Noah on First and Commercial

A weathered man sits on his ankles.

One good eye looks sideways

at traffic upstream, the other is

clouded over with cataract.

The cigarette is a fragment, a remnant

plucked-up from concrete, saved

from trampling feet. Under

a dripping awning he waits

for the 20: filled with character, unreliable;

an accordion ark that rolls down the safe,

but damp Drive to Hastings. Above

the crows return unburdened.

Fall Colors

Like Gatorade—unnatural

aqua water surrounded autumn

yellows and reds scattered

up powder sugar-coated

mountains cuddling a shy glacier.

A small fish struggles on its side

at the surface—youth displayed:

vertical diamonds, iridescent spots

twinkle in the diffused sun trickling

down. Round and round. Then

revived. Into the depths, invisible for a moment.

Then white belly drifting to the clouds. Bearing

witness means clumsy theology applied like

toddler's experiment: how do star blocks fit

triangle holes? Mysteries: rapture or fall?

Is this Normal?

My new GoreTex jacket

hangs in the coat closet,

a handsome grey with

green trim: a silver fox

waiting for rain.

The forecast is near 20

and dry. I check

the active wildfires in BC,

scroll-down the page,

wonder:

what a hectare is,

how big is a half-million,

why metric still feels foreign,

who was still worried,

is this normal?

200 dollars

for a bike rack—

from Germany, comes with

a 30 year warranty.

Still. . .

A sunny day in October:

the man with a snake and quick gait

walks past the coffee shop

that just ran out of cold-brew.

In Las Vegas: 50+ shot dead

with two dozen guns modified to be

automatic—politicians offer prayer

for victims, congress considers

a law legalizing silencers.

Joe Laughs

Joe paddles backward in the eddy

behind a rock, riffles like fu-manchu

frame Joe as he lingers in the river

soul-patch and checks his fit-bit

equipped with paddle-boarding app—

“6.1 miles” he shouts. An Osprey cheers

from it’s house atop power pole.

Joe is impressed I know

Osprey from Merganser.

Joe lives on this river,

confuses me with ignorance

of names and lack of fear—

standing on shaking legs down rapids

between rocks with igneous flare

like punk-rock bracelets we bought

from Hot Topic. Joe laughs at danger

even as he drops his lower half-in

to warm the river and mark it

home.

Dennis Lake

Cutthroat trout slurp gnats on the surface 

of shoals reflecting the Telkwa Range’s

sloping shoulders, somewhere hidden 

there a remnant Caribou herd munch lichen. 

Two clouds hover above a loon’s eerie call.

Who could give language to this grandeur? 

What name could contain this sacrament? 

Difficult tasks beckon the brave.

A pioneering settler, a century ago, 

ignored first peoples, remained 

unpolluted by native tongues, beheld 

this place and thought "Dennis."

-->

The Drive to Telkwa

Merritt

Sun slouched upward:

a free-range yolk

over-easy in a dirty

rusted cast-iron pan.

Kamloops

Smoke from the interior

mingled amongst pine

and sage, tawny hills and

sometimes green valleys.

Valemount

The gas station clerk

said it’s always busy:

no gas either direction

a long ways. And there’s an A’W.

Mcbride

Mountains were marbled with snow,

like a python’s black-and-white self-portrait—

a transparent but ultimately unsuccessful

attempt to appear artistic.

Vanderhoof

Clouds like white corduroy

dissipated over leather-skinned

road workers. The slow-stop

binary waited for deconstruction.

Something Something Deep Love of Jesus

I asked if she was still reading

Infinite Jest—it’s the only thing

I know about my barista. She is.

I took my coffee and sat-down,

considered the day and worried

that would be my only conversation.

My mom asked me about a bank

account she set-up for my wedding.

I love my mom. I told her to leave it.

It’s good to be optimistic. Her text

tells me she laughed out loud.

Her text did not make me laugh.

I asked about what to do next.

I’d take any instruction: nap,

move to the Yukon, smile

at the next woman I pass.

My mind flipped between

an Eagles song I hate and

a hymn I forgot the words to.  

This Will Be On the Test

Over a month in nothing

but rocks and sand

and shivering then

sweating, fever dreams

for people who wouldn’t

stick around and no one

came looking, it was a long trip,

people had families

and this was his thing,

training, practice

for the final: abandonment

and thirst.   

Books I Read in Highschool

I read a book with

hell as sprawl

like suburbs or

Houston expanding

like space and everyone

moved further and further away

they complained

about public transit

there were no conversations

except self-talk

arguments about neighbors

who lived out-of-sight

and I thought it was clever

and creative but

now I have coffee dates

scheduled a month in advance

with college friends

who will be moving soon to

states with reasonable

property values to

buy homes and

have kids whose names

I’ll forget with faces

seen occasionally

on screens flickering

in a dark but affordable

studio apartment that
isn’t a metaphor.

All Grown-Up

No one ever told me,

that’s a lie (probably),

but it allows some anger

to disturb the lethargy.

People were always droning

on about growing-up.

