Memoirs of an Atomic Newt

9/365 Urochordate to Larval Urochordate Offspring

2012-01-26T22:44:00.001-05:00

They don't want to acknowledge us, Son,
the chordates with limbs and bones,
heads and eyes and social interactions.
They loow 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 theach 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

2012-01-18T16:34:00.001-05:00

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 beforeleaving

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 cutflowers

and our tone is anything but calm and hushed

There are days

when we call the girls “yourdaughter”

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 ourteething child alone all so I can read one poem

There are days

when you let me sleep through the third dirty diaper of thenight.
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

2012-01-12T16:26:00.000-05:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, Rock and Roll
I heard you on the wireless back in fifty-two
you owned us from day one
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.
ears thrumming in the glow of your cathode rays
our boom-boxes now collected dust
you claimed us
planted your flag on our moon
we wanted our Mtv.

You brought 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
let us find our niche
brought us home to one channel
to you

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 scene
We thought, "finally
Mtv may redeem itself
if only for a day"

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

2012-01-08T00:50:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-05T17:41:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-05T16:31:00.002-05:00

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

2012-01-05T00:15:00.005-05:00

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..."

2012-01-04T23:53:00.000-05:00

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.

Thursdays

2011-12-22T16:21:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow is Friday and that's one more day I go to Miss Olga's
while Daddy and Momma work.
It's a really really far to Miss Olga'sin the morning.
From the back seat I tell Momma that sometimes
it's hard to be patient, and she says,
"I know."
I tell her that a lot.

And after Friday is...
what's after Fri... SATURDAY!
Saturday is DANCE CLASS!
and this time I'm going to be Pink Dancing Girl
with my pink shiny tights and pink tutu with extra sparkles
and my pink LEE-O-tard.
Daddy says call it LEE-O-tard,
but he laughs a little bit
and makes smiles at Momma
when I just call it "My Tard."
Ad you CAN'T wear pink dancing shoes outside in the rain and snow and mud
'Cause miss Danielle will smile her Extra smile
and tell Daddy "We can't have wet toes in the studio.
It must stay dry and clean so all our friends can be safe."
and then I have to go in the bathroom and take off my dancing shoes and my tard,
My LEE-O-tard
and my shiny pink tights and then put on my Leotard again with bare feet
before I can sit in the circle
and I DON'T want to miss Criss Cross Apple Sauce Hands on Your Knees
Because that is my Favorite!

And after Saturday is Sunday
and we go to church
and see friends
and I go to class with Mrs Skinner
and play with the flannelboard
but sometimes Silas plays rough
and takes Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus
And squishes them in a ball.
I like playing with Silas,
but I don't like when he squishes baby Jesus and takes him off the manger.
Mrs. Skinner says nice words to him and helps him put them back
But then I fix them.
Baby Jesus shouldn't go sideways.

But today is Thursday
and that's the day Daddy goes to poetry.
Momma picks us up at Miss Olga's
and I ask her, "Where's Daddy" every few minutes of the ride home
just in case the answer ans changed.
Other days Daddy picks us up and we sing B-I-N-G-O really loud again and again
and Baby Ely does the claps.
We don't sing when Momma drives.
I ask her if we're getting closer,
Look out my window and see things.
"There's Mr. G's!
There's the hanglider!
I see COWS!"
and I tell Momma it's hard for me to be patient.
Baby Ely always cries in the middle part
When the road gets dark and there's no place to stop.
She doesn't like sitting in poopy diapers when she's buckled.

On Thursdays I tell Momma, "I miss Daddy"
and we call him on the cell phone.
Daddy calls me Miss Alaria
and I call him Miss Daddy!
and he calls me Sillypants
and tells me, "I love you. Be good for Momma."
I give her the phone so she can say, "I love you, too."

At home, Momma does the dishes while I eat chicken nuggets and ketchup
and Baby Ely puts bananas in her hair and practices loud EEEEEs.
And I DON'T get out of my chair in bare feet
because Momma just dropped a glass on the kitchen floor.
Momma takes deep breaths and blows them
and I ask her, "Momma are you 'tendin it's a birthday?"
but she doesn't tell me so I say
Momma, Momma, Momma... A-SCUSE me, Momma!"
Momma says something quiet about what
that man better appreciate...
I ask her again about birthdays.
She tells me, it's bedtime
and says sometimes it's extra hard for Mommies to be patient.

The Boy with no Gaydar

2011-11-17T17:16:00.001-05:00

The boy with no gaydar arrives late to church with his family.

He does not sit with them,sliding instead into the second to last row,

Where he sits between Willaand Peggy, his adopted aunts.

These ladies are frends,roommates, in their 50’s, from the south.

Their country home has a hugebarn, home to Peggy’s grand woodshop.

Beside him, Peggy croonshymns in a warbly low tenor.

The boy with no gaydarwatches too much after-school television.

His favorites are the funnyones, with those hilarious celebrity guests.

On Hollywood Squares, Jim JBullock wears outrageous pastel shirts and acts like a silly goof.

Charles Nelson Reily on Matchgame is fabulously bizarre. He wears hugeglasses and bright ascots.

The boy admires both men, yetpities them for allowing their wives to select their wardrobes.

Both speak with peculiarenunciation, which shows that they are both very cultured.

Hollywood celebrities must all want to be like that.

The boy with no gaydar spendsSunday afternoons at the home of his adopted aunties.

He believes he has exploredthe whole building,, but has yet to find the third bedroom.

Peggy’s son, Jim, occupiesone of them.

Peggy says the other is herroom.

But when he asks Willa, sheclaims the second room is her own.

He can never figure out whichof them is teasing him,

Or where the door to that thirdbedroom might be.

The boy with no gaydar iscalled “faggot” by the big kids

Who sit in the back of theschool bus.

The first time he uses theword against another child

He doesn’t know what itmeans.

The big kids tell them itmeans, “you’re a butt-fucker.”

This notion is both hurtful and confusing.

The second time he callsanother child “faggot,” he knows.

The boy with no gaydar getshand-me-downs from Peggy’s son, Jim.

Jim has the most stylishmullet of anyone he knows

And is in high school.

And is on the math team.

Jim takes the boy’s Swedishexchange student to the prom.

The boy with no gaydar triesto grow his own stylish mullet.

Jim lets the boy hang outwith him every Sunday afternoon

But only because Peggy makeshim.

The boy with no gaydarexpands his vocabulary on the school bus.

He sits in the back now.

Nicknames a younger girl “it”

And another boy “homo”

He is kicked off the bus fora week.

It does not change thischoice of words.

He knows these insults meanpower

The back of the bus meanspower

This is what the big kids do.

The boy with no gaydar beginshigh school.

Jim is in college and hasmoved away.

Willa and Peggy give him agold chain for Christmas.

Gold chains are what coolkids with mullets wear in high school.

His father is upset, calls ita necklace,

Forbids him to wear it.

Doesn’t want his son turninginto a girl.

The boy with no gaydar learnsin high school

To say words like “gay” inhushed tones

And that nobody says “faggot”anymore.

There are whispers about theboys on the color guard

Rumors about one of them anda pepperoni

The boy wonders how that kindof thing is even possible.

He assumes it isn’ttrue. That boy goes to the Catholicchurch.

How could he be both gay andCatholic?

The priests would never allowsuch a thing.

The boy with no gaydar makesa boomerang in Peggy’s woodshop.

He asks her, now that Jim isat college and

living with his father in thesummers, if

She thinks she will dateagain and marry another man.

Peggy’s pause is long andthoughtful.

Her answer, measured andcertain.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I’mhappy where I’m at right now.”

He doesn’t believe her. He thinks she will be alone.

The boy with no gaydarwatches in wonder

The first time he sees twogirls kissing.

They are sitting on thefloor, outside the band room,

closing their eyes and usingtheir tongues.

They are his friends, andwhen he hears a passerby

joking, “Lez-be friends”

It bothers him

In a way it has neverbothered him before.

The boy with no Gaydar nolonger visits his adopted aunties.

They come to the house,sometimes, on holidays.

Peggy’s mother in Florida is dying.

She is not around as much.

Willa is starting to showsigns of early senility.

The boy with no gaydar andhis friends are treated

To a concert of piano andbelted-out showtunes

Each morning in the schoolband room

by David,

a fair-skinned boy whoperforms in the theater.

David can sing like EthylMerman and enunciates his words just so.

It means he has culture, justlike those Hollywood stars on TV.

There are always girls aroundDavid,

But David is aloof, never accepting their advances.

The boy with no gaydar goesto college.

He cuts off the mullet,because they are no longer cool.

In college, being gay is nolonger scandalous fodder for rumor-mills.

Half the girls claim to be“bi”

Perhaps because it’s true

Perhaps because it’s trendyto say so.

The boy with no gaydar goesto a new church

He still arrives late, but hesits with his parents.

There’s a guy with a Flock ofSeagulls hairstyle.

They always go to the sameshows, recognize each other,

Give each other a nod betweensets.

For some reason, they neverreally talk.

In college there are clubsfor just about everything

The guy with Flock ofSeagulls hair is in the club for gays.

He no longer shows up atchurch.

The boy with no gaydar makesthe connection for the first time

At the next show he asks,“Where’ve you been?”

The guy with Flock ofSeagulls hair shakes his head.

“It’s too hard to be there,”he says

“Everyone knows. I see how they look at me,”

“The way they look atmy parents.”

“I see the way my parentslook at me and I - Ican’t.”

The boy with no gaydar wisheshe had been a friend sooner.

That he had chosen to sit ina different row

That the Faithful would bequicker to love than to judge

That certain words had neverescaped his lips

That the guy with Flock ofSeagulls hair would get a haircut

Because maybe that was whythey looked at him that way.

Maybe theyreally didn’t know.

Professor Plum's Sonnet

2011-10-24T00:26:00.001-05:00

‘Tis Mister Green I blame for this whole sham,

The death of proper form in English verse.

Invites me to a so-called “poetry slam.”

The spoken word, I fear, could sound no worse!

Of foul-mouthed ranting I have had my fill.

This farce of lit’rature, sheer angst and drama,

At Milly’s both the prose and pint glass kill.

‘Tis rumored Mister Boddy died of trauma.

But, shrewd Ms. Peacock, as she did depart,

For the… conservatory, so she said.

She had the nerve to call their rambling “art”!

I’d tell our host it’s trash were he not… dead.

When, nervously, Ms. Peacock back did slink.

She clutched in hand... thefinest poem written.

She'd swiped it from his Library, I think!

One I oft quote to ladies when I'm smitten.

A flawless sonnet! This prose that you’re doing

Grieves my soul! ‘Tisform that’s meant for wooing.

Hard Lessons

2011-08-19T10:31:00.005-05:00

"Daddy, I need help."

My daughter shuffles out of the bathroom,

panties around her ankles,

tucks her chin to her neck

at the sight of Daddy's raised eyebrow.

She knows better.

She is too young to know the shame of nakedness,

yet old enough to learn privacy and discretion.

I have tried to teach her,

but the words ring nonsense in her ears.

Her nose wrinkles,

"There's a poop stuck in my bum, and it won't come out."

These are her words for 'constipation.'

She knows I will help her,

sit her back on the toilet,

hold her hand,

walk her through the steps of our familiar dance:

"lean left;

lean right;

hands on hips;

now push with your belly;

push with your back;

push with your ears..."

"No, Daddy, that's silly!"

And, if we are patient,

sometimes Daddy solves her problem

and sometimes he can't,

but she knows I will always try.

Each time I walk her through these awkward steps

she listens, dutifully,

never reminding me that she is a big girl,

that she can do it just as well without me.

"I wiped my bottom over there, but not my bottom in the front."

She has not yet learned the word "vagina."

We are in no rush to teach this,

having lived through the uncomfortable frequency

with which 'nipple' is now employed

in daily conversation.

She will learn soon enough.

She yearns for language,

so desires to explain her world,

to learn the rules and ways of adulthood

much faster than I am prepared to teach her.

Still, I try,

each day gifting her with independence

one word, one story at a time,

each lesson tearing lightly at my gut.

I know what this will mean for us.

She has no idea.

The more I teach her,

the more she will tell me,

"No, Daddy. I can do it myself."

"Go away, Daddy. I need my privacy."

These are her words for 'independence,'

for 'distance,' for 'estrangement.'

There are too few years to pass on to her

every rule she will need to know,

to tel her the cautionary tales

of when Daddy got it wrong,

to prepare her for the worst disasters,

to give her the words to explain everything.

No matter what I say now,

she will never quite be ready for her first day of school,

first love, first fight,

first drink, or second, or last.

She will never know the consequences of her actions properly

from her father's tired stories

of life gone awry.

She will have to make the mistakes on her own,

take her lumps,

decide whether to let her parents know it ever happened,

whether to admit it to herself.

She is three yeas old, and already I miss her.

I will take advantage of these days

when daddy can fix everything,

when I am still ten feet tall.

Too soon, my lap will be an awkward place for her to sit.

Her bedroom door will say,

"No boys allowed."

And then will remain open, decor unchanged for years

so we can peer in and miss our girl when she moves away.

She will call, on occasion

or text, when she needs money.

I will miss her, like only a Daddy can,

wait for her to call,

hope that it's only because she misses us.

I will worry,

constantly,

dreading that I have not prepared her well enough,

praying that she will never find herself shuffling out of a strange bathroom

knowing the shame of nakedness,

lacking the words for 'self-loathing' and 'regret,'

that she'll know well enough to protect herself,

to not drop her guard,

leave her panties around her ankles,

but if she does,

to never question in that moment

whether it is safe to call home,

that she will always be my sweet little girl.

I will always come to her rescue,

hold her hand,

walk her through those awkward steps.

"Daddy, I need help."

NPS2011 Haiku

2011-08-15T00:35:00.002-05:00

Don't pee on my leg

And tell me it's raining.

Unless jellyfish sting

From far and wide

These misfits come

To bout, compete, win.

(World of Warcraft)

*with back to audience*

I get stage fright

When they crowd in

And I'm at the only

Urinal

I'll play Pac Man

Til the day I die

Wee wee wee wee wee wee

Wonk-wik

She Screams,

Calls my name in bed,

"Christopher! You kicked me!"

Not me. Ninjas.

My Fox News Sister

Spanked her child

In front of mine

She cried his tears

Took my little girl

on a date.

Her manicure

still wet,

Picked her nose.

Chickens cross the road

because their brains are tiny!

So stop asking why.

Car vibrates with bass

No need to hear the melody

To know it sucks.

Each sliver of sunset

Reminds me of the terse way

You just... left me.

The in-flight movie

Marley and me

I sobbed

She thought it endearing.

The next big trend in youth fashion:

Just one more way to put clothes on wrong.

You're right.

People should never text while driving.

Except you.

You're special.

Underwear bomber

Claimed not to know

Why his crotch burned.

Liar, Liar...

My big girl earns a penny

when she pees on the potty.

One cent smiles.

The party invitation said, "casual dress."

I had to buy one.

Melty gummy bears

still sell at MIT

when called, "gummy Voltron"

Cheese moldy after purchase? Nasty.

Before purchase: gorgonzola.

I scribe faint toothpick love notes on bananas. They'll brown in her lunchbox.

Reunion: My high school crush

swaps gory childbirth details

with my wife.

I need tools.

I'm not handy.

I just like how

they make me

think I am.

College mistakes:

Mullet, vest wardrobe, voting for Perot.

I'm better now.

Dear chain smoker

in Schlitz tee shirt and yoga pants:

You don't do yoga.

Finally!

I dug a hole to China!

The secret?

Start in China.

I will fight you

With nunchucks

Made of rubber chickens

Clown ninja duel

Grammy Ida,

you need not whisper

when you say, "cancer"

or, "black people"

Nobody can say, "I like you"

the way Mike McGee says, "I like you."

Poets to change a lightbulb?

None.

