February 2, 2009

4,893, 322, 402 people probably wouldn't

care if I died tomorrow, wouldn't read it in

the paper or hear it from a  friend.

They wouldn't send flowers or light a 

candle.  They wouldn't call my parents or 

friends and tell them about the great sense

of loss they didn't feel and how God 

does and doesn't work in mysterious ways.

If I had a list of them I think I would find them

in their cramped apartments and beachside

condos.  I would introduce myself, careful to 

pronounce my first and last names with an

unfolding clarity.  Sure that they could recite

both first and last with linguistic dexterity,

I would beat them without mercy.  Blood

fisted and unyielding I would continue to scream

my name. As I walked away I would shout it

again over my shoulder, just to make sure.

I'm sure when they hear I've passed, they will be 

consumed with a great sense of joy. and then, of course,

there will only be 4,893,322, 401.

February 1, 2009

Don't worry about me,
they say I'm a fighter.

I've got big blood
pumping in these syringe
signed veins and vines
that twist up and out
of my arms like ivy.

My father put me chin
first into a 1963 Thunderbird
when I was 13.
It was the first car
I stole after he died.

My mother never looked
me in the eye, always bent-
necked with my father
pulling down her chin.

Now that he's gone,
I keep one hand on
her back and the other
on her chin.

I hope she understands
that I do it because
I'm a fighter, because
I've got this big blood,
because if I didn't,
I wouldn't know where
to put my father's
sandpaper hands.

In Memoriam: Douglas Brooks

I was in one of your lecture classes
Three hundred students stacked like
Dominoes in a classroom that once
Belonged to Biology. You came in the
First day and wrote in frantic letters
"Country Matters." By the end of the
Lecture you led us to worship at the womb
Of an abstinent queen. So were the
Wild adventures of all your students.

Almost a decade later, lining up
Dominoes of my own, I can't help
But think of the electricity of it all,
How like lightening we were occasionally
Struck. How for the rest of the
Semester we would gather around the
Tallest poles, hoping to be hit again.

I didn't get the chance to tell you,
So I'll say it in memoriam, but we're all
Still here, penitent at your feet, quiet
For the next light that escapes your lips.

We have grown in number over
The years, not just adding by semester,
But recruiting beyond your classrooms.
We are now armed to the throat ,
Hungry for the moment when we, your
Unexpected army, will turn this war around.

January 30, 2009

The human body is not

something I readily understand.

It is not something that

I can hold in the kitten paws

of my nimble brain.

Have you recently thought about 

the rocks in your mouth, 

the little osteo-pebbles that crown

your meaty tongue.

Have you pondered what they would 

feel like if you held them 

like marbles in your hand.  What they

would taste like if you tried

to chew them like a clove of garlic.

And these, these are just teeth, the 

people's party of the bone world.

The teeth are for everyone.  Imagine

now the little ladder of your spine,

your patella and how it sits like

a small yarmulka on your holy knee.

What ape man, with club and heavy brow

first found a full skeleton outside the skin?

What would you have done if you were

responsible for attending the same

puzzle of a person?

I would like to say with my intuition

and long history at my parents' holiday table,

I would assemble it with ease, but I think,

instead I would separate the pieces into

small piles, label this one "long,"

these "bended branches,"  the incisors 

"raindrops," the molars "white corn."

January 29, 2009

Bold, broad strikes, I think.

Ones that cover acreage on

this funny field of a canvas.

That was my year, today.

Soft, smooth scrapes in un-

expected directions, enough to

change the scene's momentum.

That was my year, today.

Pin-thin scrawls on the edges of color,

on the sides of the sheep skin stretched

tight across the wood.

That was my year, today.

Another thick slap of paint

pulled slowly with a taste of pennants

with a mouth of penance.

That will be my tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

January 28, 2009

How difficult it must be for a doctor

to simultaneously assess and tinker

with the bones and blood of a patient

while holding their psyche in a third hand.

The auto mechanics of the world do not

need same sex chaperones before checking oil

or testing catalytic converters.  They simply

break open the car like a wristwatch, just

careful enough to get the cogs back in place.

It is not this way with doctors, no.

When they break you open it is an egg,

and though their primal interest is just

the yolk, its viscosity, its color, they must

be careful not to damage the shell, patient

to weave its glass skin together if it cracks.

I am glad I'm not involved in such delicate things

what with my naturally buttery fingers, my

shortage of arms, and my overwhelming affinity

for things that are broken.

January 27, 2009

List of things to do based on John O'leary's sonnet

1. Incorporate boxing into my everyday life.
2. Eat oregano, not as a garnish, but as a meal.
3. Shoplift from stores that seldom see the deed,
Pottery Barn, Lowe's, a Toyota dealership
4. Take off my shirt in public, when sufficiently
comfortable, remove pants.
5. Invade an unsuspecting country, while
brandishing a Swiss flag. I think we all agree
it's time they stood up from the sidelines.
6. Walk on my hands once and for a very short time
just to appreciate how rugged my feet really are.
7. Learn to Charleston, in case I'm ever in South Carolina.
8. Hire trumpets, enter to fanfare.
9. Lie about my whereabouts, not to important
people or even people who ask. Call a stranger
and just tell them I'm in Hawaii or Mauritius.
10.Blow in the phone so it sounds like the ocean.