four months and three days

  
today while packing

for our trip to cozumel

i opened the small wooden box

in my closet

that holds my watches

tie bars cufflinks and passport

and sitting on the top tray

coiled up and off to the right side

was mingus' collar

a strip of blue nylon webbing

with a blue anodized bone-shaped name plate

a round silver rabies tag

a purple heart award for bravery when neutered
with most of the purple worn away

and a few short white hairs

stuck into the fabric around the buckle

so little

and so much left behind

on the modern study of galvanism

   

this year my birthday

was stretched out over two weekends

and a week in between

as we do when our plans get grander

than our time or resources

and a single day is no longer enough

and on the last weekend of my birthday

the presents arrived

a glorious stuttering train of surprises

involving much closing of the eyes

so they could furtively pass by

from one room into another

before being officially unveiled

and with the stretching of the event

we ended up teetering on the ledge

of february 13th

and my basking in the me-ness

was pulled by the carriage return of monday

and dropped into the red heartiness

of valentine's day

and in the same way you had considered

hanging onto one of my birthday presents

for this other event

i realized too late

that the words i wrote for you last week

would have fit this day so perfectly

and the drout of the worry

and the worry of the drout begins

and so i turn to the things you gave me

last saturday night

and consider each one as a metaphor

i can use to court the rain

and make that perfect smile of yours

bloom in the mid-february sun

the suitcase seems least possible

with its imagery of leaving you alone

it sitting on a luggage stand by a closet

in a courtyard by marriot

in some small midwestern town

though the way its handle reaches out

to hold my hand

as we wander through the airport

is touching

and the swiss logo with that silver plus sign

floating in the small red square

has some potential

the boldly pink and black Countess Mara tie

the one that could have stretched between events

if i hadn't been there with you

shopping with you to find the perfect one

it could work well for this piece

but as i delve further into its provenance

i find that paisley is sometimes known as

"persian pickles" by american traditionalists

and has many other botanical and dynastic references

and none that tie back as well as i want

into the knots and facets of this day

the peanut butter chip chocolate cookies

you baked for me at your parents' house last night

are a tempting option

representing the fusion of your culinary skills

and your ability to take the tastes i love

and create a recipe

that is at once my favorite cookie in the world

and is similarly working its way into the hearts of anyone else

who has been lucky enough to have one in their mouth

but of course the best option is the single rose

the red rose held in a skeletal hand

the red rose whose stem intertwines 
with the ribs of the skeleton

on the numbered and signed lithograph

FRANKENSTEIN by David Lance Goines

for a January 21, 1984 showing

of the 1931 movie at the Pacific Film Archive

how could you be anything

but that rose to me

the way you nestle into my chest

surrounded by all those bones and pistons

cams crankshafts and hoses

ribbon

   
i tell you one night
that we are rocks in a stream
pushed up against each other
and each and every single one
of these great unfairnesses
that enters and exits our lives
the people dying too soon
being sick too often
being unavailable
being sad 
being broken
these things are random currents and eddies
jostling us around as they pass
moving us upon each other
grinding us together
wearing us down just a little bit more 
but making us fit 
even more perfectly together

and i think i have come up with something
so poetic and profound
this way of framing 
this particular thing
that is so meaningful 
that it gives both of us
some new insight into who we are
and what we mean to each other
and how it all works together

and then 
you

in one moment
you digest what i have said
and you look straight into my eyes
and you do 
what it is 
you have done for me every day
and every moment of my life

you take 
what i think
is a completed thought
and you add yourself into it

and you are there 
standing next to me
looking at the same two rocks 
in that same stream
that i am imagining are us
and you say these words

these words
that are once again
evidence of your superpower
these words that are a shimmering silky ribbon
on the package that was simply an image
and now is a gift 
we are giving to each other

you say
"and the water makes us shiny, too!"

halo

- for melissa

in my post knee surgical vicodin tainted dream
i was a spartan
campaigning in a game of xbox halo reach
standing in the middle of an open area
of the sword base courtyard
surrounded by grunts and jackals
with 2 elite generals advancing
from under the bridge

i was paralyzed
stock still in place
my sleeping body flinching
with every direct hit
from their plasma pistols
lighting up and depleting my armor shield

and at the same moment i realized i could not move
i felt your hand on my chest
and looked up to see you standing there
resplendent in a bright red armor set
a plasma repeater held out in your right arm

you walked casually around me in circles

gracefully eliminating the covenant troops

your left hand touching me the entire time
until we were the only two bodies
remaining standing on the map.

please

i am not sure

if Shamanism and Reiki

are functional concepts

outside the Pacific Time Zone

but i have sampled

philosophies and religions

at each slice of Greenwich Mean Time

looking for One who

(if only i would deliver my eternal devotion)

would take a moment

to gently smooth over
the scar tissue inside my wife

i have spent months

in smaller bits

waiting for prescriptions at Walgreens

reading the latest Popular Mechanics

in the chair by the pharmacy registers

with the long suffering

$99.95 HoMedics Therapist Select Shiatsu Massaging Cushion

installed on it

handheld control buttons broken

but still workable

with proper application of my Honda key

i have silently repeated this One word

over and over

into the moist hollow of her neck

in the long moments after we made love

begging her fallopian tubes

to open like catchers' mitts

and receive the ingredients

approaching from above and below

i have administered

the maximum dose of my mantra

pleading for the right combination

of follicle stimulating hormone and progesterone

complete and utter trust

and her spotless soul

to make just One flash of light

so small and far away

some small someOne

miles deep in a forest

striking the last match in a matchbook

and gently setting it

just beneath the tinder.

