The Door

I used to watch her
she of the second floor
I, of the third

it was the kind of apartment where if one tenant turned on the water,
the others all knew.
but sounds and numbers were all that were known
as names were secreted behind closed doors
and lowered gazes upon the stairs

first, as the light seeped my room
I would hear the pipes jangle and creak
then the faint echo of a medicine cabinet being plundered
before a door here, a cabinet there
and then the melody of her music would waft up
on the aroma of her coffee
wrapping itself around my bare feet
spiraling up my legs
and taking my loin prisoner without a fight

I would then open my window because I knew she would open hers
and it was funny, the way my mind froze
navigating only to her unseen steps

my feet truly found their rhythm when I would hear the heavy door open and close
and I would glance to the clock in association, knowing her moccasined feet
whispered down the stairs.

in a ritual race my own feet pulled me to my window from where,at the edge of the curtain,
I could watch her emerge onto the sidewalk below.

I would smile as she threw her auburn locks to the wind
and her hands would dip into that corduroy jacket.
she always crossed the street at an angle with nary a glance
as if she knew the world
would respect her passage.

she was going to the river, this I knew
where she would scrabble its vacant banks
speak to the current with her soul
the morning with her eyes
and to her heart, with her thoughts.
and she always retrieved a new treasure for her sill
to remind herself who she was.

this wasn't a lonely walk, it was embryonic
a seed for the evening harvest.

this too I knew, because at night I would quietly ascend those stairs
pause beside her closed door
and listen to the threshing.

one day, no more unique than another, as I descended and she ascended,
her bag of groceries shifted, her leathered foot slipped and her grace failed
-but I caught her, and my catch lingered..
things were exchanged
eyes met
silence considered
and a laugh breezed into a smile

Though no words were spoken that day, when next I paused beside her door
I heard her threshing pause with my steps.

then one evening her door was left open -just a crack
then half way
then all the way

this open door led to a name beyond the number
and a chair at her table where we drank her coffee and shared a story

I remember those days now and where they took me
I remember believing that door knew no limit

I would have been wise to remember the way she crossed the street
for one night as I climbed those stairs,
I found that door closed once again.
I remember the pain of those two voices rising up through the floorboards
taunting my concrete feet and spinning a new beat to an old routine.

I think maybe he was the baker who brought her bread
or perhaps a beggar from the park
but I never really cared to know

my mind now froze only in pale numbness and my curtain stayed closed.

I could've moved
should've moved
I know it now as I knew it then
and maybe I tried but good sense plays a minor role on such a dark stage.

the other day as I reached the second floor, I noticed two things;
the door open a crack
and a man's slippers just inside
I didn't pause
doors say more than we hear

A Tavern In The Woods

is a place that opens its doors
when Vickie decides she's ready
a place with long narrow floorboards
worn grey by the snow of long winters

back near the tiny bathrooms
is a pool table with paper thin felt
torn and cigarette scarred

the roof is shingled
the sign painted
the register antiquated
and no uniformed cuties with name tags

this is a place where widows, divorcees and veterans
stare out the window beyond the pitted gravel lot
to watch the snow fall upon the highway

a tavern in the woods has a table in the corner
where those same five guys have been playing
that same deck of cards since Carter picked his first peanut

there is a battered leather dice box under the bar
that makes up for Vickie's lousy tips
and damp smelly bar rags for the occasional spill

the jukebox doesn't do digital
but knows every George Jones song ever recorded

a tavern in the woods has burgers that taste better
for no good reason
and the best beer signs to be found

there is no happy hour because the beer is only two bucks anyway
and last call is when the stories and keg run out at the same time

a tavern in the woods cannot be built
but planted and grown from a seedling
until it reaches maturity

it is a place where strangers gather to become friends
a refuge
a sanctuary
a home for those in search of a definition

Bus Ride

it seems as close to a stage coach as we can get these days
All aboard! next stop Yuma!

