Fatherhood ...

Somewhere in between

    My facial hair and the skin that's me

Wanders an itch.

          A little marauding tingle

            On my chin and up my cheekbone,

              Echoing down the mountain;

           As the mountain (I am)

                   I feel it

                         An,d am it ...

                       I am the marauding tingle:

I grew it follicle by dandruff flake,

                                   I fed it nail by knuckle brush,

                  sustained it by my attention –

          by hoping it wouldn't be.

I am, I am the father.

     And that child,

            That twitching trill,

                                 Is me.

Victim ...

          She's cold,

                    The queen. Cold and beautiful:

                              Diamond-encrusted, white lead-dusted,

                        Elegant.
                                                Gaunt. 
                    Elephantine.

She owns my world.

          She wants

                    To be true. I tried to touch her

                              With my tongue, but she made it numb:

                        Antiseptic.
     Antiquated.
                                               Epileptic.

She haunts

          The space

                    like we do: organs churning

                              Red and groaning, head gramophoning

                        Desire.
                                              Ire.
                    Destitute.

She feels small.

          I try

                    To be clean. But only pity in a

                              Pampering preen goads her to blush and swell between:

                        “Victim.”
     Viciously.
                                             Timid.

She screams.

Undeserved sympathy ...

I hate myself for not being a machine:

For not being in control:

   For “She makes me mad,

      so I'll chew on your soul;

         She makes me smile, so

                    I'll act like a saint

          And ask you 'Why you,

                     so gifted with life,

                                        ain't?'

                                         (Die.

                           You will, you

                 Little non-machine:

                They will barely try

               to lift up your folds

    of sagging crust and start

         The stalling tension
of your pompous, sallow heart

Again:) Thump-thump; thump-thump: D'you feel what I mean?”

Camel ...

            The room was always dark

And, if there was dirt, you

Could never smell it (walls

and floors perfumed with

tobacco smoke and various

alcohols).

                 There was a wooden hat-rack

stand, always just beside

the swing of the screen door,

filled – and I mean full –

with turquoise Camel hats

(old Joe smiling).

                        And uncle Bill would always

give us one: one for Josh

And one for Ruth (to join

The ones we'd faded

back home, where I'm sure

mom was shaking her head).

                             He had a pool – blue & above-

ground too – and we'd

make it deep (for the cap-full

it was) and eat hot dogs,

filled with a vein of yellow

We'd call 'cheese!'

                               I remember those dogs;

loving them. I wouldn't

swallow one now. But I'd

let my kids (if I had some,

Nisse and Des, maybe)

take them in

                   in the back yard, by that

tree-swing for gone-kids,

and in the house let Des

take a taste of beer to

silently say “sorry”

for his name –

     Still I love Erasmus for the

hope (that he never drank

away when dreams made

his world seem heavy

and too slow – dragging

to get there).

          And “Des, just trust me,

you'll never meet your

uncle and stare up at the

the boar's head and touch

the dark traffic light in his

living room –

                   He doesn't have a living

room now. But he

has you and me – I someways

reminded your granddad of him –

and you remind me of … you like the taste?

Good. That's enough.”

Laundry ...

All's quieter than the halls outside when

We walk into a department store:

The clothes absorb the sound. Soft

And layered by the hundreds. Racks and

Tables, dangling full and pancake-piled,

Absorbing the laughter, the calls out,

The frustrated groan-hum whispers

Between us, the half-dozen

Twenty-somethings in a mall.

That's why we do laundry and

Close the wash-room door:

Not because the cotton goes stale

With sweat and oil under arms, stiffening

Down the back, yellowing the neck,

Blah, blah; not because the metal

Bin clacks against shirt buttons,

Zippers, folded-in change, or

Its own loose joints tapping.

We close that door because the

Sound comes out: along with

Nose drips and mud skids billow the

sobs and Hoo-rahs that vibrated shirts

on their insides; with pasta sauce and semen,

the haranguing Dammits and guttural throat putters

That were cast across table- and bed-sheets; with excess dyes,

all the manic chaos drunken in by an un-racked jacket (drowning out the

half-hearted buyer's Coo in the soft, fading, weekend shirt that wore it home).

Popeye: a canto ...

'You can't Can't CAN'T

get attached to them all.'

a dog soul surgeon cares

for what he sees and then

comes clean (hands, heart,

all of him) turning to leave.

But I can't Can't CAN'T

stop thinking about you:

Your eyes jumping, Your

slow breath / fast tail when

my arms take your chest

and my forehead, your head.