Their words are enlightening enough.

The sound of baby's morning coo

Melts my heart

just... after three AM

Dropped my tax return through that mail slot

4:50, April.... 16th? Oops.

Good friends are like cheddar

More nuanced and sharp with age

Also, more pungent.

You know what they say: "Teach a man to fish. Don't show him your fishing hole."

Can you count syllables in a sign language haiku it there's no voice.

My homeless students' files

Labeled, "in transition"to be less hurtful.

Touring Poets have great fun

But make no money.

Please buy my chapbook.

Doctor says, "you've got cancer"

"And alzheimers"

Wow. Least it's not cancer.

I have issues

With old folks

Driving

Slowly

Through storefronts

Naked

Men with prosthetic legs

Who live in glass houses

Shouldn't throw legs, man.

Chore list while she's gone:

Can't find Swiffer pads.

Only Kotex wings.

Floor"s clean

30/30 The Not So Grand Finale

2011-04-30T23:24:00.002-05:00

The children gaze skyward

Wide-eyed and covering their ears

Their wonder is genuine

Their appreciation coming in squeals and shudders

They are naive

Thinking each burst is the best one yet

The adults watch them

Dancing on spent sparklers

Flinching with each delayed boom

Delighting in the crackles and bright fireflies

Duller than we remember

But to them, there could be nothing more brilliant

We are creating their memories

Watching their childhood take shape

Their mirth is the true entertainment here

Together awaiting each barrage

Perk up at false starts

Glance hopefully at watches

With every pregnant pause

We hold hands

Savoring the faces of our children

They don't yet know the word finale

Glance sideways in the glow, perplexed

Ask why the neighbors depart early

No concept of traffic and timing

Never wondering how much this production all cost

They don't care about such trivia

While the sky is erupting above

This show is for them

Each burst jolts their sternum

They fear the low aerials

Watch lingering comets of perchlorate fall

Wonder if they could catch one

Whether it would burn

We assure them they are safe

Just in case, they cover their heads with their hands

It is past their bedtime

The grand finale explodes

Small jaws drop

Speechless for the first time all night

Adult shoulders shrug

Smiling and relieved

Dreading the inevitable gridlock of exodus

We exchange knowing glances

We are here for our children

As the finale dims

The last echo fades

The children squeal and applaud

We feign amazement for their benefit

Head for the parking lot

Buckle them tight

We will do this again next year

We promise

It is our tradition

It has always been this way

We will always have a fine time at the fireworks

None the less

They will never be as good as our memory

29/30 Charlotte

2011-04-30T23:07:00.004-05:00

Nimble and sleepless

She spins her silk symphony

Slow and subtle, persistent

Dexterity no ten fingers could equal

Following patterns etched in instinct

The beauty of the hunt and the brood

She is watching, impatient

Never losing a stitch

Unfazed by the breeze

Or the dewdrops

28/30 Voice of angels

2011-04-30T22:54:00.003-05:00

They would fall to their knees and tremble

Fearing the power

The beauty

The wrath

They are kind to strangers

Just in case

There are angels who come in disguise

There is a range of emotion

The extremes of which can never be tapped

Without trauma or pure ecstasy

These are the yearnings

I do not know

27/30 The return flight

2011-04-30T22:11:00.005-05:00

Overseas vacation is meant to be glorious

Refreshing and cathartic

Adventure and fireworks

Nothing but cherished memories

Surely

There are mishaps and regrets

Jet lag and food poisoning

Time wasted and missed opportunities

But in sum the journey

Has been life changing

How unfortunate

That it always ends with a plane flight

Hours confined to a cramped chair

Seat backs and tray tables

Punctuated by tiny drinks from a cart

A closet bathroom the only escape

Hours of restlessness

Remembering the joys of holiday

Bemoaning the coming resumption of work

When it is almost over

They will hand you the punch line of vacation

Yes, you will be asked to do paperwork

Even the landing is not the end

You will shuffle from plane to hallway

Stand in a line

Exhausted and impatient

Yearning for the comfort of bed

You will wait, bleary-eyed

Til they call you forth

Eye your paperwork in silence

And ask you

If you have anything to declare

26/30 The Sketch

2011-04-30T20:34:00.008-05:00

Live music is a treasure

Whether skillful or unfortunate

No digital file can substitute for experience

The odor and humidity

The jostling and sound checks

And that one creepy old guy in the back

Without fail, he would be there

Flaunting a hairstyle

Twenty years older than the band

Dangling, unwashed braids

Feathered 70's mane

Greasy mullet

And the tee shirt of some band

That broke up in a previous decade

Leaning on a door frame

Head metronome to the bass line

Tall, short, lean, or fat

Mustachioed or soul patched

Eyes lingering on young women

They could be his daughter

Even in a crowded room

There is often space around him

He gives off the vibe

They are wise to stay clear

Enjoy the reverb and feedback

The thrill of sweat and kick drum

Savor the memory

In time

It all runs together

Years of smells and faces

Decades of sustained chords and encores

But lately

It's different somehow

The bands are younger

Each one is less memorable

The crowd looks less like I remember

And I haven't spotted the creepy old guy in a while

I have migrated lately

From the stage to the back

I used to dance

Sway and gyrate with the rest

But the speakers are too loud

The jostling annoys me

I prefer to sit back and observe

Lean against a door post

Occasionally some kid tells me

He likes my Rollins Band shirt

I thank him

Smiling at the girl on his arm

They move on

I keep bobbing my head

Enjoy the bass line

Remind myself I'm due for a haircut

25/30 Babble

2011-04-30T17:29:00.003-05:00

The evolution of her speech

From squeal to syllable

da da da da da

First monotone

Now with cadence

First random

Now on command

One consonant to two

Soon, fine motor dexterity

Spawns more diverse sounds

In this stage of development

Than she will use as an adult.

Her mind is linguistically open

Any day now this will end

My child will begin to cull her speech

Forgo clucks and umlauts of other tongues

Keep only those she hears

The tones and accents that daily assault her ears

I will teach her this

My words and inflection teaching right from wrong

Our way from the other

She will grow and travel

They will hear my voice in hers

They will know where she comes from

And when they do

I only hope my child is proud.

24/30 Bless your heart

2011-04-30T10:45:00.005-05:00

When heartache blooms poison

Injected starburst of black

Both numb and relentless

We search in vain

For just the right spot to clutch

Bitter symphoinies of hard facts

Cannonball stomachs

Cram lumps down our gullet

Burn retinas irrefutable

We sprout genuine

This is the great unveiling

Rendered bittersweet and naked

Glaring heavenward

Our paint runs soluble

Grief has no umbrella

The reflex of crisis

Learned shotgun slow

They will be watching for signals

Armor rust skepticicm

Convince them all is well

23/30 Taming the scruff

2011-04-30T08:36:00.003-05:00

They began as one more embarrassment of puberty

Sparse and haphazard

In patches of chin and upper lip

The occasional sideburn

It took too long for me to notice

Longer to take action

To work up the nerve

Rummage through drawers

Fill my hand with foam

Awkwardly touch Dad's razor to my cheek

Figure out the mechanics

Know what to do

When I first drew blood

A mess of toilet paper and band-aids

Dull blade across acne

A decapitation to rival Louis XVI

Only, less intentional

That daily experiment:

With the grain, or against

Foam, gel, or a dry shave

The Christmas Norelco

Never close as a blade

But always less carnage

One quick pass

Or several

The patches broadened

Eventually connected

Traced a path along chinstrap

Arched up under nose

Never really filled in the cheeks

It still grows out awkwardly

More neck than face

No five o'clock shadow graces my cheekbones

Late in the day

There is no moment of handsome

It is the disappointment of maturity

One more inconvenience of manhood

I've stopped letting them grow

Save for occasional lazy weekends

Now they're sprouting the wrong shade of old

22/30 ACME to Wile E Coyote, the sestina version

2011-04-30T08:02:00.006-05:00

Dear Mr. Coyote, please accept our sincere

condolences. We were sorry to hear that product

#257663 Deluxe Rocket Skates, which you purchased from ACME,

was in use during an incident causing you bodily harm,

resulting in several broken bones and your fur being consumed

by flames. Your feedback on our product we greatly appreciate.

Although we appreciate

your pain, it is with sincere

regret we inform you that when your receipt was consumed

in the resulting fireball your product

warranty was rendered void. Any harm

that came to you can not be attributed to ACME.

Mr. Coyote, here at ACME

customer service is job #1. We appreciate

your business and wish for no further harm

to befall you. If you are sincere

in your threat to sue for product

liability, there may be a series of countersuits in which you will be consumed.

But if you are not, please know we are consumed

with desire to keep you as a loyal ACME

customer and advise you again to consult each product

manual's warning list prior to use in order to appreciate

the range of potential danger. Please make a sincere

effort to do so to avoid future bodily harm.

And while there is no real harm

in attempting the unique styles of bird hunting that have consumed

your life all these years, we wonder how sincere

your expectation of success could have been when you used ACME

model #257333 Deluxe Rocket Skates as projectiles, or if you appreciate

your own culpability in the mishap that occurred while using our product.

Since your injuries were a product

of your own misuse of flammable rocket fuel, there is no harm

in offering a conciliatory gift, which we hope you will appreciate.

A 20% discount on size XL steel bear traps,model # 974286, which consumed

the majority of last year's orders you placed with ACME.

Again, please read all manuals. Our concern is sincere.

We appreciate the brand loyalty with which you are consumed.

We are sincere in wishing you no further harm.

Mr. Rod R. Unner, Senior VP for Product Liability Evasion, ACME

21/30 Almost me (a triolet)

2011-04-27T22:27:00.002-05:00

Enthralled by fear and fresh regret

I tell the cop two bold-faced lies

These trembling eyes taste beads of sweat

Enthralled by fear and fresh regret

So sure the cruise control was set

Speed limit dropped, to my surprise

Enthralled by fear and fresh regret

I tell the cop two bold-faced lies

20/30 chronic pain management

2011-04-27T13:54:00.001-05:00

Patient medical history questionnaire
Designed by clinicians to streamline visits
More patients, more money, less time
Less personal, less quality, more errors
Life history of health reduced to multiple choice
Pick A or B
Sometimes, always, never
"It depends" is not an option
There is no check box for this illness
This brand of pain
"Does it interfere with my work,
My sleep, my happiness?"
The answer is yes, that's why I'm seeing a doctor.
The answer is no, because I grit my teeth and deal.
The answer is not a check mark in a box.
The plastic wristband they give me has two barcodes
One patient number
One date of birth
One name
The records are no longer hand-written
Not kept in files
They are digital
To their machine, even a name is a number
A string of ones and zeros
1 or 0
Yes or No
Check this box, or don't.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

19/30 Phototropism

2011-04-24T21:15:00.004-05:00

We are biologically programmed

To yearn for daylight

But growth is a function of shade

Not sun

On the dark side, growth is driven

Auxins

Rich hormones causing cell elongation

Out-pacing the sunny side

Stem bending gradually sunward

Leaves broadside to the light

The same light that stunts growth on one side

Brings health to the whole organism

It's always the way

Doctor says to be healthy
Lose weight

We eat fewer calories

Starve our metabolism

Store less energy as fat

Counterintuitive, yet practical

We prune trees back to make them grow

Accelerate into a skid

Give stimulants to calm nerves

And take the New Jersey Turnpike in the hope of getting there faster

Who knows why,

But somehow, it works

A life full of solutions we would never expect

Til we breathe our last

Close our eyes to the sun

And let our souls walk

Toward the light.

18/30 Waiting at Peter's

2011-04-20T22:07:00.004-05:00

It all just happened so quickly

You know,

One day we're following our Lord across the country,

Following him into the city

A parade in his honor

Enjoying the hero's welcome they gave him along the route

Then there was the awkward seder

That thing with Judas

The whole drink my blood thing

Nobody really knew what to make of that

But we know better than to question

We've come to learn that everything He says

Always makes sense eventually

Sometimes you just have to sleep on it.

Which is what we did after it was all over

The night before, nobody got a wink

But now, He's dead.

We were expecting a miracle

He always pulls off a miracle in times like this

Gets everyone to listen to Him

Always with the a-ha moments

So when he actually died yesterday

We were still waiting for the rim-shot

For oohs and aahs of amazement

But instead

It was pretty much silent

Since they put him in the tomb

We've all been over at Peter's

Drinking his cheap wine

And avoiding eye contact all Sabbath.

Nobody really knows what we're supposed to do

There's not even a football game tomorrow

Maybe a Nascar race

Peter's got a decent flatscreen, at least.

The girls are headed over to the tomb tomorrow morning.

Hoping to prepare the body properly

Put that box of myrrh the wise men gave Him

To good use.

His mother kept it all that time

It's like she knew.

Nobody's talking about it today

We clink glasses in silence

Trying to figure out what to say

The last three years has been so eventful

We should really write a book about it

A couple of these guys are decent writers

Matthew, Mark, John

And Luke's not bad

Still, I just can't believe He let them crucify Him

Didn't end things with more of a bang

Than that crazy storm

The things we've seen Him do

Healing the sick, the blind

Raising the dead

I was so sure there would be a grand finale

I hadn't prepared for this moment

None of us had, it's clear

Our spirits died with Him

We can figure it out tomorrow morning

Once the girls get back from the tomb

Maybe somebody will be alive enough tomorrow

To tell us what to do next

17/30 Regret

2011-04-19T13:14:00.013-05:00

To be fair,

As babies go,

You weren't the ugliest.

You were just an afterthought

Slightly large ears

Tiny swirl of hair on an otherwise bald head

Bright blue eyes that never blink

Cheeks that glow red

Not exactly Bride of Chucky

But not beautiful

You came home to our house with your little pink hat

Tiny baby bottle

Tiny syringe we never expected

We did not read the fine print

When our daughter first took your hand

You coughed, your sickly cough

The only sounds we ever heard you make

That dry, repeating cough

And the sound of your head

Clunking on each step

She loved you from the first moment

This surprised us

Two years as only child

And never once had she shown interest

In babies

Even as Mama's belly grew

And talk of a baby sister peppered daily conversation

But from that first moment

She wanted to hold you

Laughed when you coughed

Dragged you up and down the stairs by your foot.

Clunk, clunk, clunk

The first time it frightened us

Fearing it was her head on the stairs

We felt relief that it was only you

The $3.74 baby doll

From the 80% off clearance

Discounted toys that had not sold well

Pariahs of the retail world

Tired action figures from last year's summer blockbuster

Educational arcade games that no child would enjoy

The black-skinned Barbie dolls

Collecting dust on New Hampshire shelves

And you,

The smiling, sickly baby.

Molded plastic head and limbs

Stuffed cloth torso hiding an internal battery pack

Had I looked once at the box,

Beyond the red price tag

Noticed the plastic syringe

The plastic injection port sewn into your backside

I would have thought twice.

She had other babies

Soft and cute

Never took an interest

Beyond arranging them on shelves among countless stuffed animals

But you she loved

Like she loved her baby sister

You made her feel special

She could change your diaper, just like Mommy

Watched and imitated maternal care

Changed and swaddled you ten times an hour

Even lifted her shirt to feed you

We'd thrown away the syringe

You sleep in her bed now

With you there. she is not anxious

We know your voice

cough, cough

It reassures us that our child is well

16/30 To the seeds I started a month late

2011-04-19T10:27:00.000-05:00

You were never forgotten

In fact

I thought of you more in the waiting time

Than if you'd been started on time

I have spent emotion on your welfare

Regret

I should have just done it

Concern

Will you blossom in time

Worry

Is there time now to bear your fruit

Before the frost consumes you

You are crowded

I know

I knew better even then

But you were last year's seeds

There were too few earthen pots

And I had a three year old helping me

Just be glad you are sprouting

And hope my thumb is green enough

This year

To tell the spinach from the basil

And the peppers

15/30 Reflections of Umar

2011-04-19T08:51:00.004-05:00

I said I would do it for Allah

I would do it for Jihad

Would do it for revenge

To teach the infidels a lesson

To receive the glory of martyrdom

In truth

I just did it for the virgins.

