You have played softball for years
You know the rules
You only get three strikes
4 strikes?
What a generous umpire

Take a seat in the dugout
You've struck out
There is no doubt

Batter up?

There's a tiny park a short walk from here
where no one ever goes.
Though it's always abandoned,
I like to walk there when it snows
               'cuz it seems like
                     a relative.

Don't complain to me, my friend
if your face is feeling raw;
It gets cold here in Montana,
and December nights get long.
               and they have not
                   failed me yet.

So salt your frigid frown
and lay down bets on warmer times
in five more months, the thaw will come
and we just might quit rolling snake eyes.
Icy air is not your enemy
and neither are this small city
                                              or I.

The same park, it has a baseball field,
leaf-covered, looking old
the dugout's still in good repair,
but the basepaths overgrown
               remind me of,
           A New Year's alone

Remember one warm night when we thought
we were in the mood
to walk to the convenience store
for some box wine and some food?
               we played cards,
             locked in my room...

Now we're crying California tears
from laughing all night long.
And you don't really hate Montana,
you're just doing Winter wrong.

So lay your anger down
and hedge your bets 'til nicer days
don't stay inside, 'cuz you don't have to.
Graft my smile over your grimace,
this dull white-out's not the end for us
and neither is the bitter cold
                                                   outside.

Aloft upon some distant shore
The seabird sets her wings to soar
The salt sea tang of crested breeze
Or howling gale of winters freeze,
Through oceans, mountainous or not
Or sea Sargasso flat and hot,
In dancing wavelets sparkling clear
Where hunted mackerel school in fear,
Where natives in their dugout boats
Caste out their nets and balsa floats,

That tiny bird will soar adrift
Negotiating each wind shift.
One wonders how a thing so small
Can fly against the wind at all;
But sweep she does and plunge and veer
In gracious symmetry to steer
Across the oceans vastness too,
To land right there, right next to you.
In squawking lightness, dancing swings
Sea bird alights ….and folds her wings.


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
8th. December 2007

Today, somebody's words awoke the ashes of my long dead heart
I know that was much more than mere fictional ink spilling out of a creative mind
I forgot how that felt, years back, you know, emotions
it reminded me of the excuses I gave to myself
for running away from relationships
for choosing to live alone
for not meeting my friends often
for not talking to my family for over a minute
for deciding I am simply not meant for marriage
and certainly not for ever having kids
their hurt, hurt me
and it felt like more than I could take
so I chose unattachedness over fragility
somehow, that strategy doesn't forge too well here
I am too seized by words to even try to be nonchalant towards my current better half
towards strangers over family
the rust has been removed from over my bemired emotions
pragmatism has been thrown to the dugout
those words have left my haven purged
and I am left befuddled, meditating over a paradox
They aren’t my carks, yet, I can't stop feeling them.

Quiet are the fields
with ghosts
from pennants past
the aces
and cutters
set idly away
from the maple
spread fall
soft sounds
of Sunday
(chilling on the boneyard)
telling tales of
validated stars
and wheel house legends
the rally cap sluggers
with mahogany eyes

Mustard colors
in floating mists
give a bite
to sublime skies
scattered walkers
trip to the hole
their spit buckets
and spigots
pressed into
pure life form
bikers and loners
and curious coffee goers
mill about the horn
whispering numbers
from an old
Keelman heaving

Alley lookers
and Mendoza lines
screachers, bleachers
from years gone by
dancing fingers
and cracks at the bat
moonshots
(from the big time Timmy Jim)
the 9th inning gunner
with sinker
and slider
and imposing
brush back *****
the game day citizen
and dugout warrior
who lit it up
in Rockwell fame

When I was a child,
Watching a wayward world through a lens of wonder and possibility,
Bound to an unusual captor of bats and gloves,
Reaching towards the rest of my life,
Over the head of the life I was already living,
I fell in love.
Not with a person or an object,
Nothing but a symbol of everlasting youth.
A team,
A place,
A game,
It was baseball.
Not just the game but everything that accompanied it,
A family,
Brothers becoming brothers.
A world,
The smells of trees and rain and concession stand hotdogs,
The sounds of a ball thudding into a catcher’s mitt and cheering fans,
The tastes of early morning Starbucks and corn nuts and bubble gum,
All of it stuck between basepaths,
Sitting on a bench in a dugout,
Spilled on the seats of my father’s car.

All of these little things,
All of the memories,
Just moments passed,
Lost in the depths of my mind,
Taunting me as I wish to return to them.
Although not yet old, I am older,
Reminiscing on the good and the bad of my youth.
I can still remember the veil of paralyzing loneliness,
Pierced by the family found in my brother’s team.
I remember the tears shed as I watched my father devoting his life to that team.
Those bad times were outshined by the good,
Team dinners in faraway towns,
Sunsets over outfield scoreboards,
Driving back to hotels in the dark with the windows down and classic rock blaring.
This is the way that I grew up,
Lonely but free,
Unhappy but secure,
In love with a thing that took so much from me,
Lasting Stockholm Syndrome bleeding from my life as it was to the life that I have.
I have lost this love,
No longer experience the ups and downs that can only be described as the reality of life.
I cannot weep over this lost love,
Cannot wallow,
Knowing that this is how it must be.
I must let go,
Grow up,
Get old,
Move on away from the family I found and the world I discovered,
Life doesn’t slow until it stops,
Barreling towards a hollow canyon,
Disappearing over a cliff to be covered by fistfuls of dirt,
Watered by the tears of loved ones left behind.
I must leave my love to rest before I lay in that hollow canyon.

Why must we grow up?
Grow out of our innocence and naivety, careless inexperience?
Why must we take for granted the memories of our youth?
Where do we retrieve them when our age returns to us and we miss the forgotten beauty of the world through a child’s eyes?
I wish the softness of the summer breeze would return to me,
Find me again in my days of regret,
In the sea of sorrow following me from my youth,
Sending waves crashing over my head.
I am not yet old, not yet wise,
But still, I mourn the loss of days past,
Loss of sweet summer softness,
Of the relentless rain ruining the chances I had of forgiving my father.

I have forgiven him since.
I forgave him like I forgave myself,
Regretfully.
I often miss that swirling storm of emotions I felt,
The loneliness, the worthlessness, the heart sickness.
So young and so filled with pain, balanced only by the Children of the Sun radiating from my chest.
Views of the maple-*******, the leather-launcher, the grenade-catcher,
Smells of earth and freedom,
Sounds of gentle violence, drawn-out intellectualism,
Overwhelming my senses and filling my days.
Those memories will follow me into the reaper’s grasp,
Rest with me in my eternal cradle.
Despite the storm, the pain, the sickness,
I dream of that cradle where the memories, the bitter and the sweet, will come together in the storm,
Meet like lightning and thunder,
And follow me into peace.
I am not yet old, but I long to be,
To once again feel my love and its infinite reach.

He'd just served up a dinger, 450 out...upper deck

His third home run that inning, and  he figured "what the heck"

He knew the hook was coming, first they had to make the call

Then the pitching coach would come out, before he had to give the ball

To the manager, all stoic, spouting rhetoric and then

He'd turn over the game ball, a kind of baseball zen

He'd come to learn this process,

He'd seen more and more this year

The time was getting closer

He'd have to hang 'em up this year

For five straight games he'd got the hook

Never getting to the third

And there was that team suspension

For flashing fans the bird

Frustration, more than anger made him vent and flash the sign

It was captured on the jumbotron, his finger.....8 foot 9

It made all of the sports reels, his finger in the air

But at 46, he thought, well....I really do not care

He was signed.. a bonus baby, out of Henderson N . V

He came up  out of high school in summer sixty three

His fastball, just untouchable...ninety miles per at least

And on opposing batters he would surely have a feast

He knew what he was throwing, was the best in many years

But at eighteen he was still surrounded by lots of big league  fears

In high school he set records, went to State, and led the team

He was the best left handed starter, Henderson had ever seen

He won each game he pitched in, hit for numbers, struck out tons

His team outscored opponents by at least three hundred runs

Scouts were out to watch him, every time he took the mound

And he knew this as he walked out, tossed the rosin on the ground

He chose to bypass college, heading to developmental ball

If he did what he was told, he be in Lakewood  by the fall

He got the call in August, saying "son, you're on your way"

"You'll be on the train this morning and tomorrow you might play"

So, he made his calls, told those he knew he was heading to N.J.

He was gonna set Lakewood  on fire, he was gonna have his day

He sat for weeks when he arrived, erratic was his stuff

"You've got to tame that curve ball kid, it's just not good enough"

His first start in September, he was nervous and concerned

What if I blow this chance and back to Texas, I'm returned

HE started off with two walks, hitting one then fanning three

He was feeling better, just what people came to see

After five innings they pulled him, with ten strike outs to his name

His team was up six nothing, he was gonna win this game

And sure enough the bullpen came on in and shut the door

And before the season ended he was winning three games more

That winter he went home again, and worked on his control

He knew what the coach wanted, he understood his role

Next spring down in  Clearwater he showed he had improved

So when the final cuts came down, up to double A he moved

It didn't take them long to find him burning up the mound

In fifteen starts, a hundred K's,  no one better could be found.