Can't stop your runny nose:

that sometimes-death for a

shelter dog when the house

is full. The house was full, you

were dripping out of those

holes – your paws in mine, too.

I'm a long-haul volunteer; you're

another passing stray. But pedigrees

lie: there's more between 'You are

what you are; I am what I am.'

Be there when I come back,

Popeye – I'll take you if I can.

*

I can't Can't CAN'T wait. Where

is he? “Rescue picked him up.”

Which one? “I can't say, for

privacy – I Can't let you know.”

My clawing heart: angry, light.

I love you, Pop; I'm letting go.

The crown ...

            You could be Autumn Brown

       Or Marigold

    The towhead you were

  At 5 years old

     Or Raven Feather

if you're feeling black

     Or Orange Wheat

Or Silverback;

Have a head like Hellfire

               Midnight Blue

             Or Leprechaun (“Tip

          O' the Maaarnin' t'you!”)

                    Canary Yellow

                               Fuchsia Dream

                              Purple Rain or

                                    Orange Cream;

                                        Make people smile

                                   Or coo & swoon

                                            Be an elegant bright

                                   Debonaire buffoon

                                      Anything but Dishwater,

                                     Doormat, half-White –

                                  Stain it to mystery

                      Or bleach it to light;

Then come back when it fades

                    And infuse it again

   Like a wine on the evening

                         An egg in a hen –

          Feel full in your person

                          And lush in your skin

                And live in this moment

                               (for the roots will come in).

Dogs in winter ...

( for example http://youtu.be/YzjCcgAFy8s )

They get cold,

They crawl back    in the dark

To their blankets.

They think you're cold,

Because you have       no skin –

Only jackets:

Layers and layers

Between you and them,      but
Slowly, first one, then

The other, huffs the

Air from you. And          we're

All lonely men.

Child parade ...

   Who was she,

     On the balcony?
Watching the same little kids that I

        Was (eating my apple

While she stretched {I assume} her calves

               One floor down from the sky:

                 She stayed a little longer

                     Than I thought she would...

                          And I let my apple go a little brown,

                              and slowly ate it more away

                     than I would have done some other day,

                                  Not waiting for her eyes to wander down).

Foothole ...

                               Dear, I don't mind if                                     the world takes me up

                   Piece by piece & chip by chip                                  of skin –

                  Bloody hollow patch, then scab,                             then scar:

                               I don't mind falling in;                           I enjoy falling in,

             Feeling strong – I admit it – when                      the world takes me up,

          When the body closes tight (to be                        ship-shape again):

                         First it stings, then it aches,                       then it itches a bit.

                      And then it's new – bright                    and smooth – nearly ten.

                                 I know deep down that            these holes never grow

All the way back up the scale – maybe to            nine (point-five).

         And I have to scrub them clean, so           they don't turn

           Red & angry. But – dirty me – don't          I feel alive

                           And full of purpose when I'm       healing?

            It's not like after a sleepless night or a      cold

           Gray morning where I'm tired from      my sins

   (My gluttony, my sloth). When I have     holes

                To fill – well, of course         it was stupid

                                   To go running      blind and barefoot in the dark,

                 But –  I'm learning, patch by    patch: I rip off the

                  Skin, leave it by the branch.  And I walk  on the mark.

Base jump ...

                                             Leave it all far, far behind:

                                         Let the wind make deaf

                                And your tears make blind

                  How much sky around you twists:

                          How much freedom and

       How little time (there) exists

To decide where you are going –

      How long you will play

             Before your body starts slowing,

                                Parabolically slipping toward

                                             A pause (with a sheet full

                                     Of empty drag – slowing, slower).

                                               And how will you fall? alone,
                                                          A solo, free and small

                                                    (a whistling, driven stone)?

                                      Will you take someone’s hand and

                                                     Whorl a quiet, tumbling

                                               Grace? Or will you stand

                           On an edge, shivering with intent

                                  While the air goes dark

           And your chute splays out, spent

 By girls in a tent who'd been needing

         A blanket? “Maybe tomorrow,"

                       Your head lies, pleading,

              And the irony makes you queasy:

                         Stopping would be so hard, but
                                             Not starting is so, so easy.

Ignorance ...

In a field, nobody is ignoring you

                      Because nobody knows you're there.

In the ocean, you sort of pray

                                  Nobody knows you're there, because

                              The sharks could make you less

              There if they chose not to ignore you.

Online, everyone is ignoring you

Because you're obviously there, and

          Besides, they have better things

To worry about, like how not to be

ignored.

Underside ...

