9/365 Urochordate to Larval Urochordate Offspring

They don't want to acknowledge us, Son,
the chordates with limbs and bones,
heads and eyes and social interactions.
They look down on your old man,
look down and call me simple,
smiling politely,
as though these two siphons
are all there is of me.
They are blinder than we are,
with their fancy eyes,
mistaking our smoothness for frailty,
translucence for lack of substance,
describing us more by what they say is missing
than by the glorious anatomy of which we boast.
They take trivial note of you, my Boy,
remarking on you familiar larval form,
your symmetry, notochord, and cephalization.
They call you "tadpole,"
distancing their hearts from loving
a relative that looks so much
like they once did.
Keep your chin up, Son.
Don't let them teach you
that you lack the jaw to do it.
You swim, kid, while you still are able.
They once had your form,
but never your freedom,
their worm-like fetal bodies identical to your own
but not their liberty,
tethered by their blood cord
to the very placenta that defines their class,
they do not swim,
prisoner to the shackles of the womb
while the entire ocean is yours to discover
They dare think you should envy them!
Let them think this,
Waste their early days confined
Your youth is for living,
Exploring the wide surface and sea floor
selecting the perfect spot to lay your head
to begin adhesion
to call your home for the rest of your days
In their jealousy
they wish you did not begin as they do,
will not admit that it's better
They dare wonder why you would even need
a central nervous system at your age.
They will be forever ignorant of your plight,
the decision with which your life is consumed
If you choose poorly,
adhere to just the wrong rock or shell
you will spend your adulthood starving,
a lifetime of hunger and regret.
I have been there.
I have felt this.
For sessile adults
there is only one shot at settling
for finding the sweet spot
to call your own
Once you affix, though,
be prepared
You will grow and change
in ways the bipeds could never imagine
Your very being will be restructured,
your central nervous system will lose its purpose for being
your skin stretched like blown glass
a phantom tunic
You will become a two-necked vase
crowned sweetly with siphons
Incurrent, excurrent,
an elegant filter of an adult
for whom up and down
left and right
no longer have significance
You will feed
constantly
Incurrent, excurrent
You will need no brain,
have few movements to coordinate
You will be an adult
like your old man
It's a good life, Boy.
You won't miss the swimming
The humans will compare this change
to their "puberty"
as though growing whiskers
and having their voice crack
is anything like the dissolution of the spine
and the loss and growth of appendages
and internal organs.
Take this in stride.
They will call you a "sea squirt" because they don't understand.
With all their eyes and brains
They just won't see it.

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8/365 There Were Days

There were days

when discovery was intoxicating

We knit hands

gazed deeply

felt at once nervous and overconfident

They call this falling in love

A misnomer

We kept our feet under us

Grins perpetually creased our cheeks
If you keep making that face,
it'll stay like that.

There were always fresh flowers, knowing winks,

and voices kept pleasant

So used to pulling our punches

in time

we thought of our knuckles as soft

Certain we knew each other’s worst,

we embraced the flaws

never fought about anything

picked the same thing off the menu every time

and agreed one of us should order something different

on principle

I was pleased to settle for my second choice

because you were always my first

and I knew you would share a good bite with me.

There were days

when simple things became complicated

when we messed with each other’s routines

and didn’t know what to do about it

There were days

when you tired of socks and dust bunnies under the bed

dishes in the sink

and my feet on the ottoman

There were days

when I tired of your country music on my car radio

and fake smiles over forced lunch with your friends

There were days

of packing and moving

migraine and morning sickness

back pain and in-laws

not the picket fences we’d once dreamed of living behind

We are different.

Before going out to dinner now

we pack a full bag

We no longer get a window seat

never try to order the same thing

they ask us if we’d like a high chair

or a booster seat for our children

who monopolize all the eye contact at the table

Our meal is punctuated by one or more spilled beverages,

screaming fits,

trips to the potty,

and passers-by who tell us our children “are just so well-behaved”

We pay the bill

leave a tip
kneel on the floor

clean a half cup of spilled rice off the carpet before leaving

run back in because we left a sippy cup on the table

run back in again because we forgot our leftovers

There are days

when our kitchen table can’t recall the smell of fresh cut flowers

and our tone is anything but calm and hushed

There are days

when we call the girls “your daughter”

and we forget to say, “I love you” on the way out the door

It is not as it once was.

It is better.

Heads down from the clouds

we know each other’s worst flaws

are not the scandalous misdeeds

but the annoying ones.

Through the airbrushed haze of romance love was effortless,

but in the midst of snoring

and stolen bedsheets,

bounced checks,

and important things not put on the calendar,

Love

is at its most selfless.