I tried, in my youth, to be pure

To avoid the temptations of the eyes

The sins of the flesh

And, for the most part

I succeeded in this, and yet

Success comes at a cost

Frustration

Loneliness

They promised me virgins

They promised wives and pleasure

Eternal happiness

Great honor

For me and for my family

I was certain the next sight I would see

Was paradise

I have failed

The boy in the seat next to me

Seemed kind, about my age

I greeted him kindly

Thanked him when he got up

To let me use the restroom

To prepare the mixture that would kill him

The dense powder sewn into my underpants

By a long-bearded man half a world away

This boy was kind, for an infidel

Even in the aftermath

While others cursed and manhandled me

His eyes were sad and forgiving

My ears popped

As the flight began its descent

I hid beneath a blanket

Secrecy, but also shame

Whispered "Insha Allah"

Reached my hand into my pants

Pushed the plunger on the syringe of acid

Tomorrow, I would be a headline

Two hundred eighty-nine victims

Seventy-two virgins

One martyr

It burned

Then popped and burned more

I was ready for paradise

Bid farewell to my mortal flesh

But the pain brought me back into it

The stench of smoke

The cries of passengers

A man shouting in Dutch wrestled me to the floor

It burned with a pain I have never felt

It seared my most tender skin

For what seemed like hours

There are things worse than death

There was pain in humiliation

And humiliation in the pain

Imprisoned now, and horribly scarred

A painful, daily reminder

I will see no women in this place

Virgins, or otherwise

If nothing else, that is a blessing

But no consolation

I am a failure

A dishonor to those who sent me

I will die here forgotten

I keep my eyes closed when I bathe

Use the toilet

Change my clothing

I can not bear the sight

The reminder of my past

And future

The reality I once denied

That I did not do this for Allah

I did this for the virgins

I did this to myself

14/30 Confession of a Beowulf

2011-04-18T13:17:00.005-05:00

I, Beowulf,

Do solemnly swear

To tell the truth, the whole truth

For once in my life

Here it is:

I paid Grendel to take a dive.

There, I said it.

Yes, I did kill him,

But you can't really call that a win.

The whole sneaking into our camp,

And the whole grabbing his arm thing...

That was planned.

And I feel really badly that he killed and ate one of my men in the process

I should have seen that coming

And it did make the whole thing look plausible in the end, didn't it?

The plan was to get him in an arm hold

Shackle him with chains we had conveniently laying around

Leave him stranded in the wilderness

Of course, we told his mother where he'd be

She would have rescued him soon as she finished counting all that gold

They were set to retire on the Riviera with that cash

Quit the pillaging business altogether

Let me be a hero for a while

It had taken a little convincing

But they'd had a good run

And the price was right

Just make it convincing, I told him, or all bets are off.

He played the part perfectly.

I just didn't know his arm was going to tear off like that.

Maybe it was the adrenaline

But I didn't think I was pulling that hard

I thought for a moment the joke was on me,

But it definitely wasn't a fake arm.

I tried to apologize, but he ran off into the marsh too quickly.

Killing his mother was just to save face.

I mean, I'd just killed her son by accident

And felt bad about that

But I couldn't let word get back to the king, now could I?

And she still had my money

Which I would need, if I was to be king of my own people.

Thought I had the whole mess swept under the rug,

But then the dragon showed up

Like I needed one more thing to deal with.

Why a slave would go and steal the cup from a dragon is beyond me.

If you need a cup that badly

There have got to be easier places to get yourself a drinking vessel.

My men agreed.

They were all so sure I could take the dragon

Let me march right in there on my own

Only thing is,

Dragons don't take bribes so easily.

That thing singed my marshmallows something fierce.

Don't believe the lore.

When we went back in,

It was Wiglaf who killed the thing.

I was hiding in the back of the cave when that stalagmite knocked loose

Who'd have thought

Death by stalagmite impalement

Wiglaf's a good guy, though.

Whispered in my ear at the lights went out

He'd let me take the credit for it.

"Stalagmite wound," he said,

"Looks like a dragon bite to me."

Atta boy, Wiglaf.

I taught you well.

"No, Sir, you didn't."
"The story just reads better this way."

"They'll still be reading it hundreds of years from now," he told me.

"Every high school kid will need a copy."

"And I'll be there, collecting the royalty checks."

13/20 Two Lumps

2011-04-18T10:00:00.002-05:00

The man across the small table avoids eye contact

as I avoid his in return.

He is my friend.

We share history,

know each other's fears,

struggles,

secrets.

This will be one of them,

shifting awkwardly in pink chairs too small for us

while blond-haired girls smile and make a fuss.

Their daddies are having a tea party.

We dutifully accept refills with pinkies raised.

My child asks,

"One lump or two?"

then bonks me on the head with a plastic tea tray when I answer.

Twice.

The other daddy laughs,

as do our children,

though neither has ever seen

Saturday morning cartoons.

This is learned behavior.

This is ritual.

This is tradition.

There have been many tea parties.

This will not be the last.

Our cups are refilled,

again.

Imaginary cream, sugar, and British accents.

We will not admit our smiles are genuine.

This secret

will go with us to our graves.

12/30 ACME to Wile E Coyote

2011-04-14T19:04:00.002-05:00

Dear Mr. Coyote,

Thank you for your recent correspondence regarding the unfortunate mishap that occured in using our ACME rocket skates model #257663. We were sorry to hear that your first attempt to use the product resulted in the incineration of your fur and subsequent propulsion off the edge of a high, rocky outcrop. From your account of events, however, it would not appear that the product malfunctioned in any way.
On page 73b, subsection 9 in the PDF version of your user manual, which is available for download at our extensive website, you will note in the footnote section of the fine print that this novelty product is intended to be used by experienced professionals only on a closed course that is free of all physical hazards and flamable materials. In addition, your employment of the devices for hunting purposes does not fit within the stipulations of "entertainment purposes only." It is clear that your use of this product violated product use recommendations, thereby rendering the warranty and product satisfaction guarantee null and void. We regret that we can not refund your purchase price of 139 samoleons in this instance. We sincerely hope the upcoming skin grafts are successful. You have been a valued customer of our products since 1952, and we would hate to lose you as a customer. For your troubles and as a thank-you for your repeat business, we would like to extend a 20% price discount on your next purchase of a galvanized iron bear trap, size XL. Product #194726. Please remember to read the full version of the product manual before making use of any future ACME products. They are available for free download at ACME.com.
We look forward to continuing to fulfil your novelty product needs for years to come.
Sincerely,
Rod R. Unner
VP product liability evasion, ACME Inc.

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11/30 Uniformitarianism

2011-04-13T23:16:00.002-05:00

I am not a religion.

I am a principle.

I enable the study of pre-history.

Because of me,

Logic springs from speculation.

Because of me,

The future is no longer mysterious.

Because of me,

The world will go on turning

Like it always has.

And no,

I will not officiate your wedding.

And no,

I will not tell you why

Other than to say

It's always been that way.

Consult a dictionary

If you still don't understand.

But if I'm correct,

You still won't understand.

10/30 Tax Return Fandango

2011-04-12T23:11:00.002-05:00

Dumpster dive for receipts

Empty drawers and old files

Build a shrine of financial regret

To the year just gone by

It is April

And once again

Procrastination has triumphed

The threat of deadlines and penalties

Looms ever closer

Despite the year-long vow

To avoid filing for an extension

Again

The option is more attractive by the moment

There will be no juicy return this year

Oh, no.

Money is owed

Uncle Sam is eyeing that wallet

More desperately than in the past

We know the score

Time to pay the piper

We dare not keep him waiting

9/30 The colors of April

2011-04-11T08:47:00.005-05:00

The water is freezing,

The waves crash with renewed vigor,

The rocky intertidal has been as near-dead

As the local clam shack for months.

No tourists

Little motion among the boulders

No love.

Each morning the sun casts long shadows earlier

Lingering longer on the horizon in the afternoon

And slowly the seaweed wakes up.

Mucous-filled bladders swell with anticipation

More mucous-y and bladdery and tinged with orange.

The flatworms and nudibranchs rise up in full glory,

Swords at the ready to fight for dominance.

Make lumpfish adorn a crimson hue,

Hoping their color will attract the ladies.

Never does it occur to them that they remain

One of the ugliest fish in the ocean.

Lobsters molt and await the sweet embrace.

Horseshoe crabs crawl into the shallows

With one thing on their minds

Gulls gather tall grasses

Build crude nests for the eggs growing inside them.

Whales put every piece of their skeleton to good use.

The coral broadcast their seed far and wide,

Counting on probability to carry them to a good home.

The water froths with the foam of spring.

With larvae and pollen and the Fucus mucous.

Obscure cells wake from their dormancy

And give each other "come-hither" looks

Winter has gone to bed

Warm winds of change are blowing in on the tides

And everything

Is reproducing.

8/30 Rites of Spring

2011-04-11T07:55:00.005-05:00

Snow Shovel,

you do this every year,

taking it personally

when they hang you

in the back of the shed.

You've had your days in the sun

all winter

making short work of snow banks

peeling ice from the driveway

and loving every minute of it.

Of course, you complained about that, too.

They work you too hard, you moaned,

don't take care not to dull your blade,

bend your handle to the point of breaking.

We told you then, and we tell you now:

Quit your whining already,

you big baby.

Now don't get us wrong,

We like you, buddy.

But for a heavy-duty hand tool

you don't exactly act the part.

A little less drama would be nice,

and would you quit acting so jealous and indignant

on those rare instances in deep January

when they reach for the rake or the broom

to pull snow off the roof.

You just weren't built for that kind of work,

and you're afraid of heights anyway.

But for now,

why not just enjoy the weather?

hang out

relax

make the best of it.

You won't be cooped up here all summer, you know.

They're sure to take you out a few times,

use you as a giant dust pan

when they sweep winter sand off the driveway

or clear ash out of the fire pit.

Oh, yes, your allergies.

I forgot, you were all bent out of shape after last year.

I can't help you.

Hang there and sulk until December, if you like.

Just cut the spade and rake a little slack.

Sure, they get out a lot more when the days grow long,

but remember

it's manure they're moving around this time of year.

The snow is all but melted.

The flies will be out before you know it.

You're not missing much.

7/30 Overdue library book

2011-04-09T19:06:00.003-05:00

Your scalding screech

Cast visions of fresh elderberry.

Foolish Brother Robert,

Did you think I wouldn't have known?

You, spreading this nugget of juicy gossip,

Ein Schmuckstücke.

Get your 50/50 tickets now.

6/30 Osterhase takes a year off

2011-04-06T02:13:00.005-05:00

It's not just the arthritis,

Though, that is part of it.

It's the exponential growth of the population that's making it so tough.

It was easy enough in the 1700s,

When the only kids that knew I was coming

Were the Dutch kids in Pennsylvania.

And they didn't expect much from me back then.

Those kids were so easy.

Right to bed after sundown without a peep.

All I'd do is show up and lay a few colored eggs.

None of the chocolate nonsense they expect today.

They'd have an empty nest made up all ready to fill.

Usually an upside-down hat or bonnet.

And it wasn't every kid that got the eggs, either.

Only the good ones.

I'd share lists with old Belsnickel so we were on the same page.

Back then, he used to hit the naughty ones with a switch,

But I think I softened him over the years.

Since he started wearing the red suit

He just brings the treats.

When word got out, though

All the other kids started expecting me to show up.

Naughty or nice, if I didn't leave something

I'd get the calls from angry parents.

And these kids expected a basket, too.

A new one every year!

Do you know how many baskets that is?

They use the same Christmas stocking

Why they can't keep their old Easter basket I'll never know.

The arthritis started flaring up in the mid 20th century.

Population had topped 100 million,

And frankly I just couldn't lay the eggs fast enough.

Imported extra from Mexico for a while

Until we got a fertilized batch.

What a media nightmare that was.

I switched back to domestic bunny eggs after that

Which was rough for a few years.

When those plastic eggs came along,

I tell you

I thought my problems were solved.

Cut back on the laying

Started stuffing those things with candy,

Which the kids liked better anyway.

Snapping all those eggs together

Really did a number on my knuckles, though.

The population quadrupled last century,

Does anybody appreciate this?

No - they just want bigger baskets

More chocolate, more jelly beans,

iPod gift cards... do you know how painful it is to lay one of those?

I just can't keep up any more.

Make your own baskets this year.

Lay your own colored eggs.

You'll see.

It's not as easy as it looks.

5/30 Changing of the guard

2011-04-05T23:57:00.002-05:00

I make no time for the rumors of lemmings

Choose not to dwell on worries

Of viscosity and thermal breakdown

Tear those reminder stickers off

Minutes after they put them on

This every three thousand miles thing

Is conspiracy theorist nonsense

There is no magic spell for car longevity

We must throw off superstition an embrace the reality of impending doom

When it gets old,

The car will break down anyway.

Let us embrace this glass as half-empty

And enjoy the drink while it lasts.

4/30 Charles' Law Goes on a Diet.

2011-04-05T22:54:00.004-05:00

At constant pressure, the volume of a given mass of an ideal gas increases or decreases by the same factor as its temperature on the absolute temperature scale.

The pressure is constant. The volume is variable. The gas is ideal.

The temperature is the dependent variable.

The volume is the manipulated variable.

The temperature scale is absolute.

Absolute temperature.

The volume increases.

The mass increases.

The pressure is a given.

The mass is given, but not ideal.

The pressure increases.

The pressure is the same.

The scale is a factor.

Gas is constant.

It is less than ideal.

The decrease is manipulated.

The scale is constant.

It will not decrease.

Pressure is a factor.

The ideal is pressure.

The mass is absolute.

The scale is dependent.

The mass decreases.

The volume decreases.

The decrease is absolute.

The mass is ideal.

The mass is constant.

The mass is the same.

The pressure is decreased.

The scale is constant.

The mass is constant.

The volume is constant

The constant is ideal.

The marriage conference that transformed us

2011-04-02T14:06:00.004-05:00

Eager to improve our communication and keep the spark alive,

We diligently completed the personality self-assessment

At the conference on marriage, love, and laughter.

Tallying our own scores, we were divided into four very scientific personality types:

Lions, Beavers, Otters, and Golden Retrievers.

She, predictably, came up equal parts gung-ho lion and optimistic otter,

While I was dead split task-planning beaver and sensitive golden retriever.

The motivational speaker affirmed that opposites attract,

encouraging us to value our partner's strengths and remember

that no matter what we do, we will never be able to change their animal nature,

Only ourselves and our expectations of them.

We linked arms through the conference,

Exchanged jabs and knowing glances when his comments hit home

And left more in love than we've felt in a while.

Riding home together, side by side, lion-otter and beaver-dog,

We debriefed each other about what we'd learned.

While we were talking, she pulled a large stone and her lunch bag from under her seat,

placing the stone squarely on her chest.

"You know," I said, "I realize I'm not supposed to be critical,"

"but do you think it's safe to be cracking abalone shells like that while you drive?"

A disapproving growl issued from somewhere beneath her ribcage.

Her nimble, furry fingers paused, shell in hand.

"This is my car." she said, "I won't make a mess."

"But what do you think you're doing?"

I paused, mid-bite, removing my long incisors from her dashboard.

"That's not even real wood. I knew I should have gone with a different trim."

I agreed. That plastic trim had a terrible after-taste.

I nuzzled her in apology and gave her my paw.

"I hope your dew claw isn't what I feel snagging my sweater..."

I'm always doing that to her. Never on purpose. Drives her crazy.

"Never mind, it wasn't you. Just a piece of abalone shell.

Look at that - some meat still attached to it, too! Glass half-full!"

