June Hymn

I live in words. Anyone that’s known me for more than five minutes knows this. I swim in them, I breathe them in and vomit them out. I float in a sea of words, both well-thought-out and spontaneous; accidental and purposeful. They come with ease, and difficulty, borne on wave of prattle, profundity…anxiety…hubris.

I share words on paper, on the screen, aurally and unspoken. I shared them here, off and on for a while, at least. Shared them with you, reading this here (Maybe for the first time, maybe for the 30th).

And then I stopped. I ran out of words. Or rather, I…I…

Perhaps I had too much to say–too much, too deep, too raw, too incoherent, too much feeling, too much, too much, too much…too little skill to say all the things, to use my words to heal myself, help myself, hurt myself, bring myself peace, comfort, quietus…anything.

I just…stopped. None more words.

Somewhere, in that respite of verbiage, so much changed, so very fast, so may things that I had no more words to give, none that really mattered, it sometimes seems. Somewhere in all of that change, the seasons changed. The leaves turned from green to orange, yellow and brown–suddenly, I find that I’m in the Fall of my life, the long, tumultuous Summer passed with little ceremony, and less fanfare.

I was reminded recently that I used to have words, and that I could use them to capture this…this grief. Used them like some sort of balm–a soul salve that I could pour over my core to reach the grief, the anger, the sorrow, the joy, the empty scarred hollows that sometimes sit behind my eyes and deep inside my chest, reaching up around my shoulders and squeezing like an angry giant, determined to get the most out of a me-shaped lemon.

So, here I am, attempting to sup on words, so that I can find a way to describe the beautiful colors of now, of my life’s Fall. I want to celebrate this season that I now find myself in, to collect these greens, and oranges, and yellows, and browns and gold. I need to discover new words to find all the gold, bind it to memory, because, as the poet wrote “nothing gold can stay.”

The gold can’t stay, and I want to embrace it before it’s time to grieve again. Before I run out of words again.

Before I just stop.

Here, I bear words. Here I celebrate my Autumnal Nativity. Here I stand among the falling leaves, in this moment, here and now. But first, let me say goodbye to my Summer; not with a dirge, but with a hymn, sweet and solemn. A song of thanks, and sorrow; a hymn of love and blessings for that sweet June child that grew into September’s Wayfarer.

Wild Is The Wind (2)(.2)

[This poem was originally posted as part of the Prescribing Joy series on the former The Monster In Your Closet blog on October 10, 2016 as Wild Is The Wind (2).]

We all spend so much time
trying to find happiness in the world
that we are blinded to it
sitting there
like so much dross on a dusty shelf,
when there is gold to be found
in the everyday,
in the mundane,
in life:

The smell of fresh cut grass on a summer day
The smell of the dust, just as it starts to rain;
The laughter brought on a truly terrible,
ill timed fart;

The satisfaction of rescuing
that one piece of meat that’s
been stuck between two back molars
for the better part of the day,
after Sunday Brunch,
having only used the dexterity of your tongue,
and creative suction;

Home improvement shows;

Finishing the final brush stroke,
on a set of miniature fantasy soldiers
just as the movie you had playing in the background
resolves its audible crisis, rolls credits,
and plays music to exit a theater by;

Your dog coming over to you,
unbidden
on your lowest day,
and putting his head on your knee;

A kiss on your cheek in the middle of the night
from your love,
followed by a half murmured comment to
someone in a dream,
followed by stolen covers and soft snores;

A half naked child waking you up at 3:41 am
on a Tuesday morning,
to find solace in the warmth
that is buried somewhere
deep within the cavity of your nose–
so deep that only a child’s foot can free it;

Twenty-Five undisturbed minutes in the bathroom;

Handwritten correspondence in the mail,
your name scrawled across the front;
Clearing off a long littered desk;
A good cup of coffee;

Driving home in loud silence
after an overwhelmingly
Not Quiet day;

An Ice cold glass of water on a fall morning;

The moment of removing
sock, then shoe,
sock, then shoe,
and then flexing your feet;

Putting on a clean pair of jeans
that you’ve not worn for weeks,
putting your hand in the pocket
and finding a five dollar bill;

Hugs, and smiles, and laughs,
and memories of baby teeth;
tiny toes on children;

Music, played too loud,
from car speakers,
with the windows rolled up,
so no one hears your singing along badly to
Counting Crows,
Tony! Toni! Tone!
The Clash
L.L. Cool J
La Traviata;

Going to bed tired,
laying your head down on a cool pillow
and letting sleep devour you,
one molecule at a time,
only to have that one moment,
that singularity
of knowing the answer is–

Crying, sometimes;
Laughter;
Stillness;

Sitting on the porch,
on any given afternoon,
watching people going about their day,
their ordinary day.