we on the street, look to the faces beyond the glare
they never smile or look down
just out, away and beyond
but (or is it and) it draws us,
takes a little of our soul along
in the wake of that thick black smoke

for a moment we wish to go along,
-climb those stairs
to that grandma in Billings we've only known through stories
or the recruiting office in Yakima, or
maybe even to that friend in New York with the spare room and connections

the girl there, in the back row,
with the spiked hair and black lipstick ran away when fourteen burst the seams,
the young man in the middle aisle spent his summer in Yellowstone
grooming trails
and the old man in the green wool uniform
finally made his platoon's reunion

they all wear an expression bought with a sixty-eight dollar ticket
some find comfort in books
some in ear buds
some in journals
some in quiet contemplation

they'll stop for fuel
and just to stretch their legs, where
a few will smoke in a huddle while
names and smiles might be exchanged
and once in awhile a story told to a crooked grin

then they'll board again as we
in McDonald's, or fueling our cars watch
with curious eyes

they pretty much ignore us,
we're not in the club
-not part of the adventure

but as long as there's Greyhound
there's hope for exploration,
the human spirit,
and a dream left
for those of us that watch

Filter

Filters are important
They purify
And I don't have one

I'm the muddy mississippi
Churning
Topsy-turvy
ass over tea kettle
Pissing off artists
But making the catfish happy

So those in my path
Construct filters
Lest i forget my banks

Some have built them
In series
This for that
-a murderer's row of honeycomb
Til i'm not even a river, but
Merely a trickle
Sad in supress

Others have built dams
You know,
Keep the bastard out all together

But there's this one,
Pretty, sleepy little town
That has laid some stones
And logs across my flow
Earthy, natural, an easy traverse

Here, my catfish pool
My heron fish
And my mud slips through
While my eddies swirl
Her feet
At the edge of the bank

She knows not to drink
Too much of me
Not to belly flop my depths
understanding the danger of my undertow

But she lets me flow
Lets me sweep her feet
And in this
I have found truce in the current
Harmony in my day
Agreement in peace
And acceptance in my imperfection

The Blackboard

It's late June, appropriately so and the classroom is empty.
The broken chalk lays dormant on the tray and the blackboard stands free of equations,
so I begin to script.
I begin at the top left, working down, then over, screeching chronological columns.

As I begin, there are only photographs veiled in faded black and white.

My father smiling broadly as he holds me high on his shoulders next to the '58 Buick he just bought.
(there's times when Dad just isn't word enough)
Then there's the photo of me playing with my new firetruck on Christmas Eve, 1963.
There's Dad standing on the dock of some sunfish laden lake, holding up the ol green Mercury
outboard that only started on the seventh pull.
I look at his massive biceps exposed by the rolled up shirt, the glitter off the lake, and I wish dearly
to remember.
But soon enough, the memories do come forth.

The time some neighbor kids pushed me within reach of that police dog fresh with pups.
The jagged scars are a constant reminder.
The time I almost hit the wiffle ball over the fence.
and I never came close again.
When I and a friend grew bored on a July day and we climbed the tree that hung over the street to
be brave. I told him that branch looked good.
It wasn't.
His face hit the pavement first and as the blood quickly pooled I panicked when I saw his arm
twisted impossibly.
He survived that, but not the car wreck that took him and two other friends in '74.
I might've been with them, but I wasn't, and as my dad was the fire chief he had the misfortune of pulling the bodies from the wreckage, and I remember watching him try to wash the blood off in the kitchen sink and I couldn't believe there was that much blood in all the earth.

I log the time a brother cruelly split my lip
and the time a brother had my back
And the day my little sister was born, much too small
and the year she lay in traction and a body cast.
there was the night my mother pushed the plate of mashed potatoes into my dad's face
and the time I found them on the couch together
there's the day I came home from play to find my parents and another woman in the kitchen
I heard just enough words and just enough tears and rage to usher me into the world beyond
the fence.
This is the time Michelle said no when I asked her to the dance
And here, when Audrey said yes.
And the time I thought it would be a good idea to roll that oil drum on to the railroad tracks
and here, the FBI at our door
The day I got caught stealing the answer book in science class
And how astonished I was when I was elected to student council
Here, I ran off to Texas with ten dollars and a can of spaghetti O's
made it to Iowa.
Then there's the time my Dad threw me out
And the day he took me back in
There's the time my mom called me a son of a bitch
and the day she nearly said she loved me
The day I had my first drink
The day she had her last
And here, saying I do
then didn't
Saying I won't
then did