I thumped my flat tail in approval and stuck my head out the window,

Wet tongue flapping in the 80 mph air.

"I thought we were supposed to be improving our communication,"

she reminded me.

"In a minute," I told her. "I'm busy appreciating your driving."

She could have roared.

She could have bitten my head off.

Instead, she pawed lovingly at the scruff of my neck,

resisting the urge to remind me

not to shed on the upholstery.

2.5/30 Scathingly Bad Haiku

2011-04-01T12:08:00.015-05:00

A joke I heard from David Sedaris this week (in haiku):

Doctor says, "You've got..."

"Cancer... and Alzheimer's." Wow.

Least it's not cancer.

When you "walk" your dog

You know what it's gonna... doo.

His yard? Nah, leave it.

Your diaper box says

These are super absorbant.

Yeah, my shirt is too.

Harry Potter walks

in on Dumbledore naked

and is scarred for life.

On "Do-it-yourself"

Projects, I have my T's crossed.

Still always need help.

Ninja slam costume

suit, mask, nunchuks... April fools?

Damn you, McKendy!

(Matt Richards, Sam Tietel, Tim Veilleux, Mark Palos, whoever else needs taunting.)

Westboro Baptist

Church gets more press than poets.

We need dumber signs.

Guys with prosthetic

legs who live in glass houses

shouldn't throw legs, man.

Chore list while she's gone:

Can't find Swiffer pads. Only

Kotex wings. Floor's clean!

I have got issues

With old folks; driving; slowly;

Through storefronts; naked.

I forget this line

My memory is leaky.

Poetry is hard.

1.5/30 Dredged Up Melody (Sestina)

2011-04-01T07:32:00.028-05:00

Sestina for a Dredged up Melody

I came down here fully intent

on purging one more storage box

of all its old junk and failedagain.

This worn cassette, the"Eros/Pathos Mix"

Someone made just for me,saying, "Listen,

I love you..."I am vague on the context.

And it's all about context

Not merely content. Mix tapesdeclare intent,

but you must know how to listen

unpack them like dreammeanings, like Pandora's box

Mix tapes are made when our ownwords are too simple, a mix

of poor diction and things wecan never take back again.

I was always taking her back,again.

That was surely the context.

We were an unsustainable mix

of selfless friendship andnarcissistic intent.

More pathos than eros, thecassette box

title spoke wisdom in volumes.Our denial did not listen.

Side A, Side B. I am tempted tolisten

unearth that yellow Walkmanagain

dust off the old boom box

hear the wrong kind of love,out of context.

I came down here to cleanhouse. Never intent

on stirring pots. Oil and waterstill will not mix.

I remember these songs, a mix

of college bands we'd listen

to only on road trips, intent

on enjoying ourselves, alwaysfalling out again

just when things got good. Sameissue, different context.

Rats in a labyrinth, we werenever leaving the box.

I can't sort through this box.

Trash, treasure, and sentiment:Good mix

tapes are scaffoldedarchitecture. Same junk, same boxes, new context

for souvenirs of a self I donot miss. I can not listen

to nostalgia pangs; vowed neverto heed again

that atonement and endearmentshe recorded with structured intent.

I'd hear overtone context, readlines outside the box.

I would know their intent. Shecrafts a good mix

tape. I can never listen to thosesongs again.

Sea Cow Sestina

2011-03-31T23:31:00.007-05:00

The stupid, lethargic Hydromalis gigas

Sustained the swarthy population

Of arctic sailors with manners extinct

Shipwrecked during Bering's exploring years.

These beasts, unable to submerge, easily discovered

And docile, with plenty of meat on their bones.

Malnutrition and scurvy plagued castaways' bones,

While their naturalist, Stellar, first studied H. gigas.

Numbered 1.5 thousand when they were discovered

Threatened by a dwindling kelp population

Caused by sea urchin hordes left uneaten for years

Since men's hunting of otters nearly drove them extinct.

Bering died there, and half of his crew went extinct

They called it Bering Island and buried his bones

Built a ship from the wreckage, which took them years

Surviving by hunting Hydromalis gigas

At thirty feet long, it sustained their population

As they hoped all the while that they would be discovered.

Just 27 years after being discovered

Stellar's sea cow was hunted, becoming extinct

Not a single one left in its whole population

Remaining today as a memory of bones

A museum display labeled Hydromalis gigas

Not seen now for 233 years

There were rumors of sightings in subsequent years

By sailors on Northern routes Bering discovered

Near shorelines once teeming with Hydromalis gigas

In evenings as dusk was becoming extinct

Huge sirenians floating, all meat and no bones

Gave hope to a calloused population

With the exponential growth of the world population

We have seen this repeat itself over the years

Once marvelous species reduced now to bones

Cursed by our species by being discovered

There is no technology to fix what's extinct

To bring back Stellar's Sea Cow, Hydromalis gigas

Make no bones.  The whole population

Hydrodamalis gigas, Twenty-seven years.

Discovered, hunted, extinct.

Uncle Sam to Hosni Mubarak

2011-02-14T16:04:00.003-05:00

She loved you once

War hero fly boy

Swooping in to save her,

An unforeseen widow,

In her hour of desperation.

She needed your strength then,

Structure and bravado

Holding her up on your strong arm

Your finest hour

With all the neighbors looking on.

She tolerated your outbursts

Patience and lip-biting

Hoping the neighbors would say something

A shameful admonition

In public she smiled dutifully.

We all knew of your cruelty

Head nods and handshakes

Smiling across your picket fence

Tools loaned but not returned

In hopes hospitality would civilize.

We had an arrangement

Favors for favors

Loathing mutually through pearly grins

Overlooked bruises

You said, "She should learn to be more careful."

You misjudged her, it seems

Poundings and insults

Thinking they would surely break her

Heart of iron

After three decades, hers was tempered.

She stands in the street now

Strength and rebellion

Calling your name with fist raised

Stones piled at her feet

In full view of our peering eyes.

She ignores your wild ravings

Assurance and threatening

Knowing full well what you could do to her

Eyes bruised and swollen

Through these fresh reminders she stares you down.

We peer through cracked window shades

Guilty and awestruck

Yearning to rush to her defense, but we don't

Wisdom of cooler minds:

"No, let her do this for herself."

You panic behind closed doors

Fear and denial

Insisting she still loves you. She needs you.

Windows rattling her rejection

Her voice, as one. "Get out of MY house!"

You refuse, then leave like a coward

No speech or apology

Sending only a terse note in a crony's hands

Three short sentences

The second is all she needs to hear.

We weep in this moment

Relief and liberty

Cheering through open windows

Grins of satisfaction

As if we had anything to do with it.

She takes up her house keys

Tears and dignity

Glaring back at each window on the block

Thirty years of our complacency

And suddenly today we are on her side.

She closes her door

Deep sighs and head shakes

Calling a friend, to say 'thank-you'

Tunisia

Herself, recently separated.

For Sam

2010-11-04T23:53:00.001-05:00

As sun sets
We nurture the embers
Cherish their warmth while we have it
Fill our lungs with memories
Knit kernels of recollection

We remember the glow
Brighter and more clear in the fond image we will invoke
Than the perception of our eyes in this moment

Dim in the light of dawn,
Cradled in cupped hands
We strain harder to see them, warm and precious.
Folding fingers around them,
A shield from wind and forgetfulness,
We pull them close.
We keep them warm
And sift them gently in with our own.

Here they will linger,
Whisper instinct to what was once our better judgement.
We bite our lip,
Man the bellows.
The embers stir bright within us.
Those who know our hearts take notice.
Pausing, they cast a second glance
Shake their heads in wonder
And swear for just that moment
We seem so much like the ones we’ve lost.

Forgiveness

2010-09-05T11:48:00.008-05:00

Forgive me Father for I
Keep sinning.
Of course, You know this.
Like You know better than I do when I last confessed.
For You are not clergy
And I am no Catholic.
I have no use for stations, beads, or intercessors
And therein lies the problem.
I speak to my God in second person
On my own schedule and terms,
Without the impersonal trappings of ritual and religion,
Which is to say,
Infrequently
And at my own convenience.
I pray when I want something,
Seldom for what I need.
I speak to You as a preface to hearty meals,
In soothing tones to lull my child to sleep.
Tears have streaked my face and dried long before I look upward.
A true saint's prayers
Would spring from them.
When troubles arise, I button my shirt,
Put on my game face,
Go it alone.
In hindsight I tell myself I shouldn't bother you with trivial matters.
Best to call in my favors when they are most needed.
As though You owe me one.
Although You've taught me to pray for daily bread
That You've numbered my every hair
And care even for the sparrow
Who is somehow able to trust when I do not.
Even in those moments of repentance
Amidst promises that, "starting today,
Things are going to be different around here"
Sackcloth and ashes are always temporary.
Exchanging them for jeans and a sweater,
There is every intention
That I will once again look into scripture,
Hold Your word up as a mirror,
Pluck the logs, then the specks,
Remove every blemish I see.
It does not happen.
For these new clothes are too comfortable.
Self-confidence and complacency
Get the better of me.
I let my arm drop.
The mirror no longer shows me what I look like.
Still gazing in that direction, listless,
I don't even notice when it happens,
For I am to busy admiring the new reflections
Earthly trappings.
Coveting some,
Thinking they are within my grasp.
Inspecting others for imperfections, and
Feeling hints of satisfaction when I find them.
Knowing I am forgiven,
I start thinking I am good with You.
In my memory I am still devout, hopeful, and thin.
I mark passages with frayed ribbons,
In a Bible worn with use,
Set Your words as my guideposts,
Walk the straight and narrow path.
It is in these moments I most need confession.
When I should seek Your will, not my own.
If I am honest,
I can't find my worn Bible.
If I am honest,
I haven't looked for it lately.
It's OK, though, because there are other copies on the dusty bookshelf,
Because they have them in the pews at Church.
Because I can read it online.
Because I've already read it all through, surely, several times over.
Even if I haven't looked in a while,
I can still remember my reflection, more or less.
I know about where the imperfections used to be.
And of course, I say, if it is in Your will,
The Book will turn up soon enough.
Never thinking it might be Your will
For me to seek it.
Perhaps I need a hook.
Maybe I need stories and superstitions,
Need trappings and traditions,
Fish on Fridays,
Pilgrimages to shrines,
Sculptures of saints,
Incense and cantors,
Cathedrals and stained glass
Anything
To get me right again.
To keep me coming back when I should
To know the only way I'll ever fix myself
Is to remember what You look like.
And that I can't do this on my own.

New School

2010-08-28T03:50:00.002-05:00

One by one, or pairs
In the days before classes begin
They crane their necks
To steal glances
Through my doorway.
I am an enigma.

They are curious,
Eager to resume routine
Despite the joys of lazy summer.
They navigate familiar halls
Cluttered by the upheaval of preparation.
I am a tornado.

This room is familiar to them
But different now
And mine is an unfamiliar face.
They giggle nervously,
Finding more questions than reassurance.
I am practically Socrates.

I hope my smile is warm,
My small talk welcoming,
Ask their names as though
I have any hope of remembering,
Tell them I will see them again soon.
I am a snake-oil salesman.

Their faces betray the uncertainty
I train my own to conceal.
While they search for clues,
Struggling to size me up,
I am doing the same.
I am an illusionist.

I steel myself for Monday.
When every timid face returns,
Hoping I will read minds and quell fears.
It is in those first days
That expectations are set.
I am a drill sergeant.

I can not tell them that I have none
That I am unprepared
And have forgotten their names already.
That I worry, like they do,
That things could all go very wrong.
I am a pessimist.

Instead, I play the role
Flicking a red pen at my wooden desk
As though there was already correcting to be done.
One last confident wave gives them leave to skitter off
Their fading footsteps echoing awkwardly off empty lockers.
I am a con man.

Breath by breath,
In the moments of silence that follow
I remind myself,
Stealing another glance at the calendar,
That there will always be more of me
Than there are of them.

Taking the Night Shift

2010-08-21T01:06:00.002-05:00

We waltz slowly in the dark.
Head on my shoulders, your
Soft breaths gently whisper secrets.
I listen,
Finding meaning in their meter.
My hips ebb and flow
With your melodic exhales,
The two finding syncopation.
It is effortless,
Neither of us knowing which first set the tempo,
Or if you do, you don't say.

We could whirl this way for hours
Alone with silent thoughts
Eyelids lulled by the window fans,
The white noise stilling the humid air.

Tiny fingers curled at my shirt sleeve,
You sniff sharply at my neck,
Stirring, only for a moment,
Then settle in once more.
I murmur sweet nothings
In hushed tones.
Tomorrow, neither of us will remember the words.
Like dance steps, they blur together
The moment they are uttered.

Cracking open one bleary eye,
The clock confirms
Tomorrow arrived long ago,
During the first of our countless promenades,
never announcing its coming.
The sun will do that soon enough.

Thoughts drifting into dream's courtyard,
And with no toes on which to tread,
My shuffling footsteps fade,
Hips slow to a halt,
Cocked comfortably to one side.
Certain you have long since stopped noticing such things.
Again, you prove me wrong,
Registering your discontent with a sigh.
The swaying resumes,
But as always
You are too precious for a junior high 2-step,
Wriggling your protest into my palm.

I wince,
Check the clock again,
And reach out one arm gingerly
To run the warm water,
Cradling your back deftly with the other.
The bottle will not be warm soon enough.

Shushing into your tiny ear,
I worry you will wake your mother.
Shaking off the weight of slumber,
I regain posture,
Raising poised arms,
Hoping that this time, Baby Girl,
You'll let me lead.
One, two, three
One, two, three...

Life Lessons from a Two year old:

2010-07-23T13:59:00.002-05:00

If you don’t like it, throw it on the floor and you don’t have to eat it.

Only you decide when and where you will wear shoes.

If you want more attention from those around you, pee your pants and announce it to the room.

When you figure out that saying a certain thing makes people laugh at you, say it over and over and over until it’s not funny anymore. That’ll teach ‘em.

Never accept that something has been placed our of your reach. That's what climbing is for.

Keep yourself unpredictable. Just when they think they’ve got you figured out, change your mind completely so they have to keep working to figure out what will make you happy. Never let it get easy for them.

Once you get an idea in your head, never let it go despite what logical minds tell you. If you want to put on your bathing suit and walk outside at 3AM in January, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Do many spontaneous, fun things that people rave about, but always refuse to do it on command.

Allow only flavor and hunger, rather than logic, to dictate when and what you choose to eat.

Delight in your own body noises is contagious.

Only you decide when and where you will wear pants.

The first time they mess with your nap time, make them sorry they ever did, and it won't happen again.

The ice cream truck is much more interesting than the ice cream.

If you're not sure what it is, bite it.

Don't worry about drool.

Socially Awkward, Networking (Matthew Richards likes this)

2010-07-08T01:26:00.016-05:00

To the middle-aged women in my life
and those slightly older
who grew up in a time
when the boys all took shop class
while the girls took home economics
and who have only recently become computer literate:

You are forgiven,
To a point.

You missed those years
where you might have learned the rules of going digital.
You are now learning it as a second language.
You will always speak it with a telling accent.

It is new to you
And wonderful:
All this pointing and clicking,
Gleaning tidbits from lives
From which you’d have otherwise been excluded
Or at least had to work to see into.

That part’s fine.
My words are there to be read.
Your responses are welcome.
Click that you like it.
I’ll know you’ve been there.

It’s when you see me later
And feel the need to inform me,
In person,
In that awkward way you have,
That you now know
exactly what I recently posted online
in order for you to be able to know it
without having to have the whole conversation with you,
It is in these moments
That I can’t help but cringe a little,
Glancing awkwardly about for an excuse to walk away.
Stop doing that.

You’re nice ladies, all of you.
Even you,
Mom.
But please stop opening conversations with:
“So, I saw that you enjoyed the sunny weather yesterday and were glad you remembered to bring your sunglasses…”
What am I going to say to that?

