POEM - Busy! Busy Bee!

Ditching is not as much fun

As it used to be

When I was in high school

Back then I’d ditch

Play all day

Show back up in class

Like nothing happened

Now I’m all grown up

I have this load of stuff

Sitting on my chest and head

Every last second of the day

Even if I ditch I still think about it

I heard someone name it once

They called it “responsibility”

Responsibility sucks!

I have an office job

It’s cushy and easy . . . most days

Then the universe conspires

Suddenly what I was way ahead on

Has evolved into “behind expectations”

Based on several contributing factors

            1. The VP of Sales is behind on profits

            2. Production planners all quit

            3. Material shortages in Asia

            4. A storm in the Philippines

            5. The Director of Operations is bored

            6. The planets are aligned with Venus

            7. A Paleolithic cerebral cortex was found in tact

            8. The winds are out of the North this morning

            9. And the coffee was burnt by the intern

(I don’t even drink coffee!

Why are you telling me all this?)

I scream this into my own brain

But nod understandingly in response

Affirming my in depth comprehension

And a deep and abiding commitment

To the revised deadline

It really isn't that bad

I’m just bothered

Especially when I might have to stop

            Considering the mystery of my navel

                        And do some actual work

So, my old nemesis responsibility

Rears its ugly head

Makes me rush, rush, rush

            Like a crazy busy bee

                        Buzz, buzz, buzz!

POEM - Work at Home Day

At the last second

My car refused to start

I was going to be distraught

Upset and put out

But this thing happened Sunday

An old lady read a story

A conversation with God

Where the person asks him why,

            Why everything went wrong

God says that in each instance he was there

Making things happen a certain way

Protecting the person from adversity

So, I let the car have its way

Decided to work from home

A spreadsheet is a spreadsheet

No matter which screen it is on

Still the question sits there

Hanging over the whole day

What did I miss?

            Which terrible thing might have happened?

I decided to take a survey

My bet was on gasoline

And that I probably had less than I thought

            And payday is tomorrow

So I would have been stranded

Claire was pretty sure I was going to crash

Run into a semi and get pushed off the over-pass

She can be so morbid

With her pixie-esque features

            And her delightful unaffected smile

Josie postured a different opinion

Thought I was headed for embarrassment

A guaranteed wardrobe malfunction

            As I bent to pick up a pencil

My pants were going to rip

            Right in front of my boss

Veronica was less dramatic

            She just said I would be lonely

Because I missed the puppies

I told her she need to stop smoking crack

And punted a puppy for effect

Max feared a technological threat

That my MP3 player would die

And tuneless, I would slowly deflate

Wallow and writhe in silent agony

For the lack of some fat beats

Ezra thought monsters might eat my leg

And the giant robot was going to blow up my building

After the evil ninja caused a magic tornado

To strike all the trees with lightning

That might have been exciting to see

I think Linda was right though

She said it was just one of those days

To work from home

Give your sweetie some hugs

Cook her some lunch

            And cover her in kisses

The kids all rolled their eyes

            But I like the way she thinks.

POEM - Prophecies and Placeholders

It was a lovely field in full bloom

Lined on one side with woods of mystery

A road creating the far most border

My home possessed an advantageous observation point

A base of operations between quests

The field was bursting with enough distractions

For a free willed ten year old

All just beyond the barb wire fence out back

Maybe I had jumped that fence

One too many times

For this particular sultry summer day

And the inviting neighbor girl

Was a better option that Wednesday

Or maybe it was a Thursday

Or a whole string of days

Flushed together in my hazy pre-pubescent mind

She was a little older at twelve

She said she was spoken for

But I was offered a concession

I could kiss her cheek or her neck

Hold her in a yearning embrace

As long as I left her lips unblemished

All my usurping advances were brushed aside

Her pouting lips were for Todd

Or Tad or some other name

I suddenly hated all of them

Not enough to stop me

Summer is no time for grudges

And it ended like the weather

A change in atmospheric pressure

And the pastime was forgotten

So serious it seemed

So quickly it passed

She was a place holder

Fates were in play that critical year

Left a hidden message

In a misspelled address

                        On the back of a poster I drew

But the words bore a clue

I lived on Marie Street

I spelled it Mirae, an odd error

Turned in to a prophecy

Kissing my soon to be wife

On a sultry afternoon years later

A break from packing up my room

Preparing for marriage and moving out

Old mementos discovered and shared and pondered

“What street did you live on in Gresham?” she asks

“Marie, I think”

“Well I guess we were meant to be together then”

“How so?”

