God throws us out the back door onto a huge junk pile in another galaxy. There are billions of bodies. It’s 1,000 degrees below zero but compacteJunk Pile
God throws us out the back door onto a huge junk pile in another galaxy. There are billions of bodies. It’s 1,000 degrees below zero but compacted souls don’t need heat. It’s logical because we came in the front door. All of us die in the caboose not of our choosing but then we’ve always seen life disappearing behind us, most always into what we clumsily call the past. Most of the girls I loved are now crones with me a geezer, shuffling toward the moon. So many years ago the girl with brown legs in the green dress got off the yellow school bus. Sometimes the past flips over and determines what we are today. The girl’s sandy feet were on the dashboard. Beneath, thighs were speaking the language of thighs. Godspeed is the speed of light.
Dead Man’s Float
Dr. Guevara said that I’m hollow-eyed and exhausted from writing too much. I should take a break but I don’t know how. Suddenly I remembered learning the “dead man’s float” in Boy Scout swimming lessons and a light went off. That’s what I’ll do to rest up, the dead man’s float without water. I got in bed and conjured the feeling of floating and recalled my last dead man’s float about a mile out in the ocean east of Key West when I tired from too much swimming ambition. Big waves kept drowning my nose. I gave up floating and swam desperately to shore. I dozed in the hot sand and a pretty girl stopped and asked, “Are you okay?” “I’ll never be okay,” I said, and she left. I saw her later but she wouldn’t talk to this goofy. A poet blows a chance with a dumb witticism. If you need me now I’m here along the Mexican border dead-man floating....more
Everyone loves a story. Let's begin with a house. We can fill it with careful rooms and fill the rooms with things—tables, chairs, cupboards, draA Story
Everyone loves a story. Let's begin with a house. We can fill it with careful rooms and fill the rooms with things—tables, chairs, cupboards, drawers closed to hide tiny beds where children once slept or big drawers that yawn open to reveal precisely folded garments washed half to death, unsoiled, stale, and waiting to be worn out. There must be a kitchen, and the kitchen must have a stove, perhaps a big iron one with a fat black pipe that vanishes into the ceiling to reach the sky and exhale its smells and collusions. This was the center of whatever family life was here, this and the sink gone yellow around the drain where the water, dirty or pure, ran off with no explanation, somehow like the point of this, the story we promised and may yet deliver. Make no mistake, a family was here. You see the path worn into the linoleum where the wood, gray and certainly pine, shows through. Father stood there in the middle of his life to call to the heavens he imagined above the roof must surely be listening. When no one answered you can see where his heel came down again and again, even though he'd been taught never to demand. Not that life was especially cruel; they had well water they pumped at first, a stove that gave heat, a mother who stood at the sink at all hours and gazed longingly to where the woods once held the voices of small bears—themselves a family—and the songs of birds long fled once the deep woods surrendered one tree at a time after the workmen arrived with jugs of hot coffee. The worn spot on the sill is where Mother rested her head when no one saw, those two stained ridges were handholds she relied on; they never let her down. Where is she now? You think you have a right to know everything? The children tiny enough to inhabit cupboards, large enough to have rooms of their own and to abandon them, the father with his right hand raised against the sky? If those questions are too personal, then tell us, where are the woods? They had to have been because the continent was clothed in trees. We all read that in school and knew it to be true. Yet all we see are houses, rows and rows of houses as far as sight, and where sight vanishes into nothing, into the new world no one has seen, there has to be more than dust, wind-borne particles of burning earth, the earth we lost, and nothing else....more
“There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to“There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I’d like to know. I wish someone could tell me..."...more