Everett Ave McDonalds

palm trees sway

in front of Mcdonalds

cool April breeze

moving homesick

palm fronds

across the street

signs for KFC and Taco Bell

shine in the dim early morning

free small coffees

bring in a weather-warn man

with a large back-pack

takes his coffee

with four cream

six sugar

somewhere a diabetic cringes

MIddle School Talent Show

social suicide

be-damned, courage starts early

some things are worth boos

Middle school talent show brings out awkward. Instrumental pop-punk performance. A girl sings along to a recording of her brother’s guitar, only a slight tremble in her voice. Blank stares from students and teachers. After technical problems the projector plays a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean while the theme is played on a flute by a 4’10 girl in a rainbow dress. Dads beam with ancient camcorders. Boys with big ears play piano. The “Cultural-Club” danced a hula. A girl in thick glasses and braids plays Beethoven—a thick Russian accent whispers to his right “you know she’s a lesbian”—this earns him a talk with an already annoyed principal. Classical music washes over the boys in football jerseys like salt on a slug. After the writhing an all too serious girl walks up to the mic in high heels and an acoustic guitar. Explains the genesis of her song—a shooting death in Arizona. The song is called “Tears.” A fourteen-year-old girl sings a theodessey, with the word injustice in the chorus. The Vegie-girls end the mandatory assembly with a song called “Salad of Doom.”

cynical teacher

somehow learns to admire

girls dressed like carrots

Wallace Falls

sun-breaks, inside jokes

up-highway two like old times

ten years gone too quick

The coffee put down roots as we started down the road. Conversation chattered fast. She needed to be reminded of directions after just six years of living two states south. Early in the morning we talked light. Careful to avoid troubles of the heart. We felt caught up fast, before we ever got to the trailhead. Exchanged questions about long-lost friends. Some burn-outs, some housewives, some on the PhD track.

hilltops were frosted

donuts, weather changes fast

here in late April

The trail was murky. Worn-out running shoes sunk deep into soft-muddy ground. The falls were bursting. We dove into the heart trouble. Wondered at God’s pedagogy. His reticence to use positive reinforcement. It was nice to hear a story that put my own in perspective. Nice until the sympathy pains dropped my heart on the trail. The vine-maples laden with moss listened to our sob-stories and drooped a little lower. The sun-breaks turned to rain. I put on my jacket in time for the hail.

God pleaded the 5th

on his reasoning behind

the change in weather

No conclusions were reached by the time we got back to the trailhead. No crystal ball was needed to see shittiness in the immediate forecast. We ate greasy diner food served by a middle-aged woman who spoke like a fifth of whiskey and two packs of cigarettes. The food sedated the conversation on the long drive back. The old evangelical in me wanted to pause a moment for prayer, but instead commented on the futuristic looking new Jack-in-the-Box just outside of Monroe. The prayer would have been for something more than functional.

decent weather comes

in spurts till mid-to-late June

let’s hope for more spurts

Pickle Defined

1.

A cucumber

preserved in brine

or a vinegar solution

common varieties

include dill and sweet.

2.

A baseball term

when a player,

due to some

base running mishap,

is caught between

two bases

in a nearly hopeless

back and forth

while the noose draws

tighter and tighter

until the runner

humiliated and tired

is tagged out.

This situation

is escaped rarely

through acts of God

or some lucky

error committed

by a defender.

3.

An informal term

for a messy

difficult

uncomfortable

or confusing

situation.

Two Poems, One Game

The Answer is No

Four-year-old Indian boy

leans forward on his bleacher

tucks his legs under the bench

hands outstretched in front

on the back of my seat

he comes in close

the bill of his cap kissing

the bill of mine

asks me if I live in a hotel

then hollers out laughter

and the tiniest bit of spittle

without waiting for an answer

his mom grins

my friends cackle

and the Mariners

let two more runs in.