“Look how you spelled this;

My middle name is Mirae . . .”

POEM - Tragic Loss

The plan was to move to Utah

Oregon had crumbled

As the logging industry fell

We had tried to endure

But dad’s jobs had faltered as well

From recent grad landing a BLM contract

To a well-paid corporate trainer

To pump jockey at the corner gas station

So we bolted for Zion on possibilities

A professor gig at the U of U

Holed up in Dan and Kathy’s basement

While all the avenues were exhausted

Hanging with the cousins

It was a summer of tacos and rhubarb pie

And visits to the cabin in Flaming Gorge

By fall we were looking at a house

With a huge basement

            And my own room

I started in my new school

With the big 64 Crayon box

Grasped in my grubby 4^th grade mitts

I was settling into life in Sandy

Caught up in the conspiratorial rumors

That the cafeteria fish served on Tuesdays

Were caught in the drainage ditch

Adjacent to the school parking lot

The day everything changed

            I was distractedly daydreaming

Waiting to be picked up

Deep in thought about pond fish

When my dad pulls up in the Silver Streak

My Uncle Dan’s project car of indeterminate origins

I jumped in the back, my first ride in the car

“How was school?”

            I probably said it was good

“We’re going to Arizona, son.”

            “For a vacation?”

“We’re moving there.”

            “When?

“Right now. Mom’s packing the car.

I already packed the moving van.”

“But I left my crayons . . . “

“Sorry . . . we’ll get you some in Arizona.”

But, you see, it was a new box

With the sharpener in the back

And I hadn’t been able to use it

Hadn’t gotten to fully explore

I had plans for those crayons

Even for the most  useless color

                        You know, the white one

I was distracted, perplexed

No one had discussed this with me   

By that night we were already on the road

As the miles rolled I gradually recovered

By the time I was peeking into the Grand Canyon

I was looking forward instead of back

The crayons stayed behind us too

            I’d pine for them occasionally

More for dramatic effect

Than for any real resentment

When my dad passed away I was 30

            Still waiting on the crayons

Willing to trade them for his return

Last summer my mother showed up to visit

She even brought gifts

I had by now turned 41

            I guess I was finally old enough now

To handle the responsibility

            Originally entrusted when I was 10

As I unwrapped the paper

            I found my long absent crayons

Replaced, restored, requited

 

POEM - Gentrified

This old part of town

Where the brick buildings rest

Formerly abandoned factories

Forlorn and yearning

Watch their neighbor’s

Gutted internal organs

Wretch from glass cased mouths

Exposed on familiar streets

Removed, restructured, envisioned

Implanted new vital entrails

Create the latest this or hottest that

Encased in soulful brick lined wombs

Some denizens are sadder

That once looked out

Through many lidless eyes

To watch as she walked down the street

She walked all the way

From the corner deli

To the engine shop

To meet her man

His first Friday night off in 2 months

They watched her pull him

All the way down the road

Till she and he merged

Formed into one dark shadow

Shrunk and melted

In a fiery last gulp

Of yawning late summer sun

That was when the old place could see

Back then each opening stood bright

Five feet apart, four feet high

Three feet wide and forty-eight squares

Hand blown eyes

Unblinking and patient

Blindness now consumes

Each once bright eye

Shut by one small rectangle

After one, after one after one more

Till the last brick is placed

To complete the darkness

Summer skirts blocked out

Previous pleasures erased

Callused working hands surrender

To blind kitsch filled buildings

The old ways buckle under the scent

Of sultry reductions simmering and steaming

Awaiting the latest harvest of early green beans

And mushrooms and arugula field plucked today

Serves to allow the sightless guards

To feel the warmth of usefulness

And remember the fond dance of calico and denim

And the fire of a turning earth.

POEM - Why I Took the Blue Pill

Allergies and I go way back

Always there but not serious enough

Not debilitating, just annoying

My itchy skin I get from grass

Never got me out of mowing the lawn

Nor did the sneezing, coughing and wheezing

It was my call

            I wasn’t willing to give in

There was one time, though

A time when the allergies started winning

I was right in the middle of that dream

The one I told you about

Where I’m being chased

Over fence after fence

By those Doberman Pincers

            The ones the biker owned

                        In the cul-de-sac in Gresham

Those pointy headed sleek, black demons

Never stopped chasing me

Every few months another attempt

When I was a teen, some nights were worse

My mind stopped waking up all the way

Just sometimes, just enough

To cause the most terrifying hallucinations

Not zombies or demons

Just everything not right

Like far and near switched positions

But still looked the same,

In the wrong place

My parents asked what I was smoking

Maybe there was something to it

I later learned that most days in Tucson

The highest pollen count

                        Is from marijuana

So I was given antihistamine pills

            The strongest they had

Doc said the back-up in my nasal cavity

            Caused pressure on my brain

Making me have those oh-so-fun visions

I took the blue pill

            Still had a runny nose

Itchy skin and watery eyes

But the hallucinations stopped

            And I finally jumped over the last fence

Blissfully leaving those Dobermans behind

POEM - Marsh’s Favorite Song

I.

