HAWAII part 1

       I'm back in Kauai, HI for my third trip.  I've been with Tegan on our honeymoon, with Tegan and Isla when she was a year old, and now with Miles too.  I f***ing love this place.  Since Tegan and I are big ballers now, we rented a place right on the water.  Literally.  I can open my doors and look right out into the water. 

Our flight was pretty uneventful, with only minor tragedies, like forgetting that the DVD player brought to entertain the kids has no battery capabilities, and I slept possibly one hour the night before, but nothing a seasoned stay at home dad like myself can't handle.  So, we arrived in Kapa'a around 4, got to the house - and I went out to Safeway to get stuff for dinner and the rest of the week. 

Groceries in Hawaii are ridiculous.  I got some milk, coffee, eggs, cereal, peanutbutter, bread, snacks, a six pack of beer, and some chicken along with a couple other things and spent 160.00 - Daaaaaaaaang.  It might be cheaper to eat out.    Oh well.  After dinner we pretty much all passed out from jet lag. 

The next day we woke up at 5, watched the sun rise from our amazing porch with coffee, and relaaaaaaxed.   In the morning, we went for a walk and found a Tahitian Dance festival going on, so posted up there until the afternoon. Then it was time for a jaunt to the venerable and historic institution of Wal-Mart for a stroller to push Milesy around in.  Pizza for dinner, some shave ice and back to the house. 

Disappointment

7/28/13

My daughter is a really good girl.  Before today, we've never had to actually go to the step of punishment - just the threat has been enough.  Today however, she snuck and ate candy in her room, we caught her, called her on it, then told her she'd not be able to have dessert for the week if she did it again.  Not fifteen minutes later, we found her in her room, door closed, scarfing down a pack of mentos that she had recovered from the trash can of all places.  Self Control, girl!  Anyway, this was especially difficult, because her best friend had invited her over for ice cream after watching a youth production of "Annie"  at a local theater, and we had to tell them no because of the whole candy situation.  There were tears and sobs abound, of course.  To make matters worse, when we went to the play, they were sold out - and it was the last performance.  Isla had been talking about seeing this play for the last month.  Double disappointment and epic breakdown in front of the theater.  I know that this is one of those teachable moments about life and fairness and all that, but there's something pretty heartbreaking about seeing your child experience her first real let down at your hands.  At least we have the DVD and a huge screen with projector for our own performance tonight.


Meanwhile, on the Miles front, while we waited to see if we could get in due to any no-shows for Annie, our little guy went on a dinosaur hunt under the oleander bushes.  After roaring to himself for a few minutes, he actually ended up scaring himself so badly that he rushed out screaming.  From then on, he'd pace in front of the bushes shaking his head and saying "no rawr, no rawr."  This was a day for lessons, apparently.

Foreborn

You first found him under the bed at age 12. 
Too seasoned to be scared by boogeymen,
you watched him watch you with dust-mote
eyes and a vacant smile.  He dissappeared
like sunspots every time you looked, so you
trained your sight to slacken and unfocus.
Awash in grey, your childhood became pixelated.

He grew bold as you aged, moving to your
pocket with the lint and worry-stones, biting
your nails as you reached for subway change,
for the keys to your first apartment, for
condoms.  People noticed your fingers,
bitten to the quick, and commented on hygiene
and dirty habits.  "We all have them,"  You said.

He sat on your shoulder during the wedding,
teeth like broken fifths of gin clacking in your
ear as you spoke your own vows.
His talons left bruises that looked like rings
on the rise of your shoulders, and you cringed
with every clink of every champagne flute.

When you cried flower petal tears
at the birth of your daughter, he
climbed into your throat.  There,
he took up residence in your vocal
chords, playing them with crooked claws,
a master harpist.  Everyone says you
sounded Just Like Him sometimes.

You tried burning him out, leaving
filterless Malboro Light cigarettes
smoldering on your tongue while you slept,
your bedroom smoke detector became
a lullabye, and you slept through your own funeral.

For someone who never believed in Heaven,
you sure looked nice next to those constellations.
Dressed head to toe in white, you shone like a
proud moon, hung against the suffocating darkness.
Draped in silence, where the voice inside you can
finally speak with its own timbre, echoing from the
stars like a soft rain. 

Wheels

I

There was something about
that concrete and metal.
That wood and polyurethane.
Our blood, billowing in our veins
would rush like fools to our heads.

What else could explain this compulsion
to hurl ourselves off tops of staircases,
down rusted handrails into oncoming traffic
like our mortality was a bothersome fly.

And we flew.  Raw palmed and scabby
elbowed, we flew.  Seven-ply maple
wings and grip tape parachutes, we
launched ourselves off ledges like the
ground didn't exist.  We slid and flipped
and lived
and flew. Our bodies, our boards ever once
contemplating the landing.

II

He sits now, immobile in his chair,
legs longing for the vibrations
carried from street to chest.
He used to ride the asphalt until
his feet were blistered and bloody,
These days he tires easily - even
speaking can wear him down.
When it does, he talks in the language
of pavement cracks and parking lots.
His voice swerves in and out of the traffic
in our conversation.