Why Are You Being Such Assholes? I Just Want to Watch the Game

Before the start of the national anthem

barely after hitting practice

alcohol enforcement escorts

an unwilling and intoxicated man

out of Safeco Field

We pass him on the stairs

three large men with shiny badges

grip the back of his neck

his wrists and shoulders

He insists that he would prefer to stay

squats down freeing a hand

placing it on the stair behind him

forcing the big men to drag

His bloodshot eyes

turn back to the field

as he explains

he just wants to watch the game

As we pass we chuckle

at awkward positioning

like a drunken game

of stair twister

only with annoyed

law enforcement

and the loser,

presumably,

facing hefty legal fees

The drunk hears our laughter

smiles at us and repeats his intentions

he just wants to watch the game

Well, the Mariners

ended up losing

9 to 1,

hopefully that will serve

as some consolation.

Don't Look Down

My parents took me to Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park when I was too small to remember much. What I do remember is a picnic. I’ve since imported pictures of the panorama from later trips to the spot, but the original-authentic memory is eating grapes. Big purple grapes. On a golden-brown log. Legs dangling over the edge of a steep slope that went on forever. Down. Down. Down. The bag of grapes slipped and starting rolling. My eyes went big. Watching the bag go end over end. Nothing to stop it. Down. Down. Down. The thought came into my little head that if nothing would stop the grapes, nothing would stop me. Suddenly I became aware of my precarious perch. I threw my legs over the top of the log, ran back to the Dodge Caravan crying. Shoved my face into the crack of the seat and waited to go home.

It took me years to trust anything tall. Longer still to climb anything. I still can’t go up without thinking about how the trip down might feel if things were to go badly. Ski lifts, suspension bridges, hikes on narrow trails along vertical slopes—make me nervous. The fear of heights is not irrational. Everyone has it to some extent, mine is just louder. It means well, and has a good point: falling hurts. Those who dismiss this point are the ones who fall off tall things and break themselves.

Mountaintop views may be sweet, but they carry with them a real risk. Views like those, for all their stomach-twisting lip-biting trepidation, can be sweeter for those of us who can appreciate the scenery while not forgetting danger that comes with.

Searching for Hallelujah

[Sometimes I feel it's important to prioritize praise over artistic prowess, this is I feel is an example, Happy Easter!]

"Made like him, like him we rise, Alleluia!"

I thought it was in the closet

hung up somewhere in the back

but it’s not where I left it

the clutter underneath

(mostly unused camping equipment:

tents snowshoes, boots)

yielded no clues

I rummaged through

the miscellaneous evidence of

thwarted outdoorsy ambition

uncovered a long-lost drivers

cap red-black check type

of loud-impulse-buy

one expects to lose

but this was not

the sought after object

I couldn’t remember moving it

it should be where I left it

on a hanger in the back of my closet

next I turned to my room

which was already in disarray

I tore it up broke, the fallow ground

no corner left untouched

plastic storage bins poured out

drawers emptied

the whole process repeated twice

and started a third time

I needed to find it

my nice tie, dress shirt,

shiny shoes and new dockers

were all laid out and waiting

the service was starting in 45 minutes

and I was getting picked up

by a friend in 15 minutes

and I didn’t want to be

the only one at church without one

I haven’t used it in over a month

it’s become like a freshly-bought

long-considered gadget in my head

all I want to do I locate it

so I can play with it again.

Holy Saturday

“Come and have breakfast.”

John 21:12

The sunrise crept

under a shade

not quite long enough

into a cluttered room,

a wolf figurine

set on the window seal

for lack of a better place

and fear of losing

mementos,

cast it's silhouette

on the far wall.

7:00 am

Holy Saturday

mixed feelings:

waking regret,

surprise at

a scenic picture’s

invasion of

a transitional

living situation,

confusion on

how the devout

ought to feel

sandwiched between

Good Friday and

Easter Sunday;

but overriding

these was

a faint but

ever growing

need for

breakfast.