From here he went to Allentown, to AAA he'd go

Next move that he would make from here should put him in the show

He only threw 3 games down here, two big league starters down

He was called on up to the big time, and was starting....out of town

He only pitched an inning,  two thirds to be exact

He got lit up for 6 runs that night, hard to keep it all intact

He finshed out watching more games, than he pitched in but he knew

He'd be in the spring rotation wearing number forty two.

He met with mixed success at times never coming up real big

For as each year passed his fastball slowed and harder he would dig

His bonus money squandered, three wives gone, investmestments too

He bounced around the league a bit, hitting eight teams in succession

It was enough to do a weak man in, at least there's a concession

He was still up there, the show, on top, it didn't matter where he pitched

As long as he stayed healthy, he wasn't getting ditched

But one day he, on three days rest felt a twinge in his left arm

He pulled himself, and iced it, not doing any harm

But his pitching got erratic, speed was gone and no control

It was then he got the phone call...he was going to the hole

They moved him down to rehab some in AA across the state

He knew with no improvement that this would be his fate

Two years down here and then again, a new kid came along

Sorry, but you're going down...that was a lonely song

Two years and then he moved on back out West just to see

He knew he still had some heat...throwing nearly ninety three

But control...no way at that speed, slow it down...they'd hit him hard

Once he dropped it under eighty...all the batters...they went yard

But still he kicked around some, working nights, coaching some

Then he got the call from Joplin, got to see if he was done

He showed up fit, and did his best but still just couldn't toss

He'd get the speed but no control, the plate it wouldn't cross

The team was just a throw back, small market and little park

But inside he had desire, this place lit in him a spark

There never were too many fans, eight hundred at the most

But when he took the mound there, he could feel his younger ghost

On nights he wasn't pitching, he played first and coached third base

On other nights, he sat around and sold programs round the place

He knew that soon the time would come, he knew his bubble'd burst

He didn't throw as fast to  home as these kids did to first

But now, with the suspension, and him getting pulled five straight

He knew he'd overstayed his welcome, he'd been here far too late

"The ball...Jim, Jim, the ball....was all he heard coach say

He was already in the dugout and he wasn't gonna stay

He packed up and he left the park, left his rooming house as well

He had nowhere to go to, and maybe just as well

But the next year he was out there slinging just like Jim could do"

He was selling peanuts and some ******* jack at a ball parkin Purdue

The game is in his soul you see, it's part of who he is

Like Gherig, Ruth, Diamaggio, like Peewee and The Dizz

He owes his life to baseball. even though he stayed too late

"If he'd just controlled his curveball"...the kid...coulda been great.

Abandoned baseball fields
and feedlots in my mind'
span the distance between
pastures and filling stations.
Games from childhood,
those small-town diamond-gatherings with pizza-
joint sponsored jerseys
and open outfields where
the ball could roll
                                forever
if you really got a hold of it.

Here, in this other steer-city', once more I play
Though my back is sore, my mind
remembers pushing through an inside-the park
run home.
It rolled and rolled while I tripped on each corner
of those three plastic safe squares.
I saw the tom-boy with short hair behind the dugout
and asked her if she saw--
that night I thought she came to see me--
perhaps she might have known.
I have, not since then.

Shoeless, I meander on this base-path
holding my hands on my sides
to feel the parts my neighbor girl had
told me made the other boys
men; this distinction
what is good and what is not
was presented to me by foolish children, still
trying to become women-- AM I NOT A MAN!

I scream.

Somehow, these parts hang from my body,
supported by my well-toned calves--
My ankles, *****! My ankles are fine with
and without shoes.
Are the friendship bracelets from boys
that you got at camp in Colorado
not tattered by time now?
I have that trim abdomen you asked for
that triangle where my thighs converge with
torso, like you imagined theirs did
in the dark
while they were tasting all the
nothingness
inside you.

I can be like them, in my fantasy
of hitting the ball that rolls out toward yellow, singeing tallgrass
relieved by Summer evening thunderstorms which let me
ride quietly with my parents
in the backseat of our mom's pewter suburban,
with a box of kleenex always part-empty
crumpled beneath the passenger seat I sat behind.
My younger sister looked at the floor
while I saw
through our countryside with clear-gray
thoughtfulness and ease.

Instead of leaving from home, today,
I started on first base, in the park,
where I walked through
the right-field boundary without
consternation.
Look at strangers on the sidewalk,
and call my shot were they to take my things.
I feel my toes dig into dirt where no holes or even
placeholders were left to chance
vandalism or theft, I suppose.
I'm a thief, stealing seconds with my
piroueting-silence--
punctuated by mindless cylinders, pulsating.
Motorcycles are what they have; men.
Now, what she’s looking for, that girl which is
every woman.

(My bike is still there, I notice, taking an imaginary lead.)

A man with work and maybe a sense
of humor
that makes me roll my eyes.
But she thinks he's funny,
because she's simple, and-- after all-- she knows
those knees won't bend that way
                                       forever.
My adult work is walking, haggard, toward third
watching the adolescent couple running scared
from one another, when
minutes before they kissed; I laughed more loudly at them
than the garbage-fed birds who did roughly the same thing.

I walk toward home, where last Fall’s leaves
still loiter on the ground
that’s dug in
the way a timid batter would scrape earth,
cover his feet and wait to walk.
As a catcher, crouching behind a different kind
that afternoon, those older boys, with triangle-
torso-thighs and muscular limbs
came charging through me
and took my place
beside my girlfriend in the stands.

It was his motorbike that got there faster.

This is how home becomes crusted with dirt,
alternating apprehension and collision
must be wiped from the strike zone
Before I can wag fingers between
the legs to show exactly where to put it
in the top half of the ninth.
Those motorcycle-men don't get a whiff
of any pitch
or breezy desert air from down the chalky bluffs. In my hometown,
they may have felt a part in her that I could never be.
Dark drops beneath her sooty tail pipe
shades and forms are all I see.
But when I go inside, I still hear the echo
of car doors from my sister, mom and dad:

--thwack, Thwack. Thwack!

Each strike reverberating in the glove of our garage.
Every flimsy-ankled batter dispersed,
just like the infrequent pinging of our cooling engine
after the key has been removed. Lowering
a barrier, between the boys and men,
I watch wet cement like a warning track
backed by a white,
metal-reinforced plywood fence.
Through plexi-glass, I see that it came down
from the ceiling
the ordering presence of separation
suspended from my father's ceiling beams.
Solitary base-runner, stranded in this
half of the inning;
                            the home team
doesn't need to bat.
Still, she's rolling past me through thick, tall grass,
well-watered by a wetter climate,
in the empty fields at
Elmwood park this Spring.

She is a girl

She has two sisters, a dog
And a pair of worn-out headphones in her pocket

She is fifteen

She plays violin in the school orchestra
And sings duets in the sun

She is left-handed

She’s also pansexual
(Just thought you should know)

<><><>

She is a girl
(A different girl, mind you)

She has bright hair and dark eyes
And a sky of freckles spanning her body

She is a netball player

She listens to everything that’s said
And laughs at everything in response

She is an Aquarius

Her girlfriend is an Virgo
(Is this what they call diversity?)

<><><>

He is a boy

He is on the males’ baseball team
And recites prophetical speeches in the dugout

He is an early riser

He likes old-fashioned comedy movies
And his favourite colour is either orange or black

He is graduating next year

He’ll finally get to ask his school’s star pitcher to prom
(Finally is the right word)

<><><>

‘She’ is a boy
(A different boy, mind you)

‘She’ lives in the countryside
And travels 2 hours to campus each morning

‘She’ is a realist

‘She’ studies human relations
And has wanted to visit Rome since 'she' was eight

‘She’ is a part-time barista

‘She’ prefers the pronoun ‘he’
(No big deal if you forget though)

<><><>

They are people

They have people they love
And people who love them

They are people

They may have changed to you
And yet they haven’t changed to themselves

They are people
They are still people

<><><>

(Just thought you should know)

<><><>

I thought I’d be smited, right then and there

The red gravel spilling into the dugout

Was now plastic aquarium rocks

I was in a bowl, drowning underwater

It felt like drowning a lot of the time I was out there

Mostly because I was easily distracted and couldn’t play softball for ****

When Paige kissed me, I cried

Now, those pieces of red dirt
were a hellfire beneath me.

My religious upbringing was the kind that’s secretly stifling. The kind that permeates so deep that to act against it is to act against yourself.

This generational inherited catholic guilt.

The idea that I should be unimportant and unassuming and sinning was important in a bad way.

I knew I would only get one trip to the bathroom per service, I planned it carefully each week

So that it would take the most time

So I could stand in the great hall and twiddle my thumbs

As we were  forbidden to re-enter the chapel while the father was speaking

I am forbidden from many things as a child.

I’m forbidden from tears as if I’m not important enough to have them.

I am not stone and my tears are not blood. I am not a miracle. I am not a sight to behold. I am not a message from god.

I am not the prophetic ****** Mary in my mother’s dreams the night a relative passes.

I am not allowed to love without meaning.

When Paige kissed me I cried.

I had to tell everyone in t-ball that I was 5 when I was only 4 because my mother wanted me to start a year early.

I hid the sign up forms they gave us at school each year, but my mom would register me in person.

Every year she’d tell me, just one more year, this can be the last one.

This went on for nine years.

After I made my first communion. I asked to quit

I had to study five more years to make my confirmation sacrament, effectively promising I’d stay in the church,
before my mother would let me leave.

The irony was lost on her.

When Paige kissed me I cried.

