invisible keepsakes

Your hair, and what we found in it

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 01 Nov 2013 02:19:00 +0000

it was shorter, before.

now, it's long, and worn up,

in a tight bun,

or down,

across your shoulders.

and only when you're sleeping,

yr back turned,

and only when it's impossibly quiet,

and only if you move,

slowly,

and reach,

gently,

only then,

your fingers reaching deep inside,

will you find:

a clutch of friendly snakes,

7 tiny dinosaurs speaking french,

an explosion of pastel balloons,

each balloon tied to a string

of spun sugar.

Rainbows.

Seven single hairs,

More silver than gray,

Each cross-section of which

Contains 29 years of

technicolor yesterday's,

Woven, tight, in a bird's nest,

And inside,

Six robin's eggs,

Each opening infinitely

Like so many nesting dolls.

A pot of candied gold.

24 dreams of spectacular tomorrows.

Buckets and buckets

Of brimming promise.

Old cameras,

Rusty nails &

Broken flashbulbs.

2 dollars, 63 cents

(in Icelandic kronor).

A real, live jackelope;

a pint jar of powdered

(sustainably harvested) narwhal tusk.

And a million brilliant tomorrows,

Bundled neatly and ready to open,

As needed, some day when it's raining,

And the sun needs you.

Your house in the trees

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Sat, 29 Jun 2013 15:41:00 +0000

You live in bird houses, now;

I visit you there,

these late summer nights,

in the heights.

Brown bags & fire hydrants,

the constant chesty drone,

tiny rooms,

ice blue against the heavy green.

Are you happier there,

than you were before?

Still,

you're there when I close my eyes at night and open them in the morning and in the dreams, throughout.

You live in bird houses now.

I wish you'd fly away.

You've stained everything,

the things you've ruined.

I wish you wouldn't, and hope,

someday—you won't.

When you come down,

from your house in the trees,

and I read to you,

warbly, trembling, finally—

this life, without you.

You live in birdhouses now,

in the trees, in the thorns.

Look down.

There's magic, here,

too.

It was the wind, that woke us.

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 21:37:00 +0000

It was in the wind that woke us;

in the cold that lingered,

these months since.

Not yet gone,

and yet—

it was in the voice of birds,

their bitter song,

those early mornings,

running from memory,

from the reminders,

everywhere,

and yet,

there was nothing left.

A chill filled the air,

the rain misted down,

the darkness came,

and yet,

there was something left.

There had to be.

Or else,

"Why?"

Why?

To give again.

to give way—

to lusty abandon.

To chase,

to reach,

to fall short,

again.

And yet—

this prayer,

these lips,

this swollen tongue.

Our screams in the void,

never meeting,

never filled.

Lumps

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 15:33:00 +0000

It's waking up,

the uncomfortable bolus

there, again.

Swallow, turn it over,

push against tooth and gum.

Chew and swallow again.

Choke it down.

It stays in your throat,

Your chest.

It stays there, mostly,

rising on occasion,

pushed back throughout,

Until—

There's nothing you can do,

about your dreams.

Calcify, harden

& swell.

You wake,

indulge,

chew over,

swallow hard,

again,

and hope it keeps.

Oxytocin, someday, again.

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 01:50:00 +0000

"It's the dopamine,"

she said.

And she was right, but more than that—

the shock of seeing his thoughts, reflected.

Somewhere, behind her eyes,

an inner life that seemed

familiar.

That terrified.

He missed having an other.

Her smell, her touch—

The electric avenues,

the swelling horns

that seemed to rise

and fall,

with her presence.

And her radio silence,

since...

The dopamine.

The dope, I mean.

The edge of it all,

But—

If was softer, before.

Softened.

Immediate.

A dream, or a lie.

It was a certainty,

made untrue.

And the question became,

The question became,

The question was—

Could this body possibly be,

his body?

Could this grow,

and shape, and change?

Or burn up,

or slow fade?

Tear away,

and break apart.

This body, your body.

Our body.

The impossibility of it all.

Remembering and forgetting.

Erasing to find.

Collapse, to rise.

This mind, your mind.

Our mind.

Bonnie "Prince" Billy, Columbus Circle, Feb. 7 2013

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 17:42:00 +0000

Ok, so it's been a minute. Here's a new one.

through the gauzy carapace,
framed & broken,
hanging over Columbus,
the passing tails
of taxis, taxis, taxis.
the flash of siren, reflected
above the circle,
the constant flicker of candle light,
three per table,
shimmering smaller circles,
and always the shooting stars, below;
in the middle distance, streetlights.
and further,
still smaller points of yellow,
each apartment randomized
on the horizon,
their tenants unaware of the watchers above.
and watching all of us,
the gold and green orbs,
the triangles of light,
the striking red--
crosshatched, bisecting lines,
everything overlaid.
and the secret space, in a town
that cherishes its secrets,
those hidden spaces over everything.

he sang.
above the cars, above the streets, above the trees
littering the park, below.
above the diners across the mall,
who may
or mayn’t
be admiring
the private wonder
of their own secret space.
he sang.
and behind him, suspended,
reflected, he sang again,
and again, further still,
close enough to almost touch Columbus
just barely, on the plaza,
he sang at last.

the constant rain of lights,
the gauzy specter of a city
returned to, soon enough,
and so much grander,
remembering,
we’d never left.

One poem, two versions

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:09:00 +0000

I wrote this poem in response to a call for poems about "firsts." Then my computer keyboard died and I had to take it to the Geek Squad, and they kept it for three weeks. This poem was the only one I'd written but not saved online. So I wrote a second version. Here they are, ver. 1 and ver. 2. Tomorrow I'll edit both and see what happens.

Ver. One

We were on our way

to Cooperstown.

I sat in the back,

sulking. More baseball.

But up the road,

through the rolling green,

on the left--

the car slowed

and Dad pulled over

to look at antiques.

I remember wood,

gray with age.

Farm equipment.

And an old man--

Tall, suspenders,

gray with ruddy cheeks.

Whispering to my brother,

"Nick, look, it's Santa!"

And we followed him through the maze

of rusted gray, our stage whispers increasingly loud,

and when he noticed, finally,

he knelt down and held his arms out,

and asked us what we'd like

for Christmas.

You can't wrap a bicycle,

not once it's outside the box, anyway.

So imagine:

lying awake for hours,

hoping to catch his entry,

but eventually we're asleep

and up at first light

we sneak downstairs

and there, under the tree, the paper,

hung loosely over what can only be

two bicycles. And when we finally wake

our parents, and the coffee's made

and the green light given,

we tear the paper off

and stand back to admire a minute

the black and red frame,

the number plate in front,

just like a proper BMX,

only with our ages,

my 6 and Nick's 5,

and that was more

than proof enough.

