A Kid in Odessa, 1986

Wide roads were laid with tar and asphalt, flat and level like the land.
The sun bore down on it and I could pop the bubbles boiling up on the road.
WIth my bike I'd ride across town on them and then through the alleys-
Every block had alleys which were caliche and every two houses had their own dumpsters,
Taller than me, steel and boxy with heavy metal lids.
I'd speed up most in the alleys, while horny-toads fled from my sudden passing,
And end up on the East side, too far from home.
But I wanted to go to Taco Villa.  My favorite burritos, and I had enough to get one and maybe a Coke.
A couple of times I'd come too close to cars and they would honk.
I'd ride all the way back to the West side to town to William's house and politely ring the door bell.
He and I had the same names so we thought we were clever telling other people we were brothers
Because we had the same names.
They would always go along with our story.
William and I would bring home our own collection of horny toads
And we would let them go in his yard- from the coffee cans we carried on our handlebars.
His dad would show me how to throw a frisbee so it would fly straight.
I'd then hop back on my bike and set out for home, twisting the gearshift
To the fastest gear and pedaling hard.
And flying to my house in the back alley I'd grab my brakes hard and turn-
Sliding in the caliche in a long cloud of dust,
While in one fluid motion stepping off
And carefully leaning it on the kickstand at the end of my skid.

Husten Gray (Roustabout,1979)

A bolt larger than a half dollar severed his middle finger.
It fell from far above, the top of the derrick.
All while he spoke to a friend, leaning with hand on a rail.
He had nine fingers after that.
His hand was so peculiar, yet strong- as he was.

He was an honorable member of the Turtle Club;
Membership bestowed by cheating death in the oil fields of West Texas,
When an entire oil rig fell on the car he was in and he was wearing his helmet,
In the car.

He'd grab me with palm outstretched and all his remaining fingers curled oddly
Around the space where his middle finger was, and he'd hold me.
His arms were like iron and his belly was a tank.

He loved me so.

A Full Moon Tonight

I saw the moon tonight.

It surprised me with it's size. 

Low hanging, wide,

On the first of March, and full.

Where since the last time I saw one,

So much has passed:

A new year, a broken arm, a death, the Super Bowl,

the Olympics, a new job, and my birthday.

It struck me that as I gazed up I saw a warm smile. 

The kind where in the moment I simply took in the sight and only later realized;

Where sand may shift and doors may close,

Under it all a heavenly current still flows.

To carry us through the fires and contests,

Heal us up, train our minds, God knows.

Despite all peril my body's still here, and so is my mind.

And there is the moon smiling down on me.

Please, how many moons can I see?

Dogwoods (for Olena)

A line of trees outside the door who'd been there, there for years.

It's late in Winter and they have been impatient…

A freeze would steal the blooms they'd made.

Made, as if it were simply decided and permission wasn't granted.

Made, despite the deep of Winter, where time and cold had taken all life,

all that had grown before.

And, with graceful and stoic refusal,

Or outstretched loving embrace,

White blossoms grace the day.

Water (version 2)

Water calls a man.
There's always water.
With the unknown underneath
and conquest, risk, waves, joy.

Ways to see or catch the wild,
And a river or lake.
And..inevitably all of the ways a man could die.
Carries me on, on wave and current,
Where I'd hoped to be.

Perhaps as a means to check,
Just to check and see if it were time to die.
I drive out hard through storms and waves
And deeps and shallows, afloat I'd still be….

"Is that all you got!!?"

Yelling as cold rain and crests of waves strike hard.
I'm relieved, no, excited that my fear was just fear.
A catharsis of sorts, if only a release.
Realizing my mortal fear was just like the wind,
And whenever my time is finally declared over……

I'm sure I won't be yelling.