because it was the way we wanted him to go

in my dream this morning
when you were more awake than me
you heard me making noises
trying to stop something from happening

we had been walking with mingus

on some rural gravel road

when he saw a rabbit in the distance

that needed chasing

we watched him running at top speed

body leaving mind behind

jumping over a dry creek bed

and off through the trees

as i started to move after him

shouting his name

you tightened your grip on my hand

tightened your arm to keep me with you

and i relaxed by your side

both of us silent and unmoving

looking at the point in the distance

where he disappeared.

pack rules

it was you
who taught us the importance
of keeping the pack together

you who would wait at the front windows
when it was time for us to get home from work
you who would leave me once i was settled
to go wait at the window again
for melissa to arrive

when your senses
started to fail you
you would leave the room
with both of us in it
to go look for us
in all of the other rooms of the house
sometimes camping out
outside the master bathroom
if the door was closed
thinking melissa was still in there
and waiting patiently
until we realized where you had gone
and got up to find you
and bring you back

and now that you are gone
somehow all your searching for us
in those last few weeks
when we were right there
makes a perfect inverted sense
as we continue to look for you

expecting you to come running up to us
as we open the door into the house from the garage

turning around in the kitchen
holding out an almost empty casserole dish
that needs your attention

and waiting to hear the click of your toenails
coming down the hallway
every night
as we get ready for bed.

the kind of dog

we always joked about
how you were not the kind of dog
to run away

you were the kind of dog
who if you escaped from the house
without us noticing
would never leave our unfenced yard
and would be back at the door minutes later
scratching on it to be let back in

as you got older
we talked about how some dogs
know they are dying
and if given the chance
will walk out into the woods
and simply lie down forever

we didn't think you had
that kind of instict
but the last day before you died

you went out your dog door
to an area of the back yard
i had finally fenced in with chicken wire
a few weeks earlier
and when you didn't come back in
after fifteen minutes
melissa went out to check on you
and you were lying down in the grass
at the far edge of the fence
completely asleep

when she told me
she had found you there
like that
i imagined if the fence hadn't been there
you wouldn't have either.

in case i needed to explain this

in your last year
that we did not know would be your last
only knowing that you were officially old
we would set aside a day every month or so
and that day was simply for you
it was a day of giving you
whatever it was you wanted

those days were filled with dentabone treats
the pack taking long walks outside
shorter and shorter sessions of fetch in the backyard
letting you outside as many times as you wanted
and sitting on the back porch
watching you take your nose on tour
around the perimeter of our yard
and on the colder days
hours of napping on the couch
nestled between melissa's legs
and covered by her pink snuggie
as she studied

after your seizures started
and the cancer diagnosis was confirmed
every day became one of those days
every sunday morning we put
boneless skinless chicken breasts
into the crockpot along with
whatever vegetables we thought
we could trick you into eating

and melissa
who you had taken such good care of
never straying from her side
over the many months of her sicknesses
returned your favors so elegantly
packaging you on the couch
with a turquiose colored pillow
under your chin
and a blanket draped just so
across your body
always knowing
if you wanted your head covered or not

as your coordination faded further
and after you fell off the couch
and onto your back without a sound of complaint
you were wary of the altitude
keeping instead to your bed on the floor
and melissa would get up to rearrange your bed
and re-blanketize you
more times than anyone could imagine

in the last few weeks
these days of giving you
whatever it was you wanted
became harder and harder for her to take
and not because she saw so clearly
the increasing slope of your decline
not because you would get up from your bed
every five minutes
dig at the covers
look at her and whine
not because she had to get up
and help you get settled again

not because you needed so much

what tore at her the hardest
was simply that she couldn't figure out
what it was you wanted

what hurt her the most
was not being able to help you.

requiem for mingus the whippet

the afternoon
after putting our whippet down
after 14 years together
after a short escape to the coffee shop
you were in your car
still in out driveway
performing some necessary email
or message on your smartphone
after dropping me off
about to head out on
just a couple of more errands
on our official day off work
day of mourning

when i saw you still there
i called you
and told you to come inside
and make love to me

because i learned from mingus
how to ask for what i want
and how to be a better animal.

how it always ends

this is how it ends
how it always ends
my hands on your hipbones
your hands outstretched into the air

the first part of the dance is spectacular
and the middle part is sublime
and each is different every time
i mean
i am sure they are
but for the life of me
i can't remember any part of them

the only part that is left
beaming through my memory
is what happens
in the last few notes
as you can tell the song
is winding down
and there has to be an ending

the lights fade out on me
and the only illumination
is one sharp edged spotlight
surrounding you
as you move slowly
towards the front
of the stage

then you start to move faster
running like you have no idea
the floor beneath your feet
is about to run out

and just as you reach a point
a few feet from the edge
you leap into the air
stretched out into a perfect swan dive
and as you reach the highest point
on the very last note

the point
just before you would naturally
begin to descend
you feel my hands on your hipbones
and you know then
once again
i was moving along with you
every single step of the way

you know then
the echo of your footfall
was mine

you feel my hands on your hipbones
supporting you from underneath
lifting you along the same arc you started
but higher
until you are suspended
directly over my head
the spotlight streaming into your eyes
the last note fading into the distance
your arms spread as wide as your smile

a smile born of knowing
this is how it ends
how it always ends
knowing every time you leap
into the bright darkness
i am there to lift you higher.

