Looking for the Tool

______________________________________________________________________

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.

______________________________________________________________________

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.

Dissonance at the Gym

Dissonance at the Gym draft #4 written on 8/06/24 at 10:37 AM (at Five Seasons)

139 beats per minute this metronome of life,

my feet strangely in time with a stranger next to me.

The glowing screen attached to my machine

just so, so it's eye level, bright and turned on

my moth-eyes flickering at the moving lamp-like pictures:

After the man is shot down 

in front of the girl he's been trying to protect
she leans over his slumped over body 

over the red, red sidewalk-

I begin to feel those deep, dark, well-like feelings 

that movies draw you into

as if you were a bucket being lowered 

down the long neck of the well, 

drawn into cool still waters

and the waters are now her tears

suddenly, mashed right up against this well

there is a sleek, new communication device 

dancing in front of my eyes

like crystal whip cream

and hip-hop music has been flooding 

in somewhere from the ceiling-
an imitation firmament that is blaring 

a cacophony of noises; the fan swirling round

and around while the women push and pull, 

push and pull wearing clothing
that acts like skin pushing and pulling and tugging
and my feet are under me turning 

and turning over and over this machine

tracking my heart rate and distance and watts
while the man who just took a pharmaceutical 

is happy his smile stretching across 

the medium of the screen

which is a black box I stare into

and it stares back, into me.

____________________________________________________________________________

Dissonance at the Gym draft #3 written on 7/20/24 at 7:40 PM

My heart thumping at 139 beats per minute

my feet strangely in time with the sweaty person next to me.

The screen, eye level, bright and turned on

my moth-eyes flickering at the moving lamp-like pictures:

After the man is shot down 

in front of the girl he's trying to protect
she leans over his slumped over body 

over the red, red sidewalk-

I begin to feel those deep, dark, well-like feelings 

that movies draw you into

as if you were a bucket being lowered 

down the long neck of the well into cool still waters

suddenly, mashed right up against this well

there is a sleek, new communication device 

dancing in front of my eyes

like crystal whip cream.

Hip hop music has been flooding 

in somewhere from the ceiling-
an imitation firmament that is blaring 

a cacophony of noises the fan swirling around

and around while the women push and pull, 

push and pull wearing clothing
that acts like skin pushing and pulling and tugging
and my feet are under me turning 

and turning over and over this machine

tracking my heart rate and distance and watts
while the man who just took a pharmaceutical 

is happy his smile stretching across 

the medium of the screen

which is a black box I stare into

and it stares into me.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Dissonance at the Gym draft #2 written on 7/16/24 at 10:405 PM

After the man is shot down 

in front of the girl he's trying to protect
and she is leaning over his slumped over body 

over the red, red sidewalk

I begin to feel those deep, dark, well-like feelings 

that movies draw you into

as if you were a bucket being lowered 

down the long neck of the well into cool still waters

suddenly, mashed right up against this well

there is a sleek, new communication device 

dancing in front of my eyes

like crystal whip cream

while hip hop music is playing 

somewhere from the ceiling-
an imitation firmament that is blaring 

a cacophony of noises the fan swirling around

and around while the women push and pull, 

push and pull wearing clothing
that acts like skin pushing and pulling and tugging
and my feet are under me turning 

and turning over and over this machine

tracking my heart rate and distance and watts
while the man who just took a pharmaceutical 

is happy his smile stretching across 

the medium of the screen

which is a black box I stare into

and it stares into me.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Dissonance draft #1 written on 7/12/24 at 11:45 PM

After the man is shot down in front of the girl he's trying to protect
and she is leaning over his slumped over body over the red red sidewalk
and I begin to feel those deep well-like feelings that movies draw you into

as if you were a bucket being lowered down into water
there is a sleek, new communication device dancing in front of my eyes
like crystal while hip hop music is playing somewhere from the ceiling-
an imitation firmament that is blaring a cacophony of noises
put together by engineers and marketers
while the women push and pull, push and pull wearing clothing
that acts like skin pushing and pulling
and my feet are under me turning and turning over and over in place
while the man who just took a pharmaceutical is happy

his smile stretching across the medium of the screen
which is a black box I stare into

and it stares into me.

What Happens After you Die

What Happens After you Die 3rd draft 7/25/24

No God:

When the decomposition is complete
no personality is left.
No scar from when you played football-
only the titanium plate and screws
maintain their shape but not their semblance.

