Good Things

The mountains—specific,

named: Brandywine, Lions,

Garibaldi and Seymour.

Raven’s barrel rolls, leg’s

gentle burn, meandering

conversations and blue

burning glaciers still

hidden on top ice-aged

shoulders. Unspoiled.

Remember the beer,

cheeseburgers after—

keep them for warm days

in January; when hope

recedes and apathy swells:

hold fast to what is good.

Pretty Pictures and the Virtue of Graffiti

Let them paint pretty pictures:

unicorns and wealth deserved,

hard work and wise investments,

sidewalk slovens

blanketed in cardboard,

stuffed with balled newsprint,

addiction and body odor,

unfortunate poverty earned,

anchors sinking cities.

Let them paint pretty pictures,

grind your teeth and clinch

your fist, and don’t forget

the old stories: mangers,

pharaohs, gifts undeserved,

good news for the poor,

grace. Don’t forget

the spray can in your hand:
abhor what is evil.

Pep Talks to Myself in the Imperative

(This is the first in a series of poems I wrote as a way of reflecting on Roman's 12, with the scripture as the last line. It's an experiment, so bare with me.)

Finish the thought,

lean-in and listen.

Scrunch your eyes

chew your lip.

Drink your coffee.

Risk the straight word,

yourself: angry or sad,

laugh and ignore

the heavy brow

disapproving eavesdroppers.

Reflect and return

with penance or prayer.

Be honest. Think long.

Be careful, when you can.

Let your love
be genuine.

Bad Poetry

or La Vie En Rose

I want to write bad poetry

about you: recycled tropes,

archaic language—let me

count the ways, desperate,

predictable, exhaustive eye similes—

like grains of sand or stars…

I want to write poetry so bad

you become unrecognizable,

not trace of a person: imagined

ideals, undigested inheritance

of solipsist romantic, rose colored

glasses already beginning to crack.

I want to write heartbreak:

shattered and splintered,

preemptive and total, tempting

nihilist conversion, life vacant

and meaningless, alternating

use of lonesome and lonely.           

I want to write fiction: every twist

planned, crafted story-arches,

familiar epilogue, formula

followed like liturgy; rather

than write one transparent and

simple line: humdrum

menu debates, half-smiles,

forced laugh generosity, sipping

coffee in an empty shop

scrawling thoughts, blank stare,

the vacant chair across the table,

wishing you were coming.

The Last Tantrum

I lost it on the field.

The little shit hit me

in the back, between numbers

and after the whistle.

I got up in tantrum

tears, snot and curse words,

voice cracking, feet stamping.

Teammates pulled me off field,

where I sat in wet grass,

glared till I was tired.

Then came wave after wave

hopeless embarrassment,

that unsightly naked

feeling. Shame like nausea.

The crowd: parents and worst—

friends and girls, all watching

with a cringe. I promised

to keep these things secret,

hidden from view. To take

refuge behind blank face. 

God and Google

I asked God and Google for guidance.

The secret to grief. 2-year-old articles

in men’s magazines lined with ads for

dating sites and ED meds. And Job’s answer:

were you there?

Pieces of a puzzle half-lost—scattered

amongst junked vacuums, couch crevices,

and partially-digested dried-out piles of dog shit.

Mangled survivors paint vague impressions of the whole:

Barry Sanders retired healthy at 30.

Bonheoffer hung days before Allies arrived.

Jesus wept. Otis Redding, Karl Barth,

and Ken Griffey Jr.

Lodge-pole pines and the 1988 Yellowstone fire.

And your 60 years of intermittent tumult—

estrangement and depression—ended

peaceful sleep in a rocking chair.

Parts enough—not a full picture,

no real answer or address,

but a question and a neighborhood,
a feeling and mood, direction and guide.

The Last We Spoke

The last we spoke, I apologized

for mixing-up the date of his dinner.

He understood, mentioned next time:

a platitude, a half-believed article of faith.

I was a day late. It would have been the last I saw him.

A dinner party olive-branch—a tentative start,

first gesture to begin to mend the relationship;

more than monthly texts about sports and fishing.

But then his heart quit. The roommate found him

in the morning, hands folded in his rocking chair.

I was left with a collection: disorganized

regrets, his knap-sack, and fishing hat.

Codes and memories to be deciphered and filed.

Impossible task, trimming and adjusting a thread:

a baby with square block and circular hole;

furrowed frustration, piecing together cluttered details—

a story to carry  travel-sized meaning.

But the story is unfinished. My dad died

alone in the chair he lulled me in

when I was an infant.

My dad died in that chair, believing

I was ashamed. Now I’m left

Dating and Dentistry

The dentist took a second look,

x-rays are difficult reads. But I knew

the Frosted Flakes and Slurpees

I just kind of hoped to get away with

those few moments—an easy sigh and slouch,

foot tucked under the crook of my knee.

Unclenched and relaxed, savoring

hopeful thoughts on quiet car rides.

But her eyes dropped, digging

a bunker in the sidewalk. I knew

the drill’s grinding falsetto. Still,
the in-between was sweet.