"i will die soon, but i am comfortable"

- mike everett

dear uncle mike,

my mom told me

about how you loved to sneak

out of the house
when you were young
dressed only in your indian loincloth

and looking for adventure

and now, soon

i imagine you will find yourself again

in your young lithe little body
slipping through your bedroom window

of your parent's house

landing lightly in the grass
and running off silently

into the cool night air.

depth of field

i think of my father
when i look at any picture
and notice where the photographer
chose to allow the details through
if the focus was close
and the background details
are blurred away
when i look to see where the choice was made
what details to show
or if the artist must have used a tripod
to use a long enough exposure
to get everything
at every distance
as sharp as mechanically possible

i think of my father
when i tighten screws
on the switchplates in my house
and how he told me
so many years ago
that lining up the slots in those screws
was the mark of a true craftsman
the go/no go gauge of quality

i think of my father
at family dinners
as we talk after the meal
and how he lines up his placemat
his napkin
his water glass
making parallel lines
and equidistant arrangements
as we speak
and i know it takes no thought
it is absolutely no distraction
from our words
it is simply the gestures
of a patient zen master engineer
practicing a slide rule
kind of mindfulness
making everything right
with this small world set in front of him

i think of my father
every time i feel a torque wrench
click in my hands
partly because he gave me my first one
a long beam type for use on
my motorcycle rear wheel axle castle nut
and actually my last one too
a tiny quarter inch drive
for setting allen screws
on carbon fiber bicycle parts
but also because that click says to me
the same thing it has always said to him
this thing
this one small thing is perfect

but then
to balance it all out
and to develop the clearest
highest quality
most detailed image of my father
i think about how he is also
so strongly moved
by the human grace of the arc
of a perfect hook shot
in a washington university
lady bears basketball game

i think about sitting behind him
at my cousin's wedding
three summers ago in montana
i think about how he watched his brother jim
set his walker to the side
so he could walk his daughter down the short grassy aisle
and how jim made it halfway to the minister
with julie on his arm
before my father had to take off his glasses
to wipe the tears from his eyes
those tears
traveling such perfect
non linear
non parallel
misaligned tracks
as they flowed down
through the features of his face.

a single word

this isn't a poem
about going to the vet
and finding out
that our whippet
has leukemia
and only a few months
left to live

it is about
how on the way home
in the backseat of our car
he moved from one window
to the other
tasting the air on each side

it is about how he stood
with his front paws
on the armrest
between the front seats
panting and smiling
as if he hadn't understood
a single word
the vet had said.

Mingus monsieur l'artiste a encore frappé

Mingus monsieur l'artiste a encore frappé, en disant: J'ai toujours rêvé d'aller en voyage à jouer dans une fanfare, mais je ne peux pas échapper à cette impression que quelqu'un s'est enfui avec mon tuba ... attendez! ... c'est que mon collier ou un coup de main à mon la gorge?

Translated:
Mr. Mingus artist has struck again, saying: I always dreamed of going on a trip to play in a brass band, but I can not escape the impression that someone has absconded with my tuba...wait!...is that my collar or someone's hand on my throat?

from the grocery store parking lot 5 days before easter

picking out the two-tray package of orange-colored peeps
the small solar-powered mechanical dancing flower
destined for your windowsill at work
and the tiny milk carton of mini whoppers eggs
i found myself once again
on the verge of tears
lost in the small world
of all the small things i can do
to distract you
from everything else
that is not so small
so pretty
so sweet.

Christmas Card from Mingus the Whippet

We asked Mingus to pose for a christmas photo for us, and this is what he (after much cogitation, many treats, and hours of angsty whining) created:



The title provided by Mingus is: “chocolate cherry dog danish with festive garnish”

It is an exceedingly complicated exercise to unweave all of the symbolism and contextual implacability coherent and inherent in his vision, but we will attempt nonetheless.

This title, though humble in its intent, only belies the seriousness and depth of contextuality of the metaphors contained therein. The image looks quite tasty, if one fancies whippet pastries, yet also contains an element of danger and foreboding, as if perhaps (against all odds, by miracular intervention) the canine has survived the baking process by freeing his nasal implement. The quantum state he has achieved with this vision creates a definite tension between the polarized options of a dozing animal, and one that has been baked alive into a consumable delicacy. The image gives us no clue to discern the truth, and the lingering quease and unease and modernist questions posed by this “Schroedinger’s dog” cannot be avoided.

The stubbornness illustrated by the animal in either of his quantum states is clearly demarcated by the slight glisten of moisture on the ebony tip of his nose. He seems to be saying, “Witness the indomitable canine spirit!” at the same time he is murmuring, “Leave me alone, for I am currently napping, chasing small (but spritely) bunnies in my dreams.” The bright red, santa-esque swaddlescent coverering, while both suggestive of canned cherries in glaze and of the spilt blood of our Saviour, only contributes to our confusion between dining and divinity. It is an easy conclusion that Mingus means to draw strong parallels between his quantum identities and the birth, death, and eventual rise of Jesus Christ. While this strong symbology could easily be dismissed as pandering and in poor taste, he takes advantage of his humble stature as a faithful quadrupedal servant to man to deftly sidestep any such criticisms.