There are days

when you make dinner, do bath times, and comfort our teething child alone all so I can read one poem

There are days

when you let me sleep through the third dirty diaper of the night.
This
is true love

There are days

when neither of us find it easy to smile

to be thankful

to forgive

and yet we do it in spite of ourselves

This is more than we hoped for

Not so much like what we expected.

I do not fear the pains and awkwardness of old age.

They will surely come for us both

Love will take a greater act of will

knit our arthritic fingers tighter
One day

we will once again share quiet meals

pick the same thing off the menu

earlybird special

again

I’ll let you have it
I've already got exactly
what I want.

6/365 Video Killed the Cable Network

Ladies and Gentlemen, Rock and Roll
I heard you on the wireless back in fifty-two
You owned us from the first broadcast
birthed a culture worthy of your name
you were safe haven for us
redefined our genres
re-purposed our tv rooms for dancing
told us what our music was meant to become
planted your flag on our moon
We wanted our Mtv.

Ears thrumming in the glow of your cathode rays,
You drew us together
long-hairs and crew cuts
new wave punks and rappers,
top 40 girls with big hair and far too much eyeliner
pale boys in all black,
also with far too much eyeliner
you called to us
collected us from every radio frequency
brought us home
 to one channel
to you

Your Headbanger's Ball was a metalhead's dream
Yo Mtv Raps brought the street to the country
You even played Weird Al for us nerds
120 Minutes told us
"Never mind the Mainstream"
pumped Ramones into our blood
and Ministry to our brainstems
while "alternative" slowly became oxymoron
But when the spans without music became
most of your day
your brand became another chain store at the mall
and now we do mind the mainstream
Yes, we mind it very much.

We ignored the critics
Pushed the warnings of Jello Biafra to the backs of our mind
but they lingered.
We never quite forgot.
Remote Control was the first sign
it doesn't matter that we liked it
You lost your mission
forgot what the M was about
and now look at yourself.
Sixteen and Pregnant
I Used to be Fat
and Jersey Shore
You are proud of this.

They once tried to name my generation after you
But this is your legacy.
You are a joke that keeps on telling itself
and still doesn't get the punchline
You are bad taste and irony incarnate
Carson Daly's stalker ex-girlfriend
You are Ashton Kutcher and Snookie
You are Beavis, and Butthead
And you are also a revival of Beavis and Butthead
You are every attention-whore drama queen housemate
who likes to get naked on the Real World,
a show which is so clearly nothing like the real world
that it has become a parody of a parody of itself
And we knew this full well
when you called us
sent your Mtv Docs crew
to check out our poetry scene
We thought, "finally
Mtv may redeem itself
if only for a day"
And then you reported it was a Ron Paul Rally!

Fool me twice.
thinking "docs" stood for "documentaries"
the way the "M" once stood for music
the way Rock the Vote once stood for anything
they way your network once stood a chance
of being relevant.

You fools.
You have lost this generation.
they get their music from iTunes
their politics from Facebook, and
they'd rather watch "Charlie Bit Me" on Youtube ten times
than sit through a single episode of "I Just Want My Pants Back"
and if you ask a kid today what a VJ is
they won't know
but they'll be pretty sure it's something really dirty.

And they'll be right about that.
and neither of you will see the irony.
Like when you predicted the future
Video killed the radio star...-

5/365 Vote Geezer

Even the best in the race now
half like but half loathe
and there seems little point in casting a vote
for which side of the gridlock
gets the to hold the red pen for four years
while nothing continues to happen.

When we first voted for Hope
We got Whitewater and Lewinski
When we voted for Gore we got Bush
and Mission Accomplished
became seven more years of missions
never accomplished
So we voted for Change
And he got Bin Laden
But "Yes we can"
got stuck in traffic
somewhere on Capitol Hill

Now this two-party slapfight
Turned foot-shooting contest
Has dug in so deep
it makes us nostalgic for third party crackpots
with vision and character and maybe a screw loose
but no political ties.

We need a cranky old President,
Some grumpy old cuss that nobody loves
but isn't half nuts
One who's richer than dirt
but owes not a penny to a living soul.
and keeps it all under his mattress
Cause he doesn't trust the banks

We need a Geritol spinster
With bunyons and corns
A sourpuss Korean War vet
with a limp no one scorns
and a comb-over,
face not even mothers could love
Because at this point
if anyone's going to unite this country
over anything
it will never be someone deemed "electable."

I don't mean Dick Cheney, Ron Paul, or Perot.
But the grumpiest octogenarian you know
With a bag full of gold and a permanent scowl
Your professor, your neighbor, your great great grandma
Who tells you you're fat and have a stupid tattoo
but still hopes the best for you
and knows you'll figure it out, eventually.

They may hate to spend money
as much as the next
but would never pinch pennies
at the expense of feeding our children
putting books in the schools
and caring for veterans and widows too.

