Steps

When it comes to taking steps
they can be big or small, but you must take them

or you'll never reach the top floor

where your father is waiting

like he's done so many times before.

Remember the year he remodeled the steps 

so they were more of a gradually sloping slant

so you didn't have to do too much

because of your hesitation-

it had been years since you had taken a step

so your range of motion had become limited

and your hip and thigh muscles had atrophied

because when you don't use it you lose it

so that first step was a dozy

in fact every joint in your body ached

and every muscle reacted 

like they were going to completely seize 

up, but before they did, you decided

not to even try and set down on the bottom step

and took a nice, long nap.

So your father replaced the steps with a ramp

a decent grade, but nothing like the steps,

something gradual. But that was then.

This is now and the steps are normal sized

but you've got to take them.

Your father is waiting at the top.

The 10 Steps to Becoming Independently Wealthy by Your 40th Birthday

The 10 Steps to Becoming Independently Wealthy by Your 40th Birthday (1st draft on 9/6/23 in my notebook)

There is no end to feeling sorry for myself.
Every morning is a chance to hear,

Boo hoo, you lost your mother.

Boo hoo, you lost your father.

Neither of which are true (mostly).

There is no limit to my lameness.

I've been writing the great American novel

called, The Path to Unhappiness and Indebtedness

and it's all based on personal experience. 

I've also been working on, How Not to Make Money

or How I Learned to Love Having a Job that Doesn't Help my Family.

If life was dependent on a series of career choices

I would be the monkey with its hand stuck in the jar

or the helpless mouse swimming at the bottom of the barrel.

So I spend most my days trying not to think about telling myself 

You loser. You trainwreck of a father. You idiot.

Regrets

Regrets (1st draft 9/05/23)

I never wrote to Tony Hoagland

about his poems or his essay in The Sun.
Then the pancreatic cancer devoured

what was left of him, but not his words.

I never went to the Coast Guard Academy.

I would be retiring in two years

with a full retirement plan

but what would be left of me?

I spent only a modicum of time 

to look at Maine. I was too busy

tackling, sprinting, leaping, and falling apart.

I never called Ray Dube, Al Freniere, Sharron Sutton,

Mrs. Espisito, Mrs. Munson, or Mrs. Wiseman to say thank you.

I never told Mrs. Rogers that I was sorry.

I went to College to study Theatre and Dance.

I paid over $120,000 to do so.

My family and I teeter on the poverty line.

News

News (first draft written on 8/30/23)

Apparently, we are still evolving. This is what the news anchors tell me
but I know you can't trust them. Our genetics need to become superior

and robotics and microchips and nanotechnology and artificial intelligence

hold the answer to the question we're all asking, they tell me-

How will we survive? 

When I read the Bible I see people living for hundreds of years

but maybe the Bible writers were dumb or couldn't count

or maybe they were lying. The television would never lie to me

or text books or Wikipedia or Fox or CNN or MSNBC or NPR.

When I see the glowing, flickering screen it's a kind of magic

and a spell entrances me and I see the moving lips

and the pictures swirling around and I take it all in to my body

and it goes into my muscles and I digest it and it leeches

into my mind and my eyeballs project a different hue.

When I say the word psyop it doesn't resonate with me

there are already too many apes and wars and wildfires 

and planets and athletes and diseases and globes and astronauts 

clamoring around in my body; it's so crowded it makes me tired.

So I sleep and let everyone else worry about how we are going to survive.

I'm going to take a nap and read the news to help me sleep.

A Mouth

_________________________________________________________

A Mouth (3rd draft on 8/9/23)

Is there anything more beautiful
than a mouth- tongue, teeth, and lips?

Situated just beneath something 

just as wonderful, a nose.

Solomon praised his beloved's teeth

calling them sheep and each with its pair.

Utterances come from a mouth;

sounds and words shaped 

by the shape of a mouth.