Ver. 2

The rolling green

of the north west Catskills,

from the smudged window

of a speeding caravan,

bound for Cooperstown,

for Baseball again.

But on the left,

we pull off the road,

a pause for antiques,

to fill out Father's vision

of Country Living,

the scattered lawn, full

of farm detritus—rusted wheels

and iron rooster weather vanes.

We chase each other

through an accidental maze,

until we see him:

Gray hair, pot belly.

Red Suspenders,

a full beard.

Our almost whispers

not quiet enough,

he comes to us,

kneeling and asks,

“So what would you like,

for Christmas this year?”

That Christmas eve,

we stayed up as late as we could,

hoping to catch him in the act,

and when we awoke those few hours later,

snuck downstairs where the tree

was half covered with presents,

and at the front,

the two largest shapes,

draped with sheets and sheets

of wrapping paper,

but unmistakable all the same.

We ran upstairs, to wake the parents,

and dragging them, bleary

from their warm cocoon,

tore off the paper

of our new bikes,

shiny BMXs, with number plates,

5 for Nick and 6 for me,

and that

was proof enough.

Our House

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 16:59:00 +0000

I woke up late this morning, my head pounding with the infection that so often takes up residence in my sinuses, despite the surgery, compounded probably by the exposed nerves of my second molar, top right (the root canal is on Friday; I've given up a chance to road trip through the south west to LA to do the responsible thing and fix my tooth).

I drank coffee at the coffee drinking table, and ate a bowl of flax and amaranth corn flakes, sweetened with Agave nectar, because I used to be punk rock, but now I shop at Whole Foods and Fairway, and take Fish Oil supplements, in spite of my lack of steady income.

The siren call of which I fight every day. Health insurance that isn't Cobra. Money to spare every week. Money to save, if I can figure out a way not to spend it all on toys from Apple, on accessories for my Weber Smokey Mountain, on hydraulic fluid electricity generating bicycle trainers, on new motorcycles.

I read in the New Yorker that a social gathering once a month brought an increase in happiness equivalent to doubling your salary. I would love to believe that, deep deep deep within me.

I would not have this time at my desk, surrounded by books and pictures and two computers and cats and music and long leisurely mornings writing and drinking coffee and watching tv, and running errands if it comes to it. I wouldn't have my writing group.

I wouldn't have the fear of where the next job is coming from and will I make my rent and keep my health insurance.

But I spit poetry and prose, when I write, I do. Less so when I'm working, granted--then I wake up and I do my ablutions and work and come home and read and sleep and watch television on the internet.

But when I'm off...

I said I wouldn't explain my poems, but this is my poem. All of it.

Our House

When we grow up

there will be a place for us.

Wooded--not quite suburban

but near enough (for jobs, and such).

Birds through morning quiet,

rain on skylights. Dark coffee.

A clearing with a house,

and outbuildings.

And stepping onto the porch

in my long johns,

and boots open at the top,

I watch the air cloud at my mouth.

The day begins,

in our place.

But first,

a way to get there.

Autumn Sky Poetry Submission Revision

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 16:22:00 +0000

I received some generous criticism from an editor with whom I had what may have been the first ever twitter feud involving an online poetry journal. I tried a couple of major cuts with "Sylvia," which I think improve the poem greatly. I made a minor revision to the last line of "Sundries." As for "Your English Background," and "The Gift," they were described as, "more like descriptive lists than poems to me. There was no human connection, no point. They're lovely exercises in the use of language and imagery, but I'm usually looking for something more."

I agree, to some extent with "The Gift." I'm not entirely happy with the way the poem turned out. I'll describe my intent, only because this blog is an exercise in revision and feedback and, as a think I say somewhere in the blog "description," an "online workshop." So this is the part where I get to defend my work, explain my intent, and see if it resonates or not. I have no problem accepting a poem as failed, if the intent is lost, or so vague that the reader draws nothing from it.

My intent with "The Gift" was too address my fear of giving too much of myself to Kristina. It's about the parts of myself that I'm afraid to let go of. It's about giving myself to her, but telling her that there are parts of me that she can never touch. Maybe that's using poetry as therapy, just so much sorting through personal garbage that it doesn't resonate on a public level.

As far as "Your English Background," I personally think there is a very clear narrative arc--the cycle of nature, of land shaped by man and nature's struggle to reclaim lost ground. The femininity of the earth. My fiancée's English background and how that ancient history informs her present in small ways and not so small ways. Our disconnect from our past. Again, that's my intention, but if it's not clear ... of course, it doesn't have to be completely clear--poetry is subjective, but if there's no emotional pull, it doesn't work.

I've left the two poems I just described as they are. I'm interested in other people's considerations/feedback. If you'd like to compare the previous versions of "Sylvia" and "The Gift," I'll post them as a comment.

Your English Background

You, the land.
Razed and plowed,
deep furrows running through
where forest once stood.

And now,
second growth
in scattered poles--
bracken, peat and bog,
high winds of highlands.

You bear the heft
of Sarsen,
dragged across the windy plain,
land shaped like blue stone,
bit by bit
until

having chipped away,
the edges no longer sharp
but shorn by patient hands,
you gave witness,
watchman like,
ghastly Cerberus;
Avon, Lethe or Styx,
no matter:

You,
this foreign land.

Shaped by man,
reclaimed at last,
sprung
from your forever womb.

The Gift

I am everything

inside this box,

felt lined,

blood red.

Lacquered mahogany,

fancifully etched

by some careful hand

with images of swirling demons

beneath

a veil of mist.

You have the key,

but you dare not open the box.

You the disease,

You the cure.

Pandora,

I am what's inside.

But you can not look;

only cherish this box:

intricately carved,

polished, finished to a high gloss

that blood red hinting

at depths and depths.

You have the key;

you have the box.

I am inside--

patience.

You, the disease.

You, the cure.

Hope

is what's left behind.

Sylvia

Sylvia Plath,
I went in for Ariel,

but the copy in stock was hardcover, glossy,
and there next to it were your collected works,
1956-1963,
poems you’d written right up until that final cold February,
just days before my birthday,

that you stuck your head in the oven.

You were thirty.
You had two children.
Your husband left you for another woman
because you couldn't fix yourself
and when she couldn't fix herself
he didn't leave

but she went out
just as you did.

I try to calculate how may poems you wrote
between twenty six and thirty one
and how many I've written up to now,
and how they’d stack up.

Ted Hughes said Sylvia never scrapped a poem once written.
She approached her writing with an artisan dedication--
if she couldn't make a table, she’d settle for a chair,
an ottoman, an end table. Sylvia Plath?

And for me,
Poems like whittled spoons for stirring beans over camp fires;
Bent brass door handles fitted over the steel drum body of a bullet smoker;
Glued together mugs full of pencils and wooden beads,
an old triumph badge and bent safety pins.

