Treaties

I have no right to hold you

     nor you, me

no birthright passage through

     your sea

There exist no treaties between the nations of your eyes

     and mine.

We are two planets

two bodies in space

rotating and

flopping wildly towards each other

an inexcusable collision

given the vastness of life

Still

what is it that coats your skin

what salt

on the rim of your transparent heart

that draws me in

mixes in my own watering mouth

and burns on the way down?

You don't belong to me

     as ever

Your arms are not

     my coat

to don when I am shivering.

In Dads absence

Immortalized in my memory as the transient smell of sweat and leather, he (my father) exists as a sort of paradox. I think of him as a giant in his pilot uniform; as a boy, anywhere we went in the world people knew him. I heard strangers excitedly call his name in myriad accents, in busy international terminals and rural gas stations alike. However I am also keenly aware of his many vexations, demons that hounded him mercilessly for most of his life. In the end I envied him, laying emaciated in bed and riddled with cancer, for his inability to supplicate them.

“Come to the window, sweet is the night air!” penned Matthew Arnold sometime around 1850. One hundred and forty-nine years later, this lyric from my favorite verse would parallel my most cherished experiences with dad. After my parents divorced, we were living in Fulton County, Pennsylvania with mom and he in Manila, Philippines. From time to time he would appear, and stay at his sisters sprawling log/ nursing home half an hour or so away from our trailer, and I would go join for a few days at a time. Inevitably sometime in the cool dead of night, after the dew had begun forming outside on the hood of the car, he- jetlagged and unable to sleep- would wake me up. I don't remember ever getting dressed, just that at some point we would be driving east on Route 70.

There were never any passenger cars on the road at that time save for ours, an older Buick dad would borrow from my Aunt with a sort of black corduroy upholstery and square chromed seatbelt buckles. We would drive in silence at first, as I gradually woke up in the front seat, and he would begin talking. Not like a teacher talks to a student, or like a mother talks, but like a man talks to another man at a campfire as it fades into the night. He would tell me great secret things, the preposterous and unimaginable secrets of life, as if I already knew them and he was just acknowledging the obvious.

I would listen wide-eyed. He told me of girlfriends he had wooed before meeting my mom, he told me to “treat niggers and retards and poor people the same as I would treat him”, he told me about the time he stole a chicken from a neighbors farm and plucked it and cooked it over a fire in an orange grove, and about the time he woke up in the cockpit and thought the full moon was another airplane heading straight at him. Sometimes he would say “shit” or “fucking”, and I would feel very grown up.

Eventually we would reach our destination, which was almost always Little Sandys 24-hour truck-stop in Hancock, Maryland. It is a greasy, crumb-covered, loathsome place, but at the time seemed cooler at least than the finest Michelin dining. We would park our sedan somewhere amongst the gargantuan idling semis, where fat men snored or bargained with prostitutes in their sleeper cabs, and walk in. Imagine how my chest swelled! Being born in the south dad loved grits, a trait I failed to acquire despite his repeated entreaties, so I would get an omelet. The grumpy, red-eyed aproned matriarch would bring him coffee and me hot chocolate in thick, heavy ceramic mugs with stain rings they had probably been serving in since the seventies.

After eating and making sure I saw him leave a few dollars tip, we would thank the lady and exit, pausing to sit on a bench by the door outside. Dad would smoke a cigarette and flick the butt what seemed to me like halfway across the parking lot, while bemoaning the latest cruelty inflicted by his latest girlfriend (undoubtedly in response to some unmentioned cruelty on his part) and we would drive home in silence. I don't ever remember going back to sleep.

The last time I saw him, he was mostly bedridden. His fourth wife, younger than I, was cleaning and feeding him daily. On one occasion he opened his eyes, and began describing in great detail an experience from decades earlier. He had been hired to fly cargo on a south-westerly route, and as such experienced a much longer than usual sunset from the altitude of 27,000 feet. As he told of skimming along the tops of the red clouds, his gray eyes watered and his lip quivered. “I never told anyone about that”, he said simply, his voice cracking.

It must have been beautiful.

