He stares loosely into the golden blue
depths of her eyes,
watching the dark shapes swim there,
keeping to the shadowy deep.
He guesses them to be piranha
and decides not to go swimming.
Maybe tomorrow after
another long hopeful look.
This image was pinned to my Pinterest board from Natasha Moore.
A hanging bicycle
the sleeve of a coat
the chopping block by the woodpile
the woodpile
a motorcycle
a car with no doors
an unfinished model boat
car doors
a pile of papers on the counter
a pile of papers on a table
a pile of papers on another table
on another counter
on a desk
on the floor
on any convenient ledge
dishes in the sink
paperbacks in piles
clothes at the end of the bed
socks and underwear on the rug
shoes in the living room
guitars and their cases
amps and toys and wire
boxes
appliances that have no homes
haunted hearts
bones of old lovers
pictures of relatives just born
pictures of relatives newly dead
pictures of relatives as children
as young adults
as those about to die
hours on the clock
someone else’s work
It is all in the way
catching at my sleeve
tugging at my heart
clawing at my mind
as I try to clear a space in my life
for who I might be if I can just make room
“That’s where they got the replacement parts,”
you say as you point at your shin.
I look and sure enough there is a slice
on the inside of your leg, neat butterflies,
from your ankle halfway to your knee.
Then you sheepishly show me your chest.
My private thought is that I’ve sewn several
holiday birds together just like that and feel reckless,
but wonder about making you laugh.
I look into your face and take that lord’s name in vain.
My fate is not my own tonight as I nervously
check the mirror for flaws and cracks.
Damn you, I didn’t get anything done today
that I’d wanted to do, that I’d looked forward to doing.
I hadn’t seen you since that bachelor party last September,
where we both had too much fun and ended the
evening speaking Japanese to a delighted audience.
Today, we are sober, very sober indeed.
We have never come as close to
taking different flight paths on this migration.
I have always just assumed that you were
on the same plane and that I could find your
seat and visit for a time whenever the whim arose,
and I am stunned that you almost went on without me.
I look into your face again and instead
of cursing the fear in your eyes,
I bless the life that still shines there and will go hunting
next October and fish the Deschutes next
April and just might stalk the wily bivalve in a month or two.
Godspeed, my friend, this journey has another leg.
Flags wave in the breezy dark
as houselights shine for no one.
Across the street below,
tired ghosts dance on closed garage doors.
My cigar glows and ash sticks to my shirt.
The wind tries to brush it away, but can’t.
My hands smell like my father’s urine
after helping him change his “shorts”
before bed, before he can let go
the swirling of his incomplete thoughts.
“This is embarrassing,” he says.
“Get over it,” I reply and his
cynical chuckle closes the loop.
“Yeah,” he says.
We never spoke much
even when the stories were vibrant and alive,
before the plaque destroyed that
which makes him complete.
His own stories are gone,
cast adrift somewhere in a Sargasso eddy
where debris and open space
writhe in eternal conflict.
My father’s brief moments of clarity
turn all too quickly to self-realization and
a resigned anger that fades as his
thoughts dead-end in the ever-changing maze,
a quark, a meson, an electron at a time.
His only remaining constant is a sweet nature,
his affable consideration that keeps him calm.
“Anything you need?” I ask.
“Just a smile,” he says.
I am smiling goodbye every time I see him.
What he’s thinking, as always, is our mystery.
He is a blank canvas every single time.
The moon, deranged and full of jazz,
blows a hornless riff
down the long chamber of cells
where bars fling linear shadows
across a concrete floor.
One cell stands open,
confusing the pattern
with rude hatching,
plaid on stripes in grey on grey.
A procession of silhouettes
pauses at a door
at the end of the corridor,
at the end of the line.
Inside, a gurney and machine,
a sleepless pillow,
vials and tubes.
He is pale as the moon,
strapped to the gurney,
vialed and tubed.
