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.