Sooting

These days
I view my reflection with a certain misgiving
as a child
earnestly glaring at a shadow on their wall
waiting to see if it will suddenly arise
sprint across the room
and devour them

These days
the smoke sent up from my smoldering heart
filtering through the branches of my ribs
sooting the leaves
singes my eyes til I squeeze the lids
gasping

These days
the view of the ships from my stoop
and your slippers by the door
sparkles my good eye

Eastward

chrome
she stretches out
bespotted by shadows of clouds
how peculiarly light
how unwittingly unlike
the night which she wears
as a garment prepared
for a lover, transluscent
and shimmering
barely concealing her shape
her broad, fertile hips hewn by the moon
and breasts sculpted by tradewinds

in the vast
black unquenchable distance
out past
where the most reckless fishing men
pretend to have gone
starts her voice
low and pure
and just over
the whitecaps it glides
sweetly into the wid'ning eyes
into the throat and down through
taking hold
in the thickest part of
every man gazing eastward upon her
in each his own language

Pulling Sheets

Pulling sheets

V1
This weather is strange

it's so wild and the rain

comes like curtains outside of

my windows, pain

keeps me going but where

I don't know anymore

I'm just driftin'

Your fingers like feathers

float over my skin

like the drops from a cloud above

my head, within

some strange circle of life

pulling sheets colored white

off the clothesline

CHORUS

do you shiver

under the covers alone

with a sliver

of hope all that's left then it's gone

V2

September has mange
days dry out and fall off of

a body estranged from

a good womans love

rearranged are the vows

in the here and the now

and forever

So water my soil but

use your discretion

pour all of your heart out

I'll flood, learned a lesson

or two in my time

save the best of the wine

for the finish

C

do you shiver

under the covers alone

with a sliver

of hope all that's left then it's gone

BRIDGE

I still remember
the way that she smiled, comin' down the aisle
But the love that I lent her

I came back to claim, after a while

V3

The taste of exchange in the mouth of my heart

is a bitter grain grown in the field where we part
and a memory alone

is an unfurnished home

in the desert

C

do you shiver

under the covers alone

with a sliver

of hope all that's left then it's gone

in a river

of choices and chances we've blown

to deliver

a glass house from what has been thrown

This weather is strange

it's so wild and the rain

comes like curtains outside of

my windows, pain

keeps me going but where

I don't know anymore

I'm just driftin'

A Pen in the Coffee

It seems the only thing anybody knows about children is some abstract notion of waking you up in the middle of the night. “Oh, are you guys getting any sleep ha ha” is a phrase you will hear millions of times as a new parent from both childless individuals and perhaps more interestingly, from couples who raised their own little angels years prior. It's as though this one particular aspect of parenting is the central, most important theme of the entire experience. Well, both of our children slept through the night by 3 months so that left a lot of uncharted waters to navigate.

With that in mind, I have decided to write out a few other specifics, to help prepare you for the joy of parenting. This list is written in good humor, and unlike parenting itself, by no means exhaustive.

1. You are going to have a cold for 6 years, maybe longer.
Many of you have already learned things like “washing your hands after using the restroom” or “not eating cigarette butts you find on the beach”. As adults, you walk around puffed with pride from your fastidiously clean house and hands you could eat off of. A two year old however doesn't fully comprehend the concept of germs, or personal space, or really any concepts period, and doesn't understand why you are upset they walked up and sneezed directly into your tear ducts. I have literally seen a child pick a quarter up in Newark airport and put it in his mouth, and when around other children they interact with the closeness and physicality of dogs in heat. Children will make you sick twice a month, for about two weeks at a time.

My advice: buy stock in Kleenax and NyQuil now, fund your own retirement.

2. You are not going to get anything done.

If you have a job where you leave home base and travel to another location miles away to perform your duties, you may disregard this point. If you are a stay at home parent, or a writer, or sell make believe weight loss products, or are self employed in any other capacity, get ready. Children need something every 8 seconds. That email you have been meaning to write mom? Plan for it to take about 6 hours. Wanted to read that article you saw on Facebook yesterday? Plan on reading half of it and then losing it in an endless collection of open tabs. Imagine you will take your kids to the park? Plan on one of them being tired and the other, all morning, and you are not going to the park buddy. Due to the fact that children have needs until 10 minutes after they are asleep, the only time you will be unoccupied with these tasks is well after business hours and in the morning some time around 4:30.

My advice: abandon all earthly ambitions for the next decade.

