Lips ‘round me
information
by way of lineage,
my private archive of Alexandria,
D.O.A.
by intersection with larynx.
Hear me sing—
birds
will be
as birds
in joyous harmony
as the world otherwise
endures erasure
all beyond
(((me)))
There were times when the bathroom door
Was closed
The TV volume up and the apartment was empty
I was shaky
I couldn’t see
But muffles and blackouts are clear
And visitors
With uncomfortable intentions
Pill bottles and blue eyeliner
You always knew
But you never knew
“I’d never lie to my girls,” she said
And then proceeded to lie
The kitchen was small and dim with warm yellow hues but
Not in a nice way, more of a serial-killer way
I don’t remember seeing you much
But cigarette smoke and
Juicy Fruit gum from my aunt’s purse
Looking at old pictures from her wallet of you as a teenager
Not that many years ago then
Being relieved to know you once lived with golden curls and big smiles
But being shot down learning that
That itself was full of lies and masking trauma just
Seemed to float around like a flawless lilypad
In this family
i lie on my back staring up at the
heavens above, fireflies flickering
against a deep backdrop of sky
i trace shapes with my finger
-constellations-
and think about how many have
done so before me, for thousands
of years; in ancient times gone by
i wonder what it would be like to
be up there among countless stars
part of the sky i so reverantly love
instead of here, grounded on earth
Check written
signed
submitted
committed
to living
comfortably here for another month.
This marks my one hundred
and twenty-first payment.
A decade and a month
(with more to come)
which was never the plan
and I would so like to think
neither was it God’s.
(Some days, it’s really hard to tell)
I’ve given up on having my own family. Those cards
we’re lost from the deck ten, maybe five years ago.
Who needs another bedroom when you’re never gonna fill it?
Who needs a bigger, safer car when you’ll never need a booster seat?
Who needs to sit down and work out a budget for diapers, clothes,
groceries for four, baseball, dance, school then college
if nobody’s coming along to take those first steps?
I remember a scare -twelve- years ago.
Hell no I wasn’t ready, but challenge accepted;
would have done anything to provide for that child.
Since she’s had a couple of kids
with perhaps another on the way.
Such a recovery wasn’t allowed to me
(a victim of God’s passive will?)
but some days in this safe and familiar space, I wonder
if I would really want it any other way.
I think
of people I’d have never met
of places I’d have never loved
of hobbies I’d have never enjoyed
of a dream of literary creation
already taking too long in the solitude.
Would futures lost have yielded the same contentment
I’ve learned to find so well?
(so long as people give me life in lieu of destructive wind?)
I don’t know.
Some days, it’s really hard to tell.
I leave my check in the dropbox.
You can be exactly where you need to be
and still know it’s no where you could have been.
two of them. you in video.
still chubby face and legs
with wide beam of pride.
a look and feel and smile
i hope to see again and again
on you, at each first step,
at each rise of fall.
pride. that polysemous,
monosyllabic word
of dignity-equality-
humanity– oh,
mi nieto, age one,
is this too much
to tell you? then when?
i watch again. the steps
from mom to dad.
flow of love-values.
and worry less.
and more.
Dad was less than impressed when he learned
I was a superhero-in-training,
Less than thrilled that training involved
Single bounds from dressers across the chasm
Of obligatory beige 80s carpeting
Onto the Pooh Bear sheets on my double bed.
Boy, did he ever whoop my ass.
He beat the ever-living hell out of me.
It was a one-man steel cage match.
He clobbered that 5-year-old.
He pulverized that 5-year-old.
He mauled that 5-year-old.
He gave that 5-year-old a thing or two
To think about.
He dished out the most epic beating
Of that 5-year-old’s young life.
He showed that 5-year-old who was boss.
He showed that 5-year-old who wore
The pants (mine were down around my ankles,
Yet to be stained with residual blood).
He showed that 5-year-old what it meant
To be a force of nature.
He was a late-season gust ripping last leaves
From a dogwood that would never learn
To flower.
He totally demolished that 5-year-old.
Fuck that 5-year-old and his impulses
And his stupid cravings for hugs and play.
There were plenty more beatings after that
But that’s the one I wear
Close as the tears that never quite drip
From ducts toughened into immunity.
Who would have guessed listening
To that 5-year-old’s screams and pleads
That tear-proof ducts would be
His superpower?
Branches are high overhead
A cathedral of interlocking imbs
Filled by shards of green & blue
Opening and closing in the wind
Offering a glimpse into heaven
of making every day seem like an adventure. We weren’t picking through garbage on Mondays. We were searching for valuable treasure along suburban curbs. That’s how I ended up with a rough-hewn coffee table that matched my pine-framed couch. And a tiny wooden rocking chair just the right size to display books or CDs at festivals. It’s how I found $5 Danskos in many colors. And after we saved so much money thrifting, and the holidays loomed so near, I’d watch you veer your sedan onto packed highways like a half-mad elf, eyes glinting in the winking wash of December lights, let’s go to Barnesy-Noble!
years melting off: puddles for dragonfly
eggs: omelette and peach sliced with goat
cheese: sitting under over burdened walnut
tree by the slaughterhouse while parents make
transactions: money for meat: time for
death: living for waiting: finding greasy five dollar
tip in between teeth: gum disease blooming local rose
garden: at the point suffering is
unavoidable: pinprick eternal reminder of
thorn: cleaning soft cheese off blade of
knife: motor control in young
child: flare of anticipation
nonetheless: it’s 10PM do you know where your children
are: night bath in purple cowboy
hat: cow means ugly: pig means ugly: chicken means
scared: lamb means glorification of
sacrifice: but don’t roll over and doe
eye: scratch your own belly if you have
to: wash in your own years if you have
to: with your mouth open they can take your
teeth: only dragons have
fire: you only have
storybooks: learn as fast as you
can: clean your knives before juice makes them too
sweet
Sometimes I think I’d like to go back—sit once more
in Campo Santo Stefano, Venezia, feel again
its graciousness, its aura; or perhaps
linger once again among the aspens in October
their golden leaves, quaking in sunlight,
dancing in celebration—as if proclaiming
some recent apotheosis!
And yet, amid all the aching
for these homes, I understand,
and, ever needing such reminders,
I say it to myself:
If I could return,
it would not be to that place,
Heraclitus’ river ever flowing,
inexorably flowing—
How, then, could that slant of Venetian light
cut again its sudden slender swath
across my small table?
Or how could the sunlight play again,
or the breeze dance again in such joy,
among the aspens?
And I…?