A drop in the ocean.

No more. No less.

Sundries

The orchid on the table is dying;

shriveled leaves curling back into itself.

Someone could have changed the water,

but there were other things to attend to:

the dishes in the sink, for instance.

The hairball in the middle of the bedroom.

Visiting friends in the country,

and wondering at the lack of clutter in their homes:

"They have more space," I said.

and I meant it then, but now wonder.

We could have that space, if we wanted it.

but there is a pushing against,

and the space between

can not be filled.

Things are crowded out,

little things--

the pile of clothes at the foot of our bed,

the flower, curled and dry on the table.

Longing to be filled,

we push towards each other,

only to be repelled

by the space between.

The orchid on the table is dying,

a sort of beauty in its curling leaves.

Teleoeschaton

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 15:21:00 +0000

I think in circles,

and wonder,

what must it be like,

to think in straight lines,

A to B to C.

Crossing west fourth,

skipping lake edge

of gray slush

under the dull shine

of high sodium.

Back where we began.

Dating the same girl.

Feet wet from misplaced winter gray.

Working the same job.

Watching the same shows

on television.

Reading the same poets

and looking for more,

trying to make something for myself

as I've tried before,

kept awake by two sirens--

one the call of a regular salary,

the other, ten hours of no-thought,

five days a week.

I've written for six months,

by force of will,

or circumstance?

To what end?

I think in words,

and words,

it's nearly endless

in bed,

longing for an end,

but there is no end

to this thinking in words.

Let us study the poets,

the philosophers,

turning symbols into words.

Study the scientists,

the mathematicians,

decipherers of those symbols,

Study the painters,

who let the symbols be.

I read the word,

eschatology.

And its everywhere now,

in Wallace and Levertov,

in crazy Terence McKenna,

and the X-Files I'm watching

again, completing a 13 year cycle,

which might mean something--

that dread solipsism,

the word creeping in,

everywhere I look,

like the distant rumble of trains

as the word is read,

and the flickering of lights

as my beloved walks beneath them.

I will never understand her:

on my way to work,

she said she would get high,

and listen to music,

and light candles,

and so I asked her,

promise me this:

look at the clock,

when you think fifteen minutes have passed,

and that night I got a text--

“I'm sorry to say, but time is passing,

as it always does.”

I look into her eyes,

and see myself reflected there,

and hope it's proof

that she is there,

watching me,

and that I am here,

being watched,

and hope that

being watched

is proof enough,

to know I am.

To know we are,

and never mind the end times,

once around,

in fullness,

together,

will be

our lot.

After David Attenborough---Blue Planet, Tidal Oceans

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 15:54:00 +0000

If I had known,

as a boy,

what clams were--

If I had known

they propelled

themselves

along the ocean floor

on gelatinous feet,

buried themselves

in the sand

like so many parasitic worms,

the bugs of my nightmares,

burrowing in to me

through my ears or nose--

I'd never have been

a clam eater.

But I did not know,

then.

I would not know,

for many years,

until

it was too late,

because by then,

I'd developed a taste,

against all odds

for the crawling things

of the sea.

We chartered a boat

in Provincetown,

which took us

as I remember,

alone,

to a spit,

at low tide,

where we built castles

in the sand

and ran along the

deathly bright expanse of beach,

and Father waded out just below

the water's edge,

and we twisted our feet,

feeling for the ovoid ridge

of clam shell, and reaching down,

scooped them up and placed them

in our blue and yellow pails...

We lay in the sun

and I remember Mother

as if it were a picture:

in the Kodak color

of the late nineteen eighties,

hair cut short to her ears,

skinny even after

the recent birth of our sister,

waiting for the boys,

on a blanket

in the sun.

And when the boat

returned,

with the

lowering

tide,

it felt more than a day,

it felt a lifetime

on that sand,

under that sun,

and riding the

rise and fall

back to the cape,

we held our buckets of clams

and pockets full

of seashells and beach glass,

held tight against

the memory of that day,

receding

with the

lowering

tide.

Creation Myth 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 18:26:00 +0000

New York,

leaving in the morning,

the Hudson River Drive-

North, the city hidden

behind walls of granite

besides which,

the grandeur of the snow laden

Palisades,

Witch's Broom

covered,

driving into silence.

Imagine,

where does it come from,

this white silence?

It comes from above,

like so many schoolboy crafts,

the trees drawn,

bare, reaching,

traced with glue

and covered with glitter.

And later,

falling sheets,

at the lightest breath.

The silence outside;

The silence within.

The Quiet Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 18:55:00 +0000

We speak our truths

to each other

apologizing

for how corny

they sound.

And then apologize

for our apologies,

because the truth

when spoken

face to face

is never corny.

The next morning,

I read Mary Oliver

on the couch

with the black cat

indulging me

and the orange one

looking out the window,

the street's gray slush,

the browning evergreens

on top of trash bags

and trash bags.

I wrote poems

about death once.

Now

I write poems

about life.

Bus in the Woods (first draft, final)

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 16:03:00 +0000

Here it is boys and girls, the final installment of Bus in the Woods, complete with the first few, to catch you up:

There was a school bus in the woods. If you wanted to go there, you had to cross the wooden bridge at the end of the dead end street, over the canal that ran into the Delaware, and then stay to your left, walk up the ridge, which is what we called it. It ran between the land on the left that belonged to the high school, mostly, and on the right, a couple of houses and then a farm.

When you reached the curve in the ridge where the houses turned into the farm and the field that belonged to the school turned into just woods that belonged to someone (the farm, maybe, or the state), there was a break in the grass and brush, and if you turned into it, to the left, you walked down a path, and across the creek, which was usually dry enough to walk through, mostly. If it wasn't, there were stones to step carefully across, except for one summer when it was nearly waist high, and we went swimming in it. We called it our swimming hole except that it was just a tiny little space where the water was deeper and wider than usual, and probably full of run off from the farm. But we didn't think about that then.

Once you were across the brook, it was only a couple hundred feet to where the forest started, and the trail was as wide going into the forest as it was leaving the ridge, this fifteen foot swatch carved into the side of the mountain, gently sloping up, with electrical wires strung from posts in the middle, and space on either side for walking.

It wasn't far; you walked fifty, maybe a hundred feet up the gentle slope that in the Catskills passes for a mountain, and looking through the trees to the right, the birches and white pines, the hemlocks--a clearing, surrounded perfectly by trees, you see the bus.

I remember the first time, I was with my parents on the hike. We saw the yellow streak of the bus in the clearing, the forest light full of motes and mites and pollen and whatever else streaming down through the trees, and with the sort of surreal combination of uncanny and quiet it might have been mistaken for fairy dust once upon a time. We broke the ring of trees and walked toward it, stepping over stumps and leaf rot, stepped around a fire pit, surrounded by large flat rocks that had been dragged there for sitting, over crushed bottles of whatever cheap beer was in vogue at the time, Bush probably, and at the far end, down the slope of the mountain, perpendicular to the ascending line it sat there.