He was the best of us once,
that concave deck seemed an extension
of his body - we'd watch him in disbelief,
360 degrees and straight up like his
lungs were filled with helium.  He'd
laugh his way back to earth.

He still laughs,
his eyes burnished blue, speech clear,
recounting broken bones,
looping wooden waves
and the jettisoning of gravity.

He tells me in hindsight
that the click of the wheels
connecting back to pavement
is the jaws of a beast closing,
is finite, is the almost imperceptible
click of a minute hand falling into place.

His body no longer measures time
in movements, it is a prison of
deteriorating muscle and tendon.
I wonder when he dreams,
does his blood still bloom,
do those peripheral nerves still
send their broken signals
to push, to connect, to fly.

III

I'm skateboarding circles in my driveway,
can feel my age in each flex and turn.
My knees crackle and complain as they loosen.

I hold my son in one arm, and we ride,
around, and around, and around.  He
is mesmerized by the shush of the wheels
on concrete, interrupted by each crack
in a rhythm like the pulsing in his veins -

it is familiar. He laughs when the wind
is in our faces, he likes its playful touch.
And when it is at our back, the wind
whispers of quickening blood and wood,
of polyurethane and gravity,
the wind whispers of flight.

25/30

4/25/13

Rewrite for Deathbed


I'd never seen a deathbed before.
It looked like any other kind of bed, I guess,
except for the sterile green hospital sheets.

I'd seen plenty of them, too - just none with
my grandmother on top, laying on her left side
because the shattered remains of her right hip
couldn't support her weight.
she was a bag of broken glass and whispers,
When we talked, I had to kneel down right
next to her face -
her ribs had punctured her lungs, and it made it hard to speak;


She fell trying to change the channel on the television,
never could figure out that damn remote -  her old
bones had simply said: "enough."

At First we laughed about it, she said "Baby bear,
I told you, that TV is evil!"  Then, her laughing
turned to fits of coughing, her face got dark red
and stern and she said "I'm sick."

I said "I know, Grandma."
 
and she said, "Be true, it's worth it."

I said "what?"

and she said "I love you."

I'll be damned if I ever really knew what those words meant
before they were her last utterances to me.

and I'll be damned if I ever really meant those words before
I echoed them back to her.

she closed her eyes, lay back,
her brow smoothing like ripples dissipating
in a pond, and that was it.

I didn't know it, but she'd never speak again.

and as I left the hospital room, I wasn't thinking of her broken body,
no.  Her words began to weave themselves into melody, the melody rhythmically telling me
things I should have already known.

If it takes death to release these feelings then something's gotta give - so it might as well be me to interpret the words my grandmother deserves to have spoken, her half broken body forgotten when you're lost in the sounds.

C'mon now people got to live for the moment can't you speak every word like it was your last breath.

C'mon now people got to live for the moment can't you speak every word like it was your last breath.

and what would you say if you knew your time was
limited to simply minutes
would you spit a few definitive sentences
or begin some sentimental sentiments full of derivative bullshhhhhhhhhh
or would you just lie silent, and pass on
or pass on
truth, knowledge, history, religion, tales, hell just say something

cause I got the ghosts of million people behind me who have never been heard... some were
never given voices but of those that were:
nobody listened. But my grandmother christened me permissively with her last words
passwords into my soul where they live as legacy egging me on & making me stronger
with every poem.

See this is an oral tradition, these words keep us from being alone,
I will join voices with my grandmother and those singing from the marrow in our bones
standing on roof tops shouting down the unknown,
I will grow my own garden from the seeds she has sewn
My lungs are her instrument, this chest is her home:
So we say:

Come on now people got to live for the moment cant you speak every word like it was your last breath

24/30

4/24/13

He is flipping pages of
a board book on the carpet
at my feet, cooing at the
images:  Red ladybug,
blue tractor, yellow sunflower,
green apple, orange fish.

Each of these is a revalation,
each a universe unfolding:
green leaf, yellow bird.

His eyes are bright, his
finger points like he's
trying to skewer the pages:
blue hat, black kitten.
He holds the book over
his head, triumphant:
Red tomato, white puppy.

He leans back, too far -
the book launches behind
as he giggles at the ceiling.

23/30

4/23/13

I've never seen him without
sunglasses, he wears snakebite piercings
and insolent swagger like manganese steel,
his smile twists sarcastic at the corners
of lips designed for raillery; he jokes
like someone who's never seen the
inside of concrete cages; he revels
like his veins are clean.

Seventeen with a backpack full of
vodka, headphones sprout from his
ears, a wall - twin parapets for keeping
it all out, for piece of mind. He's been
in four times now, for everything.
He wears his time like an expensive watch,
though now, when the corners of his mouth
fall, ever so slightly, and the lights
reflected in his aviators travel down and
get caught in his throat, I think
he might be wishing for wormholes,
he might believe time means something
completely different when it's in his hand.

22/30

4/22/13

Villanelle for Bukowski


Pen scratches the page leaking whiskey and gin,
each black mark a wound reopened, a throe -
yet verses come easy when rooms start to spin.