And if the mouth is a kind of tree

and those sounds and words 

are a kind of fruit,

they come from the roots 

reaching down deep into that damp 

dark place that is the heart and mind-

a labyrinth of neurons, chemicals,

imagination, and soul,

where all of those things vibrate

their frequency, maybe, earthworms detect,

that eventually make their

way to the surface 

where they become

figs and flowers- ripe!

And if you go far enough down

and far enough back

you get to the source of neurons

and chemicals and electricity

and light and imagination and souls

a caring Creator: declaring 

and declaring and declaring-

Sometimes, someone will say,

She's got a mouth on her-

and what they mean is she talks like a sailor.

But if I said that about my wife 

what I would mean is

her mouth is a flower 

opening up in speech,

a blossom continually in blossom

declaring glorious things

like stars in the firmament

proclaiming the handiwork of Someone

without saying anything at all.

_________________________________________________________

A Mouth (2nd draft written on 7/22/23, first draft written in my notebook on 7/21/23)

Is there anything more beautiful
than a mouth-

tongue, teeth, and lips?

Solomon praised his beloved's teeth

calling them sheep and each with its pair.

Utterances come from a mouth

sounds and words shaped by the shape

of a mouth.

And if the mouth is a kind of tree

and those sounds and words 

are a kind of fruit,

they come from the roots reaching down

deep into that damp dark place

that is the heart and mind-

a labyrinth of neurons, chemicals,

imagination and soul,

where all of those things vibrate

like listening earthworms

that eventually make their

way to the surface where they become

figs and flowers.

And if you go far enough down

and far enough back

you get to the source of neurons

and chemicals and electricity

and light and imagination and souls

a caring Creator, declaring 

and declaring.

Sometimes, someone will say,

She's got a mouth on her-

and what they mean is she talks like a sailor.

If I said that about my wife what I would mean is

her mouth is a flower opening up in speech

that is like the firmament declaring glorious things

without saying anything at all.

Failure of the Father

Failure of the Father (first draft 7/11/2023)

Back to the grind

is something people say on Monday morning.

Did Adam know, all these years later

that his progeny would be reduced to millstones?

My daughters are asleep

the moon is awake

and the sun hasn't peaked over the horizon yet

and my car, half a tank of gas,

meanders over the landscape

to a building I've given almost all of myself to.

With each hour I grind

I have less and less grain

and my countenance falls

when my wife shows me the numbers.

No property to protect

or cultivate.

In my apartment complex

no one cares if their trash

makes it into the dumpster or not

or if a cockroach scurries 

across the table or not.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Failure of the Father (first draft 7/11/2023)

First, there is the whole making money thing
food, electricity, housing, clothes, gifts

To do this work has to be done

and it can't just be meaningful work

although that's nice

it has to be work that meets a certain bare minimum.

Being in the midwest close to a big city

that number is 85,000.

So this work has to pay at least 7,083.33 per month

which breaks down to about 44.27 for a 40 hour work week

but most likely you will be working 50 or more hours a week

because you are never paid what you are your service is worth

so more like 35.41 for a 50 hour work week

but if you want to find a job for that amount of money, good luck

unless you were the one person that ignored all of your school teachers

and counselors and decided to become a plumber or electrician

but most likely you are someone who has a massive amount of debt

because you made the terrible decision to go to college

and pay them to learn about things you really care about

philosophy, acting, stage design, theology, poetry

because you liked those things and paid over $120,000

so now when you work you have to also pay off that debt so you need a job

that pays more than what I just described above

but you are underqualified or overqualified for everything 

so you continue to do the job you have.

Then there is also spending time with your children.

Where you talk with them and play with them

and read to them and try to do something special with them.

And your poor wife, she's nearly last

and you need to spend time with her.

And lastly there's this whole God thing

reading scripture and praying.

Maybe trying to do something you enjoy doing 

just for fun?

But, as you can see the system we participate in

makes it nearly impossible to do all of these things well.