There were no windows, anymore. Not by the time we got there, and no telling how long it had sat like that. The front of the bus was untouched, the yellow hood down, the engine presumably safe inside, rusted maybe, but otherwise undisturbed. The back doors, however had been torn out, wrenched away in fits of drunken reverie, party after party until finally they broke free, and were thrown down the mountain side, tumbling and crashing through the brush, coming to rest against a fallen trees.

No seats, either, except for the driver's. The rest had been taken out, one by one. Two of them stayed in the circle, and the rest were carried back down the trail, over the ridge and found new homes in basements where the foam filled cracked plastic absorbed the smell of stale beer and cigarettes and pot smoke year after year. I knew this because later I saw one, in my friend Ryan's basement. We were the same age, but he had an older brother Chris in the army and a Captain or something, 36. Chris had been part of the first group at the bus--probably led the rescue efforts, kept the best seat for himself, and when we were teenagers we would sit in that basement and add to the layers of beer and smoke every weekend and some weeknights.

That first time with my parents I was eight, maybe nine. My brother was seven. The dog was with us and my parents let her up into the back of the bus, sniffing around. I remember thinking she would find a body in there, near the driver's seat, or a body part, or something. I don't know how long we stayed, but it was creepy and even though I didn't say anything, my parents must have guessed because quickly they whistled for the dog to come back and she did, with nothing in her mouth, no severed hand or foot, and they put her back on the leash and we walked up the mountain, took one of the trails around, and came out near the high school and walked back home to Elm street.

In the bed room we shared, there were two twin beds on opposite sides of the room, with two tables for lamps and two windows, and between the two windows, a dresser, and above the dresser a five point buck that had come with the house. We'd lived there since we were four, when my father decided he needed to get out of the city and how we ended up in Deposit, NY has always been a mystery to me, but he got offered a job as the head of the English Department at the high school and he took it and there we were. We were surrounded by hunters and fishers and truck drivers, but my father didn't do any of that except sometimes we would drive to the lake and on the way we would pick up a tub of night-crawlers from the bait and tackle shop and cast our little hook the squirmy brown things and cast off into the brown water and come home with a cooler full of sun fish that we'd gut and fry with butter.

My brother and I were terrified of that deer head. Maybe if we'd grown up there, really, or maybe if Dad knew the first thing about hunting or shooting a gun it would have been different, but every night we went to bed terrified that it would come down off that wall and take it's revenge for getting put up there in the first place, and it wouldn't matter that we hadn't put it there because it was a deer and it would just go for the easiest people it could find, which would be me and my brother, sleeping below him.

We made a pact never to leave the room with out backs to the deer, and it was always best if we could leave together. So we would wrap ourselves in blankets to look like high priests, and back out through the doorway together, nodding our heads and bowing at the waist, and with our hands held prostrate in front of us, we would say, "ahso, ahso, ahso," three times, and that would placate the Buck for the day and let us sleep in peace one more night.

After the bus, we started to associate the deer with the bus and it was even worse, and we kept going on hikes with Mom and Dad and the dog, but we wouldn't go anywhere near that bus. I think we figured that somehow the deer had been hit by the bus and gotten it stuck there somehow and the driver left the bus and took the deer and stuck its head up on the wall like some sort of voodoo protection that it would never happen again. So we kept backing out of the room, bowing and muttering, until we were probably a little too old to do it, until a year or two after we should have known better, but before we were ever old enough to get invited to one of the yellow bus parties.

*******

It was the summer before high school. Mid-July. I had my first kiss with a girl who was spending the summer in one of the nicer houses up on the hill. I would see her walking through town sometimes, alone, and then I was sitting on the bleachers of the football and she came walking across from the other side, from the high school and past that, the houses on the hill. She was wearing cut off jean shorts and a tank top and she had dark hair with a red streak died into her bangs which were pushed back behind her ears, and she was walking straight towards me. I was smoking a cigarette on the bleachers and thinking about the school year ahead and what it would be like to go to school with my father and whether or not he would be my teacher freshman year, or later, and how much shit I would have to take for it.

I looked away, pretended like I didn't see her coming, and then I would look back up and she was walking towards me still. Her hands were in her pockets and she was looking straight at me. I was wearing tight black jeans and converse and a Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt and I had a bracelet on my left hand that was really the top part of tube socks, with black stripes that I had cut off three inches of. My hair was short and messy and I hadn't washed it in a while and when I saw she was looking at me still I didn't look away. She was almost all the way across the field and she kept walking and when she was only twenty or thirty feet away from the bleachers I said, "Hey," and she said, "hey," and then she climbed up onto the bleachers and sat down next to me. I took a drag of my cigarette, and before I had taken the cigarette away from my lips, she took it from me and took a drag. She blew out the smoke towards me but she didn't give the cigarette back.

"I've seen you before," I said. "Around." She looked at me and took another drag of the cigarette and said, "I know. You're always staring." I didn't know what to say so I took my cigarette back and looked down. "It's ok," she said, "I don't mind." I still didn't know what to say, so I asked her name, and she said it was Chris, and I said that was funny because my name was Charles and then she said, "It's not funny cause it's a boy's name?" I asked her why I would care if it was or it wasn't, and anyway isn't it short for Christine, and she said it was. "Where are you from," I asked her, and she said, "New York." I laughed. "What's so funny," she asked me, and I said, "No it's just that . . . well, me too. Sort of. I moved here when I was really young. It's just whenever people say New York, it's like they forget that they're already in New York, and they never say, 'New York City,' just "New York," like it's the only place in the world." She looked at me funny. She had a sort of half smile, and she took my cigarette back and she said, "Well, isn't it?" And then I said, "yeah, I guess," and then she kissed me and it was wet and I could feel her chapped lips and her lip ring and then her tongue finding its way into my mouth and I could taste the smoke on her mouth different from the smoke on my mouth and we leaned into each other for what seemed like forever and then she pulled away and stood up and walked to the bottom of the bleachers. When she got to the bottom she turned and smiled up at me and said, "Seeya."

******

The next time I saw her was at a party at Ryan's house. Ryan was my only real friend in town; we hung out most of the time. We had some stuff in common, I mean we listened to the same music and neither of us were really into video games, but it was mostly because his father was an artist and my father was an English teacher. His father was a potter. He had a little studio behind their house which was just around the corner from our house. The house was big and red, with a front porch that was wood but built on a foundation of river stones, all different sizes fit together to create this swirling effect.

