Gym Space

Gym Space

A forest of weights, small stacks

the jungle music of current pop 

the LED light.

If no one is present

the gym does and does not exist

empty in its purposelessness

whole lives lost when it is filled

and wounds healed.

When I walk through the quiet evenings 

and hear the gently movement of weights

repeating the same path

through the air

and hear the soft movement of muscle and sinew

and if I close my eyes

and ignore the pop music 

it is very much like a quiet evening

back on the farm

the gentle motion of things

even though you are still.

Ode to Worker Outers

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Ode to Worker Outers Draft #2 4/17/26

Here's to the workers and movers who accomplish no visible work

a weight that is lifted, suspended, and jerked.

Here's to the ones who wake up early and stay up late

to drink protein, to stretch out, and lift the weight.

Here's to the squatter, the bench presser, and the lifter of dead;

making gains in the quads, the pecs, and in the head.

Here's to the ones whose equity is blood, sweat, and tears

making down payments of grunts through the years.

Here's to the ones who never think of selfies or posts

who show up to workout, moving past you like a ghost.

And though you can't see them

And though you can't hear them

And though you can't find them

They are there

Quietly working out

because they care.

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Gym Space Draft #1 4/13/26 and 4/1426

Here's to the workers and movers who accomplish no visible work

a weight that is lifted, suspended, and jerked.

Here's to the ones who wake up early and stay up late

to drink protein, to stretch out, and lift the weight.

Here's to the squatter, the bench presser, and the lifter of dead;

making gains in the quads, the pecs, and in the head.

Here's to the ones whose equity is blood, sweat, and tears

making down payments of grunts through the years.

Here's to the ones who never think of selfies or posts

who show up to workout, moving past you like a ghost.

And though they are invisible to the rest of this realm

And though they are mute to everyone out there

And though their digital footprint does not exist....

Good Dad, Bad Dad

Draft #3 10/24/25 1:56 PM

Good Dad, Bad Dad

Fall can feel heavy sometimes

like the weight of leaves are anvils-

he worked in steel and wanted to be a blacksmith.

It's been almost two years.

How can you miss someone who raped your sister?

How can you even begin to think fondly

of all those times

you played catch with a baseball or football

or played Horse just outside the garage

where the glass globe popped into shards.

Or when he taught you how to not be afraid

even though you were afraid for a long time 

after that, and the fear still lingers

like metal that's been worked over

and the hot orange glow

does not dissipate, even though everything else is dark.

How can I even begin to smile and tell my daughters

about how he would wrestle my brother and I

and we enjoyed it- and we laughed.

It almost doesn't make sense 

how life is such a jumble 

of beautiful and terrible things

how the beautiful can become terrible

and the terrible can become beautiful

how God is both filled 

with wrath

and mercy.

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Draft #2 10/23/25 3:26 PM

Good Dad, Bad Dad

Fall can feel heavy sometimes

like the weight of leaves are anvils-

he worked in steel and wanted to be a blacksmith.

It's been almost two years.

How can you miss someone who raped your sister?

How can you even begin to think fondly

of all those times

you played catch with a baseball or football

or played Horse just outside the garage

where the glass globe popped into shards.

Or when he taught you how to not be afraid

even though you were afraid for a long time 

after that, and the fear still lingers

like a light that gets turned off and the glow remains

for some time, hovering in the darkness

like metal that's been worked over

and the hot orange glow

does not dissipate, even though everything else is dark.

How can I even begin to smile and tell my daughters

about how he would wrestle my brother and I

and we enjoyed it- and we laughed.

It almost doesn't make sense 

how life is such a jumble 

of beautiful and terrible things

how the beautiful can become terrible

and the terrible can become beautiful

how God is both filled with wrath

and mercy.

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Draft #1 10/23/25 
It's been almost two years.

How can you miss someone who raped your sister?

How can you even begin to think fondly

of all those times

you played catch with a baseball or football

or played Horse just outside the garage

where the glass globe popped into shards.