What a cruel way to hurt someone. This was worse than the tripping, the taunting, the terrorizing.

Her tenderness.

I often wondered why she treated me as she did—I was already an ugly duckling, a left fielder, a loser.

Her mom was the coach, and she was the best on the team. They all listened to her, which meant they all hated me.

She’d call me a **** and pull my hair.

When paige kissed me, I cried

Why couldn’t it have been anyone else, why not natalie johnston

I never told anyone else, I decided it wasn’t my secret to share.

But I am tired of keeping secrets of what people who hate me did to my body.

Retrospectively, it’s easy to try to be flattered. I’m sure it was hard and weird for her to have those feelings.

I’m sure she expressed them as well as she could.

But I didn’t want Paige to kiss me.

I WANTED Paige to stop calling me a ****.

I wanted her get hit in the face with a softball

and I wanted it to shove her nose into her brain.

And I wanted her to die.

And

I prayed for her to die.

You were in the mezzanine
By the dugout of your favorite team
And when you tore your dress
They got it on the mega screen
Well, even the next day
After the attention went away
Your picture found its way
Into a girly magazine

Well, you did your walk of shame
And it became your name
But at least you got your 15 minutes
Of televison fame
On that summer day
Where your crotch was on display
And bad luck for the home team
Cause no one could watch the game

There lies a single dugout hole
In the middle of a vast field
Encompassed by a three-sided rock fence.
The hole is not big by any means,
No more than three feet in diameter.
However, it is notably deep
Deeper than any hole ever dug.

Once a week a strange man would walk
A dirt trail that leads straight to the hole.
He carried nothing but a shovel
And a head on his shoulders.
For as long as I could remember
This man climbed into the hole with his shovel
And the ensuing hours would lull on by
With every ***** full of dirt that turned to dust.

On occasion I would find myself watching.
Just staring out my window on my couch
Excogitating as to why he has been doing this.
Nobody owned the land he excavated
So he was never stopped or questioned.
Sometimes I tried to conjure the courage
To go out and question him
But I’d grown up believing the field was wraithlike.
There are a myriad of stories and myths.
Some said he was searching for something
Some said he was burying corpses
And scattering their limbs as he dug.
Some people even said he isn’t human
And he was just seeking a way home.

Biting my tongue, I couldn’t take it anymore
Without even a first thought
I decided to get up and trot to his hole.
I trotted to his hole and found his soul striking.
His weary appearance sent my eyes
Spinning senselessly like a slot machine.
Any man who spends his life digging
Doesn’t have the most particularly pleasing look,
But this man looked a bit older, lean, and forlorn.
His hands colorlessly cracked like paint on a wood pillar.
Skin so white, it was like he was cloaked in calluses.
Like I could pinch his epidermis
And it would feel like the iron of a furnace.
I took a quick glance at the entirety of his face,
His face looked ridden with defeat.
Then my eyes made way to his
I gazed into them and sensed confusion.
I saw a maze and a meandering man.
Trying not to make my look of shock evident
I finally asked him if he’d come out.
He kindly obliged and climbed on out.

“Just a single, simple question is what I have.”
“Go ahead and ask, I won’t be mad.”
“What are you doing digging this hole?”
“It’s simple, I’m enshrouding my emotions.”

Several weeks pass; I have not seen this man.
I’ve been contorting my brain in knots
Trying to comprehend his answer.
I just wanted to see him again to ask why.
Finally I decided to make one more trip out there
And followed the single dirt path to the hole
Only to find the hole had been filled, and a sign.
It simply read: “Don’t bury your emotions
They’ll eventually cave in on you.”

past tense of dig out
is found in a baseball field
canoe type, dugout

The cold dash in October
could break your ankle,
on some twig strewn iced river,
gusted by this uneasy Bravado.
And through this
we form a common bond
the strewn and promiser will led their merry dance.

It is better to shut your eyes and see again
and undream.
So rollick in the  dew,
the  resplendent  Samphires will regrow.
For were we not pre destined
to edge towards the tidal  marshes
and with dugout boats
voyage through the satisfied.
Tempus fugit awaits
to enrapture  our intricacies.

You know it's funny the things that leave an indelible mark on our lives! 2 times when I was 8 years old, a catastrophe landed square on me that still haunts me... almost 55 years later. Funnier still is how alone I feel in this, as I've never seen, or even heard of it happening to anyone else! Surely it must have, (punched someone in the metaphorical gut - besides me)  as this cannot be the one thing that makes me unique among human beings.  We played real baseball back then, not t-ball and because we ( my family) moved around a bit during those years; that town and field time dates itself as the  2nd or  3rd grade, so I was 8 or just turned 9 when life turned on me...twice!! With the benches filled with the enthusiastic, happy faces of cheering parents and friends, the hot lights in a perpetual battle with the cool night air of early spring, creating a foggy haze that hovered just over our heads like a gray wool blanket and added something to the crackling excitement of this rite of passage. I loved it all!  I loved it for the excitement and I loved it because it was mine ( all mine) not a hand me down shirt or pair of pants! It was the first thing in my life, that was mine!  Because I paid for It by sheer sweat and determination! Paid for with all the effort made that took me from the Siberia of the right field - that 1st year - to pitcher/ first base the next! Yes, I loved it all; and aided by an even swing and a penchant for meeting the pitch with the sweet spot of the bat, giving me status and accolades that I admit was to be loved as well! All that mutual love made the pain of... well you will see!
    I found myself on first base, by walk or a fair hit, where I'm sure I was leading off and taunting the pitcher; as were my teammates on 2nd and 3rd ( a fact guaranteed to promote to a higher level our taunts and threats of stealing a base!) Yes! but what base? What with them all occupied. Bases loaded was almost a no steal zone! So then, with the resounding crack of a good hit filling the crisp cool spring night, we all 3 began to move around the bases, pushed by the 1st base coach and aided by the one at 3rd ,who was like the traffic light in human form as he urged us to make a left turn and head for home, unless the light went to caution or red. That then was the time to obey ( without question ) the traffic laws of the ball field!  Sometimes the signal went to caution, slowing all progress as everyone waited for the ball to return from beyond the wool blanket!  At that age we had no more free will than the merry - go - round did ,or the kids aboard it did ,when suddenly hijacked and assaulted by bigger and stronger kids bent on turning  it into that momentary " hell ride " while they pushed and pulled together, creating enough momentum that you were too  scared to remain and.too scared to jump! As bad as that was back then, I would have taken it 100 times to 1 in avoiding the catastrophe and walk of shame dealt me then. , The runners, all but the one going from 1st to 2nd (me) were running toward a coach. The one at 3rd base, now with the caution light shining ,then flicking to red as he saw the ball appear from the glaring haze of lights to be an easy catch for the outfielder in question! Then, just as sudden , the red went to green and the race was back on, aided by a collision ( usually ) of those not calling out " mine"  or someone else not hearing it. From 1st to 2nd I had not been guided by a  coach, but as I was returning towards 1st. I could see him waving me in, only to start waving me off, yelling at me to go go go!!
Clear in my mind  - even now - is the scene I turned back to as I went towards second! To my left, I could see the kid round 3rd and head for home, with the traffic light behind him bouncing and swinging himself around like a happy 10 lb. dog with a 20 lb. tail! To my right I saw 2 players doing an Abbott and Costello routine as they scrambled around, bouncing off each other while trying to retrieve the ball, and there, straight in front of me I see the returning runner land back on second and stick there like a lawn dart! From the corner of my eye, I see the winner of the scramble fling the ball towards home plate, arriving just in time to not get the runner. And then...  there's me, standing 5 feet from second base; lost, confused, embarrassed, and boy am I *******!   Now ******, it's not fair! I followed the rules and obeyed the signals.
   No walk of shame is nice, no matter how much dignity one might portray, but at that age, under those hateful lights and the faces of those mean people on the bleachers, who keep staring at me... I'm sure I was crying as I walked that long walk back to the dugout!   2 times that happened to me that year. It wasn't fair, was not right, and in point of fact,  it was cruel and heartbreaking! Why else would it still permeate my life 55 years later.? Am I alone in this club and should I let it affect my memory so? IDK, because as far as I know, it's just a one-man club and no others for assimilation.
  No one else has paid the dues to join  - that I know of - but  I truly hope I am not alone here, Okay so It happened and it broke me at the time, yes it did that, but it; also prepared me for life, and armed me with the knowledge that sometimes we must endure the pain from doing " no wrong"!   That's where that dignity comes from, as we take the walk of ( undeserved ) shame, with head held high and caring not if anyone sees the gleam of tears... that may fill our eye!