The silver snowflake ornament on the center of the blanket/filling is also subject to similar parallelisms. While, upon first glance, one simply sees it as a quaint holiday adornment, it becomes clear (once we have delved fully into the Schroedinger’s Christ morphologies and associated zeitgeist) that it also stands as a beacon with versimilitude to the North Star that allegedly led the wise men to the cradle of the baby Jesus. I think at this point it is most likely unnecessary to even mention the dyslexic “god-dog” connection, but it simply cannot be ignored as part of the cross-species-cultural elements of the piece.

In summation, if we were to amalgamate the vast potpourri of imagery and meaning contained in this image, Mingus seems to be saying, “Come witness the gentle rise and fall of the cherry filling as it moves with my humble ribs. See how the universe expands and contracts and yet your dog remains in one singular location.”

Indeed, Mr. Mingus, indeed, the universe has expanded again this year, and contracted and we are still here, pondering what it all means, why animals are so inscrutable, and what we should eat next.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Charlie, Melissa, and the artist formerly (and presently) known as Mingus.

p.s. We have settled nicely into our new house, Melissa is kicking ass and taking names at her new job, Charlie is still figuring out what he wants to be when he grows up, and Melissa is being beautifully patient while he works on that.

isla mujeres

   

if you were to look

from the front of the upper deck

of the ferry from isla mujeres

to puerto cancun

today at 12:30pm

you would have seen us

over the left shoulder

of the guitar player

fumbling with a 9 volt battery

as he tried to tune his strings

you would have seen my wife

in her movie star sunglasses

and her hair slicked back

lean her head onto my right shoulder

and mine lean over

to touch the top of her head

if you looked closely

just to the side of my left

fire iridium sunglass lens

you would have seen the tear

released from the corner of my eye

and you might wonder

was that tear all that was left over

when our reality

was subtracted from my expectations

or was it simply

the mucous surface of my eye

irritated by the salt in the air

and the speed at which the boat

was traveling.

natural selection

as we were looking

for something to watch on the tv

to calm your nervous stomach

to help us forget your lost breakfast

i saw a peacock display his ornamental feathers

and learned that mice sing songs

that humans cannot hear

in order to attract a mate

walking out to the pool an hour later

a twentysomething guy

with a tribal tattoo on his shoulder

dropped to the pool deck

and rattled off twenty pushups

with excellent form

he stood back up

his wife took off her shirt

and they walked out onto a small bridge

over the lagoon

in their bathing suits

so their friend could take their picture

how magnificent his arms looked

and how chiseled his pectorals

in his perfectly tanned skin

we couldn't help but look

at all those iridescent tail feathers

and listen carefully

to his ultrasonic little song.

where it all goes

this durk marky green algaeic sadness
we keep realizing we are swimming in
and somehow we stuff it away somewhere
like we have vistors coming for dinner
and we pile it all up in a closet
knowing if anyone opened the door
we would all be flooded
drowning and struggling to reach a door handle
or window to open up
and let it all flow out into the yard
where the neighbors could all see us
flopping around gasping for air

how do we find so much space for it
and where do we put it?
is it all going into one of those fancy garbage bags
the force flex kind that catches a piano
falling from a building in the tv ad
and the bag just keeps getting bigger
and we just keep stuffing away
catching more and more pianos
always knowing it all has to come out someday

if we can just get to the point
where we feel good enough
and close enough
and undistracted enough
that my teeth can gently find the skin of your neck
and my fingers can sink into your tangle of curly hair
and you can melt into my arms
and you can twist your wiry legs around me
and you can scare the dog off into the other room
with those perfect little sounds you make
and 11 minutes later
everything we have shoved back inside
everything we have pushed down over the last few months
every promise we made to ourselves
to set some time aside to break down some time when we were alone
it can all come back out in the end
filtered so perfectly through both of our eyes

Room 17475

you press the nurse call button
the button just above the tv channel up button
on the keypad
attached to the cord
hanging over the right side of your bed
and when the red light comes on the console
and the nurse’s voice comes over the speaker
you ask for your nurse
you ask for a tech
you ask for the doctor on call
you ask for another plastic tub to vomit into
you ask for mouthwash
you ask for more gauze to cover your incisions
you ask for them to come stop the beeping of the iv machine
when the line is occluded
when air is detected in the line
when the bolus needs to be changed
you ask for medicine for your nausea
for your pain
for your diarrhea
for the pressure in your gut
you ask for water
you ask for gatorade
you ask for juice
you ask for them to disconnect you from all the tubes
so you can change clothes
and to reconnect you when you are done
you ask for someone to listen to you
you ask why you look 6 months pregnant
you ask for new hats for the toilet
you ask for toothpaste
you ask for new blankets
for new washcloths
and a tub of icewater to cool your face
you ask for ice chips
for new towels
for maxi pads
for new bed pads
for new underwear
you ask to stop falling asleep while you are talking
your head slumping down every 10 seconds
and rising again after 5 to pick up where you left off
you ask for a shower
for chapstick
for lotion
you ask for something to calm your burning skin
you ask them to empty your ng tube tank
so the bile doesn’t spill over onto the floor

