Fallen

Inability

2009-06-20T20:37:00.001-04:00

I told a friend the other day that there was a time I wanted to talk about all the things I knew how to do better than anybody else and be recognized for it. I’d write the poetry that would somehow, organically catapult me into a limelight that would keep revealing how much I knew about how to heal the world with a repetition only water understands how to wear down the shape of, an invisible absence my memories could never find me in, if I were to eventually understand what it truly meant to let go and be present. Then one day, the unexpected happened. I realized I no longer made sense to myself. For all the oneness I felt I could not uncoil my bottomless oubliette of a tongue, nor keep it from flat-worming the rhythm of sense out of my brain. I felt like a chicken with his head cut off.

Which reminds me. My grandfather once told me the story of how he used to axe the head away from chickens and watch them run around, trying to get away, bumping into the wood pile, the well, the stump, your leg, jumping up onto the hay bails, life spaghetti sauce spattering out of its flower of a neck. He thought it funny, how this stooge of a thing seemed to bump around for Moe and Larry, how totally incognizant of a past it appeared to want to reconnect with, the thing would slowly just wind down, like it was on its last liter of battery acid.

I guess this is, in a way, what I ended up telling to my friend, that no matter how much I like to think I know about how to run around a life without needing to know how, even though now I find it much more worthwhile to talk about how I don’t know what I mean half the time, each confession kind of bringing me back that much closer to understanding what it means to want the glimmering edge of a moment to find me, it’s the fact I don’t know how to keep my life from running out that’s a pain in the neck.

Words I Can't Afford

2009-06-17T16:52:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wonder why I never seem to use the words I say properly,
how they always seem slightly flat or sharp,

and why, like the bend of a guitar string rising and falling to a melody
it never quite seems to be in time with,
I take so long to get to the point, only to fall off of it again.

And yeah, even the poem isn’t immune.
What time is there for poetry when there are so many dishes to put away,
so many piles of cat excrement and vomit to pick up?

Just this morning it took me an hour to clean everything up and take out the trash
and empty the dishwasher and discover the dishwasher was broken,

cat diarrhea on my fingers, my hand in the garbage disposal fiddling
through the foot my wife and I put our mouths on the night before,
sopping the cat puke off the floor,

over and over I walk out into the morning
stench of shit-steamed garlic piled high on a plate of darkness,
and question how I haven’t gone crazy yet, and then it dawns on me: I have.

But then crazy is too exact a word to use in this song.
If I persuade you I’m being haunted by sensations I do not want to experience
then I’m trying harder than I’d like to admit at figuring out how to be more imaginative.

Right now I’m entertaining the idea that if start this thought believably enough,
some part of me will be so impressed by the immediacy of my dream
that it will go out of it’s way to bring me home with words I can’t afford.

Not Poetry Material

2009-06-17T16:51:00.001-04:00

I woke up this morning,

and I’m going to do by best to describe this, but

I looked at the light encasing the bedroom door,
and thought of absolutely nothing
except for the fact that I was looking at it,

just sort of spaced out on that frame of light,
and then it occurred to me,

my wife had gotten out of bed,
had turned on the light in the hallway,
I could hear her in the bathroom, turning on the shower,

and I probably shouldn’t worry about dying unexpectedly,
this frame of light is not an out of body experience,
it’s probably not poetry material,

but you’ve got to make use of what life shows you,

and permit me just one more self-help moment, but

when it shows you a door encased by light,
well then I guess you better figure out
if it’s a frame of light
or yourself that you’re going to walk through.

It's All a Bowl of Broth

2009-06-17T16:50:00.002-04:00

Every day, one way or another,
I hold my mother’s knuckle marks on my face
up to the flash of my dad’s Nikon,
so the marks can be snapped
like so much else has been snapped.
That’s just the way I’ve chosen.

But it’s when I think about having to record
what beatings I’ve chosen to take
in order to be listened to these days,
that I find myself becoming depressed,

a lot different than when,
noticing the marks are on my soul,
I take a picture of them
and hold them up to my faith,
where they disintegrate into something like truth.

Today, I was simply looking out the window
hoping my faith would come find me
and prove to me once and for all
there was no need to continue looking for happiness,

but I became ashamed for thinking that,
since I knew any hope of being happy all the time
would never make it by this faith I have
in the human spirit’s ability to remain hopeful
even when all has been lost,
and maybe even because all has been lost.

Then, all I wanted to do was reflect upon the way
I was reflecting about everything,
only I became afraid all the light
would hasten my own death,

a small pool of water
basking on a sunlight warmed rock,
reflecting the sky
and the lake resembling a larger version of it,
until I evaporated into the passing afternoon.