Ryan was played pee-wee football, and was going to try out for the high school J.V. team, which was cool, but I didn't know what it meant as far as our friendship, because I wasn't going out for any teams. Maybe track, but probably not. I didn't go for any of the team sports.; I didn't like much of anything that I was forced to do with other people.

I'd seen "Breaking Away," and that summer my father and I took our bikes out for a ride. He had an old ten speed orange Raleigh from the seventies, and I had a BMX bike that Ryan and I liked to jump off a ramp that his father built for us sometimes. I had also read a book about bicycle racing and I guess I thought maybe it was something I could be good at.

So we went out for a ride. First, down by the river, to where the railroad tracks and the highway passed over it, and to the end where the farmhouse stood, guarding the rows and rows of corn behind it. Then back, and we weren't tired so we kept going. We rode all the way to Walton, over the highway and the state routes. We stopped once and shared an energy bar and the one bottle of water we'd brought with us. That was when we decided that we had gone far enough that we might as well keep going, because to turn back would be the same distance anyway and there's no point going backwards when you can just move forward.

So we rode to Walton, up and down the rolling hills, past the reservoir, and on the hills I would have to stand up and do the biker's dance that I'd read about, swaying from side to side, standing on my pedals, pushing myself harder and harder to keep up because my bike had no gears. And when we got to Walton, we went straight to the diner because we were starving and I ordered a Lumberjack's special and ate the whole thing in about three minutes, and when it was time to pay, my father realized he hadn't brought his wallet with him, so he went outside to call my mother from the pay phone, and she came to get us. I guess Dad had asked her to drive down the river to the farm house first, to see how far our whole trip had been, and when she got there she yelled at us for being so stupid, for biking 35 miles with no wallet and hardly any water, but I could tell that secretly she was a little proud, of me and Dad both.

But in September, Ryan would try out for the J.V. football team, and make it. He would hang out with the kids on the football team, at practice and they'd have parties on the weekend, and maybe we'd still see each other sometimes, do homework together on weeknights, jump our bikes off the little wooden ramp, but it wouldn't be the same. I wouldn't go out for a team, because it's not like the Deposit Middle-Senior High School had an bicycle racing team, or a rock climbing team, or a hiking team. I would just be Mr. Rastelli's son, from New York City.

In September things would change, but it was July, and Ryan was having a party and he was my best friend. When I got there, I went straight to the basement and there she was, sitting on the torn out bus seat. She was wearing a little plaid skirt and little black fishnet leggings that went up to the middle of her thigh, but the way she was sitting I could see about three inches of skin between where her fishnets ended in a band of solid black and her skirt started and I thought it was just about the most incredible thing I had ever seen. I grabbed a beer from the mini fridge under the stair case and said hi to Ryan. She hadn't seen me yet. I leaned in to him and whispered, "What's she doing here?" Ryan smiled at me like he had a big secret and said, "Dude, I told her we were having a party. I thought you'd be into her. You know she fucking asked about you? I mean I know you've been checking her out all fucking summer, but you could get some tonight." I took a sip of my beer. Then I took another sip, a bigger one. "Well, thanks, man," I said.

And then I grabbed another beer from the fridge and went outside, behind the pottery shed. I leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor, and chugged the first beer and then I opened the second one and I drank most of that, too. I lit a cigarette and smoked slowly, blowing the smoke up into the summer sky, watching the stars and finishing my beer. I stood up slowly, walked back to the house, down to the basement, grabbed another beer and sat down next to Chris. She was still on the bench, alone, staring around at the little clusters of people drinking in dark corners of the basement, that half smile drawing the left corner of her lips slightly up, wrinkling her eyes just a little bit, this devilish, aloof grin. I was starting to get a little drunk. I put my hand on her thigh, where the black elastic met her bare leg. "Hey," I said. "Nice to see you." She looked sideways, smiled and said, "you too. Nice shirt." I was wearing the same Smashing Pumpkins shirt I'd been wearing at the football field the day we met. "Get you a beer," I asked? "No," she said, "I'm good." I took another sip of mine and looked down at the ground. I was really pretty buzzed and bummed that I was dumb enough to wear the same fucking shirt I'd worn the first time we kissed, even though I had no clue she'd be there at the party. Then I realized my hand was still on her leg, and I could feel her skin and it was warm and my hand started to sweat as I realized how close I was to her, and I went to pull my hand away but she grabbed it, and put it back where it was and kissed me hard on the lips.

********

Chris was kissing me for a while before she pulled away, our breath short, my hand on the back of her her head, our lips held close together--as if we were afraid to be pulled apart, as if we would never again close that gap. Ryan told me once that sometimes when dogs were screwing they got stuck together, that when it was over they would hop around together, the male on two feet, the female trying to pull away, unable. We weren't stuck, not quite, but I didn't want to be any further from her, not yet.

When we had calmed down a bit, we were both smiling, laughing, relaxed back into the yielding foam of the bus seat. We laughed together, I let my fingers trace the skin above her fishnets, marveling at the goose pimples forming as my fingers passed, circled, passed again. The twist of her lips, the red in her hair, the ring in her lip, splitting her mouth symmetrically except for the half smile; I was captivated, rooted in place.

"You know it's funny," I said, leaning into her, "I've always been a little freaked out by this seat. But here we are, making out on it." She laughed. "Freaked out? Haha, why?" I laughed a little bit, and told her the story of the bus in the woods.

When I was finished, Chris jumped up, turned to face me still sitting down and grabbed my hands. "Hey," she said, a wicked spark in her eyes. "Let's get out of here. Let's check out the bus." I looked back at her. There was nothing I could say. Nothing I could do. I was in her orbit. I would be for as long as she'd let me. And I'd follow her anywhere. It wasn't quite dark out; it was mid July, and the party hadn't gotten too crazy yet (not that it would--we were fourteen, not yet in high school; it was 12 of us in a basement and it would be over by eleven). It was eight thirty. The sun was falling, spreading across the cobalt sky, a line of ocher slashed above the hills.

We ran across the street to my parents house, giggling, sneaking in the back door, in through the tool shed. I turned back to her, my finger to my lips, closed the door slowly behind her. It was dark. We took our time, and I held her hand in the dark as I let my eyes adjust to the room. Shadows started to emerge, slowly fading in to focus, and when I could make out the work bench, I pulled her along behind me, to the far right corner. Grabbed the two flashlights, and a bottle of seltzer from the K-mart in Binghamton that we kept under the green bench.