And so much more
line upon line
heartaches in sandstorm
and I now sit
in the back row of empty desks
and look upon my life

The eraser is clean and clapped
and sits waiting for my hand


Which line should I erase?
each one brought me to the next
and the next to here
and here to a hopeful tomorrow

I leave them all
and I smile at my failures
and nod to my fortune
knowing
I chewed that bitch to the bone

What If

Birds had maps
And dragonflies, GPS?

And whales, lanes
Appointments
And taxes?

If deer walked the same trail
passing on the right
(Well, American deer)
Checking their watches
For dinner in the corn field?

What if the hare had safe houses
And bears
Anger management every Thursday
In humphries hollow?

Perhaps deeds could paper nests
And mailboxes dented
By the hoodlum fox
Could claim a blueberry bush

What if wildflowers
Were lined in neat rows?
And the honey bee
Assigned tables?

Clouds could march
As polished soldiers
Bill boarding their intentions
So Barry, the weatherman
Could finally get one right

Perhaps the red river could pause
So its somersault of roiling boil
Wouldn't ruin
The Emmerschmidts new carpet

What if, i wonder,
Nature could be civil
Taught manners
And order like us
And have council meetings
The second Tuesday
Of every month?

Then could man be master!
Then could fear be conquered!
For beauty through Freedom
Would be vanquished
At last

The Storm

shoulda bought the beacon

and left two weeks earlier

funny how in all this chaos
the moon still dances in and out of the fury

now that keel,
I never did like the way it shook
not that it matters now

God, what a blow

shadows of death in every trough that plows my grave

while my rudder hangs

like a tail without a cat

my survival suit swings drunken in the closet

as useless as a candle in a blizzard

and I think of those I spoke to last

and the things I might have said

Men paint of such scenes
but this isn't a banker's wall

or a side-winding tale

in a sawdust saloon

this is real

life, death, alone

the final act where indifference

yawns the balcony
and the depths feather my bed

I could think of angler fish ripping my flesh for supper

or the pump that sleeps a drowning sorrow

but strangely I don't

I think of kisses as I drink the last coffee

these lips shall enjoy

and I laugh maniacally

as I slide down one hill

and toss to the other

wondering which wave took my panic

when all hope is reefed

the grand mast of fear falls broken

and the heavy anchor of regret snaps its chain

while my soul sails an uncharted departing

under bare poles and a curious moon

tomorrow the seas shall smooth

and roll like a wheat field in Nebraska

a ship may pass unknowing

a whale might nurse

and a long liner may notice clutter

on his sonar

but that is a tomorrow my coin cannot purchase

a calm a tempest too late

and a sun I shall never see

so farewell! all ye lovely ladies

so long, my brothers in arms

drink to me when the gales come calling

drink to the fool who sailed alone

and made peace with the night that took him

noise

it's there, just now
like thunder in a box car
all around me, deep within me
reverberating
and I feel like a crack mom
who's baby wont stop crying

is this where head in hands was born?
my bones they rattle
as the wind and hail
beat the windward glass

my anger whispers a burgeoning threat
JUST BLOW ONE MORE GOD DAMNED TIME
and i swear
i'll spit myself all over you

chains being stretched
doors being slammed
words growing teeth

noise
up the river
down the canyon
over the mountain
and around the bend
echoing a waterfall of spoon

not so much a bass drum high on puberty
or two cymbals breaking treaty
nor even a squadron of howling monkeys
all teeth and screech
drowning out a cause
but more so an attic full of bad memories
crashing the Christmas party

where is my sargasso sea
where the surf takes its slumber?
or my life raft
on a thousand miles of deaf blue stillness?

dollars and dames
wars and used cars
tsunamis and cyclones
and my own dragon within
a light-year from slumber