and when you finally fade off
into narcotic sleep
the keypad falls
from your hot little hand
and i reach over
and pick it up
and press the nurse call button
and i ask for the scars on your belly to stop weeping
i ask for medicine
that will stop you from seeing people in the room
who aren’t really there
i ask for them to stop your brain from spinning so hard inside your head
i ask for them to take away those scared saucer eyes of yours
when you wake up every 15 minutes and look around the room
and i have to explain everything again
asking you to remember the same details one more time
i ask for them to stop sending 5 different people into the room
in one night to try unsuccessfully to start a new iv
because your veins are collapsing
i ask for them to stop with the ct scans
the enemas, the palpations and the x-rays
i ask them to untangle your intestines
i ask for them to stop pulling at your superglue sutures
i ask them to fix the hard little veins in your forearms
i ask them for atavan
for both of us
i ask them to find the 20 pounds you lost
and the muscular curves of your thighs
i ask them to stop you from thinking i am plotting against you
i ask them to take the iv out of your neck
take off the blood pressure cuff
and the fingertip temperature sensor
i ask them to remove the pic line and the catheter
and while they are taking things out
i ask them to remove from my memory
the rank dark green rotten murky smell of your e. coli infection
i ask them to make me forget the beep of the pca pump
refusing to give you another dose of dilaudid
because you asked for it too soon
again

and then the red light comes on
on the console over your bed
and the nurse’s voice breaks through
asking what i need

and i realize she hasn’t heard anything i said

so then i ask for a second honeymoon
a secluded cabana on the edge of the beach
under palm trees
i ask for a pair of lounge chairs
just outside our door facing the ocean
the front legs of the chairs
at the furthest reaches of the longest waves
i ask for you, brazen, in your red bikini
reclining in the sun with your eyes closed
your toenails freshly painted
and your head slightly tilted towards me
i ask for your sandals and a bright yellow towel
in a pile on the sand by your left side
i ask for a barely read book split open on top of the towel
with a trace of sunblock smudged across its glossy cover
i ask for a fruity tropical drink in your right hand
i ask for palm leaves and a breeze
to scatter the sunlight
reflecting it through the facets of your glass
so it dances lightly across the scars on your stomach
i ask for the smallest hint of a smile moving across your face
arriving and receding with the waves

the nurse’s voice comes back over the speaker
asking
exactly what kind of fruity tropical drink do you want

and i tell her
any flavor will do

that part
is just really not that important
right now
any flavor will do.

toast to steve and adrienne

how brave it is of you,
steve and adrienne, to stand here before us today and state openly
and boldly
and proudly
that you belong together

how brave it is of you to make that statement
after all you have been through together,
because of all you have been through together.

because you have known each other already
through so many ups and downs,
pain and heartbreak,
joy and sorrow.

because you have come to know each other and yourselves through years
made up of moments, minutes, hours, and days of certainty,
because you have come to know each other and yourselves through years
made up of moments of doubt

because those times of doubt that seemed so long and so confusing were the most necessary test of your relationship
those times of doubt were the millions of small assignments that you gave yourselves
because you wanted to be as sure as possible
that you belong together

you took so many steps forwards and backwards,
so many slides to the side
so many twists and turns

and now you have reached this point
together
here
today
in front of all of us

and you are brave enough to know in your hearts that nothing is ever 100%
you are brave enough to know we never get that luxury. . .
you are brave enough to know that 100% isn't really perfection

instead, you are brave enough to know that 99.99999% is the true perfection
you are brave enough together to know that last .000001%
that last tiny little infinitesimal sliver
that the world always leaves out of perfection
that is what is left for both of you to work on together
for the rest of your lives

that is why we are here
with our promises of love and support
and our own individual and unique
missing tiny little infinitesimal slivers of perfection
we are here to let you know you are never alone in your work

steve and adrienne
you are brave enough to know
that you know each other better than anyone else in the world knows you
that you know you belong together

that is brave
that is perfect
that is you, steve and adrienne costello
on this day
and for the rest of your lives

all the happiness in the world


(written with melissa)

time hasn't changed

time hasn’t changed
even half
of what it promised to

- “ohio airplane crash” by joe henry


we walk out to the garden
dirt still under my fingernails
from the weeding last week
and nothing that is coming up
among the clumps of dirt
is anything that we planted
last spring

all the time we spent
looking at seed packets
combining and collating colors
by row
in our minds
laying out the markers and tags
kneading the seeds into the earth
pulling the blankets of dirt
back over their bodies
you drifting over like a tender cloud
with your silver watering can
in july when the rest of the yard
was cracking in the heat

none of that made the difference
we thought it would

every morning
we wander out to the back yard
together or alone
and wonder at these amazing creatures
the lilting yellow petals
the tight lilac buds
the prickly sticky green stems
all of these random creatures
we must have disturbed
and roused and rattled and woken
with all of our digging

and maybe all that digging
is the only thing
that really matters

Whishnuddha

I created this image for Melissa to help protect her from nightmares when she was doing her genetic counseling internship in Denver over the summer. It has been my job to wake her from them, and with us apart, I figured she needed a protector.

Whishnuddha is the Supreme Being or Ultimate Reality for resting humans and a manifestation of Caninus in the traditions of Somnolence.

The Doghavad Gita describes Whishnuddha as the all-pervading essence of all resting beings, the master of and beyond the past, present and future, the creator and master of all dreamed existences, one who supports, sustains and governs the sleeping universe and originates and develops all elements within. In the Purinas, Whishnuddha is described as being the color of gold, six-armed and two-legged, holding a lotus, sword, conch, chakra, bread, and squeaky plush duck.