I guess that's why so many people say on Monday,

Well, it's back to the grind. Because if you are someone

who wants to be a good person and work hard

you are the one in the mill, be ground out.

Acknowledgement

Acknowledgement (first draft 7/6/2023)

The bird suddenly becomes aware
of my presence-
I then realize what I have always longed for
as I make eye-contact with this small, small Robin
who recognizes me and then flees-
acknowledgement.
I want to be taken seriously, as this bird does.
While I wanted it to linger, it knows who I am
and so flees, as it should. I could kill it
with my thumb and forefinger
not even meaning to.
I want to be acknowledged as the doe and her two fawns did
three days ago. She stopped. Her two fawns leaped and then stop.
And we gazed at one another for a long time.
I have never been acknowledged the way an animal does.

Deadspeak

Deadspeak (second draft 7/24/2023)

The dead don't speak. Michael Burger, the historian, 

taught me that medieval society was a community 

of the living and of the dead, which I long for,

but I don't know what that means.

When I think of Josh, I can still hear him playing 

his guitar, but his lips, sealed like a mailed-out envelope

somewhere between here and Sheol,

perhaps buried underground or kept under

someone's pillow- maybe his mother's.

She remains on this plane and speaks.

When I think of my piano teacher

Mrs. Weikel, I can still feel her old skin 

against the pads of my fingers

and hear her strike the key with tenderness

I've never had. But the music is only in my mind 

her lovely voice is gone with her piano and her house

someone else's house is there now and it feels

like that one doesn't belong, but she's dead.

And then there is Sport, with her long wet nose

nuzzling into my lap, asking for me to stay up

with her just a little bit longer into the night

all 60 pounds of her mutt-body gone.

And I can still feel her warm breath

and her perfect fur on my young man's hands.

But she's gone.

The dead do not speak and they do not live on in our hearts.

I only remember some things. 

___________________________________________________________________

Deadspeak (first draft 7/6/2023)

The dead don't speak. Michael Burger, the historian, 

taught me that medieval society was a community 

both of the living and of the dead, which I long for,

but I don't know what that means.

When I think of Josh, I can still hear him playing 

his guitar, but his lips, sealed like a mailed-out envelope

somewhere between here and Sheol,

perhaps buried underground or kept under

someone's pillow- maybe his mother's.

She remains on this plane and speaks.

When I think of my piano teacher

Mrs. Weikel, I can still feel her old skin 

against the pads of my fingers

and hear her strike the key with tenderness

I never had. But the music is only in my mind 

her lovely voice is gone with her piano and her house

someone else's house is there now and it feels

like that one doesn't belong, but she's dead.

And then there is Sport, with her long wet nose

nuzzling into my lap, asking for me to stay up

with her just a little bit longer into the night

all 60 pounds of her mut-body gone.

And I can still feel her warm breath

and her perfect fur on my young man's hands.

But she is gone.

The dead do not speak and they do not live on in our hearts.

I only remember some things. 

Books

Books (first draft 7/5/2023)

What is it about words
the way we use words to describe words

or define words by using words

that we may not know the definitions of.

Words are vibrations

and those vibrations can be captured in metaphor

like an insect in amber.

God speaks words

and then light,

then firmament,

then seas,

then sun, moon, and stars,

then earth and vegetation,

then birds and sea creatures,

then animals and people

all vibrating, all speaking.

Books are like insects in amber

or like fossils or like petrified trees-

but not quite,

because when I read the words out loud

they are alive, pulsating, vibrating.

The bones of animals turn to stone.

Gathering

Gathering (first draft 6/30/23)

When you think of all of the places and events
that cause humans to gather you might  think of
swimming pools
movie theaters
religious centers
concerts
sports
zoos
aquariums

theaters

protests

but seemingly no one

thinks of the home

the quiet

the meal

the laughter

humans articulating in privacy

the way bones articulate behind skin

and we never hear about that 

we just see the ballerina leap and land like a leaf.