There is no more ulna where it once fastened.
There is no you-
    you do not become a tree
    you do not become a star
    you do not become even dirt
    you do not become.
There is only dirt.

Greek or Roman:

Long before the decomposition is complete

you are a shade, something less than vapor;

something less than shadow.

and you wander indefinitely

your struggles continue

your desires un-quenched;

you walking around aimlessly

siphoning blood to temporarily put on flesh

to feel

then, after this rare occurrence

in some sense without sense, you disappear

a lingering memory that only lingers in the static

just outside the vibration of the earth.

If the Bible is True:

The decomposition process has been reversed

you see your tombstone from a distance- the casket, empty.

Your body has somehow reassembled

but your body is something more now

it remains physical, you still have your scars

but you are more you now

without all the bad attitudes and betrayal.

You drink from a river and eat from a tree

and walk in light where there is no electricity or sun.

All of the diabolical baggage that you carried for years

that you used to crush 

others with and all the demonic hitch-hikers 

that clung to you like influential flees,

all of that, is gone now.

Your loves ordered.

Yahuah in His rightful place.

______________________________________________________________________________

What Happens After you Die 2nd draft 6/5/24

If there is no God:

When the decomposition is complete
no personality is left.
No scar from when you played football-
only the titanium plate and screws
maintain their shape but not their semblance.

There is no more ulna where it once fastened.
There is no you-
    you do not become a tree
    you do not become a star
    you do not become even dirt
    you do not become.
There is only dirt.

If Greek or Roman beliefs are true:

Long before the decomposition is complete

you are a shade, something less than vapor;

something less than a shadow.

You drink blood to put on flesh

which is a rare occurrence

and you wander indefinitely

your struggles continue

your desires un-quenched.

If the Bible is True:

The decomposition process has been reversed

you see your tombstone from a distance- the casket, empty.

Your body is something more now

it remains physical, you still have your scars

but you are more you now

without all the bad attitudes and betrayal.

You drink from a river and eat from a tree

and walk in light where there is no electricity or sun.

All of the diabolical baggage that you carried for years

that you used to crush others

and all the demonic hitch-hikers 

that clung to you like influential flees,

all of that, is gone now.

Your loves ordered.

Yahuah in His rightful place.

_________________________________________________________________________

What Happens After you Die 1st Draft written on 6/3/24 in the Five Seasons Fitness Office

If there is no God:

When the decomposition is complete
no personality is left.
No scar from when you played football-
only the titanium plate and screws
maintain their shape but not their semblance.

There is no more ulna where it once fastened.
There is no you-
    you do not become a tree
    you do not become a star
    you do not become even dirt
    you do not become.
There is only dirt.

If Greek or Roman beliefs are true:

Long before the decomposition is complete

you are a shade, something less than vapor;

something less than a shadow.

You drink blood to put on flesh

which is a rare occurrence

and you wander indefinitely

your struggles continue

your desires un-quenched.

If the Bible is True:

The decomposition process has been reversed

you see your tombstone from a distance- the casket, empty.

Your body is something more now

it remains physical, you still have your scars

but you are more you now

without all the bad attitudes and betrayal.

You drink from a river and eat from a tree

and walk in light where there is no electricity or sun.

All of the diabolical baggage that you carried for years

that you used to crush others

and all the hitch-hikers that clung to you like influential flees,

all of that, is gone now.

Your loves are ordered now.

God is where he should be. 

Heaven

_____________________________________________________________________

Heaven first draft written on 5/7/24

It's like trying to describe light
or more specifically the kind of light you see in a Caravaggio;
and how could I begin to describe it? This light from somewhere else
just off the edge of the frame of the painting- 

it's like that, right now, just out of reach.

How do you describe a place you've never been to
but have only read about?
But those words- if I was a depressed, darkly scorched 

and forgotten well, those words would be water; 

the kind of water you can only find on a summer 

day, where the sun feels like it's inches

from your toasting body, where your vertebral disks 

are shrinking like raisins 

and all you can imagine are waterfalls gushing into your mouth.

But those words tell me I've seen it all my life, just above me-

continually declaring the glory of God

and proclaiming his handiwork.

But I'm not like an ancient Hebrew: my imagination 

has been so shoved full of something else

the sardine imaginations of others shoe-horned into my mind

my eyeballs squashed and changed 

and now I see what someone else wants me to see 

something else-

a vast, endless, emptiness.

