big munny, little munny

on our early morning stroller walk today

we see the first fawn of the year

a tiny spotty puppy-sized mule deer

grazing in the gambel oaks with its mama

the waning gibbous moon setting behind us

through a grove of cypress

the sun rising ahead of us

filtering through fluttering aspen in the creek

by what will be your elementary school

we hear a woodpecker

pecking out its morse code mating call

staccato on the stucco side of a house

all the way down the street we see rabbits

and using your word for them

we call them out together

big munny

little munny

big munnies stock still by the russian sage

little munnies hopping around in the grasses

big munny by the juniper bushes

little munny running across the street

big munny ducking underneath the cedar fence

little munny hiding in the drainage pipe

as we turn the corner

to head back up the trail

the sun at our backs

casts my shadow long above the stroller

and i bend over you to look at you

to see your quiet watchful face

big munny

little munny

An Initial Proof of Maternal Calculus

every time 
in the night
especially the first few days
the first few weeks
the first few months
but even now 
still
19 months later
when one of sadie’s small mid-night cries
comes through the wall 
between the nursery and our bedroom
then delayed a second 
also through the nest cam monitor 
on the table by your side of the bed

the sound of her cry 
startles the arc of my heartbeat
and rolls me towards the sound
to see if there is anything i can 
if there is anything i should 
do

this is just one small fact 
one small instinctual fatherly reaction
but i have been developing this formula
ever since her first sounds 
interrupted themselves into our sleep

i take that measureable change in my pulse
and the angle of my eyelids opening 
as if to better hear her needs
and i add them together

and then i make the following modifications 
to exactly determine 
how exactly the reaction to the same sound
is different for you
is stronger for her mother

i multiply my value by the days 
you waited to be pregnant
the days we spent trying to make this tiny human
the minutes you spent at baby showers for your friends
who seemed to get pregnant seamlessly and immediately
and then 100 times points for the days
you carried our kicking baby inside your body

i add 5 to the value 
for each lovenox injection i gave you
in your belly 
every night for over nine months

25 for each injection of progesterone in oil
delivered with an 18 gauge needle 
into the sweet tenderness of your right butt cheek
but i do subtract 5 for the fact that i tenderly rubbed the injection site
as instructed
because i like to think you enjoyed that part

10 for each other required injection
and various indignities
and ultrasounds
and blood draws
and urine samples

30 for each contraction you had 
in the last trimester
and 50 for being able to keep the car on the road
in the middle of the worst that braxton hicks style
had to offer

i include the surface area of your small intestine
the surgeons worked through after the cesarean
to find the kink that Sadie had been yanking on
like a bus stop pull cord
to let you know she wanted out a couple of days early

i use as an exponent the minutes
you fed her from your body
latched and loaded in the nursery
and on the couch with the boppy

i add the times 
you reached across the bed to her nest 
and pulled her over for another nighttime meal
in the months before the nursery

i multiply the currently resulting value by a factor of 3
to account for the 3 big boxes of twin-bed-sized maxi-pads
you had to wear for weeks afterwards 
as Sadie’s old room cleaned itself out of your body

i add the ounces of sweet milk you created
with an extra factor of 5 for those you extracted with suction
with a machine 
at work
at lunchtime
in your office 

i put parentheses around all of the aforementioned items
and then cube that value 
simply because your heart
is that much larger
more capable
and that much more cubicly mooshy than mine

and it is at this point that i know
i could go on forever
adding each thing you did
so perfectly the day before
each day having something different 
to consider into the formula

i hope that the calculation
described it in this tender treatise
can encapsulate all of the future variables
and that i can leave it on its own
as a living proof
multiplying its result
in an eternally exponential cascade

so that now 
i can more completely focus 
on the three 
that we have made 
from two 

handful

when i wake you every morning
you demand something for your hands
you drag your furry pink blanket 
with you from the crib when i pick you up
then set it aside for a small bottle of peppermint oil
and some saline nose spray
from the shelf above your changing table

once you are dressed
you scoot down the hallway stairs
open the hall closet
reaching for your purple jacket 
and your furry polar bear hat
and then your pink knit hat too
and run to the front door
and turn back to me
to see when i am coming

i pause a moment to store this memory
like a parent does
the details overflowing my grasp
and then we go out the door together
hand in hand
adventuring out into the world

edges

- for Melissa

i think of you
every time i butter my toast
thinking of the distinct
and extra love it takes
to spread it all the way
to the edges.