Or when he taught you how to not be afraid

even though you were afraid for a long time 

after that, and the fear still lingers

like a light that gets turned off and the glow remains

for some time, hovering in the darkness.

How can I even begin to smile and tell my daughters

about how he would wrestle my brother and I

and we liked it, and we would laugh.

It almost doesn't make sense 

how life is such a jumble of beautiful and terrible things

how the beautiful can become terrible

and the terrible can become beautiful

how God is both filled with wrath

and mercy.

September to October

It settles down, this time, like a leaf

this season
looking upward to its home

just a crooked line now

and the decay has already begun.

This time of year

summer is a kind of lingering 

that can only be detected by temperature-

it's too warm today to say, autumn,

but I automatically get the nostalgia

for all those things:

    chopping wood with Dr. Allen

    disrupting leaf piles

    one on one tackle football with my brother

    cold nights with the windows open

    and colder mornings

    the simple act of smelling pumpkin pie.

But the heat and the decay and the lack of rain

gets jumbled in my head the way walking

through a fitness club scrambles up my mind

with three or four sources of music

and the massive amount of uncontrolled movement

(like so many fish flailing in air for water)

and the cling wrap of clothing double vacuum-sealed

and the false light

and the false plants

and the constant advertising

and the constant purchasing.

This fall the nostalgia doesn't cut it.

Parking Lot

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7th Draft 4/23/25

My wife on her quest to vanquish groceries.

My daughters and I wait in the van,

enveloped in a quiet sea of empty machines-

resting for a moment; their frantic parts cooling.

Under the machines,

there is a blanket of asphalt,

painted, large, hot, stifling.

There is a beauty inside these many-colored hoods-

controlled, perfectly timed explosions leading to seamless motion

in a buzzing shell of steel and plastic

and that unmistakable peeling sound 

of friction and rubber pushing away the blacktop.

On rainy nights there is a kind of wet hum that happens

when you see the light briefly appear on your walls

passing like a ghost.

Or when you see one of them now, 

in a field or forest-

it was once a dynamically sculpted

thing, sweeping along like an insect over the landscape-

now its mobility a distant memory and it sits quietly

sinking into the earth at an odd angle, nipped by oxygen

and gently touched with all of nature's attributes

fading into the flowers, wilting into the wheat, 

engulfed by the grass of the garden.

But I can't find the beauty inside this huge, 

dead, suffocating, black thing-

    that won't let the water seep into the soil

    that won't let trees grow up

    that scrapes the knees of children

    that won't let the deer nuzzle down to rest

    that won't give up the smooshed bodies of animals

    that won't let feet feel the furrows of the field

that lies underneath this impenetrable cemetery

    that steals the sunshine. 

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6th Draft 3/12/25

My wife on her quest to vanquish groceries.

My daughters and I waiting in the van,

enveloped in a kind of sea of empty machines

resting for a moment, their frantic parts now cooling.

Under the machines,

there is a blanket of asphalt,

painted, large, hot, stifling.

There is a beauty inside these many-colored hoods-

controlled, perfectly timed explosions leading to seamless motion

in a buzzing shell of steel and plastic

and that unmistakable peeling sound 

of friction and rubber pushing away the blacktop.

On rainy nights there is a kind of wet hum that happens

when you see the light briefly appear on your walls

like a ghost.

Or when you see one of them now, 

in a field or forest-

it was once a dynamically sculpted

thing, sweeping along like an insect over the landscape-

now its mobility a distant memory and it sits quietly

sinking into the earth at an odd angle, nipped by oxygen

and gently touched with all of nature's attributes

fading into the flowers, wilting into the wheat, 

engulfed by the grass of the farm.

But I can't find the beauty inside this huge, 

dead, suffocating, black thing-

    that won't let the water seep into the soil

    that won't let trees grow up

    that scrapes the knees of children

    that won't let the deer nuzzle down to rest

    that won't give up the smooshed bodies of animals

    that won't let feet feel the furrows of the field

that lies underneath this impenetrable cemetery

    that steals the sunshine. 