Dear Narb,
Saw you splitting wood the other day. You did wave and I thank you for that, but then you bared your teeth at me, which I found a bit disconcerting. I didn’t see or smell any fear or anger on you, so it must be a human trait that I’m unfamiliar with. When you figure out how to do it, maybe you can find this talking place and let me know what that’s all about. (My suggestion is that you study up on what you call the pineal gland.) In the meantime, I’ll ask around. There’s a dog I know who might have a clue. They know you guys a lot better than you know them. You don’t really get how tight that bond is.
I think the fundamental problem with you humans is one of arrogance. You have taken your logic god and your opposable thumbs and scaled new heights in arrogance. I know this will probably come as a shock to you, but you humans are not the crown of creation. You are probably an accident, and might not even be here if it weren’t for dogs, but I don’t know that, really. It just seems to me that you have an obese sense of self-importance. We’re all on this planet together. Ask any creature. That’s how it works. We’re all part of a cosmic weaving that will continue long after you guys ruin it for yourselves and all the milk-dependent creatures. And don’t forget the plant people. More on that later.
So long for now. I think you should exercise your humility. It is woefully out of shape.
Your pal,
Buddy
I am alive at the vee of your legs
contemplating your most moist embrace,
marveling at the muscles that mothered
my fatherhood a generation ago.
As your back arches into a bow,
my arms knot and I rise to press sinew
to your nurturing primordial tides,
a creature at the instant of evolution.
Together we ride the arrow and hiss, spent,
into the sea where even tranquility rests.
Our bodies lie slack and calm;
still entwined, we are sated,
each in a private place where
anticipation awaits its own return.
I trace you with a fingertip
and see the ring you gave me
when we were young
catch the light of the late morning sun.
Before the sun crests the Cascades and spills
into the valley where the river surges north,
I’m out walking, arms rhythmically swinging
like the gates on a furnace sucking air.
A crow on a fence cocks his head and caws,
his obsidian chip eye glitters and
I see breath trail from his beak,
pluming against his ruffled darkness.
For an instant we exchange places,
excited by the impossible, confused by what’s real.
The only sound is breathing as I fly and
he swings on up the hill, uncluttered by omens,
eager to trade more heat for another gem,
another sparkle in the eye.
Baja sunrise
Dear Narb,
Just so you won’t get confused, as you humans so often do, I’ll tell you who this is right off the bat. I’m the one you call Buddy, the big boy with the arrow scar at the top of my left shoulder, right where what you call ‘backstrap’ begins. Hey, don’t feel bad that you think you want to kill me and eat me, I get that from a lot of creatures. There’s an old cougar who gets down to the sand once in a while and she’d love to take me down. But I’m too big for her old bones. I just have to keep the young’uns in tight when I smell her or see her around. The females do that better than I do, but I’m in charge, mostly.
I decided to send you this letter because you seem to be open to the possibility. I can’t say that about most humans. Most humans look at the world through a very tiny window and suffer greatly from a failure of imagination. Actions speak very loudly and human interaction with the world makes this obvious. What are you thinking? Do you really think you can survive yourselves?
We’ll talk more about this in letters to come. In the meantime, enjoy your time here and wave the next time you see me. I’ll rattle my antlers at you.
Your pal,
Buddy
Today:
Increasing periods of light
as the horizon drops closer
to revealing the sun.
Scattered commuters will give way
to heavy traffic and then taper off by mid-morning.
Morning will also include brief storms
of creativity, followed by doldrums in the afternoon,
with a slight chance of dozing.
Watch for this condition after lunch.
Late-afternoon numbness will give way to an
increasing chance of congestion and heavy traffic.
Tantrum warnings will be posted until early evening.
There is a 100% change of darkness as day comes to a close.
Tonight should be dark with increasing quiet.
There is a chance of scattered bliss
throughout the metro area,
but it will be short-lived.
The current time is now and the
temperature is exactly what it is.
The audiobook is live!
Narble Furt Lives 