Interspecies

- for Nadia

Of the precious few things

we must believe

transcend the borders

between apes and wolves

this is perhaps the most important

That as our bodies begin to leave us

we can feel the shadows

at the edges of our pack

shift and gather closer

That we sense these shapes

are an extension of the soft safety

of our den

That at our last labored breath

the innermost ring of our fellow animals

will plant their legs firmly in the ground

around our body

that they will tilt their heads

back towards the moon

and begin the chorus of howling tribute

That each successive ring of creatures

will add their echoes to the song

That this song will ring in our ears forever.

on ten years of marriage

it's like putting on an old jacket
you haven't worn in months
and when you stick one of your hands
into one of the pockets
you find a 20 dollar bill 

it would be just like that
except i put that jacket on every day

it would be just like that
except that instead of finding 20 dollars 
in the pocket
every time

i find you
i find the rest of my life

Fuller's 9th Fugue in M

- for my stupendous wife Melissa and her amazing passenger

It opens with a short main theme of unique and unimaginable happiness (incredibly difficult to express in the range of sounds humans can hear, but luckily not limited to that range - ultrasound is used extensively in this fugue, as will come to make more sense later, as it expands on its theme), the subject, which then sounds successively in each voice (after the first voice is finished stating the subject, a second voice of a turnip-sized girl which lives inside your womb repeats the subject at a different pitch, and other voices of friends and family (celebrating that precious little girl) repeat in the same way); when each voice has entered, the exposition is complete and there is no possibility of imagining life existing in any other state than it has exactly at this moment, and simultaneously for the last 9 years. This is often followed by a connecting passage, or episode, developed from previously heard material; generally including subtle melodies expressing the ends of the range of joy that you have brought to your husband’s life. these further "entries" of the subject then are heard in related keys, typically in the same pure sweetness as your singing voice.. Episodes (if applicable) and entries are usually alternated, often including the voices of friends, some of who have been lost in these last 9 years (those lost are represented by the exact melody of their laughter, expressed in the chords and lightness of angel’s wings) until the "final entry" of the subject, by which point the music has returned to the opening key, or tonic of gratitude for you choosing to share your life with this (allegedly) humble man, which is often followed by closing material, the coda, which in this case invokes a very slight variation on the subject, indicating the triple helix winding of the meaning you have provided to your husband’s existence, the contentment it has given to you, and the life inside you that is growing and kicking to provide the tympanic accompaniment so long missing from the arrangement.

This is not a day for glory (rough draft)

This is not a day for glory, even the imaginary kind of glory where you willfully ignore the quasi-woeful material facts of your fitness. This is the kind of day where you self-effacingly call yourself a “badass” just to taunt your legs to dance a bit more lightly on the pedals as you crest the rise at the top of your neighborhood and see the starting edges of the rocky mountains stretching out in front of you. This is not a day for glory; that day was two days ago when you pre-rode stage 4 of the USA Pro Cycling Challenge. That day was when you convinced the spectators who had begun to gather for the KOM in the Garden of the Gods to cheer for you by name as you ground out each increasingly steeper roller, and somehow your name traveled up the climb so each successive group of spectators knew it was you and urged you on, and part of you wanted the KOM to be around the next switchback, and another part was so entranced by the improvisational cheering of the crowd that you didn’t want it to end because you knew it was a purely seminal event, and you wanted to savor it for a few moments longer.