Articulation

Articulation (1st draft on 6/30/23)

When two bones articulate
like two puzzle pieces

I think of a husband and wife 

and how they push and pull on one another,

sometimes they compress, distract, or even collide

but how all of those ligaments 

and muscles contracting at just the right time

keep them together.

When centrification occurs

it's a harmonious dance, graceful motion,

quiet movement that is hardly noticed.

Regrets

Regrets (1st draft 6/26/23)

Regrets can't be held like whey in a bowl

but they can linger, vapor-like, a deep smell

that you sometimes get used to

or momentarily forget about.

But can anyone truly forget anything?

Just the other day I remembered-

it's already left me again, but it's

there, curled up napping my behind my eyes.

Leah, used to take the whey

and pour it down the drain-

all that good protein joined up 

with all of the other refuse

or our apartment complex.

But she's learned now,

that even things that seem like they are a waste

can be useful.

She uses the whey to make pies and thicken recipes.

The Edge

Why don't people fall

off the edge along with all the water.?

Why doesn't it all just drift off into outer space?

Too many movies. Too many superheros

made of chemicals, spliced DNA strands

and edited genes gallivanting through

the wild west of outer space.

Too many inhabited planets that are inhabiting our minds

thanks to Burroughs, Bradbury, Card, Disney, 

Newton, Copernicus, Einstein, Galileo, and others.

Too many obsessions over manipulated images

from telescopes that some claim

to see back in time and then I listen

to the professor say, "this is where the artist

tried to capture this feature"-

trying to visualize radiometric data 

to meet public expectations 

is not photographic evidence.

Too many globes in classrooms.

All of this is in the subterranean landscape of our minds; 

it is the plumbing, wiring, ventilation, and sewage system

that pulses through our imaginations 

so much so when we stand on the beach

and see the horizon

we proudly proclaim "I can see the curve of the earth,"

denying our senses

all while we are completely fixed and stationary.

Now, After the Unattended Consequences of Trying to Prove my Friend Wrong

Now, After the Unattended Consequences of Trying to Prove my Friend Wrong (draft #1 06/16/2023)


When my friend told me about the Van Allen radiation belts
I didn't believe him. Proving him wrong would be a snap
but then it wasn't.

Then I remembered when my sister, who was a science teacher,
told me she had taught about outer space
for years but something seemed off
especially the sections about the moon landing.
I thought she was weird.

I started by looking at the shadows
and somehow I was nudged outside the cave
into daylight, and my eyes hurt at first.

The sun seems closer now.
I can no longer avoid the cool light of the moon.

When Yehusha ascended
or when the Scripture writers use words like up
or down I know what they mean now.
Up means up. Down means down. Ascended means ascended.
I take the words at their intended meaning.
My brain no longer has to do back flips or somersaults
or create intricate mazes in and around words.

The tower in Nimrod's Babel was about height.

When Joshua commanded the sun
and moon to hold still-
they did.

When David tells me there is water above the firmament,
I believe him.

The scripture writers assumed the world to be still and motionless
and I know what they wrote is true.
The scripture writers assumed the earth was a plane
with contours.
The scripture writers assumed that the world was enclosed
and Yahuah was seated above.
I'm small like a grasshopper.
When I read Job, I take Yahuah at his Word.

Apartment Complex

Apartment Complex (draft #4 6/12/23)


It's complicated: this tiny two bedroom crammed into a series of shoe boxes
surrounding a man-made pond, that has it's own kind of beauty-
we can hear the leaves rustle just above the insane humming of the highway.

Then there's the vibrant modesty of women from other lands swirling in color and cloth
the mingling and wafting of food being prepared- Ugandan, Indian, Chinese, Pakistani-
my nostrils sometimes don't know how to make sense of these colliding tides.
My daughters, wife, and I admire the modest beauty of all these mothers and wives
who we can't understand, not even a little bit, but their children swear, complain
and are stuck to electronic devices, like any other kid, I guess.