___________________________________________________________________________

5th Draft 3/10/25

Under the machines,

resting for a moment,

their frantic parts cooling,

there is a field of asphalt,

painted, large, hot, stifling.

There is a beauty inside those many-colored hoods-

controlled, perfectly timed explosions leading to seamless motion

in a buzzing shell of steel and plastic

and that unmistakable peeling sound 

of friction and rubber pushing away the blacktop.

On rainy nights there is a kind of wet hum that happens

when you see the light briefly appear on your walls

like a ghost.

Or when you see one of them, once a dynamically sculpted

thing, sweeping along like an insect over the landscape

now its mobility a distant memory and it sits quietly

sinking into the earth, nipped by oxygen

and gently touched with all of nature's attributes

fading into the flowers, wilting into the wheat, 

engulfed by the grass of the farm.

But I can't find the beauty inside this huge, dead, black thing

    that won't let the water seep into the soil

    that won't let trees grow up

    that scrapes the knees of children

    that won't let the deer nuzzle down to rest

    that won't give up the smooshed bodies of animals

    that won't let feet feel the furrows of the field

that lies underneath this impenetrable cemetery

    that steals the sunshine. 

There's a lot of parking lots

these heavy immovable blankets

suffocating all that's around.

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4th Draft 3/8/25

Under where the machines go 

for a momentary rest,

their frantic parts cooling,

there is a field of blacktop,

painted, large, hot, stifling.

There is a beauty inside those many-colored hoods-

controlled, perfectly timed explosions leading to seamless motion

in a buzzing shell of steel and plastic

and that unmistakable peeling sound 

of friction and rubber pushing away the asphalt.

On rainy nights there is a kind of wet hum that happens

when you see the light briefly pass on your walls

like a ghost.

Or when you see this perfectly sculpted

dynamically shaped thing, once sweeping along like an insect

now its mobility a distant memory and it sits quietly

sinking into the earth, nipped by oxygen

and gently touched with all of nature's attributes

fading into the flowers, wheat, and grass of the farm.

But I can't find the beauty inside this huge, dead, black thing

    that won't let the water seep into the soil

    that won't let trees grow up

    that scrapes the knees of children

    that won't let the deer nuzzle down to rest

    that won't give up the smooshed bodies of animals

    that won't let feet feel the furrows of the field

that lies underneath this impenetrable cemetery

    that steals the sunshine. 

There's a lot of parking lots

these heavy immovable blankets

suffocating all that's around.

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3rd Draft 3/7/25

Where the machines go for momentary rest,

their frantic parts cooling-

under them, there is field of blacktop,

painted, large and hot.

There is a beauty inside those many-colored hoods-

controlled, perfectly timed explosions leading to seamless motion

in a buzzing shell of steel and plastic

and that unmistakable peeling sound 

of friction and rubber pushing away the asphalt.

On rainy nights there is a kind of wet hum that happens

when you see the light briefly pass on your walls

like a ghost.

Or when you see this perfectly sculpted

dynamically shaped thing

its mobility a distant memory and it sits quietly

sinking into the earth, nipped by oxygen

and gently touched with all of nature's attributes.

But I can't find the beauty of this huge, dead, black thing

    that won't let the water seep into the soil

    that won't let trees grow up

    that won't let the deer nuzzle down to rest

    that won't give up the smooshed bodies of animals

    that won't let feet feel the furrows of the field

that lies underneath this impenetrable cemetery

    that steals the sunshine. 

There's a lot of parking lots

these heavy immovable blankets

suffocating all that's around.

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2nd Draft 3/6/25

Where the machines go for momentary rest,

their frantic parts cooling-

under them, there is field of blacktop,

painted, large and hot.

There is a beauty inside those many-colored hoods-

controlled, perfectly-timed explosions leading to seamless motion

in a quiet, buzzing shell, of steel and plastic

and that unmistakable humming/peeling sound 

of friction and rubber pushing away the asphalt.

On rainy nights there is a kind of wet hum that happens

when you see the light briefly pass on your walls.