Ladies, you need to know:
There is a nuanced etiquette
to incorporating information garnered online
into face to face conversation.
To a digital native this skill is second nature,
but for you…
It is painful to watch you fumble over the exchange,
Blurring the line between simple communication about a communication
And casually informing someone you're stalking them.

You’re well aware that
If I should forget to close the curtains on my house,
Whatever you see through the windows
As you drive past
Or stroll by
Or lurk in nearby shrubbery,
That’s fair game.
I have no right to complain about your view.

Trash, left on the curbside, becomes public domain.
Whatever you may glimpse as you pass my Hefty bags
Or rummage through them, if that’s your thing,
You are free to discover.
And if you do these things,
it would seem
you would know enough to keep it to yourself.
Not once have you remarked
That I forgot to turn off the basement light again when I went to bed at 1:37 after eating only half of the hummus I opened, which you noticed I forgot to return to the refrigerator afterward.
You have yet to remark that I
have have gotten much better as separating plain paper from glossy,
though I should be more thorough about rinsing out all those jars of spaghetti sauce.
Because, that would be weird.
Deep down you know why saying such things would be tactless.
Why even though you have every right to some knowledge,
It is not always socially acceptable to acknowledge having it.

You mean well.
Your faux pas is met with grace
and that inner smile
Reserved most often for goofy exchange students, small children,
and the sweet, yet senile elderly.
You know no better,
Despite my wish that you did.
Telling you that you should
will not teach you.
It would provoke, at best, yet another awkward conversation
At worst, a series of them.
Social skills are things
best discovered for one's self,
not taught to elder adults by their juniors.
Just try, will you?
You will be forgiven,
To a point.

Christopher's Mom and Matthew Richards like this.

When Poets Crush

2010-06-01T00:21:00.001-05:00

You slay me in taxonomy of like-tones and knowing inflections
Lavish, succulent, and visceral, they melt me
Your first deafening whisper rippled my eardrum and still resounds
I recall, count, and miscount, the echoes with eyes closed
Savoring your words as they playact across temporal lobes.
You dispatch with the flowery introductions and trite metaphor post-haste
Gripping hearts between teeth, declaring Phooey on every cliché ending
Melting me thru from within like butter in a microwave, no hot knife required,
You chant the warm welcome of a hazelnut coffeepot, and I drink deeply
Trembling in dimwit wonder, reluctant to exhale, lest I forget how it feels to swoon.

^Writing prompt from Heidi T.^

Good Fences

2010-04-11T00:14:00.002-05:00

Ralph’s been a good neighbor
Since the day we moved in
The week he retired
He’s kept an eye on our house
And, from what we can tell, just about everyone else’s.

Ralph likes everyone except his neighbors on the other side.
And their 30-some cats that turned everyone’s yard into a litter box.
So we weren’t their biggest fans, either.
When the cats caught rabies and started biting folks,
Ralph said that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Ralph’s a local,
He knows people around here.
And he makes sure you know he knows people.
Because knowing other locals is what locals do best.
He says he knows how to call in a favor.

It’s funny how right after animal control showed up at Ralph’s neighbors’,
So too did the building inspector, about that in-ground pool filled with Mosquito larvae they’d put in without a permit.
And the planning board, about the carport and 2nd driveway along Ralph’s property line.
And the humane society, about the barking dogs they never walk.
And the sheriff, about something Ralph says he’ll explain “after it blows over.”

A conservative’s conservative and former marine,
Ralph will talk your ear off about what’s wrong with this country today.
He loves to drop names of local business owners and city employees I’ve never heard of
And somehow works into every discourse a set of circumstances
Under which he would or would not kill a man.

Ralph comes out to chat over the fence when we’re in the yard,
Updating us on the number of potentially rabid cats they’ve trapped so far.
His cop buddy says it’s 27,
But Ralph casually mentions it’s more like 29.
He says he “took care of a few of them” himself.

Ralph goes hunting in Canada with his buddies, but not for deer or caribou.
Coyotes. Lured onto a frozen lake with roadkill
Picked off with a sniper rifle at 500 feet.
Ralph reminds me he was a marine,
And explains that once you’ve shot a man, you never get that out of your system. You've got to shoot something.

He’s always offering to loan me tools.
Whatever he thinks I need, Ralph’s got one, or has a buddy who does.
Ralph boasts he was an ace helicopter mechanic in the marines.
And tells me they had him guard Nixon once.
He says he “sure wouldn’t take a bullet for that Obama.”

Ralph talks embarrassing baby talk to my daughter. (Oh, yes he does!)
And insists on snowblowing our driveway for us, despite our insistence on shoveling.
He declares he likes to take care of his own,
And reminds me that, if need be, he’ll be ready to kill for us,
‘Cause he knows 22 ways to do it,
And we’re good people.

I ask him how many tours he did in combat.
Ralph just looks at me like I haven’t been listening for the last two years.
“I was never went to combat.” he tells me,
“I fixed helicopters during the war.”
“They kept me stateside.”

Child Prodigy

2010-04-09T18:16:00.001-05:00

All parents will say their child is a prodigy
But mine really is.
You should hear her count:
1, 2, 3, 5, 7…
No, she didn’t skip any numbers.
She just counts in prime
But gives the “1” a little too much credit.

She says “I love you, Daddy.”
When I ask her “How much?”
She sprints a tight figure-8 in reply,
Tearing infinity into the lawn.

The first clue to her talent came moments after her birth.
Just for fun, I asked her what two plus two is.
Already fluent in American Sign Language,
She told me “five,” then smiled.
I thought she was making a joke, but it was probably just gas.
This was before I knew she only counted in prime.
Turns out the math works,
For extremely large values of two.

DaVinci wrote backwards and was considered a genius.
Our child speed-reads cookbooks upside down
And writes notes with no repeating symbols
In a secret code that brings CIA cryptographers to tears
In crayon.

She gets both more adorable and naughty exponentially by the hour.
Like blooming fractals, patterns of each behavior more erratic each day.
Implementing a cost-benefit analysis of deeds
That would baffle Alan Greenspan.
She insists there’s a method to her madness.

She’s invented her own language,
Like twin-speak for an only child.
Wishing her parents could understand her ululations,
She throws yogurt at the diplomas on the office wall.
We know they embarrass her.
They’re only master’s degrees.

We’re afraid she’ll be lonely without peers.
We’ve tried play dates with the neighbors’ kids
But we feel bad when our daughter shows their child up.
The Hawkings next door say their son Stephen won’t be coming over again.
Made up some excuse about preparing for lectures in theoretical physics.
I know he retired last year.
Did they really think she wouldn’t put 2 and 2 together?
That’s the first thing she did when she was born.

On Squirrels and their Deathwishes

2010-04-08T13:25:00.002-05:00

On Squirrels and their Deathwishes

Much ado has been made about the foolhardy lemmings,
Rumored to hurl themselves to their death from the cliff top in droves.
They say this is a myth,
And who’s to argue?

Meanwhile, it is their cousins the squirrels for whom suicidality is most easily documented.
In Tulsa, a squirrel was reported to have taught itself to not only use crosswalks but to wait for the walk signal to change.
I’ve seen squirrels cross the road in traffic, and frankly
I smell a rat.

Studies show Squirrels learn to steal more effectively by observing others and can spot the best thieves among their fellows.
They have even been observed pretending to bury imaginary nuts as a ruse to deter potential bandits, demonstrating extraordinary intelligence for a rodent.
So why can’t they just cross the street in a straight line?

This business of leaping from tree to tree when they lack opposable thumbs has me worried.
Where are their parents in the midst of these risky behaviors?
Such species-wide disregard for their own wellbeing does not bode well for their evolutionary longevity.

I think they just like to mess with us,
Perched by the road side ‘til they can almost smell your pine tree air freshener,
Then they LEAP,
Zig-zagging back and forth
So you don’t even know which way to swerve.
And you know, don’t you, what that chittering noise they make is all about…
They can’t stop laughing at what we call “squirrel-proof” bird feeders,
Outwitting our meager contraptions like a 12-year-old with a child-proof medicine cap.

Squirrels mask their scent from predators by rubbing their fur with shed snakeskin,
Their group behaviors have been used as a model for designing resource allocation efficiency of computing systems,
In 2007 fourteen of the creatures were arrested in Iran, accused of being western spies.
Spying for our country, but unable to cross the street without becoming tail amputees.
Granted, the squirrel spies didn’t assemble the GPS devices and surveillance gear tucked away in their little backpacks.
Given their intelligence, on paper, it’s brilliant.
But the CIA spook whose clever idea it was
Has clearly never driven down a country road in New Hampshire
Or seen the irony in a bushy-tailed roadkill smear.
Of course, they were caught immediately,
Unable to remain inconspicuous long enough to avoid detection by border guards.
After all, they were squirrels wearing backpacks.
Not something you see everyday.
They waited, motionless, at roadside for a convoy to come closer, and closer, then leapt.
There were originally fifteen.
Halfway across the road, one stopped at the sight of a nearby minaret
With a top like a giant acorn.
Wondering, for only a moment, where squirrels go when they die.

Leaving Good Friends

2010-04-06T23:43:00.001-05:00

I let you go like smoke
Because exhaust is not for savoring.
We tried,
But the soot built up in our lungs.
We had to exhale sometime.

Letting go just to grasp again,
Desperate in the interim,
We have more breaths to breathe.
I have more hours to burn.
We exchange knowing glances.

Hey,
You got a light?

One Match

2010-04-04T22:57:00.001-05:00

I tell her she’s cheating
Looking down my nose as she stuffs wads of paper under green kindling.
If you do it right,
You should be able to start it with one match.
Even if the wood is damp.

You always start with birch bark
White birch.
It’s nature’s paper.
Thin, oily, and flammable.
Above it, a tangle of the thinnest dry twigs.
Dead pine branches do nicely.
You’ve got to have something for that birch bark to ignite.
You’ve only got a few seconds to catch it
Before it burns out.
You should only need to use one match.

She thinks I’m being ridiculous.
We have no birch trees on our quarter acre,
And the fire pit is 20 feet from the house.
I tell her it’s not the practicality of the matter.
It’s the principle.

Around the twigs, a structure of sticks
And logs.
You can go with the triangular base tee-pee
But I prefer a four-sided log cabin.
You just have to leave room for the air to flow in on the bottom
And a hole to reach in with the match.
The flame starts small
Until you blow from the bottom.
Just don’t blow it out.
With the twigs now roaring,
The dome of sticks above them follow suit.
Then the big stuff.
Now you’ve got a camp fire.
Keep feeding it.
Don’t worry about the marshmallows ‘til you’re almost done.

Her sticks are thrown in haphazardly on the paper.
It sickens me to watch.
She reaches in with a butane lighter.
Huge flames in seconds.
No matches.
I tell her she’s cheating.
We always lit ours with one match,
No paper.
And when that didn’t work,
We lit it with two matches.
And one can of bug spray.

Impromptu Ode to Cardigan Sweaters

2010-04-04T22:30:00.001-05:00

Two decades wearing cardigans,
and I have never once believed them to be fashionable.
Not only because no trend lasts that long,
but because fashion and I are like oil and... dark matter:
If there is a relationship, nobody quite gets it yet.
Who needs them to be fashionable,
as long at they're thick enough
and have good pockets?
They will keep the chill off,
veil the inevitable plumber's crack
and button up in moments to conceal spots of wayward ketchup.

Practical for New England weather,
my cardigans are as much my uniform
as flannel on a lumberjack
or sun hats on elderly nudists.
The pockets ensure I've always got a place to put my hands
in awkward social settings
so I don't fidget while avoiding eye contact.
The fact that I'm wearing a cardigan labels me as an introvert
Like a press pass for wallflowers.
Everyone knows I'm supposed to be there
but they only have talk to me if they feel like it.

Perfect for all seasons,
I leave them open in warm weather
and buttoned when it's cool.
I never worry about static hair
pulling them off over my head.
They're better than a jacket,
despite the similarities.
When it's cold, you can throw a coat on top of a sweater
and not look completely stupid.

Labeling me as sensitive and sedentary,
my mid-life security blankets are worn.
My isolation in their embrace,
they embolden me to be a little more of who I'm not,
and on occasion,
to like it.

Stories to tell

2010-04-04T21:56:00.000-05:00

Grammy Ida still sends me valentine cards.
In her 80s, she still volunteers at the nursing home.
She says somebody’s got to help out the “old people.”
She’d never touch a drink and thinks gambling is a sin,
But when she wins money at bingo she doesn’t feel guilty.
Grammy Ida has a jolly laugh and cries whenever we tell her goodbye.

Grammy Ida told me the first racist joke I ever heard
And what a “Puerto Rican” was.
They were the people who came in and ruined Reading, Pennsylvania.
She sent me $25 for my birthday this year
And made woven refrigerator magnets with plastic and yarn
For her great granddaughter.
Grammy Ida eats half the cookies she bakes for the nursing home.

Grammy Ida has nothing but praise for her oldest grandson
And criticism for my younger cousins.
She speaks in the wacky non-sequiturs of aging
And doesn’t know it.
She was a troublemaker in her day.
She never used to tell us anything about her life,
But old age has loosened her tongue.
Grammy Ida has stories to tell.

The Herald

2010-04-01T18:39:00.001-05:00

First brave crocus of the year,
Pressing up through remnants of a snow bank in late March,
A month of frost yet to come.
I wish him well,
Though I have half a mind to scold him.
Kids, these days.

TEN

2010-03-19T07:33:00.005-05:00

When your friend enticed you to join them this evening with the promise of a “poetry slam,” they said it like it was a good thing.
Naturally, you wondered to yourself, “What exactly is a poetry slam?” but then, not wanting to let on you didn’t know, naïvely said of course you’d join them, because those things are awesome, right? At least they sound like it.
And when the Colonel asked, “Who has never been to a poetry slam before?” he said it like it was no big deal. And you, naively, raised a sheepish hand, believing that would be the end of your participation for the night.
And suddenly you find yourself, whiteboard in hand, trying to figure out on the fly how to judge a poetry slam.

We’ve all been there. That’s why, tonight, we’re making you do it.
But Judges, don’t worry, I’ll make this one easy on you.
This poem - Is a TEN.
Each element laid out like a street map
Where all roads lead to TEN.

No doubt you’ve figured out by now
that rhyme is not required, although a little alliteration is always allowable, and it never hurts to add little flourish, maybe cap it off with a couplet for good measure.

With a ten, the poet identifies and connects with his audience. I didn’t write this with you in mind. I wrote it JUST FOR YOU. Now be honest, when was the last time a complete stranger (Who wasn’t stalking you) wrote you any poem at all? TEN.

A TEN crafts cadence and pauses
Smooth or choppy, these are the tracks guiding this rollercoaster from the lump in your throat to the pit of your stomach. But you know even in those first moments you’ll want to ride it again, because it keeps
Stirring memories.
A summer day in 1984.
First one into the house when we got home from shopping.
I had my own key.
Time to take the dog out, but she didn’t greet me at the door.
I found her in the basement.
Lying in a puddle.
She wouldn’t wake up when I called her. She was cold.
My dog was only two years old.
I? I was TEN.

But a TEN will never leave you
In the basement.
No, It comes alongside you in your empathy,
puts a nice, warm metaphor around your shoulders,
and points you hopefully upward with a simile like the best friend you never knew.
It will never tell you that simile is a metaphor, though it may tell you a simile is like a metaphor. TEN

You know a TEN when you hear it, because you can laugh along at the inside jokes even when you have no idea what they are about. The same way you feel completely comfortable calling Marc “the Colonel” though you’ve spent the whole night asking yourself, “What exactly is he the Colonel OF? Because I wasn’t paying attention.”
See what I mean? TEN

And when the people around you are all shouting out the words to a brand new poem you know it’s a TEN ‘cause it’s
Just That Good.
I know you’ll do fine; next time you invite your friend to a poetry slam, Remember: don’t tell them what they’re in for.
And now judges before you suspect I’ve messed up let
Me remind you this TEN ends with a rhyming coup-let.