We turned around, opened the door and ran down through the gate of the lawn, down past the yellow house on the left, the mayor's house (perfectly manicured hydrangeas; immaculate white 1950s thunderbird), the length of the football field, 200 yards to the bleachers where we'd kissed, past the tool shed at the ten yard line, past the goalpost, back-lit and casting its shadow towards the school on the hill, by the nearly full moon. Over the bridge, and bearing left to follow the grass, the red sun fading into night time, the rising moon taking its place above us, and down, past the stream, turning right at the farm, the red sky falling around us. We turned down the path towards the mountain, still running full strength, our breathing fast, regular--the energy of youth and lust--of her gravity, her magnetism, unlike anything I'd ever known. We jumped the stream, made it almost all the way over, our feet just catching the last couple of inches of muddy water, splashing up around us, flecks of mud catching my jeans, and her bare skin through her stockings, our shoes, running still, and reaching the tree line, we turned on our flash lights and entered the wood, past the white pine and birch, past hemlock and larch, up, past stumbling electrical post after stumbling post. Tripping once, catching each other, she rolled over me, her skirt touching the rocky grass, over my legs, bent down, kissed me once, quickly and jumping up, dragged me behind her. I let the weight of my hand pull her back, and fell to my knees, gasping, desperate with laughter. "Stop, stop, stop, " I told her, "you don't even know where we're going! Look," I said. I pointed, up, behind her--"two o'clock," I said. "It's right there."

********

We looked up through the green twilight, the pollen settling through the last refracted rays of sunlight. I grabbed her hand, held it tightly, pulled her close to me and we left the path together, shoulder to shoulder, stepping over moss covered logs and the everywhere rocks of New England, towards the bus.

Past the fire pit, circled with crushed cans of beer, past the crudely sharpened circle of fallen birch limbs, inverted and jammed into topsoil. There was a bra hanging from one of the sticks. Pants from another. Stained from a season in the woods and the front of the pants stained darker yet with the boozy piss of some townie. We reached the bus in the almost dark, Chris climbing into the open back before me, the plaid of her skirt rising past her thigh-highs, turning to face me and pulling me up behind her. We fell into each other, fell on to the hard floor of the empty bus, the leaf litter blown in, the crushed empty cans, the cigarette butts everywhere.

I was on top. I kissed her once, quickly, gently on the lips, and sat on my knees above her. I was shy, now. We had made it, finally. "I should have grabbed a blanket or something," I mumbled towards her, "this place is a shit storm." I took her flashlight, and set both of them up on opposite ends of the bus, leaned against the steel walls, their beams hitting the roof head on and what I hoped would be create an aura of warmth and safety, nothing more than a series of bizarre shadows in an empty bus.

I drank from the bottle of seltzer, the hiss of its opening and the cool drink spilling over my trembling hands. Chris sat up, her legs together, arms behind her, head tilted to one side. I came towards her, laid beside her in the Bachanallian detritus of the empty bus. We kissed, tentatively. We were truly alone for the first time and in the fun house shadows cast over us by the flashlights refracting off the ceiling of the bus, the veil of confidence fell away and we were fourteen, and alone in a bus in the woods, and really, really shy.

But we kissed, and I felt her body warm to me and we moved closer together and with my hand at the small of her back, I pulled her towards me, and we moved together, the warmth of our pressing into spreading over us until it was too late. I didn't stop kissing her, but slowed and what the French call a little death didn't feel so little, the big death of embarrassment, of hiding and excuses and rejection.

Finally I pulled away. I took a swig of seltzer and lit a cigarette and offered her a drag. She took it, flushed, and if she saw the misshapen silver dollar sized spot on my jeans she didn't mention it, or ask why we'd stopped, and passing the cigarette back to me took my hand and followed me from the bus. I walked her home, past the green of the trees, fluorescent in the high sodium street lamps, past giant oak trees and the crooked slabs of ancient slate sidewalk pulled from their path by the roots of trees, stepping over them. Up the hill, curving gently around the outskirts of town, and stopping at the mailbox. We held our hands together and there was a good night kiss, a friendly kiss, and we hugged and I said, "I'll see you," and Chris said, "Yeah, you too," and I turned around and walked home.

Dishes

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 15:26:00 +0000

I roll my sleeves up,

home from an errand,

before the sink.

The dish water runs

at times too hot,

at times too cold,

often barely at all.

I don't pray much

these days

but if I had to,

I would pray for water;

a prayer of thanks,

to the fact

that I can

any time I want

drink water

from a faucet,

cold, perfect water

from a kitchen faucet.

In my hands,

cupped together,

the cool running

down the sides,

through my fingers,

like a chalice,

raised to my lips,

ready to drink,

with thanks.

It's like a sacrament

(but doesn't need

transubstantiating)

its essence

already

its own.

Across the Twitterverse

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 15:23:00 +0000

I'll grow my hair long now;

stop shaving,

sleep in and drink coffee

late into the morning.

I'll wear flannels

over big belt buckles

and Levi's jeans,

and engineer's boots.

I'll listen to the music of now,

the songs of escape,

the death of the suburbs,

the death of the city,

the slow death of hope itself.

I'll listen to the music of then,

The Byrds, Dylan and the Dead,

grow my hair long,

stop shaving, and wonder

at these ten years.

The music of joy,

of glittering lakes

and trees alive

and starscapes,

the swelling endless now.

I'm done with the lie;

done with no hope

and no future,

the tomorrow they promised us.

We dream of escape,

of Laurel Canyon hipsters

with headbands

and people parties.

We dream of Greenpoint,

Williamsburgh, Park Slope,

and Prospect Heights,

of a local food revolution.

We hope.

We pray that

the social network

will save us

from ourselves.

But there is no way forward

that does not sacrifice

the fullness of this life;

we, of a type,

imagined,

and sold--

tribe by tribe,

until the idea

seems our own.

Mary Oliver

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 21:29:00 +0000

Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver,

I've read your swan song:

full of joy,

joy, joy

in every thing.

I read too late last night

and woke to another sore throat.

I fed the cats and drank coffee.

I sit writing at a window,

two day's snow in the window box

reaching to the second bar

of the child proofed windows

and the tree in the courtyard,

its dessicated pods

tenacious to spite the wind.

The half finished building

across the way obstructs the view:

one year and six months

I'd watched the trucks of 125th. Street

Postal Station back in and out,

the workers on their union breaks.

I am a free lance.

That was the dream,

wasn't it?

Not far off.

I'd imagined more squalor.

More despair.

Cheaper rent,

more downtown?

A smaller place,

certainly.

Beer.

I imagined us together,

skinny and desperate,

ageless in my teenage fantasy,

her my only connection to an adult future,

lost and found,

what some call fate.

That was the dream.

And now this:

a free lance.

Imagine:

the romance of it all,

the poetry, the food,

all of it.

"In five years,

he'll be twenty seven,"

my ex-girlfriend's

Grandmother had said.

In two months,

I'll be twenty seven.

This may be a quarter life crisis--

a social phenomenon

for the new millennium,

years to go,

before my swan song.

I read late into the night

and wake,

with sore throat,

to feed the cats,

and try to write,

and to find that joy,

in this life,

in this place.