Nowhere To Go But Down

There is no where to go but down

Your manager doesn’t change the radio station ever

you’re working doubles all this week to pay for a car you don’t like

that finds new ways of breaking in unfortunate situations

more often than not involving nice smelling girls in the passenger seat

and the DJ just announced the station is paying tribute to Styx all this week—

that stinking feeling—make friends with it

you’re going to be spending a lot of time together

Once you start rolling

momentum and gravity

will take care of the details

All your socks have holes and multiple tea-colored stains

and you didn’t know you were going to see her

and you didn’t know you’d end up going over to her friends house

and you didn’t know her friend had a strict no-shoes-inside policy

and she’s everything you ever wanted

and a few things you never thought to want but now do

and she was just slightly interested

but then you took your shoes off

There are ditches

on either side

form fitting

and looking for you

Five times a day you start to pray

but don’t ever get past ‘Dear Lord, please’

before a pair of eyes (the color isn’t important) barge in

your thoughts scatter

a vague-familiar-reliable-trustworthy

sense of impending doom

shakes the supplication from your lips

leaving you with a cringe

At the bottom

it’s not so bad

they have domestic beer

and cable

and its easy to forget

reasons to go anywhere.

Just Asking

She looked at me

asked if I was American

in the same voice

the special education teacher

at my elementary school

asked me

whether the words on the page

got all jumbled up

when I read.

I returned her stare

held it long

till it got awkward.

Yeah,

but I don’t see

what that has to do

with what we are talking about.

Oh,

it doesn’t.

I was just asking.

It didn’t.

But she was doing

more than

just asking.

Gulf Island Driftwood

The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.

-John 3:8

firs and Madronas

lean over the sea cliff

stare down at the water

Indian paintbrush

pokes through dead grass

neon highlighters

in a sea of khaki

a solitary piece of driftwood

bobs restlessly in the channel

the wind pushes it north

inching towards Galiano Island

the sun is diffused in light clouds

comes in soft through smudged windows

young couple looks out at Salt Spring Island

her hand rests on the inside of his knee

like it belongs there

the diamond glints

her face is lit up

by window light

reflecting off

his bald head

the wind is not constant

changes direction

stops altogether

sometimes for days on end

it's hard to tell

where the log will end up

or how long it will take

to get there.

I Wish Vancouver Had More Thunderstorms

or A Sleepless Night's Consolation

The heavens are telling the glory of God

and the skies proclaim his handiwork

Psalm 19:1

it would be nice to have that kind of energy

if not gossiping about the LORD’s affairs

at least, I would hope, I could clean my room

but a new mouse moved into the wall

next to my bed, two feet from my pillow

I could tell he was new by his breathing

his chewing was less frantic than last one

it was 2:45 in morning

when I took a second helping

of the store-brand NyQuil

green licorice flavor

went down slow

the sky was thundering last night

rain funneled down broken gutters

hitting the sidewalk

in uneven bursts

between the sky crashes

and over the smack

of roof-run-off

against the concrete

I could hear

the steady rhythm of raindrops

effortlessly playing their song

on rhododendron leaves.

Lessons Learned

or Bill Leavy's Apology Is No Consolation

Every year

we ignored history

emphasized selected statistics

rookies’ potential

discussed generously

pictured in soft-focus

We used to be convinced

from January to mid-September

the Seahawks were going to the Superbowl

And once they did

but we don’t talk

about that anymore

Now we talk about the draft

look further down the road

with feigned optimism

We never mention the Superbowl.

Creative Laziness

or How to Survive Being Thrown into a Lions Den

Every time I hear critics

yammer on about the problems

with the film industry today

they list the lack of originality

at or near the top of the list

pointing to a remarkable proliferation

of remakes and sequels

these being the results of

creative laziness

on the part of film-makers

But these remakes and sequels

are not a new phenomenon

After the success of the original

new versions of the Acts of the Apostles

(which was itself a kind of a sequel)

were written

and this was way back

in the first and second centuries

One remake included a story

of Paul being thrown into a den of lions

but (being a quick thinker)

he baptized one of the beasts

and ended up having a long

and thoughtful conversation

with the big cat

This story doesn’t strike me

as being the result of

creative laziness.

