Closer

She looked like she was already gone with white sheets concealing her whole body except for her head which was a mask of Frederick Douglass' hair and Dizzy Gillespie's cheeks

And yet when she opened her one-toothed mouth to let out a shrill sequence of inaudible screams she resembled the cover of “In the Court of the Crimson King”

She wasn't herself

Still in her delirium she recognized my face amidst a patchwork infinity as if I was a black tree in a far-away forest as she fell further and further from Angel Falls as a decomposing mist closer and closer minute by minute approaching the River Permanence  

Playground

We grew up together, played with each other in the sand right next to the slide. That was dangerous, I suppose.

No. No more than when I watched Travis push you on the swing – higher and higher as if you were going somewhere, while in reality he was just pushing you away.

Nick wasn't any better with you on the monkey-bars, always running before you while you hung on for dear life, your hands aching and chaffing with a misplaced pious patience as your legs dangled above a mulch-covered tomb. Always running before you, always the cheater.

And after all that, you settled for Matt, whom I've never seen face to face. The two of you have shared so many ups and downs that I've never seen more than his profile. No walks around the park. No sitting on the bench, gazing into the setting autumn sun. Just see-sawing, jack-knifing, aberrant sexing.

Meanwhile, the sun is setting on your son. I hold him close to me in the twisted tufts of grass, to the right of the slide, across from the dead azaleas, all encircled by mulch. Though his eyes reflect his parent's imbalance, I spy the length of sixteen summers in the horizon. I pray it's enough to protect him from the longest winter.

April

Rain-filled days keep my

Malaise ablaze paradox

Winter's humid haze

Driving through the Dining Room

It seems like yesterday when my sister and I sat in Aunt Barb and Uncle Greg's kitchen, giggling while we peeked at Ms. Jackie and Mr. Greg Jr. on the loveseat in the living room as they lasciviously locked lips behind an outspread newspaper.  It wasn't long before they married and had two gigglers of their own.

It was just yesterday when I saw Greg Jr. in the far corner of Chick-Fil-A while I waited on my #1 with a peppermint shake.  His face was taut, slightly wrinkled, and listless like the obituary section of a rained-on newspaper.  

I looked at him knowingly, both of us stuck in an alternate reality.  No loveseat.  No carpet.  No home-cooked meal.  Hard booths.  Floor tiles.  Plastic trays.  Flower vases at every table - unnecessary garnishes - just like divorce papers. 

Vamos

You have a nice-looking family. Have a pleasant day.




As the ebony man with the lazuline LA Dodgers cap and dark sunglasses saunters up Saint Paul Street, I wonder if his mystique is that of one cool dude or a clairvoyant.

We've always been a nice-looking family, if not always a cohesive one.

    My silence

        Mother and sister's constant bickering and backlash due to their similarities

            Father's silence

        My silence and father's silence

                                                                                  Slammed doors

                 Raised voices

                                                                   The Paddle

                                                                                                          The Bible

    Mother said I stopped smiling when I was six

        Mother said sister and I would be heartbreakers one day

                                                  Father wasn't always quiet with the ivory women

    Mother's tears make me murderous

Sister and I will likely never marry and will kill the family line

But we've stayed together. We wait with others in the rain for the Bolt Bus. Mother stands under the shelter of sister's umbrella so the rain doesn't mingle with her tears. Father's sun-yellow hat keeps him dry. I'm wet and ready to go. But sister is the only one leaving – to Argentina. She wishes to visit as many Spanish-speaking countries as possible while I want to mold this melting pot mess of a country in my hands. We're married to the move. We go and we go and we go.

Hasta luego, little blackbird. Vaya con Dios.

The Phase

It was another Christmas night and dad and I took another drive to see the moon.  Her wispy silver, black, and white hair was radiantly wrapped around its cold surface, revealing the ever-sinking craters its face.
Ever needing attention.  Ever needing the closeness of a star or some other such relative.
We took it home with us - a huge burden because she basically had no legs.
We fed it food - a failure because she basically had no teeth.
We talked to it - a tough time because her attention
span was shorter than the distance light
travels from one end
of the kitchen
to the
next.


On the return trip it whined, writhed, and waned in the confusing mist
of callous clouds that once gave way to her confident clarity
as she shone over a city's gang of generations.
Winter becomes darker by the day.
Were she more like the sun.

Harvest

The great autumn wrath whisked through overnight


          and the wind is still a sonofabitch
          and the trees are swaying silhouettes
          and the leaves are falling like snow
          and the ground is red yellow orange
          and there is reason without a rhyme
          and there is honesty that lies in earth
          and there is the organ-culling scythe
          and there is my carcass in the bale


The great spring sponge will splash my soul one morn


          and the thaw will be a sonofabitch