An hour goes by, and a raindrop falls,
I look up to the sky, while receiving no calls,
No texts from my lover, because she’s sound asleep,
So, what happens to me, I get lost in a dream…

I walk into school ten minutes after seven,
I sit down all alone and then I am beckoned,
Over to a kid who wants me to teach lessons,
Based on Japanese culture in a matter of seconds,
Cause school’s about to start and he didn’t study,
I couldn’t care less, I’m like, “Bro, I’m not your buddy.
Stop bothering me and stop trying to act funny,
Go ask your Asian sister, that *****, Mrs. Chun Lee,
She’s a smart Asian girl, so go ask her for advice,”
He just glares for a second and then he leaves my side,
I see my girl walk in the room and I’m quickly tongue-tied,
No words come out my mouth, but the mouth is open wide,
In-between inconceivable mumbles I kiss her,
But words aren’t enough to express how much I’ve missed her,
I feel so clingy wrapped around her like it’s Twister,
The guy from earlier walks by and has the ***** to diss her,
I slowly get up from my comfortable position,
Right hook to his face to remind him his decision,
Lacked any compassion and my perfect precision,
Broke his glasses in half, now in school that’s called division,
My math teacher walks by and quickly gives me an A,
The bell rings and my girl says, “I don’t wanna be late”,
I say, “But, baby… first period is our date.”
Too my surprise she takes my hand and says, “Okay”,
We walk to the dugout and find a bench to sit,
She sits on my lap and I feel her ****,
Keeps my hands warm, but not as warm as this:
She undoes her buckle and I go towards the ****,
Slipped under jeans and underneath the *******,
Feel her up everywhere, yeah, every nook and cranny,
A little bit of teasing, because that’s what she fancies,
After ******* quick, I ask if she can scan these,
Two big ***** and my six-inch ****,
She buckles her belt, gets up and checks a clock,
We got forty more minutes and now she’s looking shocked,
Cause I whipped it out fast and she eyes it like a hawk,
Cause it’s throbbing and hot and ready to be used,
I’m sitting there wide open, ready to be amused,
Like a magnet she lurches, and she’s quickly fused,
Mouth to ****, I said, “Slow down!”, but then she refused,
This girl has got it down and I’m soon to ***,
It feels so good that my mind goes dumb,
I start thrusting my hips and her eyes spun,
Back in her head and she’s choking on gum,
That’s exactly what it sounded like at least,
Until I convulsed a few times and then I ceased,
Cause I came and that **** had sprayed and then leaked,
Straight down the throat and my girl, she had shrieked,
A gurgle of a shriek, but a shriek nonetheless,
But you could see in her eyes that she had no regret,
As a matter of fact, she looked practically possessed,
Possessed with satisfaction upon my request,
We were both ready for round number two,
I pulled my pants down, she took off her shoes,
To take her pants off so I could abuse,
Her tight twitching **** with five-star reviews,
She hovered a second and slowly lowered down on,
My quickly recovered **** and then went to town on,
The **** like it was the only thing she could count on,
To bring her joy in this world, but then I turned the frown on,
Her face… well it was more of a hungry pout,
I steadied her body and told her all about,
Slow *** and its greatness, but she had doubted,
That it was that great, so she rerouted,
To rocket speed and I grabbed that ***,
I never thought that hips could move this fast,
I’ll tell you one thing though, this ******,
Could never in one thousand years ever surpass,
Any other experience, but I say that every time,
Cause *** with her is sure to be sublime,
Then after we finish, she likes to climb,
All over me while I tell her she’s mine,
Snuggles after *** is the greatest thing,
Cause you’re out of energy and just want to cling,
Closely to your partner and that’s all during,
The cooing and protecting and the safely securing,
Of my baby in my arms, it’s just the greatest,
Right after this happened, school was canceled,
I had to make sure my baby was happily handled,
I took her out to a movie and candlelit dinner,
At the end of the day I felt like a winner,
Her parents invited me over to spend the night,
I happily accepted with surprised delight,
They sent us too her room to get out of their hair,
And at this point, I was finally aware,
I was sadly dreaming, and my baby was still in France,
This figment of my imagination can’t get in my pants,
Sadly, I woke up misconstrued a few minutes later,
And thought to myself, definitely one of the greater,
Dreams I had in the past few nights,
Most of my dreams have been full of frights,
Nightmares come more often than not,
Now I had dreamt of my baby, I had got,
A taste of whatever was soon to come,
I laid back down, this time feeling numb,
Missing my baby with all of my heart,
Felt like I was being pulled apart,
Piece by piece with a small pair of plyers,
Fell asleep again and had a dream of a fire,
The fire burned everything including my baby,
This was a normal dream, the dreams that I hated,
I woke up quickly in an irritated sweat,
Got out of my bed which was soaking wet,
With sweat and *** and tears and drool,
I was unmotivated and out of fuel,
I walked to the closest road I could find,
Sadly, my mental health rapidly declined,
A car came at me and I thought it would stop,
But I was hit and dead without a second thought,
After this happened, I woke up again,
I was twenty-three years old. I swiftly sprung out of my sheets and studied my surroundings. I was in quite the stunning house and in the bed I had leapt out of, lay my silent sleeping sunshine, the love of my life, Mia. Now I had to ask the significant questions… am I still in a dream? In this specific reality, is Mia my girlfriend, wife, or perhaps a close friend that happened to stop by and passed out in my bed? And the most important question of them all… where did the poetry format go?

Countless poppies now grow
Where men had once stood,
Or had peered from a dugout,
Or had hidden in a wood,
Where bullets had hailed and
Young lives were squandered,
As poisoned gas smothered
And big guns thundered,
Those in charge must have surely
Questioned and pondered.

Poppies grow in peace now,
Gunfire no longer heard,
Let this be the case forever
For PEACE - is the golden word.

during my fifteen-minute break at work,
I saw a sleeping bag in the dugout of a baseball field.
it’s almost autumn now.
too cold for whomever this belongs to.

I leave a post-it note
asking what his name is.
my break is over so I go back to work.

the next day, I check for a response
and it’s in the garbage.
I take it out and put it back with the sleeping bag
I can wait.

the day after that I check,
it says “Doug”.
I grab a notebook and introduce myself,
“hi Doug, I’m Tanner. can I get you anything?”

the next day, “anything would help.”
“I’ll bring some back warmers you can use at night
in your sleeping bag.  they’re like regular hand warmers but bigger.”
later that night, after my shift,
i do

this goes on for a while.
I’ll ask him if he needs food,
I’ll bring granola bars.
I’ll ask if he needs light,
I’ll bring a battery-powered lantern.

I ask him what he’ll do when the snow comes
I get a simple response, “I have somwhere to go.”
his spelling isn’t that great.
I ask, “where?”
no response the next day.

I think about him now.
figured I’d ask him how he got to be homeless.
he said he came to town when his father got sick,
said he lost his job for leaving.
eventually, he ran out of money.

I leave a twenty in the notebook.
the next day it reads, “thank you.”
a little bit into winter I still saw his bag
and we still exchanged notes, never once seeing each other.

one day in the middle of winter, I notice his bag is gone.
the notebook isn’t so I hide it under the dugout bench.
winter passes, I still haven’t seen him.

it’s finally spring, still no sign of him.
summer comes along, nothing
little league baseball is starting
the kids found the notebook
and ripped out every single page we ever shared,
shredding each one into tiny illegible pieces
thrown away in the trash can.

I’ll never see Doug again.

Sweet wind that brings me desert dust and ashes
Or salty mist as blood on burning lips
Sweet wind that carries smells of roads and mountains
And rocks, and sands, and rusty wires, and tires,
And bullet-pierced sandbags, mines, and empty tins
And holy thorns that grow through them
And hot, bleak sky high over them
And dry, cracked clay embracing them
Sweet wind that brings me memories of war
Wind softly stroking dusty oleanders
And rushing all along the endless road
Wind –
Now tell me, when the land so lolls in sleepy peace –
Kids playing, women chatting, lovers dreaming,
Men building houses, furnishing, arranging –
All more fragile than cobweb lace
That busy housewives sweep away on sleepless daybreak
Sweet wind, tell me why I
I try to fill my mind with buzz and humdrum
Of knowledge – words, and thoughts, and numbers,
-- to stifle the voice, the shadow haunting me –
The voice that whispers softly, sweetly killing
To wake me up – to find myself again –
To send me far away where is my home:
To prison, madhouse, hospital, dodjo,
Wet dugout, earthquake rubble, secret lab
Where I belong, where all like me are going –
But still in vain,
For happiness, my prison guard and mate
Me torturing,
And happiness, the evil sheikh of nightmares,
His long, thin legs me strangling, hanging down
My shoulders,
His mud-brown hands me stopping ears, and eyes, and mouth –
And me
Who wanders through my days as empty rooms  
And endless corridors of giant fallout shelters
Where lonely steps reverberate in hollow hallways
And ruthless light
In which the shadow of my shadow
Me follows – counselor, and silent friend,
Unhurt by splinters of that broken magic mirror
That **** in air; may some benumb my heart
And let me play the game of words and numbers
That spells ETERNITY;
And let the sweet hashish of words and numbers
Make me forget;
Make me forgive, and live, and lie
That I believe the world of war will never come.

We sat in deck chairs, our feet entrenched in the sand,
as the water crept up the shore
and splashed gently on our toy sailboats.
The fire pit roared and rose with flames
under the moonlight. Our friendship was anchored
in the beach for years, since second grade.
I kept watch on your sailboat,
knowing it would soon cast out into the sea of adulthood.
We spent hours talking about our dreams,
as though the sandman truly existed
apart from
our imagination.

Remember when we dropped our textbooks in the trash compactor?
Because we believed in the Lost Generation and The Beats, and not some phonies from academia.  
We even sprinted away from the security guards after we used our slingshots and shot rocks at the The Verizon Center's Marquee.

Smoke and drink.
Smoke and drink.
Smoke and drink.

We lounged in the dugout while the sky poured buckets of rain on the baseball diamond, as our lighters ran out of fluid.