Compulsion (Why I write)

I don’t think I’ve ever considered myself to be a storyteller.  Dad is pretty good at it, and I have heard from many people that Papaw Bill was a master.  I’m not good at it at all with most face to face, in fact I feel pretty awkward- I’m always remembering the advice given to me by Harry Schneeman: “Son, nobody gives a shit about what you have to say.  They only want to you to hear what they have to say.”  Such sage wisdom, given to me at 18 years old- he said that because he probably knew I needed to hear it.  Since then I measured my words, and that’s helped me a lot in my life, but I think Harry killed storytelling for me.  He did me a favor.  Mainly because I didn’t understand what people wanted to hear- at the time, nor was my teenage mind grizzled enough for emotional intelligence, perception, or more plainly I wasn’t capable of knowing when people would wish I’d shut the hell up.  I learned a lot more from Harry, like how to paint a house properly and so forth.  Practical things, practical logic…. Look in a man’s eye and get shit done things.  I can’t help but think that storytelling is frivolous now- thanks Harry. 

So what has happened to me as I’ve grown older…?  I’ve realized that there’s something that people ARE interested in, and that’s connecting, relating, reliving, self expression, beauty, and wonder- not necessarily just a story.  It’s what I’m interested in, more plainly- and done in many different forms in today’s multitude of media.  My time, like Harry’s, is opportunity for me- what’s the best thing to do with the next hour…type of thinking.   I know some people who may like to compulsively read books just to get lost in a good story and they tear through paperbacks, or whatever as if it’s so easy to do.  They seem to be just reading stories and wasting time.  Me, I have a hard time completing a book-particularly fiction.  This is simply because I’m literally envisioning every damn detail in the paragraph and comprehending the meaning of each turn in dialogue….tedious.   I simply can’t read a book- fiction, like it’s a story. I have to invest in it and I’m going to take a bite from each page, chew slowly, and swirl it around in my mouth a couple of times.  I can’t help it.  I AM the knight on the horse. I AM the scared kid.  I AM the monster with a good conscience.  If a good writer has to be a fast reader then I’m screwed.  I want to live the story, not just read through it.  

So where would I belong in the overall worldly status of writers?  Well, most people, I have learned, have compulsions.  In fact, I’d argue we all have compulsions of some sort.  Those things, ticks, which we have or do which are ingrained somehow.  I have, somehow, figured out that I’m compulsively inclined to write down things- in some sort of stream of consciousness that I don’t fully understand but I know exists.  It began with poems in high school, when I had to write a few poems in 11^th grade in English class.  I started out impatient with the whole exercise (as is usual in having to get through high school) so I plagiarized some song lyrics from one of my metal band cassette tape sleeves- assuming that since the lines rhymed that it was close to poetry and that’s where I began.  Then compulsion took over and as I wrote down the song lyrics by hand (the song was called “Dirty Weapons”) I could not help but rewrite the lines with different verbs, adjectives here and there to mean something totally different.  What started with words from a cheap metal band song riff turned into a powerful summary of divorce and children and a catharsis for the pain in my life at the time.  The poem got the highest grade in the class and my teacher raved.  She connected- it was real, not a story but something else.  What happened in the whole exercise was a learning experience for me.  I haven’t really forgotten that experience- and I didn’t start out with a plan for such success- as could probably be figured out, I didn’t really know what I was doing.  It just happened, and compulsively. 

I still have that compulsion today.  It simmers quietly underneath my thoughts as I go through each day at work.  I have a constant, quiet need to express myself- and experience the joy of the work of expression- a release of sorts.  Through writing I have done this best, often revealing things as I crash through that surprise even me.  It has become a calling or yearning of sorts.  I need to do it.  It’s been a privilege to have the people in my life who’ve shaped my thinking, like Harry, like Dad, like others too.  I’ve been taught that people want to hear what you have to say when they gain from it- thank you Harry.  Life is an exercise of give and take.  I like to write because I think my expressions written out help people in some form or another, and for free they can take what they want. It’s compulsive for me to do it anyway (I’m gonna do it anyway).  But, if no one finds joy in it other than me, then I can hear Harry talking at me and telling me to fix that shit.  

Tribute for William Polk

We look up to them, 

Those silent and magnificent persons 

Who filled in the holes we’d had.

Who would already have tamed the world as they knew. 

Who, somehow within our subconscious thoughts took root and grew as a majestic oak, Who held us up.  

And then in the daily hum realize that the talk of all that’s somehow important would fall silent with his steadfast glint, a reminder of his experience.  And all I thought about was, what he thought.  

So on I’d wonder about how he’d have made  so much out of so little, for so long. How could I ever be like that?  How could I ever be so strong? 

He’s shown me that I can damn sure try.