When sleeping and fucking and eating wear thin,
 find smoke and oak, dim lights to lay low -
pen scratches the page leaking whiskey and gin

Shaded windows belie the comfort within
eyes downcast, only concerned with what's low
yet verses come easy when rooms start to spin.

Stumble home sated and smelling of sin
collapse at the desk, a welcome plateau
Pen scratches the page leaking whiskey and gin

Sun creeps through the window when one must begin
sets the amber liquid in the tumbler aglow - 
verses come easy when rooms start to spin.

rare moments when one feels safe in his skin,
the rushing and splashing of laced blood below
pen scratches the page leaking whiskey and gin,
yet verses come easy when rooms start to spin.

21/30

4/21/13

They gave me life,
a test tube bastard,
an engineered seed.
My leaves grew over
these golden ears like
green lullabies.
I could almost pretend
I was real, could almost
believe I had purpose.

Even in the threshing
I was gratified
My kernels bursting
with sugar, starched
in my Sunday best,
how proud and tall I stood.
How innocent the concept,
how naive my roots:
nourish the world
they told me,
you were built for this.

The journey to plate was
dark. Jostling. Uneventful
but for the design imprinted
on the very proteins of my
chromosomes...
I felt an anticipation there,
a longing.  How wonderful
to be needed, how incredible
to be named salvation.
My brothers and I heroic
kernels in this calvary -
riding forth in boxes and
trains and 18 wheelers we
were angelic deliverers
warriors against hunger;
husked paladins and silken
saints.

When I arrived tumbling
into the dust from the bin; peace left.
there was expectation
creasing those faces.
Dependance showed through
paper skin like bones -
Distended bellies screaming
a tortured chorus.

I realized too late,
as my masticated flesh
became bolus, as peristalsis
and churning broke me down
to my base elements, enzymes
refusing to hold me, villi warring
with glucose - I was not taken up
I am charlatan sustenance
I am not real.

I am frankenstein's monsanto.
I am an empty promise
I am the lining in a fat man's pocket.
I am technology, the future,
I am a vengeful God with a deflated heart,
I am soulless fodder for an abandoned world.
My brothers desecrate hallowed fields
insurmountably.

You made me this.
I am in your image.
My reach surpasses that which I grasp,
I am empty handed,
A cob pipe, smoldering.

20/30

4/20/13


We wait. The roads have cracked and
 sprouted  and still we wait.
 The buildings cough and sigh through broken hinges
and still we wait. The sky weeps ash; timber relics
in a moribund dawn - and still we wait.

Some say he will come
on a winged beast, large enough to block out the
whiteyellow glare of the sun.
Some say he will tunnel through the earth and
burst through our bunker walls.
Some say it is a she, a woman with lights in her fingers,
with fire in her hair. They all agree that one day
the iron and steel doors above us will be lifted,
the chemical fog will dissipate, and
we will stumble into the world once more.

I was born here in this steel and rivet cistern,
have known nothing but it's cool grey embrace.
It was built in the beforetimes, the green times

19/30

4/19/13

My silver-pollen insect -
Windwhispered hair & sad
Fingers tapping a nervous
Double time on the Formica,
My knock-kneed princess, Crayola
Smile outside the lines, I will make
These days my abode. I will live
Here as long as you will have me.

18/30

4/18/13

I hold my compassing arms out like
beacons from the roof; this rain,
this water rushing rivulets won't stop
me, I am a floodlight.  I am a foghorn.
I am chiseling your name into rocky
forearms; they were cliffs once, airy
and endless, the headiest view.  When the
rain stops I will fold my arms umbellar,
I will jump, catching whatever wind
might be.  I will be a dandelion seed.

17/30

4/17/13
Written to "Soil" an instrumental composed by 8.Bliss

It goes Step 1,   Step 2,  ascent to descent
transcend your weekend - keep feet on cement
these feet don't need spin rotary tweaking
these feet don't pretend, these feets is leaving

leaving
leaving
keep movin til the street ends, I'm Shel Silversteinin'
plus Mike Jackson, beat it.  I'm deep in, I'm fiending
I'm searching for meaning - I ferment and breathe it
earth wind and pavement.  tell me where the day went.
Right out the casement, blowin in the wind
slow it, you throw it it's growing, sure! and you begin. Show and you begin.

 It goes Step 3, Step 4, myopic henceforth
that's what your friend's for, what you want? Less? More?
More? Less? More stress, Opressed, Phone sex,
disown chest, possessed, homeless, Oh SHIT!

Good morning, your feet are rooted in the soil
Good morning, your feet are rooted in the soil
Good morning, your feet are rooted in the soil
 Spring up, I recruited you to coil

16/30

4/16/13
On Infestation

The wooden post
has been eaten
away to nearly
nothing now.
It is held
up by a rusted nail
at a completely
awkward angle, the
footing rotted long ago.

Light plays
in the space
underneath the last
termite hole
carelessly, giggling
like a child
with a secret.

I want it to
be like this;
to watch my last
splinter give way
to cachinnating  
sunlight, to let my
foundation give
and tumble,
to disintegrate - upward.