But I can't find the beauty of this huge, dead, black thing

    that won't let the water seep into the soil

    that won't let trees grow up

    that won't let the deer nuzzle down to rest

    that won't give up the smooshed bodies of animals

    that won't let feet feel the furrows of the field

that lies underneath this impenetrable cemetery

    that steals the sunshine. 

There's a lot of parking lots

these heavy immovable blankets

suffocating all that's around.

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1st Draft 3/5/25

It's such a new thing, this field of black top

where the machines go to momentarily rest

and let their frantic parts cool down.

There is a beauty inside those many-colored hoods-

controlled, perfectly-timed explosions leading to seamless motion

and that unmistakable humming/peeling sound 

of friction of rubber pushing away the asphalt.

But I can't find the beauty of this dead black thing

    that won't let the water seep into the soil

    that won't let trees grow up

    that won't let the deer nuzzle down to rest

    that won't let feet feel the furrows of the field

that lies underneath this impenetrable cemetery

    that steals the sunshine. 

There's a lot of parking lots

these heavy immovable blankets

suffocating all that's around.

Looking for the Tool

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3rd draft on 1/22/25

After he asked me to go

and get the hammer

the bolt in my stomach became loose

and the nut clumsily snaked its way

through the labyrinth of my intestines

meandering back and forth

and I knew I would not be able to find it

as I fell apart inside.

Whether in light or dark

chaos or order

I would not be able to find it 

or any other tool he asked me to find.

I was a goner from the start.

It was always some place dimly lit

never enough light

to clearly make out the forms

of a hammer or a screw driver

mixed in among the mixed up

puzzle pieces of the work bench

all the tools bleeding into one another

until my vision was a blur

of metal, rust, wood, and the scent

of shame which was always metallic-oil-old-saw-dust.

I would return empty handed

again and again

and all the bolts and all the nuts

and all the washers, all loose in my gut,

and I would think How am I still together?

And upon my return

he would retrieve these pieces out of me

over time with his voice

and his rusty fingers

oxidizing in me to this day.

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2nd Draft on 11/24/24 

After he asked me to go

and get the hammer

the bolt in my stomach became loose

and the nut snaked its way

through the labyrinth of my intestines

meandering back and forth

and I knew I would not be able to find it

whether in light or dark

chaos or order

I would not be able to find it 

or any other tool he asked me to go retrieve-

I would return empty handed

again and the bolt and nut

and washer, loose in my gut,

would all melt

and upon my return

 he would retrieve these pieces out of me

over time with his voice

and his rusty fingers

still oxidizing in me today.

It was always some place dimly lit

never enough light

to clearly make out the forms

of a hammer or a screw driver

mixed in among the mixed up

puzzle pieces of the work bench

all the tools bleeding into one another

until my vision was a blur

of metal, rust, wood, and the scent

of shame which was always metallic-oil-old-saw-dust.

When I Hear Their Names

When I Hear Their Names, draft #1 September 2nd and 3rd, 2024

Homer or Shakespeare, even if I just hear someone talking
about them or about their stuff (someone will tell me

it's just propaganda, and maybe he's right) it's like all the water

in my cells start to turn the fractal patterns of snowflakes

and it's gloaming on the farm and the clouds are castles

and the light- Caravaggio, and I'm with Sport late at night

and I write-

Mostly just things that dribble down the side of the barn

when it's raining, not like a river, rushing and sure and wild

but focus on getting somewhere- to the big ocean.

I'm just a series of little droplets meandering my way down

an old rusty roof, and I remember making a wonderful sound

when I landed and split apart, and I head down, down 

to the ground, which is in view now, as I creep down the side 

of a barn door.

But it's when I hear about Achilles' rage,

Hamlet's sorrow, or Odysseus's desire for home,

that I become like an old tired tree

my rings, so many variations: thick years and thin-

the droughts, the years of plenty, that one year, 536 AD, with no sun,

I feel all the rings expand and contract with each breath

and it is inevitable, I will leave you and go to the earth,

but only for a moment.