Eyes looking at you with love;
and watching them close,
and flutter to sleep;

So many little things,
lying around our world
like so many wild horses
waiting to carry us off,
(holding on for dear life,)
cackling like school children
overflowing with tiny
triumphant
joy.

Keeping The Faith

Deep in the night,
In between bouts of hope and despair
When wondering if there will be a break in
The Clouds
or just a slight let up in the deluge–
I turn my eyes towards the heavens
and wonder how much They need to
fire us within the forge
before we’re ready enough
to be pounded,
folded,
sharpened,
hardened,
into A Useful Tool;

(Not that there aren’t enough Tools to go around–)

To mix metaphors in mid-stream,
a wise woman once told me
(and now I often quote)
that sometimes you have to touch the bottom
of the pool,
way in the deep end,
frightened,
unsure,
lungs bursting for air,
so that your toes can find purchase,
fold,
and push off,
sending you kicking towards the surface;

I wonder,
these days,
what I’ll find waiting up there,
when I take my first big breath,
and how much,
and who,
I’ll have to fight
when I get my fingers to the edge of the pool.

Einstein On The Beach

Some nights the dog has nightmares and it keeps you awake,
because he hollers and thrashes and squeals
like a drunken twenty-one year old getting their first piece of ass
in the car parked outside your bedroom window on a
Tuesday night;
Sometimes the dog has nightmares and it keeps you awake
because he’s just one room over
from the kid that’s coughing and coughing
in his sleep
tossing and turning like a theoretical physicist
riding the waves of a chilly Atlantic Ocean
while contemplating the nature of a piece
of light;
Some night the dog has nightmares and it keeps you awake,
not because you’re laying in bed,
but because you’re scared to step over him,
relieving him of the sleep that he has earned
by his being,
That you are jealous of;
Some nights I want to pass out and forget that I’m who I am,
and chase cars, or cats
or go running in the night trying to catch that one last
scent of the black and white cat that’s falling off in the distance
into the sun
into the shallow sand
into the water
into the night
where soft paws meet soft air
and drift off to where nightmares and dreams and wakefulness
aren’t much more than a bad refrain
in the insomniac’s
meandering blog post,
Written
between sips of beer
and incautious drops of tears.

Dry The Rain

It’s been one of the wettest winters on record in the Greater Los Angeles Area this year, and though the sun has stuck its head out to say hello, it doesn’t look like it’s going to slow down any time soon.

The garage floods.  The local jogging track and soccer pitch remains mostly underwater.  The back doormat has little hope of ever drying out.  The lawn is green with clover and little yellow wildflowers.

We have large potholes growing where there were never any before.  There has been a shortage of galoshes for little kids. Duckboots have come sneaking out from the deep clothing collections of East Coast transplants.  People stare at my trench with outward envy.

The drought is over.  Again.

My wife looks at the overcast days with relish, smiles and declares “Oh my gawd, I LOVE this weather!  It reminds me of Oregon!”  It reminds me of my love-hate relationship with “rainy season.”

My shoulder (which I separated on a rainy day six years ago) aches most of the time now.  The doors and windows are often closed against the cold and wet.  The sun peeks out often enough that double rainbows rule the sky.  The sky remains clear of smog most days, so that if you stand in the right spot on certain streets you can see clear from the port of Long Beach to the Hollywood sign.

I have an excuse to loudly play every song that has to do with rain that I own.

The overcast days always make me think my time in New Haven, where it seemed to rain all the time–Summer, Spring, Winter or Fall.  Rain with high heat and humidity, Rain with with cold, or Freezing Rain, just to mix it up.

In Southern California, we get sudden “Oh, whoops, I forgot to check the weather report so I’m going to be late to work!” kind of rain.  In LA, we get “Oh, hi!  it’s God here, and you kids have been dry for so long, that here’s three year’s worth of Sky Water in two weeks–y’all should really work on that climate change thing so we don’t have to do this” kind of rain.  It comes in weird waves of sideways, and soft annoying sprinkles, and pretty puddle making spouts; we get sunny sky sprinkles, and big breaks of Summer Skies in winter followed by typhoon-worthy downdrafts that vanish to clear skies as soon as you’re properly dressed.