I lock our door each night, mostly because of the man who urinated on himself,
who slept under our stairs, who cursed me in Spanish when I asked if he needed help.
Then there was the body in the pond. He laid there for at least two weeks.
No foul play was expected but I heard the story of him stumbling
out of the bar down the street and he ended down in a pond.

When I talk to my daughters about where we live, the violence,
all of the theft, the cars that are dismantled for parts
I tell them to look out at the trees-
how this forest was left in the midst of all of this development
I don't know, but I tell them to look at it, to explore it,
to try to be thankful for it, and listen to the geese.
Look at the quiet turtle, barely peeking its head through the surface of the water.

For just over one thousand dollars each month I can forego taking care of property.
This is the vision of the future they tell me. I'll own nothing and be happy.
When I think of how the Industrial Revolution and all its secrets
ruined the Luttrel Psalter or how the Greeks had their polis- an extended family,
or how John of Salisbury described all of medieval society as a body-
I want to go back to that quiet place by our barn,
lean on the fence, listen to my family going about their day, the neighing of horses,
the quiet purr of barn-cats, and look up through the kaleidoscope of glowing tree leaves
and see the blue blue of the sky.

_______________________________________________________________________

Apartment Complex (draft #3 6/9/23)

It's complicated: this tiny two bedroom crammed into a series of shoe boxes

surrounding a man made pond, that has it's own kind of beauty-

we can hear the leaves rustle just above the insane humming of the highway.

Then there's the vibrant modesty of women from other lands swirling in color and cloth;

the mingling and wafting of food being prepared- Ugandan, Indian, Chinese, Pakistani-

my nostrils sometimes don't know how to make sense of these colliding tides.

My daughters, wife, and I admire the modest beauty of all these mothers and wives

who we can't understand, not even a little bit, but their children swear, complain 

and are stuck to electronic devices, like any other kid, I guess.

I lock our door each night, mostly because of the man who urinated on himself,

who slept under our stairs, who cursed me in Spanish when I asked if he needed help.

Then there was the body in the pond. He laid there for at least two weeks.

No foul play was expected but I heard the story of him stumbling

out of the bar down the street and he ended down in a pond.

When I talk to my daughters about where we live, the violence, 

all of the theft, the cars that are dismantled for parts

I tell them to look out at the trees

how this forest was left in the midst of all of this development

I don't know, but I tell them to look at it, to explore it, 

to try to be thankful for it, and listen to the geese.

For just over one thousand dollars each month I can forego taking care of property.

This is the vision of the future they tell me. I'll own nothing and be happy.

When I think of how the Industrial Revolution and all its secrets  

ruined the Luttrel Psalter or how the Greeks had their poleis, 

or how John of Salisbury described all of society as a body-

I want to go back to that quiet place by our barn,

lean on the fence, listen to my family about their day, the neighing of horses, 

the quiet purr of barn-cats, and look up through the kaleidoscope of glowing tree leaves

and see the blue blue of the sky.

________________________________________________________________________

Apartment Complex (draft #2 6/3/23)

It's complicated. The vibrant and modest dress of women from other lands

and the mingling and wafting of food being prepared- Ugandan, Indian, Pakistani, Chinese-

my nostrils sometimes don't know how to make sense of these colliding tides.

My daughters, wife, and I admire the modest beauty of all these mothers and wives

who we can't understand. 

I lock my door each night, because of the man who urinated on himself

then slept under our stairs, who cursed me when I asked if he needed help.

Then there was the body in the pond. He laid there for at least two weeks.

For just over one thousand dollars each month I can forego taking care of property.

This is the vision of the future they tell me. I'll own nothing and be happy.