We fall into

the next wave. No

matter how many times

we come  out of   the blue

laughing,“What  a legless,

aimless jelly     I was,”

it does nothing to

keep us   from

going under

again. We

can tell

a new

day,

   “I

 can

lift my

   body

weight, I

balanced on

one leg       in a

subway car, I have

thick bones and clean

thoughts, I can   read

people        by their

shoulder curves,

their  voices.

I     have

steady

eyes

  and

I    can

walk just

as   straight.”

But what does

truth matter    in a

Wave?      Where we

are blind         and   weak,

shivering      and        upended,

wearing pointless feet and inept lungs,

looking   as sad   as kelp     to the dolphins.

Here comes a dip again.     We   will        feel

grounded.    (but       we won't say it too too

loud:   the last wave   still knows, and the

next one is   always ready  to learn

How wrong          we are.

Long distance relationships ...

(for the veterans)

War

   Is foreign to me.

      Not something I want to do –

         Or hear or smell or see.

            And

               I think that's true

                  For most young-hearted women

                     And men inside it, too:

                        They

                           Walk into the cloud,

                              Silent as church mass heads

                                 All conformedly bowed

                                    There

                                       To give a little

                                          Speck to the air; a bead

                                             To fell something brittle,

                                                Some

                                                   Distant devil who

                                                      Makes friends fall & has to be

                                                         Stopped (that much is true).

On the day ...

http://youtu.be/4_aFhf3tnbc

On the day that I was born

                  A million people said,

“I'm going to work and my boss is a big jerk.

                        My credit's in the red.”

                                  On the day that I was born

                                        A thousand lawyers moved,

                                “My client's as clear as the wintery air,

          Though the evidence strains to prove.”

                                               On the day that I was born

                                                                 A hundred fishermen

                     Said, “If I want the fish here when I come back next year,

                                            I've got to leave these ones in.”

                                            On the day that I was born

                                                                       Ten nurses in the wing

                                  Said, “The world may jade you, but not today, babe: you're

                                           Quite a lovely thing.”

                                                                                   On the day that I was born,

                                             With my first breath I cried,

                                         “I'm cold, someone spanked me, I'm in need of a hanky,

                                                                                                    But, my God! I'm alive.”

Core ...

I.

I  am  too-long  whole.
Break  this  flesh  so  I  can  heal;  make

A  wound  I  can  wrap  wet  around  your  claws.

Take my hand like an apple

Full of bones & juice, fiber

& nectar, choker seeds

& medicine skin.

I am not perfect: I

Am purely me –

Meant to dissolve.

Is it too much? to want

Your mouth making me into

A  grinding  flow of  finally,  finally,  finallys;

To wonder if your tongue drowns

When it thinks of me

Lower case ...

too many words north

of animal

to fall into silence now:

to stalk, to

jump, to dig to blood &

howl; to

sniff, to start, to laugh

at twigs;

to touch myself, eyes at

your heart,

to touch you next, thick

in such wealth;

to fall, to sleep too close,

to stick.

Too many words that stall

at 'almost.'

Eat me ...

                               Vegetarians hate on soul-

                                    ingesting way too much.

                                       They say they do it

                                           Out of love – so

                                                out of touch:

                                                    how can they be good lovers

                                                     when they won't taste sweat,

                                                    won't chew on skin,

                                                 won't let us die

                                              for them?

                                     In a world where spiders and

                                flies share space, mantises

                           eat their mates, and

                     worms rend flesh

                for the grapes,

      all I can do

   is cry for

them.

Dissociation ...

They started with his toes.

 He said, “Hey, whose are those?”

  They went into his feet.

    He soiled them in the sticky street

      Without noticing. They took his groin –

         In mid-laugh, now, he found her annoying.

              And then they won his bladder:

                    The former emptying the latter,

                          He panicked – saw a napkin and darted

                    for it, but found himself nothing-hearted.

              So he put it back on the table.

         And tried to leave the hand, but wasn't able:

     “Excuse me, is someone missing this?”

   But that was not his voice, nor this his

 Vision from atop a soggy gray suit –

An image becoming less acute.

    And then they took his mind.

       “Look here! A man's left himself behind!”

The right time ...

I always want to die after my best day:

A day or two after, when I'm in the dip of it

Re-remembering that people are – by and large – shit

And that only my edges aren't gray.

Two days ago was a good day:

Just a friend splitting laughs with me,

Tickling my cheek dependably.

And one day ago was okay:

Carving a face on a gourd,

Making it smile the same way I

Convince myself to (excise

The mess and breathe, dear Lord).