Boxing Day

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 17:02:00 +0000

The new decade

upon us,

shades of slate

in our victories

and our losses.

We dream of escape;

there is none.

I hear house sounds

in your absence.

Snowplows,

like thunder,

through the whiteness

that penetrates deeper

still.

The shadow moves with us,

our forever thread,

woven once more,

and still dreaming

we become entwined.

I wake to new life,

your breath upon me.

The house

breathes

in your absence.

It carries me.

Wind, rushing past,

my body alive.

Test pattern static,

keeping the time.

The house breathes,

whispering in your absence,

the clanging pipes,

the hiss of the radiator,

the cold streets,

my hand upon the window pane.

Total Eclipse (Solstice 2010)

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 18:42:00 +0000

We were compelled by the facts

of the night:

first total lunar eclipse

in four hundred years,

last in over a hundred,

to occur on this day--

the winter solstice,

the full moon and the earth

tilted as far as possible

from the sun.

This night,

I promised

I would stay up

in observance

for the first time,

having watched a documentary

on Nova about Stonehenge,

having written about my connection

to the indigenous of the Carribean,

wanting to feel connected again

through the path of moon through sky,

north and south and west again,

slight penumbral darkening.

I leaned my head

against the glass,

the cold from outside,

as earth's shadow edged

incrementally

between sun and moon,

determined at the moment

of total eclipse to stand

between the sun behind me

and the moon in front

drawing whatever power

my ancestors had

over this event,

this perfect alignment,

assuming the rightness of the moment,

the direction given,

the path ahead.

In mid morning,

the sky dark,

the moon reddened,

finally,

I watched it pass

behind cloud cover,

head pressed against glass

looking further out,

the moon nearly lost

to the west,

dull red, gauzy moon,

and made my way

bed ways

hope in the

fading moon,

red behind the clouds

until dawn.

Blank Generation

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 19:05:00 +0000

This is a brief experiment in multi-media poetry. A thought I had regarding the future of publishing as E-readers and "apps" take over the market...

A generation past,

blank by choice,

unlike our current blankness,

one of circumstance.

How many before?

The wasteland gave way

to the roaring twenties,

a Great Depression,

and finally a world war,

at the end of which appeared

the beats.

A pause between wars,

where the American Dream

was not shared by all,

not by those that saw past it.

It was the hippies who took over,

during the next war,

and it was all on television.

They could promise that the revolution

would not be televised,

but it was too late for that:

the Civil Rights Act
had been signed,

the war ended troop by troop

and that generation wasted away

or else got rich in the end

until the boom went bust.

The apocalypse, now,

a bang indeed:

the whimper in the response--

ours to clean up,

ours to grow old with,

ours to fret away,

anxious, sleepless nights,

wondering at tomorrow.

Memories I May Have Had (Sister: One)

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 18:13:00 +0000

First Draft

Memories I May Have Had

Sister (One)

She sent me a text

to ask me why

I only have a brother

when I write.

As if

there were some

intention behind that.

Even though

the time period involved

would make her three

or four. Five at the outside,

and the only memories I have

of her at that age are spotty at best.

In pictures she has bangs

(a variation of the haircut

we boys had,

the bowl but longer on the side,

framing her smiling face

like a cartoon of a smiling

little girl with an inverted parabola

for hair).

She sent me a text

to ask me why

I only have a brother

when I write.

But my memories of her

are so entwined with

his that when I write of him

I'm implicitly writing of her:

coming home from the hospital

and my displacement from my bedroom,

a thirteen year diaspora

wherein I shared a room with the same boy

who had stormed into the room that had been mine

before it was hers

and stomped my lincoln log house,

razed it, clear cut logs scattered across the ground.

And then she was there,

pink from the hospital,

in a basket in the living room,

and we wondered where she'd come from,

and how,

and watched her grow

until one day she was in college

and we were in our late twenties

and she texted me

to ask why

when I write

I only have a brother

the same brother

who was my partner

in crime, when she cried

and cried

half the day

and we reached into the medicine cabinet,

looking for something to stop the crying,

mother was doing who knows what

and finding the Ambesol that we somehow knew

was for soothing the pain of her teething jaws,

reached over the side of the crib and rubbed it

over her bleeding gums and went back to our room.

but the crying didn't stop so reaching over her crib

again we rubbed it into her torn flesh

and again, squeezing the tube until

mother found us

and put a stop to our well intentioned overdose.

this poem is for the sister

that texted me,

wondering why

when I write

I only have a brother.

Memories I may have had (easter snow day)

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 00:17:00 +0000

In Deposit, in January, when the lake had frozen over and the snow drifts were at our shoulders, and the fog on our breath crystallized, icicles in miniature forming in our nostrils, we would go for one last sled ride down the steep slope of the beach, our blue discs spinning towards the water, and sometimes we'd make it twenty, thirty feet on to the icy lake. Then home for hot chocolate. We would vacuum and make the beds, turn off the water at the main line and run the faucets dry. Cross our fingers that the pipes wouldn't burst and head back to the city for the winter.

We were back for easter break more often than not, after the last of the snow had melted and coils of ferns began to unravel under the pines.

Until one year, we went to bed in the spring time, and awoke to a blanket of white, packed quickly and set out in separate cars, Mom and the kids, Dad with the dog and the antique furniture he'd picked up in Walton.

They had bought walkie talkies from Radio Shack, this before their expansion into the cellphone and digital camera and tablet computer market--this, in fact, before cell phones and digital cameras. Before tablet computers.

Dad, driving quickly, was soon out of range--"Michael, can you hear me, over." Nothing. Snow and ice. The Crunching road beneath our tires. "Michael, come in Michael, over." And nothing. Static.

Once, we nearly swerved off the road, wide eyed as the car was suddenly aimed at the guard rail, the granite, icy river below, and mother's sangfroid as she steered with the skid, gained control, pointing us back, slowly, inexorably towards the meeting place. I imagine her fear now, three children, and no control.

It took three hours to drive an hour and we spent the night in a hotel, watching through the window as snow piled against the wall, reached the window, stopping three inches up, an aura of frost above it, and spots of fogged breath, circles of wonder, like the universe itself, "ha - ha - ha," breathing out, and watching our big bang shrink back to a singularity above the snowed in window.

In the morning, snow hung from pine boughs, six inches high, falling now and then in dull thuds around us. The roads were cleared by then, on the highways anyway, and we made our way south, back to the city, a day late for our return to school, where the daffodils and crocuses were still germinating, bursting from the softened earth.

Memories I may have had (what's left behind)

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 00:04:00 +0000

Here's a revision of the story from earlier today; I realized I was trying to tell two stories. I think this works a little better.

The house across the way mirrored ours in nearly every respect, forgetting the minor details. It was undersized, like ours. Yellow, to our blue. Stood on the corner, across from us. We climbed on the couch and stood watch most nights, no one going in, and no one coming out.