When I think of how the Industrial Revolution and all its secrets  

ruined the Luttrel Psalter, I want to go back to that quiet place by our barn,

lean on the fence, and look up through the kaleidoscope of glowing tree leaves

and see the blue blue of the sky.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Apartment Complex (draft #1 5/25/23)

My daughters notice how the women in our apartment complex dress-

from myriad countries in Africa and Asia in swirling vibrant colors

and beautiful fabrics and each of these women are modest (a rare thing these days)

as if to say, what is beneath is even more beautiful

which I stop thinking about very quickly

which is why maybe this is called a complex because of all 

of these complex emotions and languages and clashing thoughts and cultural practices

and the smell of some Indian food comes wafting in our window

twisting into to some exquisite strand of Chinese food and yes, our Uganda neighbors

are cooking chipotees again.

But we all have something in common-

we all disappear during the day, to go to work I 

(I see the Mexicans and Guatamalans out early every morning 

waiting for their ride to another worksite) and yet, 

none of us can afford property or land or a house.

They (our overlords) tell me that one day we will own nothing and be happy

but,  can't help but think about my books on my shelf. I know I can't take it with me: 

I really like my collection of books

that I could never find at the library, from authors who frequently 

get banned or censored on social media platforms. Books

about the Bible, Nephilim bones, cosmology, medicine, and other taboo topics.

I'm starting to think this apartment complex is practice. How many disparate people can we cram

together before something happens. In ancient Greece they had the polie 

and every person thought of themselves as a family. It's hard to do that now.

Roadkill

Roadkill (draft #5 on 9/06/23)

The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles. Its neck, a twisted piece of scrap metal.
Legs bent pipe-cleaners. Its small painful mouth-
the tongue jutting out like an old plastic tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat?
The last sudden pop of viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being

is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak. Every morning my commute 

is the tour of an animal graveyard. No headstones in sight.

No mention of all of the life that was snuffed out.

Just carcass after carcass. 

Maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be.

I once witnessed a woman merged with her machine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of down. Through the rainfall of feathers- 
her cold gaze on me; the loss of life incomprehensible. 

How many bodies of beings have I observed beaten, battered,
or blurred? Connected things made unconnected?

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.

It's why I would stay with my dog Sport, late into the night

as if a single utterance might come from her as my hand felt her fur.

It's why my rambunctious daughters are made still 

at the site of a box turtle meandering her way across their path,
or when they gaze at grazing deer who are unaware of their presence.
Remember when Balaam's donkey spoke? Read Jubilees 3.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Roadkill (draft #4 on 9/04/23)


The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles. Its neck, a twisted piece of scrap metal.
Legs bent pipe-cleaners. Its small painful mouth-
the tongue jutting out like an old plastic tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat?
The last sudden pop of viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being

is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak. Every morning my commute 

is the tour of an animal graveyard without headstones,

no mention of the life that was snuffed out.

Just carcass after carcass. 

Maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be.

I once witnessed a woman merged with her machine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of down. Through the rainfall of feathers- 
her cold gaze on me; the loss of life incomprehensible. 

How many bodies of beings have I observed beaten, battered,
or blurred? Connected things made unconnected?

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.

It's why I would stay with my dog Sport, late into the night

as if a single utterance might come from her as my hand felt her fur.

It's why my rambunctious daughters are made still 

at the site of a box turtle meandering her way across their path,
or when they gaze at grazing deer who are unaware of their presence.
Remember when Balaam's donkey spoke? Read Jubilees 3.

________________________________________________________________________________

Roadkill (draft #3 on 8/11//23)


The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles, the neck a twisted piece of scrap metal,
its legs bent pipe-cleaners, the small painful mouth,
the tongue jutting out like an old plastic tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat?
The last pop of all that internal pressure of the viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being

is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak. Every morning my commute 

is the tour of an animal graveyard with no headstones, 

no crosses, no mention of the life that was snuffed out.

Just carcass after carcass. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

I once witnessed a woman who had merged with her machine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of down. Her cold gaze upon me
through the rainfall of feathers, indifferent to the loss of life.

How many bodies of beings have I seen beaten, battered,
and blurred? Things that should be connected- made unconnected.

