The truth about Reagan and Carter

cooking with Kara

To write about it
with out melodrama, cliche or histrionics,
hyperbole
is beyond my skill
and to try to truly capture it,
folly
but I can't resist
telling
how cooking with Kara
or ice cream with Chelsea
is better
than dining with kings,
the highest awards and honors.
I've hiked the Alps,
seen the sun set on the pyramids
and watched the desert bloom
the rainforests, the castles, the wonders
are a bore
set against 
 skipping stones
with Chelsea,
cooking with Kara

©2001

trout season

trout season

there's a creeping darkness growing in my belly
An insidious monster consuming all in its path
staining it
pulling
like the giant tumor that stretched my father's skin
swelled him up
first he just looked pregnant
then, grotesque
by trout season he was like a beached sea lion
taught
motionless
my skin is getting tight
there's still some flesh and blood but it's loosing
loosing ground
being covered
stained
inaccessible
the darkness is all i can reach alone
but my kids don't fear it
they fight it, they beat it
without them
I'm beached

©2002

©2002

x-rays

x-rays

The ghostly images X-Ray machines burn into film are
deceptive
Anatomically accurate as they are,
their report fails
Everything is one dimensional
It all looks so light, buoyant, wispy
Even healthy bone appears brittle and hallow
Other organs, too.
The dense and massive liver is but a feathery cloud
Only the heart is depicted accurately:
fragile.

©2000

little snakes

little snakes

garter snakes behind Mason glass
die
for want of an insect
amidst piles of crackers
and jelly bean lunches
lovingly placed by a boy's hand
dreams, too
die
when fed nothing but intention

©2002

Sorry it took so long, Dad

So I’m seventeen years old working at a pizza joint in the mall and I get a phone call at work from my mom. My dad had just died. I told my manager and asked to go home. “Come on, quit trying to get out of work. You hated your dad, so don’t use that as an excuse.” “I do?” I thought, or rather, “I did?” I thought I loved my father at least as much as anyone else, and more than most. “Marty,” I scoffed. “You’re a dick!” I kept working for a while.

I tried to work, but I couldn’t keep it together enough to even assemble the three pre-packaged ingredients that our anti-authentic joint passed off as pizza. Mind you, this was long before anyone aside from an SNL writer would have dreamed of combining the words “artisan” and “pizza,” but our brand was especially lame. When my “older” manager, Marty – two years my senior- saw the difficulties I was having he finally sent me home.

Now before you judge Marty, I guess I should explain how things  had gotten to this point. Like every other awkward, suburban, uncoordinated white kid of my generation I really only wanted one thing that didn’t involve a naked girl: to be a bad ass. I tried fighting, hockey, talking back, wrestling and a host of other macho pursuits. I wasn’t good at any of them. So I decide to create a bad ass persona. If Robert Zimmerman could be Bob Dylan and Michael freaking Jackson could be “bad,” I knew I could pull this off.

When my mom and step father moved from Michigan to Arizona (to a trailer park no less!), I had my chance at re-creation. I grew my hair long, wore a lot of leather and quickly found the “wrong” crowd. I tend towards over-compensation, so I left no stone unturned. I did more drugs than any of the best, listened to the loudest music, climbed mountains frying on acid, looked for fights

every chance I got and always tried to push the envelope.  To a certain extent. I still got good grades, made it to school on time – even if a bit buzzed – and avidly avoided arrest or Juvie.

With my wild friends, I tried to hide my tame reality, always fearful I’d be discovered. There was a Van Halen song at the time with the lyric, “Have you seen junior’s grades????” mocking a shocked parent. My nickname was “Junior,” so the song was perfect for my rouse. But the truth was I wanted to hide my (good) grades from my friends, not my parents!

Most of the rough crowd I ran with had terrible relations with their parents and pretty crappy home lives. Like my good grades, I hid my loving and pretty wonderful parents from my friends in a series of misleading interpretations of my home life, exaggerations and flat out tall tales. Hence, Marty’s mistaken belief I didn’t care about my father. I don’t recall the actual story, but I must have told him a dousie.

The thing is, my Dad was never ashamed or confused about who he was. He constantly told us boys he loved us, repeatedly told us it was okay to cry and encouraged any talents, whims or quirks we had and maintained a very close relationship with us in an era where fathers were distant at best, and frequently unapproachable. Despite being a big, burly construction worker, he frequently cried in public and showed his emotions – again, men of his generation just didn’t do that.

He never crossed a picket line. He invited his black co-workers to the house for dinner and parties (the only time African Americans were ever seen in our lily-white neighborhood!), picked up even the mangiest hitchhikers and always had something for any beggar. He was proud of his sons, and everyone knew it.

My father knew exactly who he was, and would never betray me.

For years I carried the shame of that night at the pizza parlor. When a great man dies, his son should be shouting his praises from the roof tops, not sulking in a Judas-like aftermath of a swirl of falsehoods. I’d like to say that pathetic scene was a wakeup call, but it actually took me many more years, and even more shameful episode, before I finally straightened out my head and met my self.

But, Dad, I’m glad to report, I finally know who I am. I’m not half the man you were, but I know I’ve finally become a man you can be proud of. I’m one of many who have to learn the hard way. It took me a long, long time, but I finally know exactly who I am. And I’m proud of both of us.