A real "Get off o' my lawn!" type
with opinions and sass
who'll self-fund their campaign
and has no use for PACs
lobbyists or politicians
but will actually do
for once
those things everyone else wishes would happen


Like..
making the mail come on Sundays
outlawing parking meters on streets our taxes already paid for
making cops drive the speed limit
and legalizing Cuban cigars again.
 The embargo's not working
 and even people like me who don't smoke cigars
 would want a Cuban if they did.
They'd take that weird pyramid eyeball off the $1 bill
And stop wasting money still minting new pennies
when at home we've all got jars filled.

They'd say, "Back in my day, kids ate their vegetables,
because they had to.
Not because pizza was a vegetable.
A child who didn't study got left behind
We let college kids drink without making it a crime
Fought wars we could actually win against enemies that were actually threats
And we never let corporations call themselves people!"

And then,
they'd just fix it all.

Then they'd automate taxes
what a stress relief!
and we could finally go back to spending every April 14th
at the movies, the beach or the ski slope, and
not the kitchen table, buried in  paystubs and receipts.

They'd keep Congressmen honest
Call Senators' bluffs
end the secret holds
and back alley stuff
and when they threatened to filibuster
actually make them stand there on C-Span
for 48 hours
War and Peace in their hand
in their astronaut diaper
and do what they got paid for.

No ornery scrooge with half a brain
would ever consent to a Saturday debate
that no one would watch
while Lions and Saints
are battling it out in a playoff game one channel away
'cause they'd know which show
gets clicked off.

But when given the chance to go toe to toe
Would expose their flawed platforms
Let everyone know that
Flat taxes are pipe dreams
That the environment will not be helped by
Cutting the EPA
or letting businesses "regulate themselves";
That "clean coal" is an oxymoron
And once and for all, that
Global warming exists!
No longer up for debate
Unless you seriously don't believe
The best scientific minds of every country in the United Nations
Who are all actually to agree on something, for once.


My ancient old codger will
Have nothing to hide
And we'll never once doubt them
Because, why would they lie?
They've no friends to impress
No favors they owe
And four years to fix
a system so broke it's not funny.
Which is good
Because a President like that
Wouldn't laugh anyway.


Find me that fractious old fossil
some arthritic crank
that every voter agrees
is the last person on earth
with whom they'd share a beer,
That's who you vote for.

Who else could we find
to take the red states and blue states
as disparate as they are
the folk from the cities
the folk from the towns
and smudge them together
a liver-spot brown
or the mottled purple of varicose veins?
Only a cantankerous curmudgeon,
with a cough syrup aftertaste
everyone loves to complain about
but still swallows
because they know
it's actually
good for them.

4/365 Newt Safari

In terms of both population and biomass, Plethodon cinereus is more abundant in the state of New Hampshire than any other vertebrate species.
Which is to say, finding them gets boring after the first 87 times.
For children growing up in the state of New Hampshire prior to the information age, 
this was a known fact.
And warm, summer days that had never heard of internet were for re-reading favorite books and trying to watch snowy Japanese cartoons on the UHF stations, adding tinfoil flags to the rabbit ear antenna and adjusting it ever so slightly to get the audio to come back before G-force! came on, tweaking the tuning knob and the vertical hold to get the picture not to flip, until the inevitable orders barked forth from short-fused parents, 
"Go outside... and play!"
The fun of playing outside on a single acre of land is generally exhausted after the first five consecutive hours.

For children growing up in the state of New Hampshire prior to the information age, 
this was also a known fact.
And thus, out of the frustration that comes from finding the 88th Eastern Red-backed Salamander of the day beneath an overturned log in the forest, 
the Newt Safari was born.


Armed with boards, shovels, buckets, and handled kitchen strainers that mom would never want back again, I would begin a herpetological expedition to find anything cold-blooded that was NOT an Eastern Red-backed salamander... frogs and toads, snakes and turtles,  but most of all... red-spotted newts and... Ambystoma maculatum, the elusive spotted salamander!   


Ever since Ross Funches found one on the playground at school, this had been my life's mission.  I strained buckets of green water from the neighbor's frog pond lagoon, 
I dug pit traps deep in the forest, 
lining the bottoms with a mayonnaise tub half-of water 
I covered the tops of the holes with large oak leaves, 
and added the corner of a slice of American cheese to the top, for bait, 
because every kid in New Hampshire knows that cheese makes the best bait.
I fully expected a 3-inch salamander to be lured in by my ruse, 
step fearlessly onto the leaves in search of cheese, 
plummet to the bottom of an uneven 5-inch hole, 
and be completely unable to escape for days until I came back to check the traps.