A Little Too Quiet

8 million monkeys

swung from 9 chandeliers

while a court-reporter’s fingers

burned with fury

trying to capture the dialogue

building to a cresendo

like some self-important

10 minute rock ballad

the drum fills grew more frequent

pulses quickened

amps went to 11

keys started flying

from the type-machine

the monkeys convulsed

in a violent dance

as glass rained down

then the lights went out

and it was quiet.

A match flared in the black

but the room was empty

nothing was left

except the remnants of a type-writer

monkey poo and broken glass

the match went out

and time went on

against a background

that left no contrast

to measure it by.

Tomorrow maybe an archaeologist will come

and collect samples with the aid of unattractive grad-students

the findings will likely be less than conclusive

but this will only stir up controversy

what books will come of it?

only time can tell.

Conflict Resolution

[this was the 100th poem I wrote this year, so I felt I should post it. It's really more of a rant, and was written only to further avoid doing mounting school work.]

There are those who have been trained in conflict resolution. And these people are always the most annoying. Every discussion is perceived as an argument. Their voices are soft and calm, which is just a camouflage for their complete dickishness. Their maturity put on like poor-fitting dress shoes. They have to be developing blisters. Smug looking punks who constantly take the high road and inform you of their superior choice in routes. Who have techniques and use careful statements that start with “I feel.”

I feel like those trained in conflict resolution would be more successful if they simply admitted they're assholes like the rest of us.

Stellar's Jays and Crows

There was a kerfuffle in the front yard this morning

the stellar’s jays and crows were arguing again

If I understood rightly, and I think I did

the jays were squawking about pink cherry blossoms

and how they smell better than the red ones

the crows were screaming a counter-argument

they refused to budge on their position

though I think they knew they were wrong

but crows are stubborn creatures

who win arguments by attrition

cawing louder and louder

the same points

until the other side

concedes

It was clear the jays had lost

an argument or two in this fashion

they were in no mood to lose again

they looked deep into themselves

searched out the most annoying sound they had

blared it with all their tiny hearts

but this just entrenched the crows more

the debate raged

I put my headphones in

turned them up

loud

and started my run.

Walking On Sunshine

[I'm working an exegesis paper on Joshua 7, hence the poem.]

Alas, Sovereign LORD, why did you ever bring this people across the Jordan to deliver us into the hands of the Amorites to destroy us?

Joshua 7:7

It’s not often commented on or remembered,

but after crossing the Jordan

Israel got their asses handed to them

the first time they tried to do a thing on their own.

They were walking on sunshine:

seas parted for them

rivers stopped

walls fell down.

Things had gone well.

Their troubles were behind them

still wandering the wilderness

with all the unfortunate parts

of their meandering story.

All of that was left

on the wrong side of the Jordan.

They were in the promised land now

the epilogue

living into the happily ever-after.

But they were their parent’s kids

with wandering eyes and selective memories.

First chance they got

they pilfered contraband

and were turned round

running and screaming

at the first bit of opposition.

What part of the story

did they imagine themselves in then?

Karl Malone

[just so it's understood, I hate Karl Malone, but I can recognize the fact he was awesome]

Karl Malone

was the best power forward

to ever play in the league

he retired the NBA’s

second leading scorer

all-time

points came

easy for him

but he never

won a championship

came close once

but fell short

while Wil Perdue

a player few have ever heard of

averaged just

under

five points a game

won four championships

the injustice

is what makes the story

believable.