The dusty wind always blows

Across the almost town of Hesperia

Gateway to the high desert

I was stationed there

Trying to spread the word

Bring religion to the badlands

Find in myself enough humility

Not to toss my bike in the canal

And spend my days in eternal cursing

Of the omni-directional wind

This day was a good day

Filled with softer breezes

My attention was grabbed by a garage sale

More specifically by a large black case

I was cautious and tempered

“Is there a guitar in that case?”

            “Sure is”

“How much you asking?”

            “Twenty-five”

“I’ll be right back, have to get my wallet.”

            “Who are you guys anyway?” he asks

Of the two of us in white shirts and black name tags

“We’re missionaries.”

            “I tell you what, it’s yours

                        Consider it my donation to God.”

II.

Once upon a time there was a guitar

It was my guitar

I got it for free at a garage sale

From a nice man

Who wanted it to go to a good home

I learned to play the guitar

Simply, just the chords

And just the easy chords

The G the C and the A

The F the D and the E

Nothing too hard, but it was music

Then I began to write songs

To play on my beloved guitar

                        And they were AWESOME!

The best one I ever wrote was about lunch

More specifically my friend’s lunch

It’s about Marsh’s lunch

And it is his favorite song to sing

            When Marsh eats his lunch

III.

Marsh and I were roomates in Palmdale

We lived in this old guys house

The old guy still lived there

He was something like 90 or 92

It was nice and he left us alone

Mostly sat in his room and waited

Waited to join his wife on the other side

She had recently passed and he was sad

For us the place was entertaining

The cupboards were stock with his favorites

Pickled pigs feet and Pepsi Free

The Pepsi Free would sit out in a cup until flat

On purpose, it was how he liked it

Marsh liked blue Kool-Aid, cold

            He affectionately called it Smurf Piss

We both like Peanut Butter, and ate it often

IV.

The song just happened

            Formed in my brain like a worm

Wiggle down to my hand

            And crawled out across the paper

It called itself “Smurf Piss, Pepsi and Peanut Butter”

“I love to eat it every day/

            And every night I say OK, to . . ./

Smurf Piss, Pepsi and Peanut Butter”

“Sometimes I eat a whole bunch/

            Sometimes it eat it just for lunch, it’s . . . /

Smurf Piss, Pepsi and Peanut Butter”

On and on it went

            Marsh and I harmonizing the hook

Pickled pigs feet souring in the cupboard

Embittered by the obvious snub

POEM - Knot Right

Of all the things the physician who delivered me was

A boy scout he was not

Or should I say knot? With a “k”