Whishnuddha iconography:
• His six arms and two legs indicate his all-powerful and all-pervasive nature.
• On his chest is the dogbhana charm, suspended on a golden chain, symbolizing his commitment to mortal humans as well as the location of his earthly form.
• He stands in his food bowl, from where the richest happiness of sustenance is created.
• His earring represents the infinite cycle of life and the endless universe of restive sleeping imagination.
• A pattern of tangled vines commonly shown in the background if images of Whishnudda symbolize the tangled essence of the human subconscious, while the symbol of Whishnuddha clearly in the foreground shows his dominance over the organic growth and confusion of dreams.

Whishnuddha holds the six attributes associated with him:
• A conch shell, held by the upper left paw, represents Whishnuddha's power to create and maintain the spiral cycles of sleep and dreams in the un-woken universe.
• The chakra, a sharp-spinning discus-like weapon, held by the upper right paw, symbolizes the rested, purified, and spiritualized mind.
• A sword, held by the lower left paw, symbolizes Whishnuddha's divine power over any evil forces present in the universe of dreams.
• A lotus flower, held by the lower right paw, represents spiritual liberation, Divine perfection, purity and the unfolding of Spiritual consciousness within the individual while they are at rest.
• A slice (or loaf) of bread, held by the most upper right paw, symbolizes the richness and fertility of the cupboard of human life.
• A plush squeaky duck, held by the most upper left paw, represents Whishnudda’s power to balance alertness and diligence with leisure, cuddling, and nattering.

the only word i need

i look over at you
you driving the last half mile before the exit
where our quarter pounder with cheese exists
the one we both convinced ourselves we deserve
at exactly the same moment
without mentioning it to the other
and i think about you
the word "perfect".

my hand grazes your shoulder
as i walk past you
in saturday morning mid-putter around the house
moving on to fix some small thing
that we have both been noticing needed fixing
and the look i see in your eyes
as you turn your head to look at me
makes me think about you
the word "loving".

i watch you
cutting zucchini and making tiny puff pastries
for all of your fellow students
in your graduate program
the pile of ingredients and dirty dishes
and finished works of art in constant flux
on the kitchen counters
and i think about you
the word "selfless".

you are stretched out on the living room floor
buried in your binders again
absorbing reams of tangled proteins
and inheritance charts and psycho-social ramifications
misspellings in the recipes that make us who we are
and how to explain them to sick and dying people
and which words show the right evidence of your heart
and make the kind of difference you know you can make
and i think about you
the word "brilliant"

you have pulled the sheet
partly off your body in the morning
when i stop by to kiss you
and let you continue sleeping
before i go into work
and the intensely peaceful look on your face
as the fan gently flutters your hair
and the way your breasts look
nestled into your arms
makes me think about you
the word "beautiful".

the shape of the muscles in your legs
and the natural float to your steps
as i struggle behind you to run at your pace
on our "long run" past the tennis courts
the wisdom and the grace of your body
makes me think about you
the word "sexy"

i see you
i see so many of these tiny moments
and i hold onto
so many of these words
i watch you
and i want to make love to you
i want to make babies with you
i want to burrow down
into the depths of your soul
and feel its warm wings wrap around me
and sing me to sleep
i want to hold you while you cry
and stroke the hair back from your face
and kiss you until i find your smile again
i want you to fall asleep
and to wake up every day in my arms

and sometimes i do some of that
and sometimes only some small part of that
and sometimes i pass by onto the next thing
that needs to be done at that moment
without doing any of that
and leave you where you are
doing almost exactly what you were doing
before you noticed i was watching you
but all of those things and so much more
wash over me in that moment
all of those things i want to do
in that moment
i have lived them
and i have known them
and i want to do them again and again
and that makes me think about you
the one word "forever"

and that one word is almost
a perfect way to end this
almost
because i cant help myself
but to reflect it back onto you
and wonder if i could choose a word
one word for you to think
when you looked at me
no matter what i was doing
no matter if i was sleeping or awake
chasing the dog around the kitchen table
teasing you about spilling food on yourself
dancing awkwardly on purpose
trying to make you laugh
and the only word i come up with
is this one word
"worthy".

Remembering, once removed

-- For Mam maw and Pap paw Fite

I remember you telling me
Pap paw wanted to buy a ladder
when he came home from the hospital
just two weeks before he died
and somehow that made sense to me.
Like he wanted to get a head start on his ascension
like he wanted to get back to work
sharpening chainsaws
and building houses.

I remember dancing with Mam maw
to a song on a Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys record
in her living room and
how much it meant to me
that it meant so much to her
and how she remembered that about me
even later
after you and I divorced.

I remember the ice storm over Christmas
and covering Pap paw with my body
against the falling branch
that just missed us
falling next to us onto his driveway instead.

I remember the dream he had
when he was in a coma
(the coma your parents called sleep
so you wouldn’t worry about him),
the dream where he was trying
to take a nap on a dock --
a dock on a lake somewhere
he knew as a boy maybe --
and these guys wouldn’t leave him alone.
They kept pushing and pulling at him --
for the week or nine days he was in the coma –
and then finally he woke up,
and those guys were probably the doctors.

And the nap he wanted to take
Was probably the same nap
Mam maw had been trying to take
Ever since Pap paw finished with the ladder.
But your dad and your aunt --
and your mom and you and your brothers
and your cousins and your neighbors --
kept keeping her awake
because they couldn’t bear to lose her, too.
But she finally
managed to sneak off somewhere quiet
where she could relax just long enough …
You tell me the reason
Pap paw lived so long
in the hospital before he died
was that his heart and lungs were so strong
and that your kidneys and your liver can fail
and you can keep living --
but your heart or your lungs have to fail
before you can die.