Day of Wonder

Day of Wonder, 1st draft 4/20/24

AM. The sunlight is almost unbearable

as thick as lucid water pouring through the blinds.

Sunlight wants to burst through my closed eye lids-

tight jar lids, snugly screwed, but the cold warmth

makes its way over my body down to my toes.

Wiggle and stretch.

This tongue takes on breakfast

like a wheat field passing through fingers

and it speaks so softly to my brain

as my belly gently expands

just enough to say, "I'm done and satisfied."

Every joint a lubricated machine part

the way the axle rotates in its housing

without a hitch or glitch, just smoothness,

smoother than ice, near frictionless delight

as muscles stretch and contract

to do the tiniest maneuver,

calculus to lift a glass of water

to my lips and the coolness coating my insides.

And the firmament, a massive cathedral dome-

not that I can see forever, but it invites me to attempt

to see forever and tell me I can't. PM. Only glints

of starlight, a thickening of starlight, a slender sliver of moonlight

and this dark, still air.

The pleasure of an enclosed room. A bed. Blankets.

And sinking into sleep.

 

State Hospital Kampala, Uganda

State Hospital Kampala, Uganda draft #3, 01/22/25

This dark building among these dark people

lining the unlit passageway of the hospital hallway
and these dark wounds the blood thick and cakey.

A man in the shadow hallway lifts his shirt to reveal

a black hole that seems to be too deep for the thickness

of his black body, his white, white teeth

a faint glow, smile-shaped, in the midst of a pain-killer-less state,

I think he might even be smiling

because the docs are all on holiday for the next month.

I think he is laughing. An actual laugh void of sarcasm.

A matter of fact kind of laugh.

I hear most of the docs go to Europe or the Americas

for their vacations leaving behind these slumping bodies.

Esoteric knowledge- a kind of mysticism

flickers above my head the electricity

hanging on by a hangnail in this hospital.

The same thing happened with the woman

who crawled on her belly to greet us in Gulu.

We continued to watch as she dragged her carcass

around her shadowy hut searching for her sewing needle

somewhere on the dirt floor

but no haystack, just this TV-less and phone-less existence and her

hospitality like bright jack fruit and fresh, sweet sunlight.

It's hard to make out their expressions- 

these forever silhouettes

against the shimmering Ugandan sun outside

sneaking into the hospital

and my white white hands

hang uselessly at my sides

and occasionally fold into the shape of a church

the people inside, inside the darkness, praying.

*based on my experience in Uganda in the summer of 2009

___________________________________________________________________________

State Hospital Kampala, Uganda draft #2, 4/02/24

This dark hospital among these dark people

lining the unlit passageway way of the hallway
and these dark wounds the blood thick and cakey.

A man in the unlit hallway lifts his shirt to reveal

a black hole that seems to be too deep for the thickness

of his black body and his white, white teeth

a faint glow, smile-shaped, in the midst of a pain-killer-less state,

I think he might even be smiling

because the docs are all on holiday for the next month.

I think he is laughing. An actual laugh void of sarcasm.

A matter of fact kind of laugh.

I hear most of the docs go to Europe or the Americas

for their vacations.

Esoteric knowledge- a kind of mysticism

flickers above my head the electricity

hanging on by a hangnail in this hospital.

The same thing happened with the woman

who crawled on her belly to greet us in Gulu.

We continued to watch as she dragged her carcass

around her shadowy hut searching for her sewing needle

somewhere on the dirt floor

but no haystack just this TV-less and phone-less existence and her

hospitality like fresh jack fruit and sunlight.

It's hard to make out their expressions 

these forever silhouettes

against the bright Ugandan sun outside

sneaking into the hospital

and my white white hands

hang uselessly at my sides

and occasionally fold into the shape of a church

the people inside, inside the darkness, praying.

*based on my experience in Uganda in the summer of 2009

_______________________________________________________________________

State Hospital Kampala, Uganda draft #1, 3/24/24


This dark hospital among these dark people
and these dark wounds the blood thick and cakey.

A man in the unlit hallway lifts his shirt to reveal

a black hole that seems to be too deep for the thickness

of his black body and his white, white teeth

a faint glow, smile-shaped, in the midst of a pain-killer-less state,

I think he might even being smiling

because the docs are all on holiday for the next month.