As in he didn’t know how to tie one

I guess he did OK

As a bouncing baby boy

I did not deflate

Nor flatten or expire or leak out of that little puckering divot

That decommissioned birthmark,

Monument to motherhood

One, though, does expect,

Lives with a certainty

As solid as sun rise

That one’s belly button will not come undone

It’s just that thing you can count on

Gray hair may arise,

Your teeth may fall out,

Bones may falter

But the button will remained buttoned

It will adapt and stretch and grow

A living reliable fixture

Only, I guess I pushed the limits

One too many all-you-can eats on payday Friday

And my button started to leak

I thought it was just some left over water

In the deep maw of a chasm

My weight gain had created

But it was something more – a primordial ooze

            As if trying to reopen the abandoned tunnel

My gut appearing to abandon complacency

Dissatisfied with the capacity of my mouth

Has taken to making plans for a bypass

            A direct main line to the epicenter of engorgement

I took it as a sign

Abandoned the double-bacon-cheeseburger-large-fries-and-coke

Left a tip and walked out the door

Stopped by the book store

Bought a book on knots

Punched myself in the gut

Each time it gurgled a protest

POEM - Three Feet Above

The new place was different than we expected

It’s what happens sometimes

When you rent a place

Based on 6 fuzzy photos from Craig’s list

And last minute desperation

The whole thing sat on an acre out in the country

Looked like a secluded joint

Quiet rural neighborhood

With five bedrooms

                        And a storm shelter

Turns out the satellite photos were out of date

The empty lots on either side

Now had two homes a piece

With mariachi music flowing like sangria

We toughed it out

Got used to most of it

Dealt with the rest

Happy and comfortable

It was about this time I picked up a new CD

Another one from Mofro

And their glorious Florida swamp rock

I was starting to understand them

Better than I ever had in the desert

Changing from novelty into anthem

We were hanging around the kitchen

I turned up my new favorite

JJ Grey was belting out the hook

“Call me dirt floor cracker /

            But them words just fill me with pride!”

I knew what he meant

            Made me think of something funny

“Hey!” I blurted out “at least we aren’t dirt floor crackers!

            We’re three feet above the dirt!”

Ha! trailer humor!

            Everyone laughed as we sat down to dinner

Fried green tomatoes, rhubarb pie

            Grits and fried chicken

And our favorite Southern vegetable

            Homemade macaroni and cheese

POEM - Roxie Meets Danny

Every year we made two trips

One to St. George

One to West Covina

As I got older, the trip to Cali meant more

It was what I looked forward to

I was a skater and loved the beach

The mall  was right around the corner

With a two story Tower Records

The liquor store had candy bars cheap

And we always waved to Mr. Water

The large concrete storm drain offshoot

Of the Los Angeles river Waters

When my cousin Matt was there it was better

His grandparents lived in Hacienda Heights

Which expanded our roaming circle

Gave us hours unsupervised

We secretly thought we were the cool ones

Thought we were with it and hip

Until we talked with Grandma Roxie

Matt and I were sitting around the kitchen table

Talking about music

            Planning our next outing

Seeing if there was anything happening

When grandma joined in

She always liked us grandsons

            And we liked her back

She was the grandma that understood us

Was easy to talk to

            Wasn't too strict

Also, it turns out, a total hipster

We were talking over the shows we’d seen

When grandma said she’d just been to one

She taught a religion class at the Institute

Which was on the CalPoly campus

One night there was a concert

And she drifted over and took it in

            She said it was pretty good

Not what she usually listens too

            But the kids seemed to enjoy it

So we had to ask who

            Who was this pretty good band

“They had a funny name,” she said,

            “I think it was something like Oingo Boingo”

Really? Oingo Boingo

            You've got to be kidding me

It was a humbling experience

            My grandmother had seen Oingo Boingo

Before I had seen them

            Before I’d really been to anything

Except a Beach Boys concert

            15 years after they mattered

And that’s how Grandma Roxie rolls, boys

            That’s how she rolls!

POEM - Traying

In the end it was an experiment

In multiple disciplines

There were sociological and ethical questions

Tests in material sciences

A good amount of physics

And some fluid dynamics

It was Barz who played the teacher

The recently arrived pied piper of Frisco

As it so often was in those days

He always seemed to have a good idea

Of how to have fun

That if someone took offense

Probably pushed right up against illegal

But this activity was one of my favorites

He picked me up at my house

To hang out, get a burger

Smooze my parents with that winning smile

Promise to have me back at a decent hour

Once we got in the car he pointed to the back seat

To a collection of trays

Of varying origins

Liberated for the evening’s entertainment

“First of all you have to have a good rain”

Of course

“And you need a front wheel drive”

Obviously

“And a nice big, empty parking lot”

It would be a shame not to, but why?

“For traying, brother! Haven’t you ever been traying?”

The look of bewilderment said no

The maniacal giggle from Barz meant trouble

We did get a burger first

            We needed more trays I was informed

The social and ethical portion of  the experiment

I went with peer pressure, for the fun of it

Then off to the previously scouted location

The Presbyterian church down the road

They had added a parking lot in back

With no parking blocks or light poles

Mucking up the middle of it

This is where the hard science began in earnest

And the details began to unfold

“See you place the trays at the back wheels”

Check

“Then I roll my tires up on to them”

            Gotcha. Now what?

“Get in, buckle up, and hold on!”

What followed was pure adrenaline induced joy

Barz’s Dodge Charger roared into action

As we tore across the parking lot

Then suddenly Barz’s spun the wheel

And we pirouetted in exactly the way cars don’t

Again and again to increasingly hilarious effect

Until the trays wore out

The fiberglass trays weren’t as good as you’d expect

Wore out after one spin

MickeyD’s were the best

We gave up before they did