We are the poets

2010-03-18T23:34:00.006-05:00

(GRIEF)
We are the heart-wrenchers,
Our every syllable infused with more anguish than the last.
You will weep for us as we never wept ourselves
And thank us for it afterward.

(SCORN)
We are the tongue-cluckers.
Our brand of scorn could make you hate Mother Theresa.
Wielding our power through diction and pauses
We will burn you if you cross us.

(MORTIFICATION)
We are the blush-wranglers
On our home course, “too much information” is barely par.
Spewing intimate secrets like Mardi Gras beads,
I showed you mine. You know how it works.

(RAGE)
We are the riot-starters,
Bellows for the bonfire of discontent,
Spearhead of this revolution, first ones jailed in the next one
Here’s your spray paint, here’s your rock to throw.

(MIRTH)
We are the belly-shakers.
Our smiling words the menacing hands that lunge for your throat
And when your heart leaps into it, we wink at you.
Tickle tickle!

(PASSION)
We are the heartstring-pluckers.
Your most sensitive notes resonate at our fingertips.
Wooing you with sonnets we wrote to someone else.
Let you think you could be so lucky.

(DECEPTION)
We are the wool-pullers
Our reality fabricated conveniently for deception
Convincing you of truths you know to be false.
You never noticed leaving Kansas.

(FAME)
We are the poets.
Applauded in this venue, yet nameless beyond these doors.
Parsing out our 15 minutes of fame
180 seconds at a time.

Daylight Savings

2010-03-16T22:10:00.001-05:00

Sprung forward as if for gold,
Hands seize time to clean and prune til dusk;
I like my daylights living.

Martyr

2010-03-15T23:09:00.006-05:00

If only I'd been there.
Your face could have made me an award-winning photojournalist, overnight.
One click of my shutter,
Macro zoom,
Wide angle,
Short depth of field
Timed perfectly.
It would have been brilliant.
Your face
After feigning sleep for hours
Arm shifting uncomfortably beneath the flimsy blanket they gave you

One shot. Not yet…
Waiting those crucial seconds,
I would not flinch when the loud pop rang out,
Startling everyone
Your eyes suddenly open
Darting to the left, down, left
Brow furrowed
Nostrils flared at the first waft of smoke
Mouth horridly agape
Pupils dilating with the realization that this is not paradise.
Click.
One picture of the underwear bomber,
Cover of both Time and Newsweek
I could have become famous on your failure.
I never would have taken it.
I'm glad they caught you trying to kill them.
Your safety belt was still fastened
Because, you never know when your plane might crash.
Hand still in your pants
Clutching a melting acid syringe
Smoke billowing from your lap, then flames.
You pretended as though you didn't know what was happening.
Liar, Liar. Your pants betray you.

Fodder for the late-night talk shows
They started calling you Captain Underpants
It was funny.
It wouldn't have been.

Young man, I don't know how you pronounce the words,
But where I come from there's a difference between MARTYR and MURDER.
They say you went to good schools,
But what your friends in Yemen didn't teach you
Is that martyrs only become martyrs by being killed for defending their beliefs.
Killed.
By another person.
You can't kill yourself and call it persecution.
It doesn't work that way.
You tried to kill strangers.
Christians and Muslims.
Men, women, and children.
Who on that plane even thought they were at war with you?
Ignorant of their personal politics,
But so willing to end their lives.
So sure the next sight you would see was paradise.
There are no virgins for you!
There never would have been.
No God would reward such a slaughter.
How dare they tell you it would make you a martyr?

I'd have put down the camera to stop you.
Foregone the photo,
Risked my life to save many.
I will never be a passive victim.
So bring it, if you're gonna.
Make me a martyr.
Let me die standing up for what I believe,
In the defense of the defenseless,
Speaking out against injustice,
And not flinching.
Let me die for showing compassion,
Reaching out to the hurting, like you,
Living outside of my comfort zone.
Daring to one day forgive such an atrocity.
If you're going to kill us,
Let me live my last days,
My last moments in the footsteps of Jesus
A man you call "Prophet"
Who said "Blessed are the peacemakers...
...for they will be called the sons of God."
Make me a martyr.
Because you're sure not going to make me a photojournalist.

David

2010-03-04T23:32:00.011-05:00

I never really loved my father in law.
I loved his daughter, as did he.
This topped the short list of our common interests.

David was a truck driver
He listened to warbly southern gospel
Ate grits
And put meat gravy on his pancakes.
Flags mounted on his Suburban like some hillbilly diplomat.
Perking up his ears at every "yee-haw"
Born and raised in the great southern state
Of New Jersey.

The only man I've known to say "humbug" and mean it,
David regularly expressed disapproval with an half-syllable sentence
"E'h!"
Again, and again
"E'h!"
He disapproved of many things.
The majority of which involved others telling him not to push himself, with all of his health issues.
I never cared for that noise.

He had never finished high school
And fumbled with words
But began devouring books in his 60s.
David read slowly, but patiently paged through thick biographies of our early presidents.
He admired John Adams, and held John Quincy in high regard.
He was sure it was my fault that his daughter stopped voting republican.
She was a social worker.
I had nothing to do with it.

I tried hard, at first,
Before meeting the parents,
Studied the rules of pinochle, his game of choice, to impress him.
I'd never played but spent days
Cramming strategy guides, only to find he played by "family rules."
It was different,
The strategies useless.
We played every time he visited, and he usually won.
If I was lucky, he would wear his teeth during the game.

Shaking his head when I tried to explain my fantasy football team,
Because that's not how football's supposed to be played,
This man had the nerve to sit in my house, on my couch,
Routing for his Giants to beat my Pats in the Superbowl,
Which, they did.
He wore that championship cap so proudly.
That cap, his large belt buckles, and grungy, sleveless flannel shirts,
Grease under his fingernails and his calloused palms
He made me ashamed of my own hands,
Soft and weak

I gave up trying.
I could identify with neither his gruffness, nor his affection.
He cuddled his grandbabies for as long as they'd let him,
Gave loud, smacking kisses.
The sound grated on me.
At our wedding, he kissed his daughter more than I did.
I cringed each time.
It seemed there was something wrong with that,
But she didn't mind.
He knew the importance of faith and family.
He said "humbug" at Christmas
Not because of the holiday
But because of what we'd done to it.
It wasn't about the presents.
And it took me far too long to see where his heart was.

A lifelong trucker and utilitarian packrat,
David knew to keep things that might one day be useful to someone.
He kept everything.
He never had much,
But would always try to give what he could.
Even the filthy sleveless flannel shirt off his back
To anyone desperate enough to ask for it.
Had our first daughter been a son,
We planned to name the boy after David's father.
When we told him, he cried.
He adored our daughter just the same.

When his heart went bad, he took school bus routes
And started rummaging through our recycling bin when he visited.
David saved bags of tabs from soda cans for a little girl on his bus.
She collected them to trade in for her aunt's dialysis.
He was proud when he could make her smile

Too stubborn to let illness get the better of him, David started walking.
Through dizzy spells and headaches, he navigated country roads at all hours,
Building stamina, losing weight.
The doctor told him he had the heart of a much younger man.

They say he fell down.
Out for a walk, for his health,
A decade after the bypass
He was healthier than ever.
They thought perhaps he slipped
Tripped somehow
This man who climbed broken ladders one-handed
Took risks I would never dare without a second thought
And came out unscathed every time.
They said he fell down.

They didn't know him.
Were they even at the scene?
On a flat stretch of country road.
He just
Fell
Hit the back of his head that hard.
We never got to say goodbye.
Never said the things I should have said
Made amends. Asked forgiveness.

He would have loved our baby girl.
She's a snuggler, unlike her big sister.
Her middle name is Quin.
Short for Quincy.
After her Pop Pop's daddy
And our sixth President.
I give her loud, smacking kisses.
It makes her smile.

I never really loved my father in law
Not like I should have.
I will try to be a good father to her.
Teach her the values of faith and family.
David would be pleased with that.
And somehow, she knows him.
She is stubborn like her grandfather.
Just before I cut her umbilical cord,
Gripping scissors with my own soft hands,
Preparing to separate her forever from her first home,
She expressed her disapproval.
Her first sound was "E'h!"

Pennies, for your thoughts

2010-02-17T22:56:00.008-05:00

As a child I learned to cherish every penny I was given
I had a monkey.
Not a real monkey, it was plastic.
And it wasn't even a real plastic monkey.
It was a plastic gorilla.
Holding a banana.
But I called it my monkey.

Each penny I was given
Or found
Or swiped from the kitchen counter where my father would empty his pockets
Went into the slot in my monkey's head Plink.
One by one Plink.
Sometimes shiny, sometimes dull.
Plink.
The sound coming a fraction of a second sooner each week
As pennies filled the feet Plink.
The torso Plink.
The shoulders
Until one day my penny had to be wedged sideways into the head.
Full, it weighed more than I did.
I kept trying open the bottom.

Pennies could be found, if you knew where to look.
Sofa cushions, especially couches of friends whose mothers didn't clean that often.
For years I dipped my fingers into every pay phone coin return,
Lifted the corners of floor mats,
Swept an arm under every vending machine where coins were so often dropped.
and janitors never bothered to vacuum.
I amassed a small fortune, a monkey-full.

I watched Santa, on Little House on the Prairie,
Give Mary one penny for Christmas.
Just a penny, Santa?
I began to suspect he wasn't the real Santa after all.
He looked too much like the Ingalls' neighbor.
"Just" a penny
She cherished it.
Agonized over what to buy with it
And whether to spend it all on herself or share with her sister.
Pennies were no longer just for saving.
They were useful.
Exchanged for trinkets soon lost, broken, and forgotten.
In summer we walked barefoot to the store on the lake.
Where one penny could get you a whole swedish fish.
And at the general store in town, a penny was a root beer barrel.

Twenty-five pennies, shaken from the monkey
(once I'd pried off the cap)
could get you a whole quarter on Saturday mornings.
Months of collecting in exchange for three minutes of Frogger at the bowling alley.
That copper allure was replaced by the charm of silver coins
Or better yet - the green paper.
Green paper was the stuff of dreams.
It was GI Joe and comic books,
And the big candy bars, not rootbeer barrels.
Green paper meant a switch from the plastic coin purse to a folding wallet.
Green paper made me grown up.

Pennies in my pocket became a nuisance,
Jingling when I walked wearing baggy pants.
The ones found on the sidewalk were only picked up if the right side was facing toward the sky
And eventually, not even then.
Pennies were thrown in a bowl with pocket lint,
Abandoned in the couch cushions,
Sucked up by the vacuum cleaner without much thought.

Were it not for the monkey, and the CoinStar machine at the supermarket,
My useless pennies would have been swept into trash cans by the fistful
Sent to the landfill
Where even the rocks had no need for them.
The monkey was my savings of last resort.
More than once, I dumped out a portion to cash in,
Just enough copper to fill the gas tank.

As a college student eating Ramen and then as a brand new teacher
The pennies came in handy.
Ten pennies sustained late-night cravings for noodles.
As a teacher.
I brought them to school for science class
To be dissolved in acid
Used as weights for scales
All kinds of experiments.
My students talked of throwing them,
throwing away money!
off the Empire State Building and cracking sidewalks.
They would never think of throwing a dollar bill
Not only because it wouldn't crack the sidewalk
But because it was worth something.
No one would think twice about losing a penny.

Were I to leave a penny as a tip
It would not be a gift, but an insult.
Pennies are left for strangers
On convenience store counters.
And I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't feel guilty reaching into the tray
because I needed one cent.
Take a penny, leave a penny indeed.
Pennies are only for leaving.

I lugged that monkey full of pennies from apartment to apartment, house to house,
Its weight a barometer of my financial status.
Nine different apartments
And it was still half full
When I cashed the last of it in for $27 the summer we bought the house.
Not even two dollars per pound.
Felt like it should have been so much more.

My distaste for pennies eventually extended to all spare change.
Each day my pocketful of coins is dumped in a jar, a bowl, or left thoughtlessly on the nearest surface.
Those days I forget, we pick it out of the dryer, grumbling.
It drives my wife crazy.
She keeps her coins in a purse.

When our daughter was born, we received gifts.
Some cash, but no one sent pennies. No one.
In fact, as she grew older, our aim was to keep things the size of pennies out of her reach.
We feared she would put them in her mouth and choke.
Pennies were dangerous.
Pennies had power.

She's learning new words so fast these days.
One of the latest is Penny.
We go shopping together.
I let her hand over the green papers.
She loves to get the change back.She loves pennies.
When she says the word her eyes brighten
Her small hand reaches out hopefully
Toes dance with anticipation
I catch her eyeing the ones on the kitchen counter, where her father empties out his pockets.
I know what she's thinking.
She has discovered that pennies are magical.
And with her I have found it again as well.
Once again my treasure,
I keep track of them,
Save them,
Only for the joy of giving them away.

One penny can get you a smile.
Good behavior from a child overdue for a nap.
A penny is a pee pee on the potty.
I dread the day she learns the other coins are worth lots of pennies
They day they cease to be magical,
Tarnishing beside silver and green paper.

Last week in the basement
helping Daddy rummage through old boxes
I heard her declare, "Monkey!"
It's not a monkey, I told her.
It's a gorilla.
But you can call it whatever you like.
I showed her the slot in the top
Just the right size for pennies.
It's her favorite thing to do.
Plink, Plink.
She'll pee pee on the potty again and again
Just for a penny
And I'll give her another one every time
Just to watch my daughter smile.

With Love from Ernie

2010-02-14T00:43:00.001-05:00

*written for erotic poetry night at the Bridge
**Interspersed musical lyrics are a song by Jeff Moss

You know how I feel by now.
I've been singin' your song fo
What,
Going on 40 years
Nobody listens
They've read the internet rumors;
All thinking they know the score.
But they're all wrong
While baby we are oh so right
This time they'll know
The object of my affection
Has been you all along
Let me go draw a warm bubble bth for two
And slip into something more... comfortable

♫Rubber Ducky
You're the one
You make bath time
So much Fun
Rubber Ducky
I'm awfully fond of you♫

Surprised at the sound of my voice?
No, it;s not the fool they're used to.
But this is the voice you've grown to love
Not what they see on TV.
This is the real me.
Remember seeing Pee Wee Herman's mug shot?
They've got to know he used a stage voice.
But tonight, little ducky
I'm not acting anymore.
Let 'em believe what they like.

♫Rubber Ducky
Joy of joys
When I squeeze you, ooh,
You make noise
Rubber ducky
You're my very best "friend" it's true♫

They just don't understand
The benefits of this "friendship."
It's time they embraced it
Not that I've kept it a secret.
They were so eager to believe
I had a thing for my
Anal retentive roommate
Just because I eat cookies in his bed.

♫Every day when I
Make my way
To the tubby
I find a
Little Fella who's
Cute
Yellow
And... chubby!
Rub-a-dub-dubby!
♫

Forty years, you and I
Long enough for a common law marriage
And then some
If only they'd recognize our love in this state.
Sure, it's unorthodox, but
When it'a real, who's to question it?
And everyone knows
The right piece of rubber
Can spice up any relationship

♫Rubber ducky
You're so fine
And I love it
That you're mine
Rubber Ducky
I'm awfully fond of
Rubber Ducky
I'd like a whole pond of
Rubber Ducky (I don't even know her!)
Rubber Ducky, I'm awfully fond of you...♫

At once amused and dismayed

2010-01-27T22:18:00.004-05:00

She sat so nicely in the shopping cart
Singing and reaching for produce
Naming whatever objects she could and
Parroting back the final word of sentences she heard
"Man?" "Store?" "Mama?"
And then the whining began

"What do you want, Big Girl?"
"eieio?"
"Daddy? Please? eieio?"
And so I sang to her
There in the store
"And on that farm he had a..."
And I swear the word that came out of her mouth sounded like "republican."
I almost asked her what a Republican says.
But I was pretty sure she wouldn't know
And unfortunately I already did know.

