dad

it is so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk

on some dry scorching day
fry an egg on a sidewalk and remember


                    sitting at the table being fed the daily feast
                    of flared nostrils and obey and
                    that his, his was the way.


                   but later,  listening to his music, his plunging 
                   the rod through the barrel
                   with clean cotton pieces
                   schwut scweescht schwut tk tk tk  pause.  tk


                  remember
                  the cologne of gun oil and crisp
                  fresh cold broken twigs fresh clean ruin
                  clinging to stubble and red wool.  tender skin and

                  (he really did have the softest, silkiest)
 
                  tender skin and stories.  this was
                  the scent this was the sound of him. 


                 his hands scarred and strong.  foreign.
                 they moved in old ways  and the
                 things he knew.       he spoke exotic.
                 forests    blinds   iron sights.   bullets and buckshot 
                 and why. 

                 decoys  and calls and antlers with points 
                 and once.   and once when he was young
                 there was that hole shot through the floor
                 at his feet.  to the dining room table below.  


                 now he wasn't table he.
                 pulling the luster of early morning 
                 to himself    focused on now and then.  
                 this morning he spent in his
                 now and then.
                 
                 a silver afternoon by the fire 
                 breathing crackle and spark and watching him. 
                 expanded   uncompromised    young and   
                 in those moments     the him of him.  seeing
                 the now and then. 


               
on some dry scorching day
fry an egg on a sidewalk and remember


words and meaning are not the same.

nonautobiography (1)

There are things you never tell anyone.  It's not that they are dark wine secret, but that they are central, and difficult to see.  And more difficult to articulate.  Listen:  put your head on the cool side of the pillow and Hear: the stories in the blues, the ache, the boozy smoke--you hear the same themes over and over again, and these are the themes of this story, too.  These are the themes of Bukowski, Nabokov, Kundera, and grit.  This is a story about the dust-to-mud side of the street.  You know of it even if you haven't walked it, because by now you've certainly heard the music--swelling rainstorms of love, scorn, and lonely nights when you feel as significant as a figment of imagination.  This is that. 

This is a story of growing up. 

Some people imagine growing up to be something that occurs between the ages of 0 and 18, say...though we are keeping our kids 'Kids" longer and longer now.  At any rate, growing up is supposed to be a phenomenon that happens to us and ends sometime shortly after puberty, when we stop growing physically.  And that is growing up; true.  But I didn't grow up, then.  I grew up when I realized that I'd literally sold myself into slavery, and at such a low price, for just the promise of white respectability.  Well, even that didn't cause me to grow up--that happened when I realized I had a choice right now:  stay in hell, or start walking.  I chose walking.  I'm still walking.  It's a long, hot, fucking armpit of a miserable walk out of this joint, let me tell you.  My name is Irrelevant.  I am you--the good choice girl, or the bad choice girl.  The one a mama invited to dinner, or snapped at on the telephone. 

Who decides who is good choice and who is bad?  Ah.  Thars the rub, as they say.  "They" are pirates.  An honest lot, pirates.   With a pirate, you know where you stand.