This is not a day for glory, this is a day to let the legs feel the work, and remember how the day before was a day where only the lungs felt the burn. This is a day to let the galactic acid in the quads and glutes and hams float like a lazy river, propelled by the gently oscillating flagella of the mitchondria into tiny and tasty digestible packets.

This is not a day for glory, not a day for the kind of small context glory where you try to move from the top 20% in a strava segment to the top 18%. This is not a day where you pretend to be crushing the soul of your riding buddy as you climb ridge road (when he is actually simply not trying as hard as you are on that particular segment). This is a day where you don’t focus as much on the momentum at the bottom of a perfectly paved roller, but instead carry the momentum in your memory of the day before where you tucked a bit deeper, held the top tube of your frame between your knees a bit tighter, pulled your elbows in under your chest a bit closer, and used only a few quick glancing strokes to crest the next rise after a similar hill, keeping your profile compact, and maximizing your speed down the next short descent.

This is not a day for glory, this is a day where you have enough attention to swerve a half inch around a small iridescent purple and green beetle in your path. It is a day where you don’t yell or gesticulate at the white-haired prius driving lady who nearly right hooks you on her way into the church parking lot, but instead simply shake your head and refocus on the road in front of you.

This is not a day for glory, it is a day for re-assimilating the rides of the last weeks and months, and feel how each of them has founds a place in your muscles, back, neck, instincts, memories, and how all of them have (without any kind of drama or overstatement) have led you to the ride you are on this morning, solo, and reveling in your legs and lungs, and young does watching you spin up the last subdivision hill to the best overlook in the neighborhood. 

This is a day for a unique and silent kind of glory, a self-contained self-satisfaction that you are living the life that you want, and that this life contains so much more than the ride you are on. This glory is the understanding that this morning’s ride has simply allowed you the clarity to fully enjoy everything you have and everything you have experienced this year, and use that clarity to push the window of optimism open wide for the rest of the challenges ahead that have nothing to do with pedals, nothing to do with physical effort, catching a rider ahead of you on a hill by imagining a tractor beam emanating from their rear wheel, the challenges ahead are of a completely different kind of ascent, and the past days of glory are packed away in your soul, and are all the ammunition and fuel that you need.

Upon the entry of a 2 year old boy to the Reproductive Endocrinology Center

The one small 

simple thought

thought by every single person

sitting in the waiting room

so insistent

so loudly unspoken

yes

that

that thing

that one small thing

one small person

please.

a valentines day explanation of my reaction to your excessive and abnormal synchronous neuronal activity

- for melissa 

the reason i keep wishing
i would stop remembering
the way your face went blank
as you seizured on my birthday
and your body went rigid
falling backwards like a tree 
is that it was the first moment
since i met you 
that i thought 
you had ceased to exist
and that 30 second space 
before i was able to feel your heartbeat again
was a glimpse into a place
i cannot accept.

the world only makes sense
when you are in it.

basketfall

we have become experts
at carefully crafting metaphors
for small, strange, and silent forms of loss
and for random miniature disasters

two small trees of oranges
destroyed by a sudden random ice storm
still perfect in their color
their shape
and a sweetness
we can only still imagine

(special thanks, attribution, and additional dedication to sharon and matt)

exactly six years and eleven months later

lying in bed that night
my left elbow pinned under
enso's big black dog head 
and you sitting up and reading
your spare hand reached across
and open upon my sternum
i realized how much i needed
the dog head pressure 
and the wife hand pressure
to keep me from floating away

that which does not need to be reviewed

NOTE: This written thing was inspired by facebook postings of various objects that ended up in the lost and found box from BluesSHOUT! 2013, and will likely be only the first in a number of reviews of things which in actuality do not need to be reviewed.