3. You will see yourself in a new light.My mother had a few phrases she would say to my brother and I growing up, and I'm sure many of you have heard similar mantras;
“If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything”.

“Stop playing with matches”.
“If you track dirt on my floors again I'm going to put you inside a package and mail you to Africa with the least expensive shipping method”

Whatever they were, they were phrases she would use over and over again, in the same repetitive situations. I of course can't recall doing this myself as a two year old, but my own does it all the time- I have heard my son say things word-for-word that I yelled a week prior. It's really amazing! How, I ask myself, can he not remember that punching your baby sister in the head is a no no, but as soon as he does it say loudly “We don't punch baby sister in the head!”?! How can he know to say “WE DON'T THROW THINGS IN THE HOUSE!”, but not to resist the urge to hurl a Hess Truck at the glass door? After a while it gets weird though, and you quickly learn that comments made about your wife's physique or that fatty in the grocery store checkout line are best made in private (or not at all). Even if you think you're good since you or your spouse speak a second language, beware. There are a lot of international residents here on Saipan, and they will judge you even more harshly if your two year old knows how to ask for a cold beer.. in Russian.

My advice: Take a vow of silence like that kids dad in “The Chosen”.

4. You will relax your standards.Are you one of those people who thinks children shouldn't eat cake for breakfast? How about sleeping in your bed, or running around naked, or taking a nap, or not making a poopoo on the beach and then burying that little brown treasure for a boonie dog to uncover later? I've got news for you: you may start strong. You may have great intentions. You may be a decent, upstanding member of the community who pays taxes and goes to church, but when your toddler starts “The Dance” and the nearest potty is all the way back up at Taco Bell, it's time to dig a hole Mr. Rogers!

My advice: X don't mark the spot.

5. Children will do things so incomprehensibly villainous it will risk collapsing your psyche.A few days ago, I was hitting that 3:00pm low spot. Coffee seemed like a great idea, so I began the comforting ritual of placing the filter, measuring out the grounds and the water, prepping my cup with a splash of creamer and a small spoon, and smiled as the smell of fresh energy began filling my nose. It finished brewing, I poured, and took that first sip. Perfect. Moments later, naturally, my months-old daughter began loudly explaining that her diaper was suddenly full and needed a change RIGHT THEN so I set my coffee down and tended to her. When I returned, there in my beloved coffee keeping the spoon company, was a ballpoint pen of unknown origin and a state of cleanliness that was dubious at best.

Another time, I dressed them for an outing, went to dress myself, and returned to find my son happily dumping dirt and chicken poop over his delighted sisters head, as they sat together in the flower bed. It's things like this every day, usually several times a day. Children are evil in ways so creative it will initially defy explanation (“Son, don't stand on your sisters head.” “Kids, the kitty doesn't like glue.” “Omg why did you eat all of my toothpaste”) but it's just because they are taking in all of the world, head on, at 100 miles an hour. Or as a friend put it, “Children think outside of the box. Everything is outside of the box. In fact, there isn't even a box yet”.

My advice: Love them relentlessly.

Forgive easily, give hugs every chance you get, and cherish these little adventures because one day you will be nothing more than a walking ATM or ride to a date at the movies with a guy that looks like mischief, or a girl who looks like she wants to start a family tonight. Children are, in spite of the difficulties, just about the biggest blessing you will ever receive. One other thing my son repeats back to me is “I love you”, and that friends is what it's all about.

Tern

Parallel
to my head in the clouds
they come

Circle, dive, thrash around
on wings white as snow;

their bodies 
splash against the sapphire sky
like birches along the tracks
in front of a deep evergreen forest
somewhere near Тасино.

Devoid of inhibition
or dept to manners
they cascade
shout
tumble
glide
dance

as I watch
and weep with jealousy.

Early November

You ever run across an old friend unexpectedly?

I don't mean some dude who was in your 7th grade class for half of the year. I mean a real friend. Maybe even an old lover. You know them well.

You are walking down the crowded corridor of an airport far from home, lost in thought. Making plans for your arrival. Struggling with your baggage. Trying to decide if it's worth it to pay six bucks for a cup of shitty coffee in a thin cup that is going to scald you for at least the first 15 minutes. Thinking you could really use a shower. Wondering if you'll be stuck next to some wacko for nine hours who won't shut up or if an overweight narcoleptic will turn your prized window seat into a prison.