15/30

4/15/13
From Rachel McKibbens blog - writing exercise #96:  http://rachelmckibbens.blogspot.com/




I opened you, lonesome child
and inside was a breathless crow.
I opened the crow and inside was
a broken crayon.
I opened the crayon and inside was
a bottle of gin.
I opened the gin and inside was
a stage.
I opened the stage and inside was
ashes and cigarette butts.
I opened the ashes and inside was
nothing.
I opened nothing and inside was
a palm.
I opened the palm and inside was
my son.
I opened my son and inside was a
field.
I opened the field and inside was
morning.

14/30

4/14/13

Dirt

I dug a hole
with my fingers.
The soil was
not soft, it fought
and scraped
and embedded
itself deep
under the nails.
I only stopped
when it was deep
enough to fill
with all this
idle time.

13/30

4/13/13

Springtime in Ojai

Spring came dizzy and laughing.
The bougainvillea caught fire,
the orange trees put on their best
white; suffused the whole town
with their perfume.  The doves,
drunk on sunlight and dew,
warbled and fussed in the oaks
while a crow, unstirred by all
this bustle, croaked a hoarse
rebuke from the green, green lawn.

12/30

4/12/13

Pantoum for my 5 year old.


Stories bloom like primroses in her mind
sometimes the design arrives too fast to speak
she sings and paints and dances it all to life
disregarding the weight of watching eyes

Sometimes the design arrives too fast to speak
she stutters and crinkles a frustrated brow
disregarding the weight of watching eyes
she collapses in on herself like a neutron star

She stutters and crinkles a frustrated brow
her inner siren begins its wailing cry
she collapses in on herself like a neutron star
tears and knots and knees and clay

Her inner siren begins it's wailing cry
she sings and paints and dances it all to life
tears and knees and knots and clay
stories bloom like primroses in her mind.

11/30

4/11/13


How to hold your son for the first time


Fold your arms into blankets
his head will fit in your palm
like it is supposed to; you do
not think at this point, just be.

Be still and wait for his eyes.
The moment they open, that
fleeting instant, is the first
and the last time you will both
see something new together.

10/30

4/10/13

When a voice ripens
it's not always gradual
sometimes it comes ripping
from the throat with serrated
teeth and iron claws,
sometimes it brings the heart
with it, pulsing and spraying
anyone near enough to hear.

When this happens,
every word spoken before
that moment is cleared of
the dust and shit that
has collected from so many
years of swallowing before
speaking.  Every word
is a bear trap, taught
and gleaming.  Every word
shouts its own name.

9/30

4/9/13

This headache,
sits like a crow
between my brows;
feels heavier
than it should.

I don't sleep well
don't drink enough
water don't exercise
chase coffee with
alcohol write poems.

If I close my eyes
I see a haloed white
rectangle. It is the
headache, it is the ghost
of the computer screen.

I bite my nails while
typing; the keys
don't feel right
without the entirety
of my fingertips.

I shake my head
periodically, it
fixes the equilibrium
and I enjoy the
rustling of feathers.

8/30

4/8/13

From Rachel McKibben's rad writing exercise for today.  http://rachelmckibbens.blogspot.com/


Here,
in the room of my life
a vial of donated blood
sits upended on the desk,
leaking a slow drip onto
the hungry carpet.  It pools
over a stain set since the
beginning. A corduroy
chair with arms like dead
sea lions has been pushed
into an awkward angle, a
snake sleeping on its faded
cushion, eyes open because
everyone knows snakes don't
have eyelids. There's a
hummingbird clearing its ruby
throat against the drawn
window curtains, wings beating
so fast I might lose my mind.
I do.  I'm fine. I put the rubberband
gun under the bed in a box with
striped ribbons, but it's gone now.
The girl with crooked eyes held
it against her head and said "Bang!"
right before she opened the curtains
and turned into the sun.

7/30

4/7/13


My neighborhood has no sidewalks,
the speed limit is 25. This is appropriate;
it's a slow homicide.  The houses barely
tolerate each other - they go: rusted car, rock wall,
Matilija poppy, wrought iron, oak tree, meth lab.
Our local legends are dogwalking old women
with headwraps and five chihuahuas.
They pull with bull mastiff strength against wrists
mottled and veiny like expensive cheese.
Down the street we have three markets.  None
sell anything other than soda, cigarrettes, beer and
unrefrigerated meat.  There are peppers,
but they hide from gringos like me.
The summer comes quick and leaves late
every year.  It arrives as a heavy mallet, smashing
and overpowering with a heat dry and bloody
nose inducing.  The smell of orange blossoms,
that had made spring so beautiful it felt unfair, 
has long gone in the summer.  Sulfur instead.
Fitting for a place as hot as hell.

6/30

4/6/30


Rib cages are awful metaphors.
Mine simply contains a heart,
some lungs, a liver.  Just the
things that keep a man moving.

I cannot love with these things.
cannot feel pain with them; better
to use the mouth, the fingers, places
where nerves end, where heat can be felt.

The eyes are nothing but metaphor,
light collectors that wander and stare.
Use eyes as you would the pencil,
the paper is so bright, it is.

