Archives for December 2011

The Big World

Apprehensively,

The boy stands next to the man at the urinal.

Hung open against the wall

 

Zipper down,

Shivering against the cold porcelain.

 

His father is huge.

 

The man on the other side is all darkness and hair,

And the boy tries for a better look,

 

but his father says, “Pay attention

to your own business.”

 

The boy fingers his puniness.

His large eyes deflate to a tense squint

and he wishes he was alone

happily making rivers into the bowl at home.

Open Heart

( with complications)

My step-mother’s voice was choked.

“Your father’s on the operating table.

They can’t stop the bleeding. They can’t

put his heart back in… he won’t clot.”

 

For the next few weeks, I drove to the Heart

Center wondering if my father was still…

 

He was in The Intensive Care of intensive cares

attached to tubes on the side of his neck,

tubes that went into his lungs,

tubes that came out of his chest,

a tube into each of his arms and out his penis:

 

Draining and pumping, attached to machines

That caused his breath, machines that fed his blood

machines with dials and lights and suction cups

that were everywhere but the privacy of his mind

which would not let him go.

 

Just below each bed at a panel, sat a nurse

with pencils and charts and circulating doctors.

Immediate family was allowed to see for fifteen minutes

once, every two hours.

I bent his arms and legs and stared with fear, curiosity and awe

at his helpless and unfamiliar body:

the shrunken tattoo of his name on his arm,

the cold white skin of his legs

the puffed, frail chest, the twitching face

the closed eyes that sometimes seemed to want to open.

 

Continuously, I spoke to him.

I had wished most to be with him when I couldn’t be.

I thought about how this body would have treated me

if we had been together when I was growing up.

 

I’m told that it’s often like that,

but it felt good to comb his hair.

It was a wonder to see a flash of eyes

That I learned were very blue.

 

When they told us that he’d had a stroke

I resolved that I would not leave him like that

and plotted how it might be necessary to help him die.

 

My wife said that I was being crazy,

but it was one of those times when sanity was less than enough

and I was crazed because it was how I felt when I used to pray.

“Daddy,” I would say

“You’re gonna get better.

You’re brave and tough and if that’s not enough,

I promise that it will be OK.”

 

And I pleaded with the distance to let me get through.

I begged the distance to learn new ways.

 

As my father came around,

the tubes and machines were gradually removed.

and they took him to regular Intensive Care

and waited to see how much of him remained.

 

First he opened his eyes and could turn his head.

Then he could move on one side.

then on half of the other.

He tried to communicate with a letter board, shaky finger spelling,

Illegible notes…

And when they took the tube out of his throat,

he talked to me.

For Morris Nanton

That man’s dancing on that piano.

He’s big and bulky as me

and knows what it’s like to feel awkward

and listen to him dancing and talking.

 

Playing long sets, just right

Filling in betweens with solo introductions

When that man’s up there, he sitting with me all the time

 

Wearing a loose turnaround shirt

Listening over his shoulder to that silky drum and

the bow draw and finger-walk on the bass

 

That man hears the music of clinking glasses,

The cooperation of ice, alcohol and a good pace

that makes the night feel special

 

In front of a smoked mirror with shades,

he raises his head to let the spirit flow freely.

He doesn’t say anything stupid

but he gets those silly looks

Rooms

When a room needs a door, its function is to close.

An open room is for people and their need for space

Windows are eyes in the face of a room.

Plants and walls are ears.

The fireplace and cellar, closets and cabinets are internal organs.

New furniture changes a fraction of the feel of a room.

Noise and movement are pulse.

Cleaning is the stroking of a room.

Pipes are veins and circuits are nerves.

Paint is the complexion of a room.

Steps and arches are the pride of a room and most curves show balance.

Corners and shadows hold the memory of a room.

A ticking clock puts a room in tune and

A ringing telephone is cacophony.

Rooms have longer life spans than people.

A cuckoo clock expresses the humor of a room.

Most rooms like alcohol and get hangovers.

Rooms compete for attention.

When you sleep in a room, you wake with some knowledge of it.

Rooms without widows are more sensitive to sound.

Dampness is the depression of a room.

Rooms contribute to their own temperature.

Sterile rooms are mute.

In the depth of a wall, where does a new room begin?

A room is aware of its secret places.

Rugs and furniture are the makeup of a room and rooms cry after them.

The voice of a room can intensify the air and speak telepathically.

When people leave, rooms attract other inhabitants.

Rooms are afraid of the wind.

A room is a natural thing.

Fugitive Dream

Suppose you’re sitting in a church

with an old lover, watching a ceremony

from a pew that’s toward the back

and off to the side.

 

You stand, sit, kneel, chant, sing

and smile at each other. Pleased

with the ecumenical nature of things,

enjoying the light touches

that you exchange.

 

Then these people that you’ve never seen

break in and begin to do away with the priests

and other members of the congregation

in the most brutal of ways.

 

You turn to your lover for reassurance,

to make sure that it’s just a dream

And that the two of you can go on watching and playing.

But no one is there.

 

And you run out of the church

to save yourself and inform others

about the massacre.

Flying down the streets of the city where you were born,

pounding on doors and looking for help,

secretly pleased with your speed and agility.

 

And when you find someone who will let you in,

there’s your lover on TV, giving an interview

about how you seemed like a nice person

and about how no one could have expected

these atrocities from you.

 

So now you are heading for the river, looking for escape.

You live incognito for what seems like at least a year,

until you try to cross back over the river

and are apprehended by Federal Marshalls and more TV cameras.

 

Then you wake to the heat and touch

of the person that you love now, who was not the person in the dream.

Your lover’s face is soft and sleepy.

You’re quiet and penitent about what you’ve done.