A Missionary-Kid's Reflection

he grew up around it

the type of stuff you see

on commercials for the

Christian Children’s Fund

orphans

disease

poverty

when he goes back

he worries because

he is unmoved

while others

less acquainted

with it

weep

what’s wrong with him?

nothing that actually asking the question

won’t start to counteract

Stop Squirming

I’ve always had bad dental hygiene. Growing up, brushing wasn’t my thing. But frosted flakes were. I had lots of cavities. Whenever my sister and I’d go in for check ups, she’d come out smiling, talking about the flavor of fluoride she chose for her teeth cleaning. I’d come out with a half-dead face. The hygienist would tell my mom I needed to brush more.

The smell of a dentist’s office makes me cringe. Makes me remember the sound of the drill. The pain. The drool streaming down the side of my Novocain-ed cheek. I remember re-learning the same lesson, again and again. The masked dentist would tell me to open wide, and explain that the more I squirmed the more it would hurt.

Eventually I learned to sit still. Let the drill do its work. Waited for the discomfort to end. Focused on the happy thought that those things didn’t last long. And if I played my cards right, my mom might take me home instead of back to school, where I could watch cartoons for the afternoon.

Old Ladies Can Be Creepy Too

or She Was No Rosa Parks

The bus was crowded

I sat on the aisle near the front

careful to avoid eye-contact

did my best to pretend

I was somewhere else

head-phones in

eyes looking out the window

At Macdonald

an old woman got on the bus

moving slowly past the seats

reserved for the disabled and elderly

she pushed her way down the bus

stopping in front of me

I turned down my headphones

She had a clear-plastic rain bonnet

bright purple eye-shadow

red lipstick

spoke in a high pitched British accent

the type of voice you expect to issue

bewildered ‘Well I never’s

I listened to her explain

why she passed seats reserved for her

pointing to the sign

explained that she refuses

to sit in front of those signs

My inner-boy-scout began nagging me

in my polite annoyed voice

I told her she can have my seat

“So many nice young men in this city

you know, I often get offered a seat

but I don’t often get offered a lap.”

The David Bowie Phase

It was a phase

I’m pretty sure

everyone goes through it

In the months

after I watched Labyrinth for the first time

I developed a crush on Jennifer Connelly

and an obsession with David Bowie

My mom refused to buy me pants like his

but I tried to improvise as best I could

strategically placing safety pins

along the back of my pant legs

to make my grey sweat pants skin-tight

The hair was easy

with enough of my sisters hairspray

I could make magic happen

My parents put an end to my prancing

when they came home and saw me

dressing up our dog to look like Ziggy Stardust

and singing a duet of Changes

(ventiloquism’s been a secret talent of mine,

I’m told since birth)

After that they took down all my posters

confiscated my cassette tapes

and signed me up for little league football

But the crush on Jennifer Connelly

that I still have.

How Sweet It Is

[Palette cleanser for the bunny poem. Best if read listening to the song.]

Woke up to grey skies

fresh puddles on concrete

the threat of new ones

But I hummed

cooking thick slices of bacon

there was a bounce in my step

on my walk to school

It was the first time

in a long spread

I wished the sun had come out

instead of overcast

As a compromise

I listened to Marvin Gaye

sing candy-sweet

love songs.

Bunny Rabbits

[disclaimer: this is a depressing poem. let the reader be aware.]

"If your right hand makes you stumble, cut it off and throw it from you; for it is better for you to lose one of the parts of you body, than for you whole body to go into hell."

Matthew 5:3o

What’s forgotten

in the stories

of rabbits

gnawing off legs

caught in traps

is the time

involved.

The general sense

of sacrifice

is remembered.

Not many

can picture the scene

without recognizing

the pain.

But the time

gets ignored.

Rabbit teeth

aren’t designed

for tearing flesh.

A job like that

would take

time.

Hours?

Days?

How many starve

while chewing?

How many die of blood loss

before freeing themselves?

How many give up and wait

for something, a savior or hunter,

to put an end to their plight?

How long do you suppose

they’d have to wait?