Credit for this photograph goes to the lovely Dee McCord

(as does my everlasting gratitude for inspiring this latest venture)

after sleeping fitfully with images of this hat flitting through my mind, and then waking, i have finally understood the quiet power of this photograph. while the hat itself is quite lovely, it is but a vehicle for the artist's vision of the wearer, a statement of the true nature of community. the fitful aspect of my sleep was driven by the unconscious desire to understand who was wearing the hat, indeed "what" was underneath it, both metaphorically and literally, and in my dream-addled state i was able to bypass my analytical brain and directly harness the amphibian nature of my lizard brain, which directed me to imagine i had only primitive clawlike appendages and to explore the undercontents of the hat would need to slide my scaly komodo nose beneath its lower edge, gliding along the mystery surface upon which it rests, and as the scent waftingly entered my massive prehistoric nasal passages I would not only be able to explicate the many traits of its oft-wearer and those who were nearby this hat at many points in time, but indeed to enable my proboscis to leverage the hat over onto its back and expose the world to its hidden inner dimensions. upon imagining this process, though, i began to feel a vague unease, as if to flip the chapeau was an untoward "red light touch", an unwelcome advance for which i had not been granted permission. as i rested with this unease, i was able to deftly unpeel the last layer of the image and its metaphorical cargo, realizing that of course this was the only view of the hat that was needed, nay, the only view of the hat that was required to convey the true wearer to the world. the thing that the hat rests on (a table, perhaps a floor?) rests on something else and then that on something else yet, and then it is (as the native americans allegedly say) "it is turtles all the way down," but in this case, the turtles must be dancing, moving with an exquisite series of micro-adjustments perfectly in tune with the shifting contents keeping it all from toppling over.

what an angel needs to hear

when they look down at you
and say 
i love the look on your face

they need to hear
that you love the look on their face too
because you know they are an angel
and because the look on their face
is the look of an angel
looking down on someone they love

they need to hear
that the look on your face
that they are loving
is the look of someone who knows 
they are being looked upon 
with love
by an angel

introduction for a song that does not exist

(to be given at my performance of songs that don’t exist)

this next song is about love and loss and longing

and it comes from one morning

that was the morning after another morning 

where the same thing happened

but where the true depths of that thing 

were not realized until the second morning

it comes from me being in the shower 

and realizing my neutrogena oil-free acne wash soap

you know the orange kind that comes in a pump-bottle

and is the the truest male distillation of all that is neutrogena

in that it is the most utilitarian and functional and basic

of the ever-expanding universe of neutrogena products

was sitting out on the bathroom sink

so far out of reach that there was no consideration

about getting out of the shower 

and doing that small side arcing diagonal shuffle step 

with the bathmat under both of my feet

stuck out towards the edges 

so i wouldn’t need to take 

too many shuffle scooches over to the sink 

so i wouldn’t drip all over the bathroom floor

or lose too much of the shower warmth

i had fought so long and hard already to soak up

and so there it was

sitting there on the far right edge of the sink ledge

for the second day in a row

because we were both somehow able to struggle through 

the jarring reality of the initial separation on the first day

and its jarringness was so complete 

that any possible thought about some kind of remedy

to this situation

say like moving the soap back into the shower

onto the fourth tier of the simplehuman stainless showercaddy

was not even the remotest of possibilities

we found ourselves there again on that second day

having scraped by the first day without feeling its sweet caress

without its ephemeral texture and gentle cleansing action

without its purifying and preventative powers

and then to find ourselves in that same situation

knowing we should have known better

knowing somehow we should have found the strength

or the foresight to somehow do something

to avoid this groundhoggian reprise

and that we had failed

and our separation was a compounded sort of bitterness

with a garnish of regret and self-chastening

and as I saw my neutrogena face soap looking back at me

with as much ennui as a pump-dispenser of soap can muster

through its fatalistic anguish and defeat

i could see a small fragrance-free orange tear of soap forming at its spout

and my initial response was one of sweet kindredness

since i had just begin to weep as well

but just as the tear of soap had softened the edge of my despair 

that same despair turned from a rounded edge that once was sharp

into a vast and torrid whirlpool of infinite regress and regret

because in that moment i understood 

that though i knew we were both expressing our sadness

in exactly the same manner

at exactly the same moment

the neutrogena face soap was unable to distinguish my tears

from the water cascading over my face 

from the chrome moen rainfall five setting showerhead

and its currently wall-mounted but hand-wieldable counterpart

on the opposite wall of the shower with their mutual full-blastedness

and in that moment i lived and learned 

the true nature 

of what it means to love 

and what it means to long for the presence of another

and what it means to see their heart breaking

without them being able to witness my exquisitely

complementary anguish

that, my friends, is what this song is all about.