Warnings I didn’t hear.

I listened to myself, and ska.

I didn’t envision: crying bored,

staring over plain oatmeal

at ugly house-plants, hour-long

walks looping around

gentrifying neighborhoods

waiting for the sun to finish,

an early bedtime and another bowl
of oatmeal to start it again.  

-->

Sahara

David Attenborough tells me

the Sahara is expanding. There

used to be giraffes and elephants.

Red paintings now. David thumbs

through a thesaurus, desolate:

bleak, empty, forsaken, lonely,

bare. But there is life. Spiders.

A snake. Ants on stilts.

They only come out at night.

Satellite pictures. David flips

to the back, vast: immense,

expansive, massive, endless.

Wind hisses over blank dunes.

Now David tells me about climate change.

The futility of action, drying up of hope,
play lullaby as I slip into an afternoon nap.

Malaise: Jimmy Carter Was Right

A Hyundai—best in class,

used, some version of

off-white, mostly dependable

but starting to rattle.

Kraft dinner with basil

and oregano, microwaved

broccoli, and beer leftover 

from a party left early.

A beta fish named

Joe--for the gorilla,

an inside joke with

a friend who move away.

A Moleskine notebook filling 

with doodles of robots, sad 

thoughts dressed in Sunday

best, and unread reminders:

call Mom,

change oil,

book appointment
with counselor.

A Poem for the Anxious Dogs Along 10th Avenue

Smooth and quick—the bikes pass

your window. On the main route

East to West, they float by quiet,

unheeding your shrill alarms. Hundreds

each afternoon, confident and teasing.

Pacing marathons, whimpering, paws

massaging the glass. Dance interpretations

anxiety and claustrophobia. The long wait:

for food, a leash, a miniature door within

a door? Yawning—she returns tired.

There is no empathy, only urgency

in your trembling whines. She reaches

for the leash, leaving the way open, release

from bondage, the Red Sea parts, you dart

a false charge, a biker swerves into parked car.

Circling you survey: your own brand of justice.

Fries and Butterfinger Blizzard

Reverb and beer, lyrics

written for an unnamed

you caught me unaware.

Vague nostalgia—stars

above summer camp,

the milky way, silly names

Pickle-tree and Shim-Shimmel.

Crushes and otter-pops and

symbols and codes for youth

hid underneath a balance

raspy emotive voice

over simple chords.

The song reminded me

of friends basements,

songs about break-ups,

Dairy-Queen after youth group

and every first original feeling’s

shallow claim on authenticity.

This is all to say Julien Baker’s

new album really made me crave

fries and a butterfinger blizzard.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmGVIvf8Q6s

Stranger

20 years ago we  

all had their t-shirts,

insider knowledge

of their cover-art

origin and meaning,

and mushroom cuts.

Now in an empty shop

I’m bored, reading

classic books professors

raved about and then retired

to Gulf Islands—hippies and

gardens, a lyric surprises me:

Slim. Relax. Fine wine at the QFC

on a snowy Saturday night

Now, I’m a stranger mumbling

half-forgotten lyrics, estimating

the distance to the nearest

Quality Food Center.

Maybe100 miles?

Probably more.

So I Wrote a Poem

I don’t have the patience

or vocabulary to describe

the walk well. Light yellow,

soft green, so many greens.

I guess the light was

dappled on the mosses.

It was spring all afternoon,

smelled good and warm.

In the nice outside-ness

I forgot to be lonely

or sad. I felt like me.

I don’t know the science,

there have probably been

studies, poems for sure—

I don’t have the patience

to read them, or research,

but the colors and light,

swollen feet and hummus,

made me feel better, good.

So I wrote a poem.

Bon's Off Broadway

Movie posters covered in sharpie 

on cluttered walls muffle mediocre

juke box—greatest hits albums & Creed;

an all-night diner that closes at 10;

the scent still grieving smoking laws.

Teenager sits opposite me with milkshake.

I nod, study walls, sip bad coffee,

search for late-afternoon conversation.

Questions: how’s school? Home?

Want anything else? How’s your sleep?

Things are fine. Sleep’s not a problem.

Good. It’s important for mental health.

Clean rooms. No screen time. He nods.

I finish my 3^rd cup, pay and leave.

At home, I shove clutter off my bed,

binge on Netflix, wait for anxious dreams.

Squamish

The trees are tinseled with green beards that must have been donated by punks who spent too much time in the sun. Logs piled-up in the river, some branches still have color. The fish are somewhere. Not here. They filmed part of the Revenant here. Those people would have died from hypothermia before getting a chance to be shot or mauled or scalped. It is nice to not worry about those things. My waders have a slow leak—half-way up my right leg. The water is only cold for a minute, then body heat takes effect—similar to pissing yourself. Round boulders—copper, white, and grey-blue make it hard to walk. God tells me my ankles hurt. The river is wide and shallow—quiet for once. I have no beer, but a few crackers and cheap cheese are good enough take a moment to think. I should Instagram this. 

