Bald

We went to dinner, which apparently is what everyone else does on an ordinary weekday night. We sat in a booth, my daughter and wife across from me.

Dad look. Dad look,”

pointing passed me.

a bald guy!

you know, I say, some day I could be bald.

But I don’t want a bald father!


Always Love

there’s always love available. our job is to find it. when we are stuck looking for where its not we won’t find it. only when we commit ourselves to finding the love that’s available, even in impossible situations, will we be able to find it.

Some trees are already bare, and the leaves that remain, may well remain until next year. When a breeze ripples the giant sequoias, they whisper to each other the lost ancient name of loss and pain
—My love, are you awake?

and the dog down the street sounds the trumpet, and the oboe in the moon soaked starless sky whirs from far to near to far

How I Know

How I Know

Lately I’ve noticed
her noticing the ex-
pressions on my face
when I read to her at
night. She watches my
face almost as closely
as the pictures on the
page. She un-scrunches
my scrunched-up fore-
head and smiles at my
smile. Is this trans-
mission? I think so.
This is how I know
she’ll love
reading too.

Creation Creating (A Love Poem)

I thought about you,
when you were so tiny,

and how there was
no way I could
have imagined you’d
be the spark
you are today—

though why would I’ve wanted to?
you were perfect then, and
anything you turned out to be
would’ve been perfect too.

I couldn’t help
but realize, while
you pointed out
that a framed-collage
had no baby pictures
of you —

just you’re brother,
that at some point
you’ll take these kinds
of things and twist them

into the kind of pain,
and hurt
that drives us apart,
and then I laughed

because that’s just
part of the process —
of life.

You’ll need that pain,
to bring you back ’round again,

and no matter
what I do
to keep it away from you,
you’ll create it,
as I have,
as we all do.

Do you hear that voice
that voice that wants to
break things apart, smash them up—

that’s the spark of creation creating

As it Happens

I’m alive, am I alive. a(lye) ive. I’m alive. a(lie) ive. am I alive. a(lye) ive. I’m alive. a(lie) ive, so a live. I’m alive, am I alive.


x3


I sit here waiting for good things to happen, and when they finally do I don’t even think for a second that they might be because of my good actions, it’s just something good that happens to me. Instead of something that I created on the merit of my effort. I don’t give myself any credit, but for the bad, I always take credit for the bad things. Always take credit for the bad.


As it happens to me I sit here and I can’t believe, am I doing this, am I watching the blood flow right out of me, could this be how it happens. It happens. And I lie there on the floor spleen spilling out, carpet soaked. I’ve lost all filters, my stomach on the floor. Here I think, this is it, this is really happening. It happens. When you spend your whole life watching, you never live. You’ll never live again. And I think how stupid I look, laying on the floor dying, how stupid. How embarrassed am I. I didn’t hug her, like I meant. I didn’t tell him, with a look in the eyes. As it happens, I’m already dead.

The World’s Dad (Sunhands)

Sometimes I think about wrapping my arms around everyone I see. Give the world a great big hug. Tell you all I’m sorry for not being there, for leaving you stranded, so all alone. But, dad’s here now. I got a little caught up in all that I smote, then I tried to keep you from seeing your mom. I shouldn’t have, she needs you. Sometimes I think about giving everyone I see a big hug. I’m here now; I’ll even be here while you sleep, and when you wake. Hold my hand, we’re crossing the street, the street filled with buzz bombs whirring, but don’t worry, we’ll get through it, we’ll make it to the other side. Sometimes I think, I could be the world’s dad, I’d embrace you with soft eyes, to let you know that you’re accepted. I’m a modern man now, and a modern dad. We all have it in us to give; that could be the power we seek, that could be our value we speak.


After reading SIT ON MY LAP, I’LL SHOW YOU HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Spirals

Wood woven spirals, like snails climbing leaves. Green like the shell of young fruit or nut. What do you harbor, is it friend or is it foe? It seems to take the will of the tree, and shape it to its own advantage. The stem has been flattened, pulled, and worked into a spiral. Is this a sign of attack, or a symbol of love making? Inside the cracked shell, a husk, perhaps a fallen soldier defending his colony. How might something so tiny exert such strength? These adversaries of trees are seldom seen, except by way of birds hanging around during mealtime. Fallen leaves fall and helicopter to the ground. Splitting the green seashell in half, setting aphids, as well as the tree, free. Perhaps the tree is defending itself, trying to restore balance. But the chewed, splotchy leaves indicate that it only initiates the spiraling cycle all over again.



This is the work of the Poplar spiral gall aphid (’cause I don’t do Latin). Apparently it is specific to this species of tree, so the relationship is truly unique. Which made me wonder at the battle, or if there really is a battle at all, seeing as there is a relationship that only occurs between these two, perhaps the tree is also gaining in some way! I discovered this at work and did the best I could to observe and came up with the poem above. Of course I wanted more information and specifics. While looking at the “gall” as I was to find out, at first I thought that it was some kind of symbiosis as the stem is what forms the casing. But after glancing through the wiki article it seems that it is actually genetically modified, somehow, by the little larvae inside! Pretty crazy nature at work here.

Sweet Sweet



O! my sweet sweet. Remember when I was your right hand, guiding the rhythm (of course) and you were my left, providing the melody. We played such sweet harmonies. Or was it dissonance, and only the two of us that heard it harmonizing? O my! scattered potting soil on the dining room table, singing such a short refrain.