5/30

4/5/13


Edit of "This Town"

This town stands on aged and ruined legs,
calling its beauty out through pursed wrinkled lips;
prickly pear tongues purring empty pink moment promises.
this Ojai Oasis, such a beautiful place to go to die.

These mountains, they loom like overprotective parents,
holding chloroform palms over young mouths,
Sunny southern California blindfolds -
who cares if the kids are hurting
soiled fingers stuck in ears anticipating something dirty
Hear no evil
See no evil
Speak nothing if you're under thirty

know your place,
shut your face,
pull your pants up
turn that shit down
why you always gotta be so loud?
button that up
button it to the neck
tighter, I can still hear you breathing.
In fact, shouldn't you be leaving?
don't you have some white dragons to chase
some shattered dreams to freebase?
we already locked up the purest, so
rather have you poppin pills since you're just
obstructing the view of elderly Los Angeles tourists.
Sweep you under the rug, make it easier to step on the poorest

But I'm calling bullshit on this false paradise
searching for a pulse in veins drier than the Ventura River
a breath of life in this ghost town surviving on antique shops, rookie cops and celebrity sightings.

But it's here, this faint heart beat - here in this candlelit cafeteria,
surrounded by the black and white faces of the past we have the future right in front of us.

when I sit at the table with these kids
these Monday Misfits,
Shangri-Lost young people
struggling to find a purpose in a town
designed for retirees and weekend money,
My heart staggers and lurches;  a bit off time, but loud enough to echo in my ears.

When they speak, through voices shoved back down their throats by
people they've trusted the most, I hear lightning bolts and steamrollers;
pain ripped from the lowest parts of their chest and held out gingerly like a mended wing
they read from smashed phones and iPod screens, crumpled papers and shaking hands.

All I can say is hold on. 
Your voice is all you have; it's your lifeboat in this sea of indifference,
your battle-axe; your backbone; your fucking Obi-Wan Lightsaber
Hold on.
Stand firmly in place; shout to dislodge the hearing aids

We are not this Southern California doldrum,
this Ojai 
 We are not these palm tree wooden stakes in hearts
These arcade arch cages
Hold on
and Dream louder than your surroundings,
dream further than this county
Dream till your feet touch down where they were meant to be,
where your life feels like yours, your voice sounds like yours,
echoing off walls that feel like home, not prison.

Hold on,
This town does not own you
This town does not define you
It only holds you for a moment,
it will let go -
so will you. 
When you do,
please enjoy the fall.
I still haven't landed -
I'll let you know when I do.

4/30

4/4/13

"When I die," writes the
famous poet and musician
2 Chainz, "bury me inside a Louie store.
When I die, bury me inside a Gucci store."

This may be fine for Tauheed Epps
AKA 2 Chainz, AKA Tity Boi, 
 but I have slightly different ambitions.

When I die, drape me in the love letters 
written and spoken by the woman I married.
I would gather them around me in that long
night, for warmth.  For repose.

When I die, have my daughter grind the bones
of my first finger into a powder fine enough 
to mix with ink, so that she may draw whatever 
solace she need find.

Have my son collect all the buttons from my clothing
and sew them on everything and anything he may desire.
Have him take my veins and create a map 
which he may choose to follow or burn, 
either way they will have served their purpose.

When I die, place my body somewhere 
with a view of the clouds, preferably obscured 
somewhat by the limbs of a sprawling tree. 
Prop me up and say goodbye, make no marker, 
just bones and leaves and sky for me.

3/30

4/3/13


When the body wilts and wanes;
the barreled chest of youth and health
gives way to birdhollow bones,
the hands understand only metal,
only wires - the braces and posts
that hold this sagging and diminished weight.

When the machinery of wellness,
the chimes and blips
the ceaseless drip
replace the music in your gut,
the ear begins to transform this mechanized
dissonance into one single note.

That note is will. 

If it is not heard, that is fine,
the body will pass however gently
from this place.  It is fine.

If it is heard,
no matter how faint,
it will grow riverquick
and surge to a roar in the ears.
It will propel limbs brittle and worn,
brighten muddied eyes.
It will become a symphony of yes and now,
swelling enough to engulf
everyone near in purpose,
even if only for a minute.
Even if only for now.

2/30

4/2/13

Ran to the door in the middle of the night -
the wind blew savage and obstinate;
oak pollen swirled in the light of one crooked lamp
near the street. It gathered against the curb,
alongside the lawn's edge like oddments,
forgotten things.  The leaves spoke in cutting tones,
most likely to the moon itself. I was just an observer
in the midst of it all, unnoticed but for the mockingbird
who trilled once, then gave up, realizing its call
was swallowed by the wind.

By the time the wind stopped
and the leaves quieted their quarelling
and the moon slid softly into the mountains
I knew I was the bird, I was the wind, the leaves,
the pollen.  I was the moon.  These are my mountains
to slide into,  my wind to lose a voice in, my curbs
to sidle against. This is my night.

1/30

4/1/13


 I left Oakland almost a year ago,
the grind, the traffic, the murder rate.

I left with my family, for a place less
dangerous, less angry, less broken.

I left a group of children I promised otherwise
in confusion, in dirt, in the hands of those I don't trust.