With the singing cut short by laughter and her patience wearing thin,
Shea asked for "Down"
She wanted to walk.
She wanted to run.
And she did.
Down the aisle
Looking back once over her shoulder as she turned the corner
As if she was going to stop
Perhaps come back
But turning a corner
Quickly out of sight
And giggling with gleeful excitement
while I panic slightly
And chase her down.

Republican.
Girl, you're funny.

Pull up your pants

2010-01-22T16:37:00.002-05:00

Pull.
Up.
Your.
Pants!

Pull them UP.
Up.
Good, now do that again, only keep them there this time.
To your waist,
No, your waist.
Your *other* waist,
No, not THAT high.
We don't want to see your...
Do you even know where your waist is?
Simple anatomy, child - do you see those protruding hip bones?
The waist is the area above them
Between those bones and your ribs
No, I'm not joking:
Go ahead and Google it!
Right after you pull up your...
Do you even own a belt?
At home?
Several, you say?
You know, they only work if you wear them.

Do not tell me to "chillax"
It's not a word.
And if it was I would be prevented from doing so
By the sight of your protruding underpants.
Yes, I recognize you're not naked.
But it's called UNDERwear for a reason.
Pull them UP.
There, now hold them.
Would you like a safety pin?
Yes, I'm serious.
Don't I look like I'm serious?
Just do it. You will thank me some day.
When I was your age, I grew a mullet.
I know what it is to regret.

Put.
Away.
Your cell phone.
Away.
As in "Away."
Not on the corner of the desk. Away.
And don't even give me that line about waiting for a text from "your mother"
You're in the middle of class,
A detail of which she is well aware,
And the great thing about text messages is
They are actually saved, right on your phone!
And they'll still be there for you to look at when the bell rings.
Sure, you can go to the bathroom - right now, even.
You've already wasted class time. What's a few minutes more?
Just leave the phone here.
Yes I'm serious.
It will be safe. I'll hold onto it for you
And you can go.
Right after you
pull.
up.
your.
pants.

Reflection

2010-01-20T22:11:00.000-05:00

When it comes to mirrors,
I would rather be a vampire
Than the guy with ear hair staring back at me.
I swore I would never be that guy.
I never said anything about being a vampire.

Extraction (unfinished)

2010-01-08T21:44:00.000-05:00

"There's supposed to be a tooth there"
I remember thinking.
I poked at the newly discovered hole with my tongue.
A little rough on the edges, but otherwise smooth.
Until recently it was covered by a layer of gum.
I never knew it existed - the tooth, much less the cavity.
When did that form?
I kept getting seeds stuck back there
Every time I ate blackberries.
How is it that I never noticed this chasm?

The dentist asked when I'd last had a checkup,
And therein lies the problem.
I don't remember.
I am a procrastinator of the worst sort.
I don't floss no matter how many times they tell me,
And when those 6 month reminders come in the mail
I put it at the bottom of the pile of other things I ought to do something about but never will.
They say when you dream of losing teeth it's a sign of insecurity.
I want you to know that when you dream about having an excruciating toothache radiating down your jaw,
Insecurity is the least of you worries.
When you wake up, it's still there.
...

From NH with Love

2010-01-06T23:19:00.009-05:00

I want you to come back
If only to tell me lies again.
It's always been love/hate with you.
I'm not the only guy to have said so.
I know you.
Close my eyes and see your sunshine smile, your awkward gait.
Hear the drizzle of banter about the second graders you visited yesterday,
Predict the moment you'll rock onto tiptoes
Voice crackling like sheet lightning
And say something to make milk come out my nose.

For as long as I can remember,
It's been hit and miss,
Hot, and cold with you.
No, I didn’t mean it like that.
The highs always bring that knowing smile,
But it was the lowest lows that made me hopeful
The way blizzards quietly promise a snow day.
Your voice, Scratchy, familiar, and welcome.
The first I heard in the morning,
Gave me a reason to open my eyes each day.
And peer through the summer haze.

I still really can't trust you. No one ever could
You're like the others, only with better delivery.
The reason I love / hate you.
I stopped counting the days
You woke me up with a downpour of lies.
Not every day, sometimes just a sprinkling,
We both know you tried.

When you were wrong, and I believed you –
It really was more your fault.
I always thought I would be the one to leave.
But it’s you.
You saw red skies in the morning,
A barometer showing the front that had come and gone without you overnight.
Were you tired of the same old schtick, or was it getting too comfortable?

I've insulted you.
It’s no more personal than the changing of seasons,
Which we still take personally.
You hardly know I exist, and soon I won’t know you either.
I’ve insulted you;
I’ve defended your honor, but I’m done defending you.
I won’t need to anymore.
The sun rose today on a generation that will grow up in your absence.
After so long, you're moving on, without me.
Wanted, but no longer needed
If it’s any consolation you won’t be replaced.
Not by any smooth talker, chesty blonde, or scrolling ticker on the bottom of my TV screen.
Just gone.
Like memories of the Old Man, another icon that will fade.
I want you to come back, weather man
If only to tell me lies again.
And forecast HIGH pressure, on channel 50,
Just one more time, Al Kaprelian.

My Buzz

2009-10-20T23:11:00.009-05:00

My Buzz
Starts on Sunday afternoon
Just after I buy more papers
I get euphoric at the thought of rolling a few fat catalinas
I've been perfecting my craft
You'd be amazed at what you can learn to do on the internet.

Got my first taste last year
Small at first,
A way to pass the time, maybe make a buck.
I remember my first few deals
Looking nervously over my shoulder the whole time
Then a few more each week, and a few in between
Now I loiter at the local drug stores
More days than not
Jonesing for a fresh score
They know me now
"It's THAT guy."

I could stop if I wanted to.
That's what I always tell myself before the rush wears off.
But why would I?
When I need quantity I order direct
Skip the middleman
It's cheaper that way,
So it adds to the profit.
And why not?
Habit's got to be sustainable.
And after all, I'm frugal.

When my package comes
Heart races
Thick brown envelope
US mail
No return address
I bring it inside to open
What would the neighbors think?
Little hand tremor
Make a thin slice along the very edge
Don't want to damage the goods
Inhale, long and slow
The smell heightening my senses
Pupils dilate as I slide out
My new stash
Of Sunday news coupon inserts.

Cause I'm a junkie, but I'm slick.
I track the deals and the sales
I'm a shopaholic who doesn't spend money.
Exploiting the system for personal gain.
I stack Manufacturers coupons with Store coupons
on top of Sales,
And then get Rebates.
So that sometimes
They pay ME to march their stock out the door.

I shoot up
To the register
With whatever gives the full price back
And then, I hand over a coupon.
So I'm earning more back in credit than I pay out of pocket.
I bring home more crap this way.
17 tubes of toothpaste
A shoebox of deodorant
Number 2 pencils
Bayer aspirin, 5 hour Energy shots
All free, or better.

I live dangerously.
I clip coupons for junk food on an empty stomach.
I'm not afraid to fill the checkout counter with Monistat, personal lubricant and a dozen pink packages of pantiliners
If that's what it takes.
I know I'll profit a buck on every one.
Earn more in five minutes at the register than the cashier makes in an hour.
And walk out with a bag of loot.

I'm flying here.
I can tell you when 50 cents off one is better than a dollar off two.
And vice versa.
Why "Buy one Get one" sales always trump half price.
How the grocery catalina deals (Buy $25 worth, get $10 voucher back)
Have mind-blowing
Exploitable
Loopholes
I roll them,
One into the next
Sale, coupons, voucher, Free.
Or better.
It's a numbers game.
And an opiate.

I once boastd
About bartering at a flea market.
Saving 10% buying the store brand.
Free shipping at Amazon.
I sold myself short.
Try a hundred percent, plus overage.
When was the last time you walked out of a store
With $280 worth of groceries in your cart
And $20 more in store credit vouchers
Than you had in cash when you walked in?
For me?
Last Thursday.
And Wednesday, twice.
$800 of something, for nothin'
And it was legal.

My Buzz
Starts on Sunday afternoon
Cause that's when I buy my papers.

What's in a name

2009-10-04T00:33:00.008-05:00

The urine had barely dried on the home pregnancy test
Before she started asking.
To her, the question was simple and carried no baggage:
Had I thought about names
For the baby?
Of course, she had.
She'd had her list since before she was pregnant,
Before we were trying,
Before I ever met her.
She used top names from her lists as the password for her email
Because that's the kind of thing girls do.
And I did the kind of thing that guys do,
Which was to completely avoid answering the question for about six months.
Not that she didn't ask.

It's a lot of pressure to name another human being.
It's not like a goldfish,
Whose life is no different whether you call it Bob or Liberace.
The right name can be everything to a person
And the wrong name even more so.
I know two men whose parents named them Randall.
One goes by Gage. The other is Mark.
A third friend, whose middle name is Randall, actually goes by Randy.
Because his first name
Was Niles.

Having grown up a Christopher,
I was fine with my first name,
But I also grew up a Clauss.
C-L-A-U-S-S
One "S" more than the jolly old elf
And yet the cashier never seems to care when she sees the name on my credit card
And asks me where I parked my sleigh.

When the belly turned from bump to bubble,
And the question had not gone away,
I gave in.
A little.
I bought baby name books, lots of them,
Spent lots of time ruling names out.
Shaniqua? no.
Lulu? no.
Jenifer with one N? no.
With two N's? no.
With a G? no.
With a Y? no.
Until I had ruled out nearly every name in the book for one reason or another
And those I didn't dismiss out of hand she certainly did.
I wanted something unique and beautiful,
While her list read like the bingo roster at a nursing home
A name both modern and exotic, but not weird
Yet Matilda didn't fit the bill
A word that felt good as it rolled off the tongue
No, not even if we call her "Tilly"

So with two months to go and a mutually agreed-upon list of exactly zero names,
I gave her my one.
The one that wasn't in the baby book.
The one she'd never heard before.
The one I'd written once in a notebook as a sophomore majoring in marine biology.
If we had a girl, I wanted to name her after a seaweed.

And she said, "really?"
Not just any seaweed, mind you, but a good one.
Alaria, a genus of kelp that thrives in the roughest rocky intertidal zones.
Alaria, A tough olive ribbon that flows gracefully in the rolling tide.
From the Latin "aria" - which means song
And "ala" meaning wing
(or armpit, but I dared not tell her that at the time)

And in the end, to my wonder, she said, OK.
If she could pick the middle name.
She chose the boy name, the one we never used.

We call her Lari.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, 19 months old.
Too young to know her father, whose last name is one letter away from Santa Claus
Gave her a first name that is one letter away from a parasitic disease.
She's beautiful.

And when strangers ask her name they say
"Alaria? Ooh, that's pretty - Is it a family name?"
"I've never heard that name before - where's you get it?"
I tell them.
My wife,
She just tells them I'd heard it somewhere.

And the day our Lari steps off the schoolbus and runs into my arms
Tears streaming down her cheeks
Because they called her Alaria Malaria
I'll hold her tight and tell her not to worry about naughty kids
Cause come December 25,
We got connections.

Memory

2009-09-30T21:04:00.022-05:00

Memory, Memory
Dangling
Inches beyond my fingertips
Elusive and Taunting
Carrot and stick
I can not reach

Fading Fading
Bit by bit,
Byte by byte,
By the year and the decade
Details, names
Anecdotes never shared that now never will be
Blotted from recollection
Like moth holes in an old gray sweater
Fissures gnawed into old grey matter
I'd assumed was intact
Until I reached into the closet
Pulled it from deep in a drawer
And held up to the light
The tales of my youth
My coming of age
My glory days
Now threadbare
Torn
Unraveling

Wishing Wishing
I'd written, photographed, journaled
Recorded those details I once wished to forget,
Mundane, humiliating.
Endless hours riding the school bus,
Fidgeting through church,
Driver's education.
First awkward kiss, first hopeless crush, first little league ballgame strikeout,
Once painfully obvious
Easily recalled
Now forgotten as an everyday dream
Lost to the ether.

Grasping Grasping
Far too young for decaying faculties
Stored naively
Without mothballs
In a sturdy steel sieve.
At least I remember these past years
Adult years
Career and family years
Or do I?
Old colleagues and students, in time, begin to blur together into this type or that type.
Names familiar but no longer known
Semesters, Years of relationship
Reduced to a vibe
A glimmer.
An uncertain Hey-do-I-know-you
That I'm afraid to ask,
Because I know that they'll know me.

Memories, memories
Unable to lock away
What I still have
This vapor drifting across my palm
Brushing past arthritic fingertips
Knowing I could reach each one
Could grasp it
And hold on
If only I was a year younger
If only I'd worked harder at it.
Wishing I could stretch these hands that
One last inch.

My Kind of Special

2009-09-16T16:13:00.023-05:00

One could say that I am in the late stages of transformation into a full-blown "Mad Scientist."
Having earned my biology degree in the mid- nineties, I've had the "scientist" part down for some time, and now I'm just working on the "mad" part.
For I am a Special. Education. Teacher.

And if you're thinking special as in "Special Olympics," where everyone smiles and tries hard and wins the gold or earns the A for effort.... Not MY kind of special.

No, this is "special" as in "they think they're something special" special,
special as in "subject of an ABC After-school Special" special
special as in "the proverbial 'special place in hell' has got NOTHING on my classroom" special, and I'm still not sure what I did to deserve my place there, but it can't have been that bad.

My kind of "special" is slack-jawed and lazy-eyed with an extra helping of both slack and lazy.
It doesn't know, it doesn't care, and it aint doin nothin' for nobody - try and make it.

The recipe for my kind of special is one part ADD to two parts chip on the shoulder, with a dollop of redneck and a pinch or two of crazy. (The recipe calls for a cup of birth control, but my kind of special usually leaves that out.)

It is the herculean feat of educating this kind of "special" that siphons my sanity like stolen gasoline by the gap-toothed mouthful every day.
As a scientist I postulate that there is no madness known to man like teaching My kind of special how to use a compound light microscope.
The task is a simple one.

Place just one drop of swamp water on a slide.
Lay the cover slip on the drop.
Place the slide on the stage.
Move it under the short (SHORT!) low-power objective lens,
And focus.

You never want to start switching over to the high-power lens until they’ve got that, because you KNOW that my kind of "special" will break the cover slip with the long lens. Over and over and over. On purpose.

With my kind of special it's less a question of how much they CAN do as is it how much they WILL, if they even bother to show up. That "just one drop" turns into a swamp water fight, the broken cover slips become handy tools for self-mutilation, and it's really hard to focus a microscope after my kind of special has run off with the eyepiece.

And just as I'm sure I'm on the brink of inventing some evil robot to take over the world, MY kind of special shouts "Holy crap - there's stuff swimmin' in here!" (of course, they don't exactly call it “crap” and "stuff") A small crowd forms around a microscope and someone asks, “What is it?”

After a brief, yet brilliant, teachable moment...
They ask me if we can do it again tomorrow.

In not so many words

2009-04-02T22:32:00.007-05:00

In not so many words
I told the pastor of my church that as a man of faith and a biology teacher I teach creation in the public school. But I just don't mention the God part.
He informed me, in not so many words, that as a man of the cloth who looks like Mr. Clean, with biceps to match, that he. Didn’t. buy it.

Genesis begins:
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.

I believe this. All that matter had to come from Somewhere.

I know you’re an evolutionist, (he spits it out as though the mere word has left a sour taste on his tongue), You teach men coming from monkeys and an earth that’s 4 billion years old.