*

By accident, you shot me in the mouth with an air-soft gun. The beady plastic pellet zinged through the air, and sawed off half of my front tooth. Frantically, you sprinted inside and came back out with a glass of whole milk. You snagged the chipped up tooth from the lush lawn, and dropped it into glass. The tooth got swallowed up by the milk, leaving a trace of ripples.

But you had pure intentions, only lukewarm aim. On a porch chair, I sat bent over with my upper lip bundled with wet paper towels. There was no blood, no flesh wound; just a clean shot. I dabbed my tender gum gently with the damp towel.

You walked up to me and slapped me on the back. I shook my head, rolled the towel into a paper *** and chucked it at your nose.

You caught the projectile in mid-air and threw the afternoon’s remnants over the pointy picket fence. You turned around and saw my back, as I walked on the neighborhood sidewalk away from your house.

Ten years later, in the summer of 2007, we stretched out our limbs on Rehoboth beach and smoked headies out of a papier-mâché-looking piece; we called her Old Glory. As we toked and held in the gray coughs, we took in the view. Small waves barreled over and flattened out onto the fine sand shore. Our toes were tangled in the snare of the ivy green seaweed.

We didn’t want to let go of this.

This picture frame memory, the wooden frame lacquered with fresh pine comb.

A peace pipe shared between each other to rekindle their friendship. I stared at the bright fire of the lighter, watching as red sparks turn into violent black. Light gray debris collected on my swim trunks. We both looked up at the starless sky, as if we were searching for twilight. The moon glow shrunk the longer an eyeball looks, you said.

I nodded, got up, and walked right into a tall wave. I took the full force of the water, standing my ground with a bird’s nest chest. You laughed and lolled your head back off; you were exhausted.
I walked back up the hilly shore, and treaded my finger along the ridges of my ceramic tooth. A replica embedded in my mouth. I felt the jagged edges, the flaws, and grinned a little.

Just enough, to feel like I was on the verge of epiphany, on the beginning of seeking out the correct approach of life.

We hit the piece again. And the sun began to rise.
Our eyes closed, breaths quiet, and our memories entwined
for days to come.

silly fellow
with no fears
as he wallows
in his tears
with his head
in his hands
he thinks the dead
go to promised lands
he wishes for a brand new light
in the darkness of the night
he acts like he's fine...
when he's ugly inside
and he's drowning and he's burning
in an eternal flame
with no one else to place the blame
who does he sit with
besides his partner of understanding
who beats inside his heart
he will miss those
who he'll leave behind
who never knew what was going through his mind
they never knew how blind they really were
until now...
until the hidden feelings burst
and let out a scream for help
so silent to the emergence of the situation
what was wrong within his destiny
was it something he deserved
had he made a mistake
maybe
his doubt rages
an exclamating promise
an escalating bliss
...he ages...
and takes
and takes
and takes
until now...
until he can take no more
and his emotions explode through his skin
which has never been sincerely touched
or nurtured by a heart
he's collapsing from within
and no one's there to help him
he wants someone to talk to
just one simple ear to listen to his mind
which is so wide open
...he thinks...
the suicidal traffic trapped in his overloaded heart
is breaking him to pieces...part, by ever sweet part
his laughter is so credible
but nothing seems to work
someone knows his secret
sitting beneath the murk
he screams
(isn't anybody listening?)
and he thinks that maybe one person cares
but is this meticulous support
infinite within a power
do they know exactly
do they understand
yes
until now...
until he thought of a single reaction
to a significant amount
and started to take action
is he grown or changed or emerging from life
or dying, suffering from confusion and strife
...he dreams...
and tears run down his cheeks
so smooth with emotion
so corroded with fear
everyone seems to be after him
he thinks so differently
a mutated thought he has caught
they never imagined he would do the unthinkable
until now...
he has no privacy
not even in his own world
his own world is shutting down
he's running...and running
and running out of places to run
and hide
he's screaming to no oblivion
it shot up his spine
and he never thought the courage would build
but it has and it has
until now...
now it's crumbling
and so is he
down down down
into the ground
melting
his life is melting
they didn't see it
they'll die not knowing why
they will die
and so will this world
and it's wonderful creations
and its pointless means of happiness
which effects affect none but the love blind
and naive
his universe has crunched and shrunk
and shriveled into the earth
and dissolving is the soliloquy of his life
he changes his mind...
far too late
he looks ahead paralyzed
and falls into his dugout
and lays forever
with never the fear of a second life
again drowning in tears
and fears
...of others...
he dies.
but not just for himself
or not
he would think...
and think...
but now he can't
his mind and heart are functions of the past
his cords of thought flew through
the highest of towers
his life sunk the deepest of waters
he realizes the forever love of these powers
the powers he could have let become
the talents and beauty he could have let create
but now his creation says no
and so does his fate
and so do their screams
but now it is silent
and everyone hears the echo of the scream
they wish they had heard.

Earth's satellite-- bloated and hung.
                  And there you were out of sight.
                  An accidental prize tucked in the crevice of tomorrow.
                  A lethal burrow abundant with barbed avowals.
In a sick dugout flourishing with axiom; an infestation.
You were;
                 The space tucked in a dream.
                 The conductor.
                 The lout existing in the basement.
                 The brute in love with disdain.
Plucking circumflex arteries- clumsy, unskilled.
Your mouth is a watering can.
Vena cava, then the right atrium.
Body parts for guitar strings.
I unravel and you're amused.
The exercise of reason, the functioning of the intellect.
Silence always stings.
                                     It feasts on the bone marrow.
                                     In the cracks of the asphalt,
                                     There you are again.
                                     Like a thief.
The Viper.
The hurricane smile I believed in.
Use me up and hang me out to dry with all the other bankrupt *****.
I'll still be dormant in the eye of your assault.

Why do we need to redeem ourselves?
To know one and to cherish one
To live thy life that we solely covet
No turning back, only now

Moles are blind and see no light
But they find their way
Carving mud and dust to get
To one’s itinerary

Paving their ways through filth
But they find their way
With warrens, dug in and dugout
And trusting their grit and snout

Working their way through lands
But they find their way
Through hard work with their two bare hands
Burrowing and Burrowing

Heroes and heroine
Harrowing and harrowing, but not like blind moles
Worry, why? Aren’t you much precious than them, darling?
With gift of sight, to see one’s light

on the day my sister was born,
my dad took me to a minor league baseball game.

i watched the pitcher as he chewed the
pitcher’s mound to shreds with the teeth
of his stride. the ball combed the air, taking with it debris from the kind of sad people
who show up to watch short-a ball
while somewhere, a little girl is
dragging out her claws and staking her
claim on the operating table.

my older brother littered the yard with
bottle caps. this stadium was his dream.
he would have slept in the unheated walls
for a chance to touch all 216 stitches
with two perfect hands.

the batters today are fooled by
a series of nasty changeups that
cough their hearts up. peanut
butter and jelly awaits them in the
dugout. a couple of halfhearted
diehards keep score on the back
of their wrists, the pen tying up
their veins. the pitcher authors
the whole game like that, a painful
rush.

i want to leave. the kind of
faultless art makes me sick. he
was born in uniform, certainly,
and glowing, his arm whipping
around from the womb and tossing
out any notion of normalcy his parents
may have held. nobody can touch him.
he never cut his feet on old
beer caps in a quest to touch
a patchwork god.

the next hitter becomes a runner
when his hands take his heart
around the block and come back
with a ball cutting the air, colliding
with a meteor that surely would have
destroyed the world. someday on a
faraway planet they will see that ball
bouncing through the stars, restless as
the man who drove it. that spot on the
atmosphere may never recover from its
brush with non-destiny.

nobody dreams in the minor leagues, not even
the batter-runner whose arms have just
propelled his team to a spot above
heaven. god will surely collapse them soon.

there is a girl somewhere, being bathed
by a stranger. she has ceased to be dead.
a miracle for certain.

there was once a brick hearth
and my skinned kneed,
wild flaxen haired,
innocent self would sit there
to feel the fire’s warmth radiating through the stones.

there were ghost stories told
on picnic tables at state parks where
the calloused barefeet of my childhood
struck the dusty ground as i ran towards
not away
when i followed vitreous streams
with frigid soaked clothes clinging to my skin
all the way to the  river who now holds these memories
for me.

there was a sprawling old mimosa tree
whose diaphanous flowers would float
feathery petals
to decay on the ground.
How that tree must be a part of me somehow
from the scrapes my soft infantile skin
endured while trying to clamber up its branches
not for a moment tainting my insatiable appetite to explore.

there were steaming hot afternoon thunderstorms
a quotidian race home from the bowels
of the verdant green forest
dodging heavy raindrops
pregnant with the weight of coming years.

those years were the smell of fresh lighter wood
the acrid feel of smoke in the back of my throat
popsicles in the pool
and warm sun-kissed skin.

those times were blanket forts at sleep overs
the salt on sunflower seed shells
cracked in the dugout at softball games
they were the lilted drawl that curled comfortably
around eternal southern colloquialisms.
bike rides to get skittles and coke
at the gas station at the end of the street.
the wind in my hair as I careened down
what will always be known as
Thrill Hill

at some point my bike rusted
when was that?
the pool sat alone and unused
and evergreen forests became a passing image
in a dream
scraped knees turned to razor slices.
but my body will always carry the recollection.