My kids play outside now; in the grass
they run, they twirl, they play

The children in Oakland slap treads to concrete
chain link, boarded windows, gunshots.

At night when I begin to dream:
The children, the children, the children.

March 11, 2013

3/11/13

Tonight Isla asked me to hold her hand as she fell asleep, so "I can know that you're with me."  I told her I would of course hold her hand until she fell asleep, but I lied a little.  I will live this moment forever.  My hand will always be in hers, forever, even when she's too old for hand holding, and too teen to want it there; this night, these hands, they will be my mantra.  What an incredible gift to give, this purpose I have.  Thank you sweetheart.

March 7, 2013.

This town
asks how to help, 
holds hands over young mouths
with organic chloroform gloves.

The kids need something to do
they say
something quiet
something quiet and buttoned up to the neck.
something quiet and away from view.

How polite, they say
How articulate.  Just needs a haircut.
Just needs a job,
just not at my place.

343. New month, new month

2/6/13

It's been February for six days now, so I should update this thing.  I had a pretty amazing weekend, doing a three times sold out show at the Deer Lodge with Lissie, hosting a superbowl party, and agreeing to take on this youth group at my old high school, things have been pretty great, outside of the Daddy gig.

So.  Ever since Milesy boy got sick, he has been on a terror run.  He does have some serious teeth coming in, but he's been giving me a run for my money (or a run for Tegan's money, whatever).  It usually starts around 1 PM, when he decides that flopping around on the carpet like a spastic frog and screaming is way more fun than, well, anything else.  That signals a 4-5 hour descent into the lesser known ring of hell Dante describes as "Toddler circle" in The Inferno.  This is the circle with projectile matchbox cars, waterboarding by tears, and applesauce smothering.  It makes me yearn for the terrible twos.  Hurry up.

342. Shots

1/31/13

I took Miles to the pediatricians by myself today, and I can truthfully say one of the worst experiences to go through is being asked to hold your child down while something that hurts is done to them.  While he was getting his shot, he was looking at me like "why in the hell would you let this happen to me, you garbage smelling piece of poo!"  All I could do was hold him afterwards and tell him I'm sorry, which basically amounts to a whole lot of too late.   Then, when I tried telling him that it was for his own good, since babies can die from the flu, he threw his snack trap right at my face.  I deserved it though, I did. 

341

1/28/13

I can't seem to stay away from education for too long.  After agreeing to come do a spoken word presentation for a group of high school students today I was offered the job to run the group.  All things as they are, I would love to do this - and I am gearing myself up to take the job. 

The kids I met were really awesome, some had some serious issues, and that's why they were there, but they were kind to each other, really into the group itself, and ready to try some poetry on for size.

I am pretty stoked.  That's the truth.

340. The sickness

1/22/13



Ok, so everybody's sick. Our house sounds like it is inhabited by chain smoking walruses with sinus problems and a penchant for whining. To top it all off today Tegan had to work until 9. I knew it was going to be a rough one, but ooooooweeeeeee, I had no idea. Miles was vacillating between screaming because I put him down and screaming because I wasn't holding him the right way. Isla was fully engrossed in a feverish whine festival, or asking me how long every single thing we did was going to take. I couldn't think straight and had a temper about as long as a nervous person's fingernails. These combined to make for the dinner from hell. I got a brief respite during a timely airing of "frankenweenie," but found myself facing the most impossible bedtime ever conceived. I needed miles to be asleep, since trying to read to Isla while he was screaming was like shoving hot needles into my already aching mind, but he couldn't lie prone due to his cough, and I couldn't sit up with him due to my lack of boobs. He finally decided a fair compromise would be for me to sit next to him, propped up on pillows with my forehead pressed against his, while whispering the lyrics to "cold hearted snake" by Paula Abdul. Anything that altered this formula slightly would send him into hysterical cry-coughing fits. This lasted 40 minutes. When he finally fell asleep, Isla came running into the room, and woke him up by jumping onto the bed. "I just wanted to help him sleep!" she said. I may or may not have lost my shit at this point. After a repeat performance of the sleeping trick I was finally Able to read to Isla...and he's awake again. Like right now, literally. Goodbye

340. Sick Sick Sick

1/24/13

Holy cow.  The last three days have been horrendocious.  Every last human being in my house was sick as hell.  It started with Miles running a fever on Monday, then Tegan fell to it, and Isla, and finally me.

Heres the thing though, Tegan has had to work late for the last two days, and when kids are sick, they don't get to go to school and be out of my hair.  When I'm sick, this is necessary. When we're all sick, it's nearly impossible.  I have no idea whatsoever how single parents do it.  None. 

339. Monday games

1/21/13

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, which means Isla didn't have school, and we went to her school's performance in the park.  She decided not to sing, which didn't seem to be pushed very hard by the preschool teachers, so I went with it.  She did tell me on the way there all about MLK, and how he was the "man who wanted everybody to be treated the way they deserve to be treated" and how he "did lots of talks and walks so that the United States would change the laws about treating black people different."  I thought that was a pretty good summation for a four year-old. 