Today fell quietly, quickly:

I laid a place for friends, took a run, while

They were being people – who smile

Like pumpkins, then cave in sickly.

Even peas taste regal with company;
These roses smell cloying alone:

What are the senses but a senseless drone

Under the need for belonging? We

Are only a species, not singles (breathe).

And the closer I am to thinking I'm one

With the herd, the more undone

My dreaming grin. Ghosts leave

Without explaining. What don't

I understand? I hate I hate I hate

How young I am: the wait

Between “Maybe they'll come” and “No, they won't.”

If I ever ghost myself, it will be

On a really, really good day. After

A perfect run, I'll keep following laughter

Over the cliff, down by snowy plovers who'll flit by in unity.

The tackle ...

[let me tell you a story:]

I sat on a bench watching bodies crash.

But when the time came to chase,

I only ever played touch. So when

we pulled into the huddle,

My teammates said, “Rush! Man,

you're being too subtle.”

I said, “What if I make the

wrong play?” “Look,

they'll take the tackle

as praise anyway.”

“But isn't a

tackle a mad,

heavy thing?”

“No:

a tackle just

 says, 'Hi –

  you're

   worth

     tackling.'”

Scissor kick ...

Run & I promise you, you'll fall.

  Open your eyes. You'll blink.

    Shift. Part of you will stay.

      Swim. Part of you will sink.

      Commit & soon you'll itch to leave.

        Leave & you will feel that loss

          Tugging your un-buttoned sleeve,

            Stubbling your face across.

                Hate & you will twitch for action.

                  Love & you will pause –– to think of

                    All the skin-shells quaking with you,

                      Living near your brink

                           & being a totality

                             Inside their own lone senses,

                               Yearning in their delicacy &

                                 Hating – so immense is

                                         Their unsureness. Huff & you'll

                                           Crave the hot meal rosing. Call

                                              & you'll hear the valleys opening.

                                                Lean, step in: I promise you, you'll fall.

Desire ...

       [I called out:]

“Everything in a moment

Feels everlasting;

The only thing that lasts

Is that it's passing.”

Every act in its own flesh

Feels original:

For you, it is, but you

Are a sailing gull

 On a mountain updraft

   That will always be

     Coming past, coming past

       Off a cooling sea.

       And your feathers will catch

       As they are meant to

       (First downy, wrapped-in, wet, where

       An egg invents you).

       Your wings will throw down as your

         Chest is muscled to

           (Spasming in the nest for winds

             Just to tussle through).

             And your mind – so secret, yours –

             Feels desires pull

             After fish, after warm nights,

             (Both older than gulls)

             While I – a man on a cliff –

           Try to find myself,

         To own myself, to be my

       mind on a rock shelf.

       But I share my hungers with

       The light trail of feet

       In the dust on this peak, these

       Eyes as I retreat,

       This line for drafted water

     (In pipes buried by

   Some thirsty man, thirsting so

Derivatively).

Another tankard of you ...

Hey, it's me. I hope 

somebody's told you 

I'm an idiot,

plainspoken 

to a fault. Does that come 

from never drinking (either

to be sober, all the time, or

to learn, 

in sugars, to be drunk

on your own folly)?

Loose-lipped and 

off of tape-delay – mind & mouth 

flexing in unison, 

a nerve-netted 

anemone – at some point, I'm bound to say, 

“you're awesome”  on impulse,  and it will 

sound  silly-thin,  so    here  are  some 

pieces – 

small but then cavernous – 

of awesome in you:

     Quiet.

          You own it –

          not loud and never silent –

          humming, listening behind the gold grass,

          stalking a too-loud deer and purring

          with patient thoughts.

Calm.

          You stretch lips like

                    a moment's worth smiling for: no

                         audience to smile at, no fear to smile away –

                    showing teeth like the sun's in

          your face, melting a breeze.

     Fit.

          You stand uphill from

                                        still. Even sitting, you settle

                                                       like a sprinter in the blocks, flight-ready:

                                        inches close and 100 yards down the

          trail. I feel bound to chase you.

Hot.

          I can't help spinning on

                    just the ghost of you: you're a

                         magnet near my skin. I feel static crackling

                    not to twine my arms around your

          channels and drink you in.

     Open.

          Maybe you glimpsed it from

          behind: story-telling, you hand spreads

          New Year's wide: fingers up like surfboard noses,

          knuckles troughing down, their orange-pink

          undersides cresting on your palm.

The galaxy could roll across

a plane like that. You –

I'm sorry, I may be

drunk – are

awesome.