My dog and my sons sometime track mud inside.

I sometimes stand in the doorway and just watch and listen as it falls, coating the earth, overwhelming the ground so it runs off down the street, to the drains, and out to sea. I listen to it as it taps on the roof, and echoes on the heater and stove vents, pinging off of the aluminum.

The other day, after I dropped off the kids, I found a parking spot near a park we used to go to and sat in the car.  It had been raining for something like 3 days straight.  I was under-slept, over-tired, stressed out, and just emotionally drained.  My shoulder ached, and I was angry at something, and the rain was coming down in sheets.  I sat in the car and screamed, wailed and let the tears come down.

After a few minutes, I got myself under control, wiped my face and got out of the car.  It stopped raining and the cool wind pushed me forward.  I stepped in a puddle, rubbed my shoulder and walked towards the coffee shop, and a different view.

Cities In Dust

“African boys and girls
Set down your Nintendo joysticks right now
Unplug the television
And make way for an old vision
Which will now be a new vision…”

–Arrested Development, “Children Play With Earth“

We went outside today.

Earlier this week, after a wonderful day, full of friends and excitement, a family that has been friends with my family for nigh on 4 years now, gifted us their  water table–one of those play stations made to Rube Goldberg a trickle of water to splashing fun and amazement for the under eight year old set.  Both the kids were over the top excited by the prospect of going out to the back patio of our rented bungalow and playing in the water:  pouring, splashing and dancing like staff-burdened nymphs of lore and mythology.

The kids went outside, and pounced on the water table.  While they were appropriately distracted, I put out a couple of chairs, a small table, and the pop-up awning.  We had lunch (or rather, I trotted between back porch and kitchen while the kids had lunch), and later, I sat and tried to read a well loved novel while they played.

They played outside.

They played outside in the dirt, in the water, and on the Mons Pubis patch of green that we call our back lawn.  They played outside, dug into the Earth, and filled the little table with dirt, and leaf; blossom, and rock; until the little blue table turned brown with silt, and dust, and lord knows what else; it filled with giggles and dust, and they built a hut, a city, a town of brown liquid, and steeples of mud.

They giggled.  They shrieked.  They laughed.  They smiled.  They ate, and (to my parental horror? Joy?) supped on the mud.  They played with Earth and Water and bathed in sunshine, and wind, and danced on concrete and stone for Mother Nature’s delight.

There is a wonderous permanence in how children play–all children–any children.  Go to a park, or playground, or field, or amusement park or backyard and watch (but don’t be creepy).  There is violence, and joy, and raw humanity in their play:  It embraces, and echoes nature–even if they seek to control it–the forces are ones we see in all the animals of God’s creation–rough, and tumble, and oral, and dirty, and fast, and visceral, and loud, unabashed, tentative and playful, personal; honest and raw.

The children build their kingdoms of dust, level them (sometimes at odds) rebuild them, better, or walk away, or forced away; or even better, they bring in others to include them on the game, expanding, embellishing, learning and creating…

My sons are asleep now, dreaming of what landscape, I can’t say.  The younger one twitches from time to time, his face impassive, an occasional soft laugh escaping his slumbering lips; the eldest one tossing and turning, calling out wordlessly, until he wakes, and sleep-drunk, stumbles to the bathroom.

“Daddy? Daddy…can you get me some water?” He asks walking to me, not fully awake, nor fully asleep.

“Sure, baby,” I answer, leaving my writing.  “Go crawl back into bed.”

I go get his cup, fill it halfway, make my way through the mine field of toys and hand it to him.  “Here, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Dad.”  He says, almost to someone else, as he takes the cup and gulps deep; his eyes never fully reaching wakefulness.

He hands me the cup with one hand, and grabbing my arm with the other, pulls me close, plants a kiss on my cheek and asks, “Can you stay here for a while and watch me, Dad?”

“Sure, for a little bit, son,” I whisper, trying not to rouse the other one from his slumber.  I softly pat the older kid’s back, and he grabs my elbow in a vice grip:  “I love you Daddy, don’t leave.”

I stand there, next to his bunk bed, patting his back until his grip lightens, releases and slides to his side like so much muddy water off a sun baked piece of plastic toy on an otherwise ordinary summer day.