After the park, we had time to chill while Miles napped, so I pulled out the lego starwars set I got for my birthday (yeah, I said it), and we put it together.  It only took a few minutes, so then we decided to make her room into an alien planet so that the star wars characters she has could have somewhere fun to play.  We covered books and boxes with blankets to make mountains, and turned some baskets on their sides to make caves, and we were off.  First Isla decided to bring her Goblin King doll (AKA David Bowie from Labyrinth) into the mix so that she could have somebody other than Darth Vader or the Emperor to Kidnap Princess Leia.  In this parallel Star Wars universe, those guys were good.  He did a pretty good job of devising a plan to use his pet shark on a leash to go bite Princess Leia's gown, and then drag her to the prison he had built out of Miles' walker and a dictionary, but the twin Han Solos quickly came to her rescue.  Then, the stormtrooper, Darth Vader, Obie Wan, and Luke decided to stand guard over Leia's cave, but they didn't realize it had a back entrance, where David Bowie was able to send Greedo to cast a magic spell on Leia and Queen Amidala, who also happened to be visiting at the time.  Then the two of them just walked out of the cave and right back to the jail, where David Bowie was gleefully laughing.  Luckily, young Anakin had witnessed the entire ordeal, and attempted to relay what had happened to the twin Hans, but was almost intercepted by a flying alien creature and a "Star Wars Cow" that were lurking nearby.  He narrowly escaped being trampled and eaten, and came upon the Hans twins enjoying their tea in a nearby cookie shop.  They hustled and made short work of David Bowie, placing him in his own jail so he could never try and make off with their beloved princess again. 


These games are exhausting. 

338. Reading.

1/20/12

I had a rough weekend - 2 late nights in a row, the first being probably the weakest show the Wild Stallions had put on so far.  We hustled hard for a gig in Ventura, and got one for a Thursday throwback set.  That was super exciting, and Jon passed out over 500 flyers in VTA, we took out an ad on facebook, and were expecting a good crowd.  5 people came.  5.  All night.  We made 12 bucks. 

The next night I was super tired and we had a set at the Jester until 2AM - the show was fine, but I was wrecked.  So, when it came to the third night, a poetry/spoken word reading that was set up by my sister and done super underground style (no address, you had to know somebody to get in), I was a little wary of my performance ability.  It has been a couple of years since I have performed a poem live, and I felt really rusty. Luckily, the vibe at the spot was really really nice, it was set up like a speakeasy, with a farm feel, having rosemary pots all over and lots of plants inside. There was a really nice crowd, and I was super nervous when it was finally my turn to go. And, when I started, I forgot most of the first two poems I chose to read, and had to improvise... by the time I had gotten to the last one, I was definitely feeling in the groove.  It was a great time.

337. poop n' coffee

1/16/13

After talking to Isla's teacher, I feel better about the situation at school - although she is still processing it.  For the first time today she said "I don't want to go to school tomorrow - I'm starting to get bored."  I don't really think she's bored, I think she's uncomfortable around other kids for the first time, and that sucks.  We will both learn from this, and become better people I'm sure. 

Today was our coffee shop day, where we all go down to the local spot for bagels and hot chocolate - I really enjoy Wednesday mornings.  As we're leaving, all bundled up against the cold, Miles stopped mid toddle on the sidewalk as if transfixed by his shoes.  He was literally staring down at his shoelaces for a good ten seconds before I started to get concerned and bent down to see what was up.  This is when I recognized the almost inaudible poop-grunt that accompanies a particularly epic bowel movement from my bright eyed little boy.  He basically had stopped himself in his own tracks with a poop, then got physically stuck once he realized the poop was not leaving his diaper on it's own.  He couldn't move his feet, it was as if the poop had medusa-like properties and his legs were stone. 

After I was done laughing like a maniac, I picked Miles up, releasing him from his poopy prison.  Then I realized I didn't have the diaper bag with me.  Then I was rendered statue-like for a quick second myself.  Luckily I carry a spare diaper in my glove box for times like these. 

336. Dad anger

1/14/13

I experienced my first actual seething anger over the treatment of my daughter today.  Isla got into the car after school and then told me how several older boys (kindergarteners) and one of her classmates surrounded her by the swings and accused her of throwing woodchips.  Then, she calmly described how they wouldn't let her leave when she asked, and kept closing the circle in on her, until she cried.  This lasted until a teacher saw her and the kids moved on their way. 

Now, as she told me this, I had to fight with every fiber in my body not to turn around and knock some kindergarten heads together for this.  This is my daughter.  She is an innocent four year old girl.  She will not be subjected to the evils of evil people on my watch.  After calming myself for a minute or two and realizing that these 4-6 year olds are probably not evil, I think I can safely go into school tomorrow and have a measured, meaningful conversation about how little boys learn to treat little girls with the teachers there. 

My brass knuckles will be in my pocket, however.

