I find her this way

face drawn in deep concern, something being turned over in her mind -- the memory of a lost loved one? pain over a relationship in transition? I find her this way in Walgreen's, feet set apart, body pulled back, staring at the chocolate rack in the candy aisle.

end of an era

My last day at the office,
trying to say goodbye to callers,
lying, saying,
"Au revoir" instead.

Scribble notes to myself on the backsides of used notebook paper --
RE: autobiography --
make it true, but make it sad....
No,
make it sadder than sad...but funny!

Lettie calls
three times,
once to talk about her cats and then to say goodbye,
a second time to say goodbye again,
a third, to hear me say, "Hello, this is Marc..." and then hang up.

I am reading a poem out of "The Big Book of Daniel".
I read, "Didn't I, your thief of thieves, your dream thief,
Share sleepless nights, mumble in the moonlight,
'Reach for the sky?'"

sparkler

There is something intimate
about holding a sputtering, silver sparkler
while on your balcony
at night,
alone,
on the 4th of July.

My case manager had put the idea in my head –
“No plans for the 4th?
Come on, Marc,
light a sparkler or something.”

Truth is, at 44,
I had never lit one.

When we were kids
(it always starts with “when we were kids”, doesn’t it?,
as if past parental negligence could explain
why we are lame today.)
When we were kids,
my sister and I weren’t allowed sparklers,
not even matches;
no snap dragons, let alone bottle rockets…

(…so of course only my best friend knew of my pyrotechnical propensities,
honed in the back yard on the stones
with wispy, flying Kleenex’s, alive with flame, floating toward the house,
and little plastic cupfuls of kerosene spilt over the rocks and then set afire...)

Even a mama’s boy can get his hillbilly on at age 44 –
let that pyro out of the closet in a little 4th of July tribute,
share a moment with his inner child
on the balcony
with his lone starlight spewing against the darkness,

coincidentally,
at a time in his life when his love has finally become a thing to explore,
sweet strange strawberry
to be kissed
before tasted.

yeah, yeah boys

yeah, yeah boys

boys don’t really know
the secret of their wanting,
of summer girls in jean shorts
with long, chestnut hair
and sweat propped on their upper lips

but they do know that Aslan
and the Beatles
and expensive whiskey, stolen by the thimbleful
from Dad’s unlocked liquor cabinet
hold them…
(tumbling somersaults down
ravines they were warned to stay clear of)
…eye level with the mystery.

The Rescuing

You couldn’t force it in your life,
couldn’t change her for all your might,
your wisdom wasted, your heart fated
to scorn of angels, to fading light

Her own self grown older
her colors grown bolder,
you didn’t say what you needed
in the thousand times you told her

Name your poison,
choose your weapon
night, it reckons,
your voice, it beckons you home

You are the one this night will change
not the world, not its ways, not hers,
but for certain
your own

at the frequency of unmade babies

the naked branches of trees
float, reflected in the fluid
of forest pond,
the panorama of sky
drifts in the retina of a young man
thrown out into the world

by a father, wasting his allotment of humanity

couch-surfing in friends' basements;
he often walks the woods as penance
for faults not his own



but today,

stoned to the bone and amazed,

vibrating at the frequency of unmade babies

in the flux of womb waves,

of amniotic nirvana,

his awareness opens

to the scintillating energy around him,

a sparrow alights on a tree branch…



he stops

to count his breaths;

he deliberates

and then smiles…

he is remembering a time

when he was not breathing

as we do,

with lungs greedy and isolate,
when his heart was beating
in synch with another's,
with a mother’s,
to the rhythm of the Universe,
when all was well,
when she still knew possibility
and could feel
pain

OUT

Home bound

Stone ground

Laughing til it’s holy

Loving life only

One way down

From the upper room,

Climbing out

Your father’s womb,

All that noise

All that crying

Pop stars mop bars

Wrong way moon down a one way tomb

The light can’t see

The fingertip feel

Itself, it’s sealed

It sells

Like sex on Sunday,

Gloria Mundy,

Solomon Grundy

Driving a Hundai

One more word --

third eye groping,

And heaven opens --

OUT,

I am out,

Inside out

No doubt,

No dust clouds

Hanging over me

And I burn and am free

In the strange, incidental truth of it.