(all titles available on Lulu)


~



from The Blood You Don’t See Is Fake - Sept 2013, 211 pages, 10.00


the recidivist

I can overhear myself relating to an older brother the eerie feeling I had when jogging past an abandoned shoe factory.  I am more nervous than I think I am and can sense brother’s multilayered disappointment in all things prime.  it’s my stutter surprises me the most.  as if it knows, beforehand, things will never be the same.  once a coward, once is enough.  born in a place that feared me.        


within hail

     the flashlight works if you shake it.  this tree is the tree you should use.  every other home is broken.  every other window has in it my house arrested father.  the dog run off, the dog come back.  back with a beauty I will bed to babysit my brother.  the crow is empty.  a plaything, a part of the show.  crow can be blindfold, camera.  can censor among other things an exposed breast.  the fence wasn’t here when we got here so it’s not here now.  an uncle says there is a dog only he can hear.  will say anything to get laid.  in all fairness I’ve failed more than once to insert myself into the loneliness of my person.


a country

i.

I approach the dream as if I'm asleep
the answers written on my hand

ii.

I stick out my tongue
at the mid
born

baby

iii.

I raise awareness by praying
you go through
my exact
hell

iv.

I see myself as my son
writing to his father
about deformities

v.

in a crowd of soldiers
my daughter's head
bobs up and down

as if passed around
on a stick

vi.

it takes an army to imagine
only one thing


assistance

from the boy

(on the soon to be
exact
date
our poverty
matures)

this ballpark
statement:

I did not ask to be born.

     he wants the names
of those
I’ve told.

~

from father, footrace, fistfight - June 2014, 177 pages, 10.00


the gentle detail

in the time it took
his daughter
to soap
her brother’s
cradle cap

the man
was able
to lose
an entire hand.

every now
and now
he corrects me
with a puppet.

there is no place
where nothing should be.


lift

my mother steps on a wooden block
with both feet.

stepping off,
she announces
she is going
on a diet.

my father covers his ears
and gets shaving cream
on them.

he turns me in his hands
like a dish towel
then drops me
at the base of the tree.

I transport
god’s blood
on three
disposable
razors

to my neighbor
who

on a high shelf
has a microscope.


deep still

ghost of snake.  

an adoration
of atypical
young mother
fear.  

mouse needs a toothache.

footwork
heads north.


1998-2014

ideas
are the sickness
health
provides.

thoughts
are two sons
for a jesus
whose fathers

one heavenly, one earthly

never had
to touch
a woman.

the pain is not tremendous.

lo it has kept me
from hurting
my kids.

~

from The Women You Take From Your Brother - Aug 2014, 351 pages, 18.00


joy and joy alone

I broke the boy on my knee because I needed a switch. we ran around an empty crib. I let him catch a breath and he let me kneel. we tiptoed in a manner of mocking past private make-up to which his mother had been softly applied. he drank tea from an eggshell and I declined. I swatted him to let him know I was dying. his bent sister fell asleep and the boy was kind enough to believe her hair was a nightgown. I swatted him again to let him know I would live. the tea was gone. the rest is sadness.


being

a man my mother knows
only in passing
is reading a library book
in the dugout
of his dead
child’s
home
field
while his wife
rounds the bases
pushing
a stray dog
in a grocery cart.

at the dinner table
father says
we’re fasting
in a world
of spirits.

~

from Misreckon - Dec 2014, 115 pages, 9.00


clear heads

while smoking a cigar in the shadow of a nervous minotaur, my father wrote the book on moral isolation. in it, he predicted there would be a television show about hoarders and that it would turn god into a sign from god. my mother read the book cover to cover during her fourth and fastest delivery. if there were edits, she kept them to herself and put his name beside hers on seasonally produced slim volumes of absolute shyness.


untitled (ii)

afraid of my sons, I was born scared.  to my friend of few words I say

a few
words

on how a newborn looks like an undiscovered

fish
fresh
from ghosting
the underfunded
aquariums
of rapes

that occur.  at some point
I’ll tell my daughter

we’ve met.  my father

when he comes
comes

from another
dimension
to bear hug
our dinner guest
who’s arrived
in a mirror.  

mother puts a gun to her foot.


end psalm

god had an earache and I heard thunder. I learned to shrink into the smallness of my brain. I associated money with my father’s funny bone. my mother with the dual church of hide and seek. I went on to have a son with special needs. he cried once. cried milk.

~

from Eating the Animal Back to Life - July 2015, 316 pages, 10.00


off night

when what we thought
had entered
our father
left

we used him
as an alarm

god is coming
and mom
is vacuuming
stones


neglect

it didn’t take long for the frog to become real to those around me. some would bring it back and pat me on the head and some would laugh when I told them it’d never tried to hop away before. some would say it was the frog that was depressed and some would pray for the frog I was lucky to have. when it began to speak, I told myself that’s just how frogs talk. god came to me sooner than most. mom joked that he must’ve known I had a frog to get back to. my sister maintains to this day she had no intention of eating the frog as she was only trying to impress the snake her eyes were made for. by the time I woke her up, her hunger had ballooned and she leapt at me the odd leap of grief.


contact high

it gets so you can’t throw a rock without having a baby. not all of us talk this way but you have to hand something to the ones that do. I’ve seen voodoo dolls with more personality. had my mother’s god been my father’s, I would’ve gone blind from staring at my birth.


themes for country

I am at the truck
getting ice cream
for the overly
nostalgic
girl
who refused
to cut through
the cemetery

~

from Drone & Chickenhouse - Oct 2015, 84 pages, 6.00


chaos

brother drinks water enough to shock the devil. on the inside, he’s all doll. I shake him for show might our sisters travel in pairs. I used to talk but had to close my mouth when the soft spot on his head kept my mother from her toes. it’s the second stone that really lands.


deep scene

speech itself is a failed translation

dreaming is a farm

a mother
makes it as far
as mailbox

bear
to fish
there’s water
in the water

is, today’s mousetrap
tomorrow’s

shoe


language

word gets around
the schoolyard
pretty quick
that my father
drove his body
off a cliff
so god
would have a nail
hot enough
to touch.

I have a tooth
can make it
snow.

Some people are born on third
and think they scored a triple

others are just happy to be single

I was born at home
and couldn't get on-base

I was caught looking
so I decided to take a walk
stealing to make it a double

but then I was forced out at third
because someone already lived there.

During this shutout
I look up at the scoreboard
which makes me want to score more

but the pitchers are warming up
and my destination is the dugout

praying for competent teammates
or extra innings
to carry me to another at-bat.

Do you still think about me
when your car hums
past the baseball field
and beats toward the twilight?

Can you hear my smile
when the sun is melting into your favorite
flavor of summertime sorbet?

-

I remember when
we used to summit the dugout
and watch the sky slow dance,

we held hands like our fingers
were sewn together,

and kissed in celebration
like we had reached
the peak of the world.

You taught me how to
write poems about love,
and my open chest cavity.

Since you left, I’ve been writing
about everything all at once.

About how the smoothness of your skin
brushes me awake in a bed in which I am alone,
how love tastes like jazz music
and fireball whiskey,
and about how pain leaves you gasping for air and
draws canyons under your eyes.

-

I don’t know how to forget
the palms of your hands
in my mom’s basement at 2 a.m.
or the sound of my heart as
I hung up the phone.

I don’t know how to forget
everything all at once.

It was 3:00 a.m. in Bowie Maryland in the year of our Lord, 1861.

A drum roll passed by in the night not more than a mile away, and Billy couldn’t tell whether it was coming from the Yanks or the Rebs. Both of Billy’s brothers had left home in the past two months.  His oldest brother Jeb having joined the Army of Northern Virginia, while his next oldest brother Seth was now fighting for the Union with Major General George G. Meade in the Army of the Potomac. Billy’s family was like a lot of other families in Maryland, and the Western Shore of Virginia, with some men choosing to fight for the North while many chose the South.

Billy was just about to turn sixteen and still had not chosen his side.  He had friends and family fighting for both and knew that the time was getting short for him to choose.  He couldn’t imagine fighting against either of his older brothers, but once he decided the possibility would definitely be there.  Billy pulled the bed covers over his head and thought back to a more pleasant time — a day when his two older brothers had taken him fishing in Mayo along the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay.

His brothers couldn’t have been more different.  Jeb was large and domineering with a personality that fit the profile of the typical soldier or warrior.  Seth was more studious and would rather have his nose stuck in a book than behind the sights of a Springfield Rifle Model 1861.  The 1861 was the most widely used rifle on both sides. The south called their version the Fayetteville Rifle, and Billy’s Dad had given his to Jeb just before he died last year.  Billy had never fired the big gun and had only carried it for his father and brother when they went on their weekly hunts for deer and small game.

Billy Finally Drifted Off To Sleep …

The next morning, his mother told him that Union soldiers had passed by in the night under the command of Colonel Elmer E. Ellsworth.  They were on their way to Alexandria Virginia to join with Colonel Orlando B. Wilcox in an attempt to retake Alexandria and drive the confederates out.  It was just too close to Washington D.C. and had to be secured. For several months confederate troops had been infiltrating Maryland and sightings had been reported from Hagerstown to Anne Arundel County. Billy wondered about the fighting that would take place later that week and hoped that wherever his brothers were engaged they were safe and out of harms way.

