Posts for June 8, 2024 (page 8)

The lead actress later testified to the court that she had been worried she had used the artificial tears for one performance too many. By the time the light hit her face that final night in June, they had dried up and she was panicked.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Step Eight of the Twelve Steps of programs such as A.R.T.S. Anonymous is, “Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.”  

Ameliorate any suffering I’ve caused.
Manage the expectations of others.
Even out areas of unequal power.
“No” is a complete sentence.
Direction can be protection.
Saying the truth can be freeing.

I am merely an open mouth
in a rickety shack
in the center of Yorketown,
music pouring out of me,
tuned randomly
to my own heart,
the wolves outside
held at bay
by a bumping bassline
I can vaguely feel
in my throat.

You’re not there, of course, as I step gingerly across
the iron bridge, watching the falls blow rainbows
like bubbles from a children’s pipe. You don’t see me
on the highground view of Manhattan amid a lawn
of flowering litter. You don’t sit with me at the base
of the falls watching the watery blood drift through
its veins to the tattered city. You don’t fume with me
as I listen to a lady tell the ranger how dangerous
this city is (& she’s never been here before). You’re
just not here, but I am here, and here again; you are
my guide, you and your red barrow after the rain,
you and your old lady with her bag full of plums, you
and the young wife on a porch in her night dress as
you motor along on your rounds (you loved her a little,
I think), your ballgame crowd screaming with just one
soul; you Poe-ish contagious hospital adorned by the mud
and dying weeds of winter; I know you don’t see the falls
with me, unafraid as the Passaic rears back its fist, punches
Paterson with  all its muscular love; you can’t talk, so I do
the talking and it is enough; you listen as a I say how f—ing
frustrating it is that this garden state of shopping strips and
Starbucks at every exit little recalls just who in the hell you are! 

In my lifetime, I’ve sat through
too many long- winded,
brow-beating sermons that provide
no more soul-nourishing nutriments
than a slice of dry toast.
        I am the bread of life.
Do we provide our congregants
with anything that sustains
their lives, or tools to help them navigate
life’s treacherous paths, problems aplenty?
        I have come that you might have life,
        and have it more abundantly.
Isn’t the gospel more than just
a promise of prosperity?
We follow a book of order, a prescribed
liturgy, a lectionary, and stand proud
and pious before the people
much like the Pharisees.
        Send the people away so they can go
         to the surrounding countryside
         and buy themselves something to eat. 
         Jesus said, “You give them something to eat.”
We have failed to feed the hungry.
We stare at our loaves and fish and wonder
why someone doesn’t send a food truck
to the multitude.

I watch you struggle as I look down checking in. Clancy does his job keeping you busy as you do those therapy visits at the hospitals that we worked so hard at during those obedience classes. Remember how he yelled at the Doberman whining in class? School was serious business to him.He makes you chase those neon tennis balls under the couch just like I told him. Follows you from room to room. Gets you outside on walks around the block where the neighbors kids  ask to pet him. Sorry I had to leave so soon. Wasn’t my idea or plan. Wanted to be there to take care of you. My job. I wasn’t supposed to go first. Healthy as  an ox at the gym building quads and biceps to carry the scuba gear and suitcases for our trips. I left too soon. It happened that night in the sterile hospital bed after you and the girls left. I couldn’t bear to have you all hover watching me crossover had to do it by myself. I feel your tears on my pillow, tossing and turning.

Born an apple blossom
Raised as a raspberry bramble
Rooted as a Kentucky redbud

before the make-up artist 
and the hair stylist
a moth joins me in the shower
a quiet moment before
the day’s jubilation

A shout draws me to the window
It is a happy sound
That echoes through the air
Water splashes as more shouts ring

The sun goes behind a cloud
But that doesn’t stop
The water play
On a summer Saturday

This
day
is one
for berries—
currants, blueberries
my cereal’s morning attire.
Then black raspberries grown creek-wild, snack to smack lips on.
Poised to pounce into open palms, tattoo them nature’s way, sweeten even tongue in cheek.