When I look Up

I see him. Still,

in the newspaper—

Mother of Two Missing in Montlake Terrace.

Greasy curls, crazy sunken eyes.

On the sidewalk,

head hung low, plodding gait.

On my sidewalk, outside the fruit stand.

When I look up

he’s not there.

Unoriginal? Maybe,

but tonight will be familiar: chicken

potatoes and veggies.

Relics

Name

My parents gave me my name. My mom named me after some forgotten member of their church I never met. My dad named me after the trickster, the shittiest family man in all scripture—who somehow was the steward of God’s love for this whole hot mess. I like to think I take after the former. More Jake than Jacob. 

I love my name: Jake Tucker. It fits. It’s in the right key. Lately I’ve noticed some darker harmonies, the bass loitering just under the melody. That name Jacob is sticky. It’s sad and old and meaningful and I can’t shake it. My dad gave me a lot of things that have stuck. Things I’ve wanted to disown. Things that make me proud. And few things I don’t know what to make of.

Some of those things are stuff. I like stuff. It’s hold-able—has weight and color. After my dad died I got a lot of stuff. Stuff saturated in him: smells and stories. Stuff I am reluctantly seeing myself in. Stuff connecting me to him. Relics.

Acoustic Guitar

My dad used to fingerpick minor chords on his blonde Washburn acoustic guitar in his lonely office on wallowing evenings, usually just before Mom came home. My sister and I would watch TV and feel his sadness peak around the corner during commercial breaks and watch us like a gambler at the horse track.

After Hamburger Helper dinners, Mom would watch TV upstairs, Dad would retire to his office, and, on our cordial nights, sister and me would argue about what to watch. Sad lived in the walls and under the floorboards; like a family of rats we all ignored out of lethargy. Mom was angry-sad. Dad was self-pity. Sister and me were anxious. We heard them all scurrying through the walls whenever Mom sighed or Dad picked-up that guitar.

That sad worked its way into me. I think that’s where my predilection for Elliott Smith and Cool Ranch Doritos came from—like sitting in my Dad’s office closet spying and listening to him mumble Kingston Trio songs.

That guitar sits in a pile of miscellaneous mess now in my room. I tuned it yesterday—took me an hour. I picked at the corner of his rainbow “Praise the Lord” sticker, but decided to leave it. I don’t remember him ever singing a gospel song—but I think (hope) he wanted to. I just heard him sing: “Hang down your head Tom Dooley. Hang down your head and cry.”  That chorus frightened me. There was deception in my dad’s melancholy chewing through the walls in a trembling tenor.

That same sadness is still in the guitar—spent and used, like a hurricane turned drizzle. No fright left in it. Self-pity’s trick uncovered—like Leah in the morning, a blessing unlooked for.

I looked up the chords to Tom Dooley today, sang along under my breath, and finger-picked as best I could. I felt the same sadness like family—his story in mine. That guitar has amazing resonance.

Fishing Hat

I caught my first fish on my first try. I left my line dangling with a red egg behind a rock on Troublesome Creek. I skipped stones. Rock-hopped. Explored the chattering stream. When I came back, a fingerling silver and green fish was flopping on my hook. My dad came to get it off the hook; I held the pole while my dad maneuvered the fish free. I lost interest, moved the pole, and the hook sunk into my dad’s thumb. Deep. Blood oozed out, dribbling into the creek. Dark. Dad cringed, winced with a clenched jaw.

That was the first fishing trip. The annual event soon had merchandise—wide-brimmed tan canvas hats, matching t-shirts “I’d rather be fishing with my dad/little buddy.” For some reason we wore the shirts fishing.

We took our last trip ten years ago. My dad got us new hats. I wouldn’t wear mine, said something about the style and fit. Navy blue. Avid Angler Fly Fishing Outfitters logo with ruddy streamer. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it. Wearing it would have said we were ok. By that time, we were not ok.

Every year after, my dad would ask about a fishing trip. And I was busy. The thought of days alone, hours in the car, with him—made me cringe.

When I found his hat amongst all the stuff, I bit my lip, clenched jaw. Remembered all those conversations, busy schedules. Denied requests. His persistence. Ignoring the broke us. His thumb bleeding into the creek, face wincing in pain.

I wear that hat everyday. The crown is fading towards tan. If it still fit, I’d wear the t-shirt too.

The House

My mom sold the house earlier this summer. I drove down to help her move. We slept in the living room after the move. A slumber party with sleeping bags and movies. The house was empty. I took the chance to remember. All the mixed feelings I had were in a quiet mood, tamed by acceptance, nothing to be scared of.

I investigated the scene. The scars on the fir trees that held the tree house dad and I built. The outline of tiny hands in the concrete. The crawl space that kept my dad’s secrets. The lawn swallowed up by moss. This was pilgrimage—following the steps of my dad. His miracles and the stations of his cross.

 

The stuff of home—trees, grass, doors, patio, guitars and hats—they’re grief aids. Story-telling props. Things to hold and touch and remember. Like storage totes, they help organize the memories into a story with weight and color. Concrete. I like stuff