SHARKS!

Somewhere in the middle of an ocean

bobbing in the waves, there is a man

who’s watched the discovery channel

enough to know that the scrape on his foot

means that he won’t drown

Sometimes it’s good to list

the things I’m thankful for

to remember that life

isn’t all the depressing thoughts

that become regulars in my mind

Some days my list is smaller than others

today, I will start my list with the fact

that no sharks will dismember me this week

barring some unforeseen ocean voyage and accident.

Sunday Morning

Thy mercy, my God, is the theme of my song

Cause there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone

-Kris Kistofferson

I sleep early

curl-up at eight

hope for hibernation

Hope fails

birds sound

obnoxious songs

sun bursts through

holes in the blinds

Nine hours—

God I prayed for

so many more

Peel myself from bed

profanity under my breath

praise far from my lips

hobble to my car

drive a half hour of sports radio

where no love song invades

Black coffee

awkward conversation

greet me at the door

Infants gurgle

spit pacifiers

interrupt adult small talk

Songs start in whispers

the congregation searches

to find well-rested voices

I flex my diaphragm

and learn to sing.

Nodding-Off in History

eyes squint

then close

under black-rim glasses

history documentary

drones soothingly

as soft light

pours through

window shades

his head slowly tilts forward

then jerks back up

the chin re-starts its journey

back to the clavicle

The Change I Wish to See

1.

She sits under a poster of Ghandi.

Her face is tanning-booth-brown

borderline orange—she hasn’t stopped

putting on make-up since entering

except to text and apply saline solution

to her nose piercing. She carries on a conversation

discussing the finer points of Taylor Lautner’s body

2.

Be the change you wish to see in the world

I will be a unicorn:

an articulate and imaginative unicorn.

Who always signals when changing lanes.

Able to: convince teens of the dangers

of consumerism and being an asshole;

shoot lighting from my eyes;

and reverse the effects of climate change

with the sheer warmth of my wit.

Or maybe just a substitute teacher

with the supernatural ability

to inspire unmotivated high school sophomores

to open their geometry text books

turn to page 212 and start work

on exercises 1 through 14.

Lady Problems

I look up from my book.

A girl—pink bangs

dark baggy sweatshirt

holds her planner out:

Can I go to the nurse?

I see no cuts,

bones all seem intact.

Headache?

No.

Flu?

No.

Why do you have to go to the nurse?

Do I have to tell you?

Yes. I don’t want to.

Well, I can’t let you go

if you can’t tell—

A glare,

half fright

half anger,

cuts my sentence short.

I sign her planner.

Hope you feel better.

Keep Your Prayers Coming

A pillowy white beard

in dark sunglasses

hair slicked back

with silver streaks

skipped introductions—

so what do you think

of this latest stunt

with Osama?

This was not

a rhetorical question.

He was waiting

for an answer.

I stammered: I don’t know.

He continued: do you think

Obama is setting up Pakistan;

see two weeks ago them

Pak-ee-stan-ees

sold warheads to the

Saw-dees.

Now if you were the empire

what questions would you ask yourself?

This too

was not rhetorical:

if I was the empire?

Wouldn’t you be wondering

if there were any nuclear warheads

on that receipt? You don’t just

leave an empire. An empire doesn’t just

let countries quit.

His eyebrows raised

he leaned in

closed the distance between us:

I felt his breath

noticed a yellowed streak

in his pale mustache

above an unlit cigarette.

He whispered:

World War 3

Pointed to the door behind him

that I had been walking towards.

That one of them Rapture churches?

I’m looking for a rapture

to get me the hell outta here—

his tongue popped

finger pointed up—

when the bombs start.

Well it’s not one of those churches—

least not in the way you’re thinking.

I’m Jake, what’s your name?

Jim.

See I started studying these shysters

back in Vietnam—he winked at me

like it was a code word—

I’m glad you still got some sense.

Keep your prayers coming.

We’re gonna need ‘em.

