope of thoughts.
I get this feeling whenever I return
to this ancient home of mine, after
going away – be it days or weeks
it feels a lot like completion to me
like I am never whole as long as I
am away from the place if my birth
and blood; though I take it with me
every place that I go – it is part of me
these hills and hollers gave me life
my parents grew up in Appalachia
right here in eastern Kentucky where
our families have been for generations
they were born here, as was I, on the
banks of the Ohio river in a small town
grew up here all my life, all thirty-eight
years of it, and I will be blessed if I die
in these foothills and sink beneath the
red clay that my great-papaw mined for
fire bricks when he was young and fit
it will be the greatest honor to forever
stay in Appalachia; be part of it always
there ain’t a place in this world my soul
desires to be more than this; give me to
the sandstone and mine, rivers, trees
give me to the land of my ancestors
let me always keep my Appalachian heart
Music reserved for remembrance.
and I cannot sleep. Today I backed
down from a dispute with a friend,
let fear of losing silence me.
So many losses these last few years,
one more felt like one too many.
I squelched my voice, shoved it down,
but after lights out, the argument
erupted in my head. What should I,
could I have said? Would she have heard
me? Would we have parted or come together?
Too late. I didn’t speak, so I don’t know
and now I only argue with my pillows.