335. Weekend

1/13/13

I really wanted to get some sleep on Friday night, since I knew I'd be out late at a gig the next day, so I was excited to get to bed by 11 - virtually unheard of in my realm of reality.  I dug into my current post-apocalyptic dystopian novel (not to be confused with any of the most recent 25 or so post-apocalyptic dystopian novels I've been reading), and it did the job a bedside book is supposed to do, which is put me to sleep within half an hour.  I closed my eyes, and had just slipped consciousness when Miles decided it was time to be up.  Now this kid is a sleeper, he usually never wakes me up at all, thanks to Tegan's lightning fast boob reflexes.  This time, he was not looking to eat, he wanted to hang out like it was an episode of Friends.  Since Tegan handles all the night time baby business, I grudgingly agreed to take Miles, who was now flopping all over the bed and calling the cat a "dog" as loud as he could, out to the living room.  My mind was still reeling from being pulled straight out of the tender embrace of sleep, so I'm not sure exactly what we played, I just know that it involved trucks, a book about crabs, a plastic trumpet, and a ball of hardened Play-Doh.  After about two hours, he was ready to sleep again.  I however, was all amped from our game of crabtrumpettruckball that I couldn't sleep for about an hour after that.  Oh well, there went my sleep. 

Our gig the next night ended up being pretty crappy too - the power at the club was all wonky and kept shorting the equipment out, this with a sizeable crowd for the Deer Lodge as well.  We did get paid, and the people had fun once we got started so it was all to the good at the end.  It came nowhere near to the amount of fun I had playing pirate back at home the next day with a dough hook for a hand kidnapping baby Miles while Isla tried to rescue him with a lightsaber and a toothbrush (apparently my oral hygiene skills were significantly hampered due to the hook). 

334. goat

1/10/13

Miles has little to no fear of real animals.  This is surprising, due to his illogical fear of gloves and stuffed squid.  Actually, I have to check myself - he is afraid of dogs' paws.  Just their paws though. Today we visited my sister's goats, the ones that came from a defunct school, and now are simply fabulously calm and well-adjusted critters.  Miles straight off the bat decided he would like to grab handfuls of the goats' fur and be dragged over the grass for awhile, then he settled on slapping the goats on the nose over and over again, to which they either benignly turned their backs on him, or just let him keep at it.  He really does love those animals, and I'm glad I have this great little sunny area to take him.  Plus, it is completely gated, with very few toddler dangers and contains bonus chickens.  It's kind of like a big farmy pack 'n' play I can set him in while I enjoy my coffee or three.

333. scrapes and scooters

1/9/13

Today Isla got her first skateboard injury.  We were having a driveway scooter/tricycle/skateboard party after getting her new helmet shaped like a cat's head.  She saw me skateboarding and wanted to try it, so I put her on one, and rode her around the driveway a couple times.  Then she did what every self-respecting kid would do with a skateboard:  put the helmet on a stuffed dog wearing high heel boots, and skate it around while singing "American Pie."  This went swimmingly until she decided to do what looked a little like Jazzercise on the skateboard.  At one point, her knees tucked under her on the skateboard, doing some kind of Yoga pose, she pushed down too hard on the nose and it drug her fingers on the concrete.  She got a huge scrape down one of her little knuckles and I felt a little bad, but a little proud that she held it together while I did the whole wash, hydrogen peroxide/dry/bandaid thing.  Overall she was a trooper, and had her little cat helmet back on in a couple minutes anyway.

332.

1/8/13

Isla asked me to play guitar today, so she could dance right before bed.  She asked for three specific songs so she could dance to them - Eli the Barrow Boy, by the Decemberists, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, and Purple Rain.  It turns out that in her head, she had choreographed this entire trilogy of songs involving the drowning of a young boy, the resurrection of his lost lover who then turns into a mean robot killing machine in search of the boy, and finally her tragic realization that he is lost forever.  There were lots of flourishes and dramatic pauses in the dance, much rolling about and an entire Karate demonstration rolled into the performance as well.  I lamented not having three hands so I could record as well as play the soundtrack, but believe me, it was awesome.

331. Oh Miles.

1/7/12


My little boy walks now.  All over the place.  He sort of looks like a drunk gorilla, especially when he waves his arms up in the air, or holds his head while he's walking around the living room (he finds this intensely hilarious).  Also, his dramatic flop when something hasn't gone his way is made all that more dramatic when he does it from a standing position, like a fainting spell or something.  Also, he seems to only be happy when walking if he is able to hold two of six squeezy rubber animal toys he got for Christmas this year - a cow, bear, raccoon, penguin, pig, and something else I can't remember - it doesn't matter which two he has in his hands, as long as they are both full.  Most of the time, he looks for my daughters pink shopping cart to place said squeezy animals into, then push them around the yard, because that's what you do, dummy.  This mostly works to his benefit and enjoyment, until he runs into something, wherein having not mastered the art of the pink shopping cart turn, he reverts back to the aforementioned dramatic flop until I have come and rescued his shopping cart.  When he's really frustrated, he will give his little rubber animals a stern look, then throw them one at a time in opposite directions and storm off to read his book about crabs with googly eyes.  We can all relate to that though, can't we.

Year of writing 330. New poem

1/2/13

The neighborhood is quilted in quiet.
Doves and dogs and children,
acorns dropping, the wind.
The sun cuts across the
frosted lawn this morning
in a thin corridor,
warming the denim on my knee.
Coffee sits in a mug at my feet,
like an old dog, tendrils of steam
inching toward the sky.