And as I think of Mam maw
and about her breathing slowing down
like you described to me --
the way the breathing slows down as you are dying --
I can only imagine
that her lungs quit working first
because I remember how strong her heart was.

And your dad still has the ladder
that is now -- exactly, to the day -- a year and a half old.
And the house next door
that it leans against
is now -- exactly -- just a house.
And all these memories that we’ve threaded to each other
are twisting and waving in the breeze
and the ends of some of them
are now buried in the ground
and sometimes they pull on us to lull us to sleep
and sometimes they push on us to keep us awake --
and we aren’t sure why we need that ladder
or what song it was that we were dancing to
or exactly why the branches on our family trees
are falling or bent or broken in the ways they are --
but we always end up knowing something more
about someone else’s kidneys or their liver or their lungs
and maybe something, too, about our own heart.

(special thanks to heidi fite for her contribution and editing)

When I once again realize I am the luckiest man in the world

Out in the garage
Working on my motorcycle
Using the 6-piece ratcheting box end wrench set
To tighten down the upper triple clamp bolts
I set the lift stand to raise the back wheel
To adjust the chain tension
I am listening to this American life on the radio
The space heater whirring quietly by my feet
Our dog comes out to check up on me every half hour

I pull the sparkplug to check the jetting
Remove the skidplate and change the oil and filters
The seat comes off with a single dzus fastener
And I remove the air filter
Turning the wingnut until it releases from its seal
Then I clear an area on the workbench to clean it
Spray new filter oil on it and let it sit and soak in
And in all of this cleaning and adjusting
And tightening and oiling and puttering around
All I can think about is my wife
Visible every few moments
through the open garage door as she works in the kitchen
peeling and cutting and mixing food for dinner
I catch a glimpse of her smile
And I see how her happiness mingles with the kitchen lights
How it leaks out through the dividers in the window glass
like fingers stretching quietly out along the driveway
Beckoning me to come back inside.

the purest evidence - cover

litany after Billy and Jacques

You are the pillows on the floor
The pie crust and the apples
You are the sticker on the window of your car
and the christmas lights on the trellis
You are the soft blankets and the bobby pins
and the tennis balls hiding in the forest

However, you are not the crumbs on the counter
The washrags on the stairs
Or the goldfish hiding in our backyard pond.
And you are certainly not the noises
Of settling dishes in the cupboard at night
There is just no way that you are that noise.

It is possible that you are the squirrels playing in the grass
maybe even the small herb garden
but you are not even close
to being the wind among the evergreens

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the colander in the cabinet
nor the whippet asleep under the covers

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the rumbling of the motorcycle engine

I also happen to be library book on the mantle
the chocolate syrup at the bottom of the coffee cup
the post it note in the kitchen
and the toolbox in the basement

I am also the first ray of the sun
and the swirling eddy in the river
But don't worry, I'm not the pillows on the floor
You are still the pillows on the floor
You will always be the pillows on the floor
not to mention the pie crust and--somehow--the apples.

she asks

Do you know what my favorite part
of that poem was?

It was the part where the metaphor turned
And its hands began trying to find
The edge of the curtain
To pull them back
And show what it was
You had been getting at
in all those lines before

It was the part where your mouth
Stopped working properly
It was the part where your chin
Didn’t move in exactly the right way
And your lips curved a bit late
To form the sound of the words on the page

It was the part where your eyelids
Became a little heavier
And a little less focused

It was the part where your heart
was getting in the way of your words
And it was trying to say
Two things at once

You were to reading the words to the poem
You had written
And at the same time
You were describing the wings
You saw unfurling from my shoulders

sitting next to you in church today

for melissa

I felt the vibration of truth from something that was said
And it wasn’t the truth that caught me off guard
It wasn’t the truth that was important
At that moment
What was important
Was that I felt what direction the vibration came from

When I was younger I explained away this tingling
As a ghost passing through my body at that moment
But that wasn’t it, really
It was about why a ghost was passing through me at that moment
It was about what that ghost was saying to me
And what I had done to set it all in motion

Later I understood it as the truth
The realization of something that was
Something simply was so perfectly true
That it set off these windchimes in my body
And in creative writing class when someone wrote something
That was a breeze enough to set them off
I told her it was the same feeling you get
When you bite a spoon
That metallic touch sets something off in your skin
And it flows through your body so quickly
But you can’t stop it
And you can’t help but feel it and give it your attention

That’s how it was in church this morning
How it made me focus
Because I don’t remember what the minister was saying
I don’t remember which verse he had displayed on the screen
I know it was after the juggling
And I know it was before he sat on the bed
And talked about ultimate fighting

But all I remember about that moment was that I understood
Physically for the first time
That the vibrations I felt came from a specific place
Because each wave that passed through me as I sat there
Each wave that I held onto and savored before I let it pass through
Each one came from my right side
It came clearly from where your body touched mine
It wasn’t simply you being in my life
It wasn’t everything being so perfect that let me feel these things
It was you
Purely and simply you

And I thought about the day at work
When I was playing with my ring
Taking it off and putting it back on
And feeling that vibration every time it touched my skin
How I lost it when I took it off
And got it back when I slid it back over my knuckle