an admittedly perhaps premature (perhaps purposefully so) review of John Green's "The Fault in our Stars"

It is rare for a book to spawn a review before i have completed it, and vastly rarer still to initiate such said spawnage after only a few chapters. This rarity is further compounded when a book causes facial confusion to such an extent, as The Fault in our Stars (by John Green), and although that is perhaps only a circumstantial effect, it is worthy of at least a small and timid note, and perhaps as equally timorous of a note would be that i am not sure where it was that i was pointed toward this book, but the fact that Marcus Zuszak (author of The Book Thief, which is like the best book ever written (and i mean that in the sense of it (if not being the best book ever written) being at least roughly similar to the best book ever written) gave it high praise in his backcover blurbage, which allowed me to skip to the side of my slight (insecure?) discomfort caused by the tag on the spine of the book (applied by the library staff) reading loudly “HIGH SCHOOL” and proceed to first deem the book a capable solo accompaniment to my first-thing-in-the-morning platelet donation appointment, and then secondly to delve into its pages as my strong coffee and chocolate chip cookies were delivered  (as i lay in my prone position with the needle lodged painlessly in my right median-cubital vein).

Soon after the apheresis machine completed its second return cycle, the aforementioned facial confusion began (scarcely before the second chapter had initiated), and at this point perhaps the Tums were brought to me only seconds too late to prevent the tingling in my lips (being that the Tums mitigate the oft-experienced side-effect of the citrate (which is added to the returning blood to prevent clotting)), but it was late enough that i could not completely invalidate the possibility of the causal nature of the citrate and its involvement in the increasing strange sensations i was noticing in my face (which had by this point expanded curiously into territories outside of my greater oral-lipular boundary).  Even if i was able to ascribe my somewhat-numb-lippiness to the citrate, I became more and more convinced that the other uncontrollable facial affectations could have some basis in the words that were being absorbed into the cellular matter of my brain.

Given this partial certainty, it was required that i rest the book upside down on my prop pillow (on top of the half-body heating pad and blanket installed to maximize my comfort and speed of donation cycle) and consider at least every few pages, what exactly it might be in these words that could cause such distinct and decentralized sensations in my facial topography.  Was it that the characters were “real” to me in some innovative manner?  Was it the parallel overlappage intersectedness between the lighthearted (in the most respectful manner possible (which is actually quite respectful)) description of children with cancer and the fact that i was currently involved in a donation process that was destined to benefit actual (non-fictional-book-based humans) cancer patients? Was i simply experiencing a hitherto unnoticed hormonal fluctuation that made me unaccustomed to these particular facial sensations?

After pondering these hypotheses, and multitudes of other possible explanatory directions, i resigned myself to simply reading the book and maximizing my enjoyment of it by somehow monitoring and possibly managing to keep my concurrent brain chatter to a minimum.  All of this being said, there remains the possibility that ultimately this (so far quite fine and distinguished) book will disappoint me, but if i allow myself to examine even that small fear, i am rebounded by the myopically hopeful belief that even that disappointment will be exactly what it is i wanted.

In closing, i would also like to thank my long-suffering wife, the pulchritudinous and otherwise also amazing Melissa Fuller, for allowing me to convince her away from the good computer and (mostly for my particular requirements) keyboard.  I formally and publicly apologize for insisting the usage would be quickly resolved, when i (if forced to consider my excessively wordy proclivities) would have to admit that perhaps i was less than totally unmisleading in my characterization of the timeframe required for the completion of this venture.  I shall struggle to make this up to you (along with the thousands of other tiny things i am already struggling to make up to you) until the instant at which i perish.