Aluminum

The dog is snoring loudly from his spot in front of the kid’s bookshelf.  He stops momentarily, wakes, and looks around to me, trying to figure out why my fingers are click, click, clicking over the keys so damn late at night.  He licks his paws, loudly, until I tell him to stop, and then, he curls his head tightly into his thigh and goes back to snoring.

I sit here, click, click, clicking through links, and posts, and videos, reading, responding, browsing–avoiding.  I should be asleep, or at the least, washing the dishes, but I’m doing none, and neither, and wasting valuable time of anything else.

I contemplate my weight in recyclables–which I know makes no sense–but I wonder, were I made of metal, or plastic, or glass, how much I’d be worth if you crushed me down like so much aluminum foil and sold me to one of those places that pays for your used cans.  What would my value be, then?

These days I sometimes feel like that said same tin foil–a shiny side, and a dull side–a lame conductor of electricity, unable to do more than reflect the heat from another source–crinkly and malleable, able to take on the shape of whatever you fit me to; to line, to cover, and contain.

Leftovers.   Doggie bags.  Swans full of bread and the last tasty dregs of an expensive meal.

I remember watching Pee-Wee Herman’s TV show, way back in the day;  how he would get all giddy about finding a piece of tin foil.  He would straighten it out flat, and then haul out his impossibly gigantic ball of aluminum foil and add the piece to the ever growing shell of the shiny-dull boulder.

“Ha! Ha! That’s soooo cooool!” Pee-Wee would shout in that half high pitch, half growl dork voice before switching into his trademark high pitch Man-Boy tones.

He would wave and holler “See ya later Giant Foil Ball!” before rolling the unwieldy aluminum sphere back to it’s unseen hiding place–just off camera–before moving on with the show, and the next piece of artful non-sense.

Alibi

I’ve been something close to radio silent
clinging onto hope beyond hope
That I’d find something akin to words
Or posture
that would breathe life into the space
that pretends to be my face,
my tongue,
my voice;
But I’ve found nothing
but a sticky SHIFT button
and a wall full of excuses
akin to nothing but my own in-ability
to be nakedly honest
about what my fingers want to type,
my heart wants to scream,
and my shoulders are willing to bear;

I play with my kids,
watch some TV,
make love to my wife,
clean, eat, shit, smile
cough, boo, cook,
read, apologize
alibi;

I drink (sometimes too much)
walk the dog; act surprised,
re-arrange books on the shelf,
chase mice,
build invisible boxes around my gut
watch the clock,
listen to music,
wish for a future better,
love the world just at much,
as I hate its guts;

I hunt fictional animals
in an app
that lets me socialize
and exercise
at the same time,
because my liver is tired,
but my feet crave a hike;

But the truth is,
when the children are asleep,
the wife is asleep,
the world is asleep,
and all I have is the darkness,
the night,
the still and the keyboard,
I’ve got nothing left to share,
but alibis–

And now, at this moment,
I find that I’m fresh out of those, too.

Make You Better

There are only so many words a man can peck out on a keyboard before he begins to sound trite, even to himself.  There are only so many similes and metaphors and rondos that one can twist ink or graphite to; the numbers are finite, and singular, and…and…

---

I’ve had a cold for the last few days–nothing serious–just “that thing” that’s been going around. My littlest one had it for a week or so, and being the one that spends the most time with him, it seemed that I’d be the most likely candidate to catch it next; the cold obliged.

I spent most of today curled up on the couch, my son cuddled to me like the breathing ball of love that he is; YouTube videos for toddlers shining through the TV.  I spent most of the previous day curled up on my mom’s couch; my son bouncing around her house, playing with Gramma, giggling, shouting, singing, laughing at the cloud-covered Sun.

I spent the whole of last week feeling inadequate, wanting only to make my child feel better, make my wife less stressed, my eldest son feel joy–make me feel better.

My son feels better.

---

I wrote a letter last week, mailed it.  Wrote another one this week, and due to illness, it’s sitting waiting for the post.  There were stories read, thoughts had, hugs given, noses wiped, games played, sleep had, albeit, restless.

I’ve easily had a couple of gallons of coffee over the last few weeks, a liter of whiskey, and at least a foot of water in my (rented) garage.  I worked a couple of weeks, listened to a few days worth of audio books, captured about sixty-four Pokemon.  I’ve watched a few weeks worth of TV, put out about a dozen tweets, and visited with friends maybe three or four times.