And I thought about how I remember you
And how I remember us when my ring knocks up against something hard
How it sounded on the metal railing at the baseball game
How it sounded against the wrench when I was working on my motorcycle
How it always sounds different
How it always reminds me of the same thing

And sitting there in church
Thinking about those sounds
The different tones and vibrations that move through my body
Since you are in my life
And that I am in church
And maybe that is why my thoughts turned back to god
And how he is so different to everyone
And shows himself in ways only we can understand
But only when we seek him out
How he wants us to look for him

And I know then that these vibrations
Have been trying to signal me to something
So much larger than myself
For such a long time
Something so much larger than ghosts
So much larger than metal spoons
In so many ways
Like when I open the door for our dog to go into the backyard
And get busy making a cup of coffee or doing the dishes
And forget that he is outside
And he stands at the back door for minutes on end
With his nose pressed against the seam
Where the door meets the doorframe
And he could open it if he pushed
But he doesn’t
He waits until something tells him I have forgotten
Then he whines
And how long and how loudly he whines I am not sure
I only hear the last one
The one that reminds me he is there
The one that reminds me I have forgotten him
And it is that something that changes in the volume
Or the pitch
Or the timing
That wakes me back into his life

It was that same change today
Sitting next to you in church
That woke me back up
That finally clicked and made me turn around
And see what had been waiting for me
Like realizing you had to let your dog inside
And at the same time realizing
You didn’t have a dog
But there he was
At the back door
Whining a bit
Softly
Maybe gently scratching at the door
Eyes intent at the thin line of light
Where the kitchen leaks out into the yard.

honeymoon happiness management

Put the big rocks into the jar first
Then the smaller ones
Watch how they filter around the larger ones
Settling down in the bottom
As far as they can go
Then the gravel
Each smaller size filling in the spaces
Finding their way into the places
Only they can occupy
The sand comes last
The same sand you felt all week
In between your toes on the beach
The sand you shook from your towel
At the end of the day
The sand from the floorboards of the jeep
And sift it into the jar
Through your fingertips
See how the first few grains
Slide all the way to the bottom
See how much room is left
How much sand can still fit into the jar
And even as it moves up to fill all the spaces
As it gets close to the top of even the largest rocks
The ones you dropped in first
And after almost two years
You wonder is the top of the jar reaching higher
As if by someone’s hands
Spinning it on a wheel
Holding its sides and encouraging them upwards
Because you keep finding more stones
Of all sizes
And always
Every day
More bits of sand
And you never run out of room

And as you watch one small stone in particular
arc and bounce its way through the water
and larger stones in the jar
as you watch it find the perfect place to rest
you are able to finally stop wondering
If there is enough room for all of this
For all of your happiness
For the rest of your lives together.

breakfast 23 days before

thinking about our wedding vows
thinking about how your eyes
and your smile
have become fixtures of my universe
thinking about how hard it is
to see my waffle through all these tears.

Jumper’s urge

there is a theory
that every time you stand in a high place
on top of a building
at the edge of a cliff
or at the railing of a bridge
and look down
there is some small part of you that wants to jump
that wanting is jumper’s urge

every day
for the past year
I have been with you
I have had that urge

I look over the edge
so many stories high up in the air
and I don’t see the ground below
I don’t see a narrow sidewalk
rows of parked cars
or jagged rocks and breaking waves
I don’t see muddy river water
winding around the pilings of a bridge

I look over the edge
and I see us
I see us with our arms around each other
we are looking off into the distance
my fingers are intertwined in your hair
your forehead is pressed against my cheek

but I can’t see what is welling up
inside our eyes
I can’t feel your hair in my hand
I can’t see which one of your thousands of smiles
Is spreading across your face
And I can’t see exactly what it is
we are looking at
what it is out in the distance
in front of us

today
I step off the edge
and I am falling
and it is only now
as I am tumbling through the air toward us
feeling the force of the wind against my face
my eyes watering
my chest too tight to breathe
it is only now
that I feel your fingers slip in between mine
it is only now
that I feel your heartbeat
in the palm of my hand

i cannot disappoint you - cover

Walking back to Leiden Centraal

Walking back to Leiden Centraal
past midnight down the empty main street
angled, bricked, wide enough for all the feet
the bicycles, the scooters, the shopping
Just light enough this early in the morning
knowing we wouldn’t make the 12:08 bus back to the hotel
and then in the distance ahead we heard a flock of bicyclists
and the light Dutch chattering they made
as they fluttered past us,
their words were animated and utter nonsense to us,
but we heard them as the perfect chirps
and calls of birds we knew
and knew we couldn’t understand
and knowing that not knowing the language
Was what made the moment so perfect

That is the memory I want to hold onto
the spontaneous metaphor
and you by my side with your dead tired feet
me with a swollen lip and you with a cold
our bellies full of pasta and chocolate

open

it is that you are willing to believe your parachute will open
that you need to jump out of the plane
that the ground will be solid
and i will be there with you
because you know you are already floating
through the sky
you feel me tethered to your back
you know we have pulled the ripcord
and when you look up
you see the parachute streaming up out of the pack
and the air hasn't caught it yet
hasn't opened it up yet
and pulled us back into the sky
but you know that it will
and you are looking up at the thin streamer of fabric
like you look up into my eyes
when i hold you in my arms
and even if there were no air in the sky
the parachute would open
just from you looking at it that way.