Bodies arranged, organized, with such precision, like small cities

now in disarray and disorder.

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.

It's why I would stay with my dog Sport, late into the night

as if a single utterance might come from her as my hand felt her fur.

It's why my rambunctious daughters are made still 

at the site of a box turtle meandering her way across their path,
or when they gaze at grazing deer unaware of their presence.
Remember when Balaam's donkey spoke? Read Jubilees 3.

____________________________________________________________

Roadkill (draft #2 on 8/9//23)


The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles, the neck a twisted piece of scrap metal,
its legs bent pipe-cleaners, the small painful mouth,
the tongue jutting out like an old plastic tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat?
The last pop of all that internal pressure of the viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being

is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak. Every morning my commute 

is the tour of an animal graveyard with no headstones, 

no crosses, no mention of the life that was snuffed out.

Just carcass after carcass. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

How many bodies of beings have I seen beaten, battered,
and blurred? Things that should be connected- made unconnected.

I once witnessed a woman who had merged with her machine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of feathers. Her cold gaze upon me
through the rainfall of feathers, indifferent to the loss of life.

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.

It's why I would stay with my dog Sport, late into the night

as if a single utterance might come from her as my hand felt her fur.

It's why my rambunctious daughters are made still 

at the site of a box turtle meandering her way across their path,
or when they gaze at grazing deer unaware of their presence.
Even Balaam's donkey spoke. Jubilees 3.

_______________________________________________________________

Roadkill (draft #1 5/23/23)


The deer's body has become a grotesque statue-
odd angles, the neck a twisted piece of scrap metal,
its legs bent pipe-cleaners, the small painful mouth,
the tongue jutting out like an old tooth brush.

I can't stop thinking about roadkill. How many tires
have heard the last gasp of a peep or bleat
the last pop of all that internal pressure of the viscera
and what was once a delicately crafted being
is now a smudge, indistinguishable from the lifeless road
that imitates life, that cannot speak.

Every morning my commute is the tour of an animal graveyard
with no headstones, no crosses, no mention of the life that was snuffed out.
Just carcass after carcass. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

How many bodies of beings I have seen beaten, battered,
and blurred. Things that should be connected- made unconnected.

I once witnessed a woman at one with her four wheels and igniting engine
smash straight through a gaggle of geese, a dozen goslings
lost in an explosion of feathers. Her cold gaze upon me
through the rainfall of feathers indifferent to the loss of life.

But, it's why the hiker picks up the fat wriggling earthworm
and digs a small, moist hole, and places him inside.
It's why my daughters are made still at the site of a box turtle
meandering her way across their path,

Or when they gaze at grazing deer unaware of their presence.
Even Balaam's donkey spoke. Jubilees 3.

Tadpoles Turn into Frogs

Tadpoles Turn into Frogs (Draft #2, 5/22/23)

 

The two daughters are far away now.

I told them to look past the reflection of the water-

to look through it so they could see the tadpoles beneath

with their fat heads and skittish tails, before they become frogs.

They tried and tried to catch them.

One felt the little guy wriggle against her hand.

My other daughter pinched a tail.

But they are down aways, down the creek now.

I reach my hand up to wave 

but they are already married and gone

and I am alone in this creek, back where I started. 

Only my hands, reaching through the water 

to grasp the tadpoles that always escape me.

___________________________________________________________________

Tadpoles Grow Up (Draft #1, written on 5/21/23)

 

The two daughters are far away now.

I told them to look past the reflection of the water-

to look through it so they could see the tadpoles beneath

with their fat heads and skittish tails, before they become frogs.

They tried and tried to catch them.

One felt the little guy wriggle against her hand.

My other daughter pinched a tail.

But they are down aways, down the creek now.

I reach my hand up to wave 

but they are already married and gone

and I am alone in this creek.

Back where I started, not even a fishing pole to cling to.

Only my hands.