All of a sudden, you see a face. The eyes, the smile reminds you of something and sure enough it comes to you slowly at first and then suddenly and inescapably and it almost takes your breath away. It's THEM. The old familiar, the comfortable. The late nights, the sunrise cigarettes. You run together, embrace, smell them, feel them, remember them, laugh, try to play it cool. Hundreds of people disappear altogether. The building, the airplanes, the smells of greasy food and old vinyl upholstery all has vanished without a trace.

After a few minutes of this intoxicating stupor, you both come to your senses and realize that there is nothing you can do about the fact that you must go different directions, and you part ways and for a while at least, you sit looking out into the distance remembering everything they mean to you and how grateful you are in the bottom of your soul for having run into them.

This morning at church some kids performed a beautiful version of "Hallelujah", for which I was not prepared.

Ketchup for breakfast

I went camping once.

On the way there I drove faster than I should have, and before anybody else arrived I was already somehow bleeding. I camp hard. When the rest of us manly men finally showed up there was a collection of firearms and bravado that rivaled that of the O.K. corral. It seems there is something magical in that Y chromosome that gets off on gunpowder.

Last night is a happy blur of testosterone-induced comradarie, cold air, hot fire, tall tales, bottle rockets, oscar meyer and ballpark.

---


I was the first one up, the first to set out and forage for signs of life. I will tell you the things I found.

The barn smells musty. Outside, the tasteless grey shingles covering two sides are old and crumbling away to reveal portions of peat colored planks, aged to perfection and ripe with splinters. Inside the air is colored with light that struggles to penetrate the dusty windows, whose panes have attained that almost wrinkly quality, the poor posture that sets in with the passing of good years. Mouse dirt clutters the corners of the swept floor.

This morning is foggy.

It is cold, cold enough to see the breath blowing out of my big smile. The valley I am in is long. Near the far end of it (somewhat obscured by the mist) the grass is un-mowed, and there are a few trees planted with tall PVC pipes to protect them from hungry deer. We used the pipes to measure off distance for our makeshift rifle range. The grass itself is mostly free of frost, except for a few patches here and there; however, the left over limbs, cut logs, and benches arranged in a big circle around the fire pit all have patterns etched onto them by the cold. The maples by the river are all bare, making the smattering of evergreens dispersed among them even more striking. The stand of pines up on the hill seems to resent them for leaving, but begrudgingly regards them as family. The embers are still glowing from last night, leftovers from when I sat by them wishing to share their warmth with you. They need my attention, so I give it. I root around in the crumbled, smoldering bits of charcoal on the outside edges looking for small sticks that maybe (ironically) escaped the same tongues of flame whose heat protected them from the frost. Finding a few, I break them, and place them on top of a handful of the driest wet cut grass I can find. A few deep breaths later and the fire flickers to life. More twigs. Several trips to the stack of logs later I am out of breath, but my warm companion has fully caught its own. God stops by, and we enjoy each others company in silence.

---

This morning for breakfast we dined on hotdog buns, which were skewered and toasted over the fire and then garnished with mayo and ketchup (we somehow miscalculated the number of dogs to buns). We also produced from the cooler some cream cheese, which was clumsily spread with someones dirty pocketknife. More shooting, and then clean up. Considering that we collected and burned nearly every bit of brush and trash within a ten mile radius, I would opine that we left the place looking better than we found it. One stop at sheetz, a much needed shower and emergency nap later, and I am back in civilization. In the world, but not of the world.. so to speak.

This weekend (this morning in particular) the words of a song played in my head.

Could we with ink the ocean fill
and were the skies of parchment made
Were every stalk on earth a quill
and every man a scribe by trade

To write the love of God above
would drain the oceans dry
Nor could the scroll contain the whole
though stretched from sky to sky.

I like life.

Psalm 148

High centered

You only belong to me in videos.

Here, pieces of you sing out to me like the sea
caught in a digital Conch shell.
I lift you out of the surf and
placing you near my cheek
crane my heart for every byte of your voice.

Your words pour out
drift out
lap out
and trickle down to my chin
past lips that can't decide if they want to curl up

or quiver.