When this method repeatedly did not succeed, I tried a new approach:
Muenster cheese.
Also, experimenting with box traps in which an upside-down box with a rock on it was propped up on one side by a stick.
When the salamander dared creep in to steal my muenster cheese, it would certainly be clumsy enough to knock the stick away, trapping itself under the box.


The traps became more sophisticated:  Pulleys and springs, hair-triggers and trails of breadcrumbs...
And when this didn't work, 
I realized my problem.
I wasn't dressed appropriately for newt safari.


Safety goggles, rubber gloves and boots, broad-rimmed hat and Dad's hunting vest
And wearing my headgear, because the orthodontist said I needed to have it on at least 12 hours a day.
Tromping through our neighbor's back yards and putting mayonnaise tubs in leaf-covered holes I'd dug in their vegetable gardens with mom's kitchen strainer tucked in a cardboard holster of my own design, strapped to my hip by bungee cord, handle-up for quick-draw action should my prey ever reveal himself.
Thinking when I caught that salamander, I would keep him forever as a pet.
Wouldn't my parents be proud of me then!


Though the safaris became less frequent, I still roam around wetlands and forests in a pair of rubber boots, on occasion.  At the age of 37 I have yet to capture my own spotted salamander in the wild.
I recently met a park ranger whose job it was to survey the amphibian population in several New Hampshire state parks.  I asked him what kinds of traps he used.


"Don't need no fancy traps" he told me, "It's easy." 


"Just throw a piece of plywood flat on the forest floor overnight. They love that stuff.  They'll crawl right under it."

3/365 Calling their parents

When I finally place the call home to their parents,
my wayward students frequently return the next day surprised,
having apparently been under the false impression
that the rules of Vegas also apply
to what happens in middle school science.

I hope this realization,
this dread convergence of their two worlds,
their parents and their teachers,
will be a lesson unto itself,
that as adults they will expect Las Vegas
to treat them no differently than I have.

As a new teacher, I would call in the evenings,
just around dinner,
when I knew the parents would be home,
praying each time that the student would not answer,
though they often did.

Handset to the ear,
grade book and incident reports at the ready,
I am convinced that surely
there is enough of a pause between the unanswered rings
for me to have a small, yet significant heart attack.
It is not so much the conversation I dread
as the "Hello."

How anyone can identify an individual's voice
by their utterance of a single two-syllable word
will, no doubt, confound me for a good part of eternity.
I live in fear of the awkward humiliation
mistaking a child's voice for the parent's,
or worse yet,
asking the parent themself
if I could please speak with their mother.

One would think, by now,
I'd have developed an introduction
that would alleviate this concern:
"Hello, Mr. Clauss from the school calling for Mr. and Mrs. Jones?"
And if one made this assumption...
...one would be mistaken.

Among the parents, responses vary.
From apologetic to indignant
Assurances of change, blame, denial, apathy.
Occasional tears and cursing.

Like their children,
they have grown to expect communication
to be limited to newsletters, permission slips,
and report cards.
Once a year, parent conferences.
They have paid their dues
and do not wish for this invasion,
this reminder that their own child is flawed.

I have learned to take it in stride
Choose my words wisely
Say only the factual,
Be specific but not wordy.
Let the parent make the sarcastic remarks
Keep responses to harsh words  hopeful and sufficiently vague.
The more I say, the more I may have to defend later.

Fearing this particular form of anxiety
was unique only to me,
I dared confess it to a fellow teacher.
She looked at me, shaking her head.
"Why would you do that to yourself?"
"We all feel that way."

Now I place my calls to empty homes,
as she does,
right after school
when parents are at work
and deluded children are still riding the bus home
from Vegas.

2/365 My neighbor from the Dollhouse

She is beautiful and fleshy
soft, warm, and forgiving
and doesn't hear herself telling me lies.
Everything I have ever desired
I can no longer look her in the eye
She must be respected
even as I reject offers of dinner
and conversation.
If she keeps asking this way,
doe-eyed and pathetic,
eventually I will relent.
I am only human, after all,
and she
was made for me.

1/365 "No, really, this time I mean it..."

This year I am going to write one poem every day,
only I haven't started yet.
This year I am going to write one poem FOR every day.
This year I am going to write at least 365 poems.
No, really
This time I mean it.
This year I am going to write seven poems a week.
This week I am going to write seven poems.
This week I am going to start.
Any day now,
one poem a day.
I swear I'll do it.
I need a routine
so I don't miss a day
like I did yesterday
and the day before
and the day before that.
but I'll catch up quickly
if I start today
commit to that routine
which I know will be nearly impossible.
This year I am going to write at least one poem every week.
or maybe one every month
but it will a good one
at least some of the time
This year i am going to write 365 poems
and at this rate
more than 300 of them will be haiku.