Men from monkeys? 4 billion years old? I assured him that such blasphemy would never be spoken in MY classroom, quietly adding that it was because the earth is thought to be well over 6 billion years old, and that monkeys and humans are both at two different ends of two different branches in a genetic lineage that stem, eventually, from a single. Primate. ancestor.

Not amused, he reminded me he believes, like I do, that the Bible is the inspired word of God, and when it says God made something in a day, He made it in one. twenty-four hour. day. **Only it doesn’t. exactly. SAY that.

Verse 3 - And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. 4 God saw that the light was good, and He separated the light from the darkness. 5 God called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.

Even before God creates the sun, Genesis concludes each creation event with an evening, and a morning of the next day. There is creation, and then a pause, creation, and a pause. In biology I teach the same phenomenon, punctuated equilibrium, supported by the fossil record. During times of major global change there are many new species. Created. Evolving. Coming about as less fit species lose hold of their niche, and then… a pause… as a new age commences and ecology works to balance the new puzzle of interlocking populations until the next. Major. Disruption.

And look, the first things God creates are earth and light, matter and energy, each with its own set of complex physical laws, particles, forces and gravity, charges and attractions. No sun yet – that comes later. But there is light. The Bible tells us - One minute the universe is dark without form, and suddenly BOOM we have light and matter. I teach this, only instead of a Boom I call it more of a big… bang.

And now, with matter and energy and laws of physics up and running, the Earth takes shape. God forms the seas and the sky. An atmosphere on the earth. The continents take shape, and only then does God create life. Ask any of my students if this Biblical account fits their geological timeline, and they’ll tell you it does. The first life mentioned just happens to be an autotroph, kind of like those those microscopic algae, the photosynthetic organisms that made their own food and pumped our atmosphere full of sweet, sweet Oxygen, as they continue to do today. And look here in these next verses: No sooner has life formed than those living things are governed by the sun and moon. All Species of plants and animals, even those microscopic algae build their lives: Their feeding, their respiration, their reproduction: around the tides, and the 24 hour day, and the phases of the moon, just to survive. If this doesn’t line up with my biology curriculum, I don’t know what does.

And God said, "Let the water teem with living creatures”

Here come the animals, spreading through the oceans long before any of them had feet to crawl onto land. The Bible’s sequence, again, supported by the fossil record, first in the oceans, then on land, and finally at the very end, man shows up, Homo sapiens after all of the other groups of living things have already been established. Funny thing is, all the evidence collected by us science types point to life appearing in just. That. order. Evolution and creation here. Whether I tell my students God did it or not, the results speak for themselves. Two sides. One coin. No doubt.

There are those that call creation a “myth,” a story told to children. But if you were God, how else would you explain to a largely illiterate, unschooled, nomadic people with no concept of cells, photons, quarks, and DNA exactly how you made everything from nothing? I think a chapter or two in Genesis is about all you'd really need.

Had I ever worked up the courage to explain this in my church, I would be in no one’s good favor. When Genesis tells us God said “Let there be…” they assume he waved a magic wand, creating something else from nothing, violating his own law of conservation of matter, which we otherwise assume has been held in place since He created the heavens and earth, matter and non-matter. Where does the Bible say it was instantaneous? Or that it took a second? Or a minute? Or a full 24 hours? Or could it have been an epoch? How would God have explained the concept of a billion to a nomadic people who never went to school, or things as microscopic and abstract as cells and organelles or molecules of DNA, or the evolutionary development of the brain’s prefrontal cortex that gives us the capacity to understand the concept of sin?

But I dare not speak the name Darwin within the sanctuary, for they all know what the pastor told them the Bible says, and though not one of them has ever laid eyes on The Origin of Species, or know that he left for the Galapagos having trained for the clergy, or know how many times the word “Creator” with a capital C appears in the volume, or that the term “evolution” does not, they all know one thing. They know that they were driving in their car, and they saw on the bumper in front of them a DARWIN fish eating something that looked like their JESUS fish, and they decided then and there that they didn’t like it.

So I told my pastor that as a man of faith I teach creation in the public schools, and that my conscience was clear about it, and then we let it drop.

I need more tools

2008-11-21T23:22:00.009-05:00

I need more tools.
No, I don't. But I WANT more tools.
I like them. I covet them. I love having them sooo much.
And sometimes
I even use the ones I have,
When I can find them.
They're all in the garage,
Somewhere.
Somewhere inconvenient.
Spread evenly, in fact, between several inconvenient, impossible to find locations.
Where I put them hastily thinking I would find them again.
But they're in the garage, somewhere, I swear.
There's a lot of other stuff in the garage.
So much that there is no room to actually park a car.
But just knowing that out there, somewhere, in MY garage,
I have TOOLS
Puts hair on my chest, chisels my jaw, and drops my voice at least an octave.

I need toolboxes.
No, I don't. I have several, just not the ones I WANT.
I want those big, shiny mechanics' chests with drawers and slots and wheels and locks.
I just have cheap ones, and small ones, and broken ones.
They know I hate them,
So they always beat me at their maddening shell game.
Whichever one I look in first, for that wrench or ratchet or pair of pliers,
That one extra-long 3/8 inch hex socket that fits on the quarter-inch ratchet that is the ONLY TOOL I can use to turn the nut to restart the oil-burning furnace in the middle of winter when it's twenty below and the oil tank has run dry because I forgot to call the oil company and schedule a refill... Again.
Whatever it is I'm looking for, the thing is always in the other one.
No, not THAT other one - the OTHER other one. No, not in that one either.
What, oh wait. It was in the FIRST one - I swear it was not there a minute ago.
I looked. I dumped the whole thing out and put it all back, well most of it got back in there anyway, and now there it is right on top.
There's no way I could have missed it.
It's a toolbox conspiracy.
They're daring me to replace them.
But I'd rather have new tools.
Oh, those tools!

If there's one thing that makes this bloated sissy computer geek think he's Charles Freaking Bronson, it's owning an 18-volt cordless drill with a keyless chuck and a battery bigger than my own fist.
Sure, a little tack hammer could have tapped a little brad nail to hang that picture frame in the hall, but I've got a DRILL!
Oh, the things I can do with this variable speed powerhouse and a half dozen drywall screws clenched between my teeth!
If only my wife,
my lovely wife,
was more content with the series of gaping test holes to the left
and to the right of the frame.
As if finding the studs is easy.
You know they make a tool for that too, dear...
As if she could do better,
Just because she knows where to find the little tack hammer.

I put a router on my Christmas wish list.
A router!
Me,
As if I have any idea how to... rout...???
Or any reason to actually do so.
I am no woodworker.
I can't tell maple from cherry from walnut.
MAYBE I could recognize a cheap piece of pine,
If the needles and pine cones were still attached to it.

Without a router, though... could it be that my manhood is incomplete?
What good am I without a planer, or a scroll saw, or a three-bubble laser level?
I want a weed whacker, and a saws-all, and an eight-hundred-dollar snowblower with chains on the tires.
Sure, I only have a 15 foot driveway, but still...
How will a plastic snow shovel make me feel like a man this winter?
While there is still a square inch of free space on any shelf, in any drawer of any box in that garage of mine, there will be a need,
That osmotic pressure,
Fueled by testosterone
And pride
And the occasional Zima
To fill it
Completely
With tools.

Forgiving the Crazy

2008-11-10T09:59:00.002-05:00

Both victims here,
Scarred and angry,
We throw up our best defense,
Striking with barbs and poison.

I don't know this woman.
What made her homeless,
Addicted,
Bitter,
Deceitful?

She has her excuses for refusing to leave.
If she moves out, she's homeless.
She has failed.
Again.
I'd fight, too.

She owes me money, and I can do nothing.
Tenants' rights flaunted in my face.
I'm getting screwed over.
Again.
It's the last thing on her mind.

In Her Infancy

2008-06-22T22:56:00.003-05:00

Unclipped fingernails
embed themselves into the softest place in my neck
instinctively.

Sour milk vomit
rolls down my shirt, having missed the burp cloth
by inches.

Contentedly seated
securely on my lap, she cries or laughs as warm wetness
bathes my leg.

Toothless screams
shatter my eardrums, ceaseless and primal, they
hurt my eyeballs.

Gasps and sobs
melt into yawns as eyes droop and close and are rubbed
by tiny fists.

Unsurpassed joy,
though scratched, stained, dampened, sour, and pained...
contentment.

CRH

2007-04-20T10:12:00.000-05:00

Walked about
Upper field
on Saturday

Clouds above
Earth below
in the fog

Bleary eyed but
There aint nothin'
to be seen here

Days like this
Some times it's best not
to be seen

...

If you don't
Like the weather
in New England

You always said
Wait a minute
so I'll wait.

But these days come
one af-
ter the next

And it's the wait that's
killing
me

Profanity

2007-01-30T18:35:00.000-05:00

Rampant here
Unchecked and foul
Arrogant
And thoughtlessly spat out

Each line in the sand
Crossed
And drawn again
A little closer than before

The words stir
Daily
On the tip of my tongue
In the depth of my lungs

Get out

Prosciutto

2007-01-16T17:23:00.000-05:00

Comforts of a home I never had
Fragrant musk that lingers
To remind me
Of far-away joys
Of dreams
I'm not allowed to dream

Or am I
And for how much longer

How Awkward

2007-01-08T18:48:00.000-05:00

For the first time
As I feared
Unexpected
Inappropriate
Unwarranted
Subconscious
Ashamed
Sleep

Had a Holly Jolly

2007-01-03T22:36:00.000-05:00

Survival
An outcome
Better had
Than wished for
Slogging through
Countless hours
With a smile
Sometimes forced
On other
Occasions
Genuine
Successful
Completion
Tolerance
We hugged
And played
We gifted
Re-gifted
And sighed
Contented
The tree lived
And even
Little blue
Car made it
To New Years
Despite her
Best attempts
Overwhelmed
With in-laws
Computers
And Spanish
Denial
Makes it tough
Coming back
Transition
Can be so
Burdensome
Ever so
Unwelcome
Like bad guests
Intruders
Family
And saurkraut

The cough returns

2006-12-08T23:57:00.000-05:00

It starts as a tickle
Maddeningly hard to reach
Nothing can touch it
Tongue, toothbrush, or beverage
Long after the fever is gone
The aching has subsided
The chills faded away
It lingers
A hair trigger on the voicebox
Caught off guard once again
Interrupted
Phlegm amidst the words

Done

2006-11-17T19:50:00.000-05:00

Filing the last paper
dotting the last i
crossing the last t
and never so glad for a day without obligation

Cynics and critics all
they aim to serve
if not to please
yielding to their wisdom is wise man's folly

Falling off

2006-11-09T17:49:00.001-05:00

Somewhere between the back burner and the front burner there is a place where SOME PEOPLE are able to precariously balance all of the things they think are important along with most or all of the things other people think ought to be important to them. Somehow all the pots simmer, none of them spill or burn or boil over, and in the end they all come off at once and thank you very much Martha Stewart for making it look so easy for the rest of us.
Some of us think that place can be found, that precarious zen in-between where not a single butterfly wing exists to throw the whole perfectly placed mess somehow into instantaneous turmoil, where nothing is where it should be. Frothing, sloshing, toppling calamity where SOME PEOPLE can effortlessly stack greased marbles one on top of the other like it's nothing at all, like urgency is barely a lurking mosquito.
And when it all falls in there we are
All sprawled out
Laying down
To catch
Our just
Desserts.

I tell ya what I don't need

2006-10-27T10:53:00.000-05:00

to have some kid correcting me again and being right
to be filling out a Lavender sheet for anybody
to eat breakfast
to give a care
to be on top of things
to set a good example
to know what I am talking about
to give 110%
to drive to Target
to watch the road
to know when I am going to know when I am going to want to have a baby
to match my clothes
to have a migraine
to tip the Starbucks kid
to diet
to listen to certain people who talk lots and say nothing
to compromise my priorities
to be fair all the time
to know everything I can
to use punctuation
Unless I want to.

Parent-Teacher Staredown

2006-10-19T17:09:00.000-05:00

Yes, hello, how are you, good to meet you, shake hands, sit down.
Smile, even if you don't like their kid
Even if you're tired
Or have a headache
Or have better things to do
Smile
Keep smiling
Fake it if you have to
And you definitely have to most of the time
Make small talk
Of course you're no good at it
Just do it anyway
That's what the mommies and daddies pay for
Do they hate this as much as we do
They should.

The kids you like the best
You have nothing to say about
How many synonyms can there be for "fine"
You use them all and then some
The ones you have something to say about
The ones with "room to grow"
Shooting themselves in the foot in every class
Are never the kids you like the best
Their parents are the ones about whom you say
"Oh, now I get it
That's their problem."
And you smile
Smile because you have to
Smile
Because vacation begins on Saturday at 3

Eutrophication

2006-10-18T09:31:00.000-05:00

Too much of a good thing can kill you
Assuming too much and hoping for the best,
Only to watch half the population go belly-up
They seemed to get it
When they nodded their heads and we moved on
Only to find out photosynthesis doesn't happen overnight.

Mountain Day

2006-10-10T18:55:00.000-05:00

A darn good reason to make yourself hurt
Getting to the top
And who cares if you're the first or last
Or have the right clothes
If you're fat and out of shape, it's almost better
Because when you get to the bottom you know it
And your aching legs remind you where you've been
For days

Wasted Yesterday

2006-09-27T14:14:00.000-05:00

Supposed to be my life's blood,
My obsession, distraction, and predisposition.
Supposed to be my goal, my purpose, my joy,
the end of the perfect movie.

It's not the end; it's the crisis,
The achilles heel, the Don't open that door! train wreck
That everyone but you can see coming.

How to open your mouth
How to utter the devastating truth
When the words can never be crammed back in.

It'll never happen to me.
They always say that.
I always did.

These are the days of miracle and wonder

2006-08-18T19:50:00.000-05:00

Cloudless blue skies bring sunshine, birdsong, and misery
Who knows why on the best of days
Thinking too much, not enough, about nothing
Surprised by an aching lump in the throat
The relentless craving for sleep
And restlessness

2006-08-16T19:56:00.000-05:00

Heavy

Tipping the scale past all rational numbers
Payback for forgetting the miserable reality of mirrors
A call to arms and the white flag of surrender all at once

Snacks are always just that much better than willpower.

2006-08-16T19:29:00.000-05:00

Weekend at the Lake

This is where my friends are
Silliness and shooting stars
The end of "just one more year"
A new girl and old jokes
That still make me laugh

A weekend without worries or tears
Where nobody remembers who won all the games
And the fish can always rise from the ashes.
Home is where my friends are
And I can breathe easy

2006-08-07T10:26:00.000-05:00

Aug 6, 2006

Reaching a milestone
In better shape than I ever expected
Bringing her joy
Call it a success if you want

Blessed and content
With lingering doubt
That it's just that much better
Than I deserve

2006-07-24T23:19:00.000-05:00

July 25, 12:10 AM

Nobody Wants the Crumbs

Shoving fistfuls into their gaping mouths
Suddenly they see
That all that's left
Is crumbs

Though they lick their fingers thoughtlessly
They are now too good for the little pieces that remain

2006-06-28T12:04:00.000-05:00

June 28, 2006

Grayish

I blink when it rains
And they stay shut
Keeping out everything
Attempting to focus

I squint then
As little as possible
As much as necessary
In denial of shortcomings

I peer through eyelashes
Wet and tickling
Hating the sensation
Too stubborn for an umbrella

2006-06-25T00:20:00.000-05:00

Jun 25, 2006

Holding the baby

Flashing back to events that never happened to people that never were
Every muscle clenches upon itself
Pupils dilate
Adrenaline
Pumps

It is my own breath that no longer comes
The world ceases to rotate
For a moment
Panic

Until he arrives securely in his mother's arms
Cradled with care and confidence
Swaddled securely
And asleep