Blackberry Bushes

[While I'm trying new things, here's my second pantoum]

fine was never the destination

don’t roll your eyes

there are things left to be said

when the colors come out in spring, you’ll see

don’t roll your eyes

real stories don’t end

when the colors come out in spring, you’ll see

things with roots bounce back

real stories don’t end

they go deep and spread out

things with roots bounce back

like blackberry bushes

they go deep and spread out

fill the space,

like blackberry bushes

life is frustrating, relentless

fill the space

there are things left to be said:

life is frustrating, relentless

fine was never the destination

To Live in the Mercy of God

[on a poem by Denise Levertov]

She says

she feels it:

like awe.

A warm updraft

lifting wings

weightless

—to live in

the mercy of God.

Well—

I don’t

feel it the same.

Maybe sometimes,

but those are usually

inarticulate or dumb.

Most times

(no one tracks

these statistics)

it feels more akin

to swimming up

an icy waterfall

with lead arms

—to live in

the mercy of God.

Everything Sad

or Reflections on the Overthrow of the Lord of the Rings and the Return of the King

[I've been reading Tolkien and Denise Levertov, this is the result. It's a new style, and so it may be clumsy. Writing a bad deep poem is much scarier than writing a bad silly poems--at least it is for me, feedback would be appreciated. More to come in this style.]

Is everything sad going to come untrue?

Samwise Gamgee

No—

what is true

will stay true.

The story will not be rewritten.

Tears will not cover their tracks

pretend like nothing happened.

Sobs will not

be turned to laughs.

Up and down

will not switch.

Pain felt

will not

be undone—

marks left

will remain.

But, if there is

a hope we can dare

it is this—

our tears will make

our laughs deeper

pains suffered will make

smiles honest.

And if any

secret magic

is revealed

it will not be

every sad thing

come untrue,

rather,

sad will come

un-sad.

Whirlyball

maybe not a rose

but flower, somewhat silly

springs up through concrete

In the depths of Aurora. In between dilapidated motels with vacancy signs and massage parlors open late. Nestled cozy in the midst of casinos, strip-clubs, and porn-stores—there is a tradition. National Champions more years than not, going back to the late ‘80’s. Whirlyball. Lacrosse in bumper-cars. The sport of kings. Home of birthday parties, skeeball, and bottomless fountain drink.

folks eight to eighty

celebrate each successive year

well in bumper cars

A cross-eyed girl with dimple piercings explained rules to disinterested half-drunk and out-of-shape athletes making clever comments. And then the ball was in play. And some were stuck in corners. Others were going in circles continuously. Most went backwards when they wanted to go forwards. The confusion was narrated by a bored but sarcastic Whirlyball employee. Every mistake witnessed by friends eating cake, pointing through glass, and laughing. Always laughing.

humiliation

noted by those dear to us

taunts can be loving?

When the cars went where they were supposed to, and shots began to go in the general right direction: dormant competition was revived. Get that weak shit out of here! That’s what I’m talking about—Payton to Kemp! We must protect this house! Fists pumped. Tongues wagged. Funfetti cake was consumed. This was how birthdays were meant to be celebrated.

late twenties welcomes

another willing or no

so. . . Happy Birthday!!

Sewart Park

Wind strips flowering trees

sends pink pedals racing

whips up waves on Lake Washington

as we walk through the park

Trails carry heavy traffic:

runners in fanny-packs

skin-tight black pants

yellow sleeveless shirts

made with space-age technology

Big dogs

trailed by

small packs of children

pregnant mothers

pushing fancy strollers

We pass green lawns

under cottonwoods

with sex organs

hanging out

letting the wind

do the work

limbs supporting

communes of

fern and moss

We talk:

the economy

politics

faith and

of course

relationships

The only conclusion we reach

on such weighty issues

is that it would be nice

to come here with a girl.

Unemployed and Exhausted

after a month and half of sleeping past eleven

playing video games until thumbs and eyes hurt

shaving only in patches and showering weekly

he was exhausted and pungent

in a pair of over-sized gym shorts

flip-flops and a Seahawk jersey

he reflects on unemployment:

it's not as easy as people picture

takes extraordinary effort of will

to ignore the bills on the coffee table

and concentrate on Mario Kart

filling out a single application

becomes a day-long project

thrusting his palm

into his eye-socket

rubbing it around

then staring out the window

he says, in half-disbelief:

I need a vacation.