I’ve put together a bunch of Ikea shelves, cleaned up some of the house, put together one bunk bed, and have washed dishes until I just can’t look at the sink anymore. I can change a child’s bed without fully waking up to do it.

I want to feel better.

I knew I was coming down with the cold when I started feeling sleepy at 9  p.m.  I’m never sleepy at 9 p.m.  Then the vivid, stress driven anxiety dreams, and talking in my sleep.  Waking up with that annoying tickle in the back of my throat.  The headache.  The fatigue.  Looking into the mirror and seeing a wreck.  My wife asking, “are you OK?”  My mom saying “I can hear it in your voice.” My oldest son suddenly being all cuddly–which might also mean he just want something, but I’m counting this towards me being sick–this time.

---

I haven’t written anything in a while.  Nothing complete, or worth sharing. I’ve started three or four different essays, but they’ve all stalled.  I got so far down the path of writing, and then stalled–my thoughts, my writing seemed tired.  The thoughts were coming too quick, the words not quick enough, and I couldn’t…couldn’t

I wanted to be better.

I’d started writing one thing about feeling inadequate about helping other people–how I honestly couldn’t do the things I wanted to towards helping those that needed help–even if that help was giving hope–just simple hope.  I started writing another thing about failing with words and failing with actions.  I started writing about the dogs that I’ve kept as pets over the years, and how they live to love, but never grow out of it–eternal loving toddlers–with fangs and claws, and the ability to wake themselves to battle with their own farts.

I wanted to be better.

---

I lay on the couch, feeling winded, lethargic; my head throbbing, and my joints feeling thick and stiff.  The little one crawled on stomach, and laid his head on my chest and, taking my hands in his little ones, wrapped my arms around him as he did the same to me.

“I’m sorry Daddy doesn’t feel good, baby.” I said.

“I hug you to make you better, Dad.” He said.

And for a moment, I did.

Midnight Radio (3)

The blackness of space is translucent.  It’s a window that allows light of all different wavelengths and frequencies to pass through it without impediment.  The light comes at you through the vast void so fast (or slow) that it can travel through time; piercing light that is decades, millennia old.

That blackness is neither window, or door; it’s just absence.

I’ve had the fortune of going out to the places where you can look through that great nothing (everything) and just staring, studying–losing myself–in the truly awesome:  the curve of the sky; the sharp brightness of the stars; the seemingly endless nature of the night time sky; the madness of contemplation of infinity.

I imagine that that blackness is silent; there is no air to let sound swim through waves and to my ear.  Pure, unrequited silence.

I’ve written myself into a corner.  I have nothing to say about silence.  Or space.  Or darkness or light.  I have no words.  I have only gravity–heavy weighted full force of gravity pulling my shoulders, and my gut, and my head and my chest, and my spirit.

I tire.

My dog stares at me from his bed, licks his lips, yawns, shifts his position in the little round sanctuary  and lays his head back on his paws.

The boys are in their room, strewn across their beds and floor, tangled in sheets and toys and they grow in their sleep.

My wife sleeps, wrapped around a pillow, fighting to stay asleep.

The radio is on.

‘Cause I’m just holding on for tonight
Oh, I’m just holding on for tonight

I get up and mix a drink.  I had too much coffee earlier; I didn’t have enough sleep the night before and need to combat it and push fatigue down into nothingness.

The Translucent Blackness.

I find myself wanting to be sitting on a deserted island in the middle of the ocean, staring up at the infinite sky, contemplating…

Could I be a better father? Could I be a better husband?  A better friend?  A better patriot?  A better human?  A better man?  More patient, more Black, more successful? Could I be more accountable?  Fearless?  Cautious?  Callous?  Indifferent?  Fearful?  More alone?

Could I feel more alone?

I have words.  I am often filled up with words.  But I don’t have the right ones for anyone these days.  Child, wife, friends, myself.  I’m drowning in words–from others–and choking on my own.  Choking on words and phrases like:

The Translucent Blackness.

The clock says it’s a minute after midnight.  The dog needs to go out. I need sleep; I need to find a way to get rest when I just want to pop and overflow–preferably before the two and a half year old gets up.

I leave the radio on, albeit softly.  I want to see what it plays as I go outside, let the dog take a shit, and then try and contemplate things bigger than me.