I think he is laughing. An actual laugh void of sarcasm.

A matter of fact kind of laugh.

I hear most of them go to Europe or the Americas.

Esoteric knowledge- a kind of mysticism

flickers above my head the electricity

hanging on by a hangnail in this hospital.

The same thing happened with the woman

who crawled on her belly to greet us.

We continued to watch as she dragged her carcass

around her shadowy hut searching for her sewing needle

somewhere on the dirt floor

but no haystack just this TV-less and phone-less existence and her

hospitality like fresh jack fruit and sunlight.

It's hard to make out their expressions 

these forever silhouettes

against the bright Ugandan sun outside

sneaking into the hospital

and my white white hands

hang uselessly at my sides

and occasionally fold into the shape of a church

the people inside, inside the darkness, praying.

*based on my experience in Uganda in the summer of 2009

In Praise of the Custodian

In Praise of the Custodian 4th draft on 5/1/25 (at around 10:25 AM at Life Time)

for Deb

What can be said of the custodian 

with her arthritic back 

and knobbled, careful, root-like fingers; 

her knees two rusty springs,

her two carpel-tunnel wrists,

with the surgeries scheduled?

How her fingers, with such precision, fold into the rag

and swoop like a troop of ballerinas against the wood surface of the table.

How her knees rub the floor

with the shifting of her weight, on all fours,

as she works on scraping up a bit of gum.

I once heard that one of the disciples

was known as "old camel knees"

because of all the time he spent on his knees

in prayer 

and she is something like that

on her knees in a kind of prayer

as she kneels to get the last little smudge

at the bottom corner of the full length, wall-sized mirror

in the group exercise room

not taking any notice of herself.

When it comes right down to it,

I only know two who can effectively describe this woman:

Hoagland came close, recognizing

that every time I drop, even a crumb,

she must bend, stoop, and twist

to take up my refuse and neglect.

But Jesus gets it right, that those who are last

will be first.

But Solomon in Ecclesiastes also gets it right:

that the one who works

will be broken by her work.

__________________________________________________________________________

In Praise of the Custodian 3rd draft on 5/8/24 (at around 11:25 PM at Catalina)

for Deb

What can be said of the broken custodian 

with her arthritic back 

and knobbled, careful, root-like fingers; 

her knees two rusty springs?

How her fingers, with such precision, fold into the rag

and swoop like a troop of ballerinas against the wood surface of the table,

and how her knees rub the floor

with the shifting of her weight, on all fours,

as she works on scraping up a bit of gum.

I once heard that one of the disciples

was known as "old camel knees"

because of all the time he spent there

in prayer and she is something like that

on her knees in a kind of prayer

and she kneels to get the last little smudge

at the bottom corner of the full length, wall-sized mirror

of the group exercise room

not taking any notice of herself.

When it comes right down to it,

I only know two who can effectively describe this woman

Hoagland came close, recognizing

that every time I drop, even a crumb,

she must bend, stoop, and twist

to take up my refuse and neglect.

But Jesus gets it right, that those who are last

will be first.

But Solomon in Ecclesiastes also gets it right:

that the one who works

will be broken by her work.

______________________________________________________________________

In Praise of the Custodian 2nd draft on 1/25/24 (at around 10:14 PM at Catalina)

What can be said of the custodian 

with arthritis in her back, 

her fingers knobbled, 

her knees like two rusty springs?

How the arthritic fingers fold into the rag

and how her knees rub the floor

with the shifting of her weight

as she works on scraping up a bit of gum.

I once heard that one of the disciples

was known as "old camel knees"

because of all the time he spent there

in prayer and that is her

on her knees in a kind of prayer

and she kneels to get the last little smudge

in the bottom corner of the full length, wall-sized mirror.

Hoagland came close, recognizing

that every time I drop, even a crumb,

she must bend, stoop, and twist

to take up my refuse and neglect.

But Solomon in Ecclesiastes gets it right, 

that the one who works

will be broken by her work.

___________________________________________________________________________

In praise of you the Custodian 1st draft on 1/16/24 (at around 10:45 AM at Five Seasons)

What can be said of the custodian and the maintenance man

with arthritis in your back and knees?

Hoagland came close, recognizing

that every time I drop, even a crumb,

you must bend, stoop, and twist

to take up my refuse and neglect.

But Solomon in Ecclesiastes gets it right, 

that the one who works

will be broken by their work.