And so reader, I’ll say I’m thankful for the clouds,
for those moments, and there are a lot of them,
where I can’t tell my ass from my elbow.

But it’s all a bowl of broth.

Wizard & Dragon

2009-06-17T16:49:00.002-04:00

Catapulting myself back to that long walk down Americana drive
I used to partake of every day
on my way home from school,

where the heaviness of the air seemed to become the blood inside my body
thickening to a likeness of cement
with each footstep toward the front door of our trailer,

I’m reminded of that gray-bearded Merlin fellow,
who’s standing at the top of a mountain
and shooting fireballs out of his fists
at this dragon that’s somehow magically part of him,

every fistful of fire landed on scale equivalent to a year off of his life span,

and how, in one lightning bolt of glory,
both wizard and dragon find themselves plummeting
toward the earth from which they were cast,

much like the way that,
when the world seems to turn its back on me,
the earth inside me sort of magically opens up beneath my hands,

and, like the wizard and dragon,
I find myself returning to the only mother I can count on
always being there to preserve what ancient sense of self remains,

not for any subterranean reason I can think of
but simply for the sole purpose of getting a kick out of putting an end to things,
knowing things never stay ended for long,

until I once again feel the air calling me out of my waiting
and into this hunger I have for making nothing happen at the hardest cost.

Basic Training

2009-06-17T16:47:00.001-04:00

Tom, the Vietnam War veteran,
who lived across the street from us,
emptied the contents of his medic kit
out onto the lawn.

I asked him what each was used for,
while I slipped in comments about how
my mother was hitting my father and I
and getting away with it.

He went right for the smelling salt,
as he told me a story about how
he brought this
one guy back from the dead with one.

This was followed by a demonstration,
myself the volunteer,
and a warning not to breathe in too hard.

He snapped the salt under my nose,
and I hit myself in the face
with an open hand,
jumped up and down,
cried,

the only thing on my mind,
wishing I could be dead at the snap of
a finger, but not her finger.

Fame

2009-06-17T16:46:00.000-04:00

Every poem I say means “I’m worth being paid attention to.”
But I’m not really into poetry for the matchbox size fame there is,

nor am I into it to exact the last, loyal, honor-gleaming word
of respect swinging so low complete strangers want to owe it
a debt of service,

no, it would seem I’m into poetry
for the way it throws its iron hand in through the window,
and pulls me out of my little box of “I,”
kicking and screaming

before I have one more chance to hope myself on fire
for the sake of a higher, and ironically, more egotistical display of
“I’m worth being paid attention to.”
But then it would seem I’m not really into poetry either.

Right now I’m into wishing I could remember my father back.
Right now I’m into wishing I could keep my memory of him from going
out.

I Don't Know if I Love

2009-06-17T16:38:00.001-04:00

I don’t know if I love.
I’m not even sure
I know what love is,
if love is God
or if love is my hand.

But I am intrigued
by the idea that love
can exist beyond
my understanding of it,

and for that curiosity
I suppose I can be thankful
that I rarely if ever find
what I’m hoping to.

Columnist

2009-06-14T20:04:00.001-04:00

I never thought I’d consider becoming a columnist
who
like Dear Abbey
gives my version of advice to the idealized audience I also am
who
for lack of description
seems to defy my very idea of one
by preferring to remain invisible to whatever’s sharpened and ready inside me
perhaps it’s a reassembly of my own personal version of Frankenstein
who
for all I know
was what Shelley intended to suture into me
so I’d be able to tell who I truly am from whatever new abomination I want to be
not that I don’t mean well you understand
it’s just that I’m looking to finally have something I can’t take back
even when I’d like more than anything
to reassemble my fear over being essentially wrong
into an intense and devoted love that looks like it came
feet first
out between the legs of my electrical socketed heart
just for me.
My grandfather’s father wrote for the paper at a town in Vermont
apparently he was labeled quite eccentric
a bit of a hermit I’ve been told
the writer and poet in me admires him for that
I’m young
I still think it takes courage to be alone
but I know it’s nothing compared to the aloneness his cancer riddled wife must have felt
they watched the old man leave with
I’m sure
plenty of sorrow
but you know
I didn’t admire my grandfather for taking care of his mother the way he chose to
admiration is a four letter word for I want what you got now give it to me
no
I didn’t admire him for that at all
I loved him for that
his mother died in bed filled with colors and little mountains of pain
him sitting there with her
and you know
I can’t think of a better way to go.