On the other corner, other children did the same: watching us; we came on weekends--in the fall and winter--thanksgiving, twice. Nearly always for the Christmas tree lighting, never in January or February, when icicles grew from the eves, and fell shattering in the drive way. In the spring, we'd come back, resume our post on the couch. And in the summer we were a regular fixture in the neighborhood, riding our bikes, exploring the empty trailer at the dead end of our block, taking turns at the diving board of the local pool. There was life in the blue house, for a time.

My brother and I had decided the yellow house across from ours was empty, finally, after years of faithful watching. Sometimes we would cross the street, walk the perimeter, with long jeans, ever mindful of ticks hiding in the overgrown grass. I never got closer than that until one day my girlfriend was visiting and we decided to poke around, discovered the back door unlocked and walked in, just like that. The house was empty, but abandoned--the floors sagged under the weight of forgotten ephemera--comic books, combs, the shattered glass carafe of a coffee maker, its black, L-shaped electronic frame nearby. Upstairs, overturned mattresses and emptied closets--sheets and sheets. Twenty minutes we spent, indulging our secret intrusion into a forgotten life. And then we too left.

Later, in Centralia, Pennsylvania, we visited an entire town that had been abandoned--it was collapsing into itself, the town--a fire raged underneath, from coal that stretched for thousands of acres, sinkholes forming, swallowing townsfolk, steam rising out of cracks in the earth. And when the town was bought out, the moving vans weren't big enough for everything--hard choices were made and what didn't make the cut was thrown into a stretch of grassy road that used to lead somewhere.

We lie awake at night sometimes, a generation born of baby-boomers, talking and not talking, but always the same fear--our dubious inheritance, homes full of years of acquired souvenirs--books and videos, sculpture, painting, bolts and bolts and bolts of fabric, half re-finished chairs, basements overflowing. And when they're gone, us left to sift and sift, make the hard choices, the wheat from the chaff, and leave the rest behind.

One

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 17:28:00 +0000

This is from a cross-genre series I'm working on, tentatively titled, "Memories I may have had."
It's a first draft and needs to be cut by about 200 words if I'm to submit it to any micro-fiction sites.

We went to bed in the spring time, and awoke to a blanket of white, packed quickly and set out in separate cars, Mom and the kids, Dad with the dog and the antique furniture he'd picked up in Walton.

They had bought walkie talkies from Radio Shack, this before their expansion into the cellphone and digital camera and tablet computer market--this before, in fact, cell phones and digital cameras. Before tablet computers.

Dad, driving quickly, was soon out of range--"Michael, can you hear me, over." Nothing. Snow and ice. The Crunching road beneath our tires. "Michael, come in Michael, over." And nothing. Static.

**********

Later, in Centralia Pennsylvania, we visited an entire town that had been abandoned--it was collapsing into itself, the town, a fire raged underneath, from coal that stretched for thousands of acres, sinkholes forming, swallowing townsfolk. And when the town was bought out, the moving vans weren't big enough for everything--hard choices were made and what didn't make the cut was thrown into a stretch of grassy road that used to lead somewhere.

*******

We lie awake at night sometimes, a generation borne of baby-boomers, talking and not talking, but always the same fear--our dubious inheritance, homes full of years of acquired souvenirs--books and videos, sculpture, painting, chairs, bolts and bolts and bolts of fabric, half re-finished chairs, basements overflowing. And when they're gone, us left to sift and sift, make the hard choices, the wheat from the chaff, and leave the rest behind.

Submission to M.P.

noreply@blogger.com (Charles) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 21:50:00 +0000

below are two poems I submitted to a small press in Port Townsend, WA, where I lived for 2.5 years. "Someday" contains a minor revision:

Someday

What does it mean,
to you, she asks?

This reading into
you always do?

I'd been obsessed
with eternal return;
the idea came to me--
overwhelmed,
I stared into the uncanny,
swirling void,
before I knew there were words,
before I knew
I was not alone
there.

What does it mean?
Why the pursuit?

It doesn't mean anything,
but mind games,
and perhaps a little comfort
before I go to bed at night,
like warm milk and Valerian root,
or the prayers I would say as a boy
to that bearded thing--
and the ritual that went with it,
to fight off imagined hordes
of crawling insects
swelling up from the basement,
racing towards my bedroom:
to swallow me up and drag me
back with them, the rustling crunch
beneath me.

Just a little bit
before we sleep.

She's ok with neurons and chemistry;
I need this sacred geometry:
imagined circles
upon circles,
looping ever forward:
an expanding universe,
collapsing into itself
to expand again,
and so it goes.

I jump in memory time,
in backward loops
like Billy Pilgrim
only more mundane.

I have no other worlds to visit,
no future mes to see.

Only this life,
stretching backwards behind me,
a string from my birth,
I gather up from time to time,
and visit different spots along the way.

But more than that,
the chance to live again,
this self same life,
but better
bit by bit,
a little better.

I want to make a contribution
to the canon,
and someday will,
given my midnight
thought experiments;
but for now,
I don't have the vision for poems,
or the toughness for prose.

And problems arise,
as they are wont--
if I improve,
wouldn't everyone else,
with more to give
and more to see?
The mystics and visionaries,
the prophets and poets
and painters and saints?

But someday,
when Plath and Sexton haven't killed themselves,
when Kurt and Ernest don't put guns in their mouths,
when Fitzgerald doesn't drink himself to death,
when Hitler is nothing but a doddering old man
in threadbare pajamas muttering absurdities
to anyone who would listen (but no one does),
maybe then I'll find the poem inside,
give voice to it,
set it free.

Columbus

Tabonuco,
bought at the Bear Mountain Pow-wow
from the single Taino booth,
first thing I smelled,
that sweet wafting resin,
carried on the wind,
drawing me in.

Tabonuco
burnt in clay pots
as tribute to a past
I can't remember.

In the rain,
in Harriman,
I read about Columbus
and his account
of my people
as gregarious
as joyful
as generous.

So generous, in fact,
that his demands for tribute unmet,
he cut off their hands,
left them to bleed out
on the jungle floor.

We disdain Columbus
for what he did
to the North American Continent,
this half truth shared in classrooms,
forgetting
it wasn't the red man
but the brown
that Columbus first broke,
that joyful people
with insufficient offerings
and no longer hands
for giving.

I share those bloodlines:
my parents met, dated, married
in the Bronx,
like Sharks and Jets.

Tabonuco,
burnt in clay pots,
in tribute
and mourning,
for a past I can’t remember.

Raised eating pasta
and red sauce,
sfogiatelle and crown roast
at Christ's Mass,
my white skin,
and the arias
that would float through our home
so many evenings.

Forgetting
an incompatible legacy,
that burns inside.