After breakfast, Billy decided to spend the day fishing along the Patuxent River just southeast of his home.  He rode their old Tennessee Walker George as his blue tick hound Alfie ran along side. It took Billy an hour to get to the river and he used the time to once again try and decide what the right thing was for him to do.  He had sympathies for both sides, and the decision in his mind was neither black nor white.  He wished that it was because then he could get this all over with and leave today. Billy was famous in his area for being able to get across the water. Whether it was a makeshift raft, dugout canoe, or just some drift lumber available, Billy had made it across long open stretches of the Chesapeake Bay — never once having been deterred.

He Was An Early Day Chesapeake Waterman

Billy returned home from fishing that day and found his house burned to the ground.  His mother was standing out front still in tears with her arms wrapped around Billy’s little sister Meg.  A rear-guard unit from Ellsworth’s column had gotten word that Billy’s brother Jeb was fighting for the South and just assumed that the entire family were southern sympathizers. Billy’s mother tried to tell the soldiers that her middle son was fighting with the Army of The Potomac.  No matter how hard she pleaded with the sergeant in charge, he evacuated all in the house (Billy’s Mother, Sister and Aunt Bess) and then covered the front porch in coal oil, lit it with a torch, and then just rode away. He never even turned around to watch it burn.

That Union Sergeant had now made Billy’s decision crystal clear, at least for the moment.  Once he got his mother, sister, and aunt resettled, he would make his way to Virginia and join with his older brother in the confederate cause. He remembered his brother Jeb telling him that the Confederate Soldiers had more respect, and he couldn’t imagine them doing to his family what the Union Army had just done.

It took Billy two weeks to get his Mother resettled with family up in Annapolis.  He then packed the little that remained of his belongings, loaded up old George, and said goodbye to the life he knew.  It would be a week’s ride to get past the Union Camps in Southern Maryland and Northern Virginia, and he knew he would have to stay in the tree line and travel at night.  If caught by the Yanks, his only chance of survival would be to join up with them, and he couldn’t imagine fighting for those who had just destroyed his home. His conviction to get past Fredericksburg was now determined and strong.

All Billy had to arm himself with was an 1860 percussion squirrel rifle that his brothers had bought him before going off to war.  It was only.36 caliber, but still gave Billy some feeling of security as he slowly passed through the trees in the dark. His plan was to hug the western shore of the bay, as far as Charlotte Hall, and then take two short ferry rides. His first would be across the Patuxent River and then one across the Potomac on his way to Fredericksburg.  He prayed and he hoped that the ferry’s he found were not under Union control.

Billy spent his first night in Churchton along the western shore. It was quiet and uneventful, and he was actually able to get a good night’s sleep.  He had run out of oats for George though, and in the morning needed to find an understanding farmer to help fortify his mount.  As he approached the town of Sunderland, he saw a farmer off to his right (West) tending to his fields.  Billy approached the farmer cautiously making sure he rode around in front of the farmer and not approaching from the rear.

The farmer said his name was Hawkins, and he told Billy there were oats over in the barn and two water troughs in front of the house.  He also said that if he was hungry there was a woman inside who would fix him something to eat.  He then told him that he could spend the night in his barn but since it was still early in the day, he said he was sure that Billy wanted to move on.

Billy thought it was strange that the man asked no other questions of him.  He seemed to accept Billy for all that he was at the moment — a young man riddled with uncertainty and doubt and on his way to a place he still wasn’t sure was right for him.  The look in the man’s eyes pointed Billy in the direction he now needed to go, and as he turned to thank him for his hospitality the man had already turned back to his plow.

In the barn were three large barrels of oats and five empty stalls. Two of the stalls looked like they had recently been slept in because there were two empty plates and one pair of socks still lying in the stall furthest to the left.  Billy fed George the oats and then walked outside.  Everything looked quiet in the house as he approached the front door.  He knocked twice, and a handsome looking woman about his mother’s age answered before he could knock a third time.  The woman’s name was Martha and as she invited Billy inside, she asked him when was the last time he had eaten?
Yesterday morning Ma’m, Billy said, as Martha prepared him some cold pork and cooked beans.  Billy was so hungry that he thought it was the best thing that he had ever tasted. Martha then told Billy to be careful in the woods because both union and rebel forces had been seen recently and there were stories of atrocities from both sides as they passed on their way.  Martha also said she had heard that Union forces had burned a farm up in Bowie a few weeks ago.  Billy stayed quiet and didn’t utter a word.

Billy Remained Quiet

After he finished his meal, Billy thanked Martha who had packed salt pork for him to take on his way.  Billy walked George to the water trough and waited as George drank.  He looked across the fields and he could sense what was coming.  This tranquil and pastoral scene was soon to be transformed into blood and gore as the epic struggle between North and South finished its first year. It was late fall in 1861 and Billy’s birthday was in two more weeks.  This was never the way he envisioned turning sixteen to be.

Billy thanked Martha, put the salted pork in his pouch, and remounted George. Martha said:  Whichever side you are riding to, may God be with you, young man.  Billy thought it was strange that she knew where he was heading without him telling.  He then also thought that he was probably not the first young traveler to stop at this farm for some kind words and sustenance. He rode back out in the field to thank the farmer, but when he got to the spot where he had met him before, the farmer was not there.  Billy wondered where he could have gone.  As he rode back down the cobbled dirt road, he noticed a sign at the end where it reconnected with the main road — Billett’s Farm. That wasn’t the name the farmer had told him when they were first introduced before.

Hawkins He Had Said

Billy worked his way towards Charlotte Hall.  From there he would head East to Pope’s Creek and try to get on the short ferry that would take him across the Potomac River and over to Virginia. Then Billy was sure he would finally be safe.  Tonight though, he only made it as far as Benedict Maryland, and he again needed to find secluded shelter for the night. Benedict was right along the banks of the Patuxent River where the farming was good, and the fishing was even better.

It was getting dark when Billy spotted what he was looking for.  There was a large farm up ahead with two large barns and three out buildings.  Billy sat inside the trees and waited for dark.  It was inside the outbuilding furthest to the east that he intended to stay the night.  As darkness covered the fields, Billy walked slowly towards the large shack.  He led George behind him by his lead and hoped that he would remain quiet.  George was an older horse, now fifteen, and seemed to always know what was required of him without asking.  Not that you can really ask a horse to do anything, but George did just seem to know.

Billy got to the outbuilding and put his ear to the back wall to see if he could hear anything from inside.  When he was sure it was safe, he walked around front to the door, opened it, and he and George quickly walked inside.  In the very dim moonlight, Billy could see that it was about 20’ X 20’ and had chopped wood stored against the back wall.  There were also two empty stalls and a loft up above about 10’ X 20.’  Billy decided to sleep downstairs in case he had to get away fast, and after tying George to the furthest back stall, he laid down in the stall to its right and fell fast asleep.
Billy doesn’t know how long he had been asleep, but all at once he heard the sound of clicking and could feel the cold hard press of steel against his left temple.  He woke up in a start and could see five men with lanterns standing over him in the stall.  As his eyes started to adjust, he noticed something strange.  Three of these five men were black.

Whatcha doin here boy, and where you headed, the biggest of the three black men asked him?  Billy knew that how he was to answer that question would probably determine whether he lived through the night. I’m headed to Virginia to try and find my older brother. Our farm was burned a few weeks ago and my mother and baby sister are now living with relatives.  I need to let my brother know, so he will know where to find us when the war is over.
I think this here boy’s fixin to join up with the Rebs, another of the black men shouted out.  Tell the truth boy, you’re headed to Richmond to sign up with old Jeff Davis ain’t you?  Billy lied and said he wasn’t sure of which side to fight for and that he had a brother fighting for each.  With that, the biggest of the three sat him on a barrel in the corner and began to talk again …
What you done tonight boy is decide to camp in a rural spot of the Underground Railroad.  You know what that is boy?  We have a real problem now because you knows where it’s at.  We can’t trust that you won’t tell nobody else and ruin other’s chances to get North and be free.  Billy just stared into the man’s face.  He had a strength mixed with kindness behind his eyes and for a reason Billy couldn’t understand, he felt safe in this man’s presence.

Son, we is makin our way over to Preston on the western shore where we catches a train to the North.  We have one more stop before there and that’s at the Hawkins place just thirty miles up the road.  Billy then knew why the stalls back at Martha’s barn had looked slept in.  He still wondered why the sign at the farm entrance had said Billett instead of Hawkins.  The black man then said: My names Lester, and those two men over there are brothers named Rayford and Link.  By now, the two white men were gone and only the four of them were left in the stall.

Since you say you haven’t made your mind up yet about which side to join, let me help you a little with your choosin.  Lester then went on to tell Billy that Rayford and Link had five other brothers and two sisters that were all killed while trying to escape to the North.  Not only were they killed, but they were tortured before being hanged just outside of Columbia South Carolina.  Lester then asked Rayford and Link to remove their shirts.  As they did, Lester took his lantern and shined it over both of their backs.  Both were totally covered with scars from the several lashings they had received on the plantation where they had worked back in South Carolina.  Lester said this was not unusual, and no man should be treated that way.  This was worse treatment than the slave owner would ever do to any of his animals.

Lester then said again: It’ll be a shame to have to **** you boy, but for the better good of all involved, I’ll do what I gots to do. With that, the three men walked outside, and Billy could hear them talking in hushed tones for what seemed like an hour.  Lester walked back inside alone and said: What’s your name son?  We’ve decided we're taking you with us up the road a piece.  You might come in handy if we need a hostage or someone with local knowledge of the area as we make our way t’wards Preston. Go back to sleep and we’ll wake you in an hour when it’s time to go.

Billy couldn’t sleep. It had been a long day of interrogation and darkness was again approaching.  He heard the men talking outside and from what they were saying, he realized they did all of their traveling at night hiding out in small barns and shacks like this during the light of day. He wondered now if he’d ever see home again.  He wondered even more about his previous decision to fight for the South.

In an hour, Lester came in and asked Billy if that was his horse in the stall next to him.  Billy said it was and Lester said: Get him outside, we’re going to load him with the chillens and then be on our way.  When Billy walked outside he saw eight other black people in addition to the three he had previously met.  It was a mother and father and five children all aged between three and eleven.  Lester hoisted the three smallest children up on George’s back, as the other two lined up to walk alongside.  They would make sure that none of the younger ones fell off as they maneuvered their way North through the trees at night.  The mother and father walked quietly behind, as the three large black men led the way with Link scouting up ahead for anything unforeseen.

Just before dawn, Billy recognized where they were.  They were at the end of that farm road he had just come down the day before, but the sign now read in faded letters Hawkins.  Billy looked back at the sign and he could see something written on the back.  As he squinted into the approaching sun, he could see the letters B-I-L-L-E-T-T written of the back of the board.  Billy was now more confused than ever.  Lester told them all to wait in the trees to the left of the farm road, as he took out three small rocks from his pants pocket. The sun was almost up and this was the most dangerous part of their day.

He approached the house slowly and threw the first stone onto the front porch roof — then followed by the second and then the third.  Without any lights being lit, the front door opened and Lester walked inside.  In less than a minute, he was back in the trees and said:  It now OK fo us to makes our way to the barn, where we’s gonna hide for the day.

After they were settled in the five empty stalls, Lester decided who would then take the first watch.  He needed to have two people on watch, one looking outside for approaching strangers and one watching Billy so he wouldn’t try to escape.  What Lester didn’t know was that Billy wasn’t sure he wanted to go anywhere right now and was starting to feel like he was more part of what was going on than any hostage or prisoner.

In another hour, Martha came in with two big baskets of food: Oh I see you have found my young friend Billy, I didn’t know that he worked for the road.  Lester told Martha that he didn’t, and he was still not sure of what to do with him.  Martha just looked down at Billy and smiled. I’m sure you’ll know the right thing to do Lester, and then she walked back outside toward the house. Lester told Billy that Martha was a staple on the Road to Preston and that without her, hundreds, maybe thousands of black slaves would now be dead between Virginia and Delaware.  He then told Billy that Martha was a widow, and both her husband and two sons had been killed recently at the Battle of Bull Run.  They had fought on the Confederate side, but Martha still had never agreed with slavery.  Her husband and sons hadn’t either, but they sympathized with everything else that the South was trying to do.

Billy’s head felt like it wanted to explode.  Here was a woman who had lost everything at the hands of Yankee soldiers and yet was still trying to help runaway slaves achieve freedom as they worked their way through Maryland.  Billy wanted to talk to Martha.  He also wondered who that man was in the field the previous morning when he had stopped to introduce himself.  He was sure at the time it had been Martha’s husband, but now Lester had just said that she was a widow. More than anything though, Billy wanted to talk to Martha!

Billy asked Lester when he returned from his watch if he could go see Martha inside the house.  Lester said: What fer boy, you’s be better off jus sittin quietly in this here barn. Billy told Lester that if he mentioned to Martha that he wanted to see her, he was sure she would know why and then agree to talk with him.  Lester said: I’ll think on it boy, now go get ya some sleep.  Oh by the way, did you get somethin to eat?  Matha’s biscuits are the best you’ll ever taste.  Billy said, Yes, and then tried to lie down and go to sleep.  His mind stayed restless though and he knew deep in his heart, and in a way he couldn’t explain, that Martha held the answer he was desperately in need of.

In about two more hours Martha returned with more food.  She wanted to dispense it among the children first, but three were still sleeping so she wrapped theirs and put it beside them where they lay.  After feeding the adults, she walked over to Billy and said: Would you help me carry the baskets back up to the house? Billy looked at Lester and he just nodded his head.  On the way back to the house Martha said: I understand you want to talk to me. I knew I should have talked with you before, but you were in such a hurry we never got the chance.  Let’s go inside and sit down while I prepare the final meal.

Martha then explained to Billy that she had been raised in Philadelphia.  She had met her husband while on a trip to Baltimore one summer to visit relatives.  Her husband had been working on a fishing boat docked in Londontown just south of Baltimore.  It was love at first sight, and they were married within three weeks.  Martha had only been back to Philadelphia twice since then to attend the funerals of both of her parents.  She then told Billy what a tragedy this new war was on the face of America … with brother fighting brother, and in some cases, fathers fighting their own sons. It not only divides us as a nation, but divides thousands of families, especially those along the Mason-Dixon line where our farm is located now.

She also told Billy her name was Billett, but they used Hawkins at night as the name of her Railway Stop along the Road. Hawkins was Martha’s maiden name and to her knowledge was not well known in these parts. Hawkins was also the name distributed throughout the South to runaway slaves who were trying to make their way North. Martha felt that if they were looking for someone in her area named Hawkins, they would have a hard time tracing it back to her.  The Courthouse that she and her husband had been married in burned down over fifteen years ago and all records of births, deaths, and marriages, had been consumed by that fire.

By reversing the sign at night to Hawkins, it allowed the runaway slaves to find her in the darkness while protecting her identity in the event that they were caught.  Under questioning, they might give up the name Hawkins while having no knowledge of the name Billett which in these parts was well known. Martha also told Billy that she had nothing left to lose now except her dignity and pride.  Her two sons and husband had been taken at Bull Run and now all she wanted was for the war to end and for those living imprisoned in slavery to be set free and released. Her dignity and pride forced her to try and do everything she could to help.

When Billy asked Martha … How did you know the right thing to do? she said: The right thing is already planted there deep inside you.  All that’s required is for you to be totally honest with yourself to know the answer.  Martha then turned back to her cooking.

Lester then walked into the kitchen and said: Martha Ma’m, what’s we gonna do wit dis boy?  Martha only looked at Billy and smiled as she said, Lester, this boy’s gonna do just fine.  Lester then looked at Billy and said: Somethin you wanta say to me son? Billy asked if he could go feed his horse and then come back in a few minutes.  Lester said that he could but not to take too long.

When Billy walked back into the barn, George was tied to a wall cleat in the far left corner.  He walked him out to the water trough in the dark and then back inside where he gave him another half- bucket of oats.  He looked in George’s eyes for that surety that George always had about him.  Just as he started to look away, George ****** up his head and looked to his left.  The youngest of the black children was walking toward George with something in her hand.  She was with her older sister, and she was carrying an apple — an apple for George. George took the apple from her hand as he nudged the side of her face with his nose.  Billy looked at the scene, and, in the moment’s revelation, knew instantly the right thing for him to do.

Billy went back inside where Lester and Martha were drinking coffee by the fire.  Billy told Lester that NOBODY knew these backwaters like he and his brothers. He also told Lester that by joining his cause he would never be faced with the possibility of meeting either of his brothers on the field of battle.  This seemed to strike a nerve with Lester who had a brother of his own fighting for the south somewhere in Louisiana.  In Louisiana, many of the black’s were free men and fought under General Nathan Bedford Forrest where they would comport themselves with honor and bravery throughout the entire war.

Billy then told Lester he had never agreed with slavery, and his father had always refused to own them.  This made the work harder on he and his brothers, and some of their neighbors ostracized them for their choice.  Billy said his father didn’t care and told him many times that … No man should ever own another or Lord over him and be able to tell him what he can or cannot do.

Lester then asked Billy what he knew about these backwaters.  Billy said he knew every creek and tributary along the Patuxent River and all the easiest places to get across and get across safely where no one could see.  Lester said they had a friendly ferry across the bay to Taylors Island, but many times the hardest part was getting across the Patuxent to where they were now.  From here, they would then decide whether to go across the bay to Preston or head further North to other friendly stops along the Road to Delaware. Billy said he would be most helpful along those stops further North and on this Western side of the bay as he knew the terrain so well.

For four more years Billy worked out of Martha’s farm hiding and transporting runaway slaves on their way North.  He would make occasional trips back to Bowie to fortify the barn that the Union soldiers had not burned when they torched his house that day.  His family’s barn would become the main Railroad Stop before taking those last steps to freedom that lay just 100 miles beyond in the free state of Delaware.

After reconstruction, Billy went on to become a lawyer and then a judge in Calvert County Maryland.  Martha had left Billy the farm in her will, and he now used it as a haven for black people who were freely emigrating from the south and needed a place to stay and rest before continuing on to the Industrial cities of the northeast.

When Martha was dying, Billy asked her who that mysterious farmer was that was out tending her field that morning when he first stopped by so many years ago? Martha said:Why don’t you know; that was my father, Ethan Hawkins. He worked that field every day since my husband and two boys were killed.  I’m surprised he let you see him.  I thought I was the only one who ever knew he was there.  But, but, but, your father died many years ago I thought.  Martha looked at Billy with those beautiful and gentle eyes and just smiled …

Seeing him that day had changed Billy and the direction
of his life forever, making what seemed like King
Solomon’s choice — the right and only one for him.


Kurt Philip Behm