Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Scenes of My Father's Ghost
I.
My father’s ghost lived behind my eyelids between the hours of eight pm. and eight am. from the time I was nine years old.
Once the sun rose, his ghost preferred to reside in the crawlspace at the corner of my room.
He came about in dreams, relentless in his accusations with unkind words that cut into the dark air of my imaginings.
“Why”, I asked, “did you die?”
A doctor enters, interjects:
“Well you see, he could have lived. We have the technology. But we didn’t know that then. We’ve worked with many cases like your father’s. They’re all fine now. Sorry.”
My father reappears:
“Well, I didn’t die. I faked my death.”
Then I would wake. The sun was up, my father’s ghost would slink to the far end of the room, not to be seen until the following night.
After some time, this all became less frequent. The doctors disappeared and I would not set foot in a hospital for at least seven years.
Once he came to my sister as she slept on a trampoline in my aunt’s backyard, the indian summer warm in her hair.
He extended an apology, told her everything would be fine, then dissipated once again.
II.
My father’s ghost is a blooming wildflower off the crags of a lonely mountain.
My father’s ghost slipped in through the floorboards of a creaking cottage to watch an old man dream on his deathbed.
My father’s ghost is separate from the body. In fact, it has never once been to Virginia, nor is it interested in visiting.
My father’s ghost remembers the fall , sleeps through winter, and often forgets the spring.
My father’s ghost aches in the hot months, recalling its first lonely summer after life.
My father’s ghost never inhabited a cat, but watched with moderate pleasure as my mother and sister once called to a stray where they thought he may reside.
My father’s ghost lived behind my eyelids between the hours of eight pm. and eight am. from the time I was nine years old.
Once the sun rose, his ghost preferred to reside in the crawlspace at the corner of my room.
He came about in dreams, relentless in his accusations with unkind words that cut into the dark air of my imaginings.
“Why”, I asked, “did you die?”
A doctor enters, interjects:
“Well you see, he could have lived. We have the technology. But we didn’t know that then. We’ve worked with many cases like your father’s. They’re all fine now. Sorry.”
My father reappears:
“Well, I didn’t die. I faked my death.”
Then I would wake. The sun was up, my father’s ghost would slink to the far end of the room, not to be seen until the following night.
After some time, this all became less frequent. The doctors disappeared and I would not set foot in a hospital for at least seven years.
Once he came to my sister as she slept on a trampoline in my aunt’s backyard, the indian summer warm in her hair.
He extended an apology, told her everything would be fine, then dissipated once again.
II.
My father’s ghost is a blooming wildflower off the crags of a lonely mountain.
My father’s ghost slipped in through the floorboards of a creaking cottage to watch an old man dream on his deathbed.
My father’s ghost is separate from the body. In fact, it has never once been to Virginia, nor is it interested in visiting.
My father’s ghost remembers the fall , sleeps through winter, and often forgets the spring.
My father’s ghost aches in the hot months, recalling its first lonely summer after life.
My father’s ghost never inhabited a cat, but watched with moderate pleasure as my mother and sister once called to a stray where they thought he may reside.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
seasons
the headlines read today
someone caught a fugitive line
that was something like:
"but the sea is too far to swim"
it crawled out of the slop
in a world war trench
slinked up the ditch
like an amoeba sprouted legs
to up and leave the ocean
through and through
like the development
of skeletal structure
calcification of the first bone
a ring in the marrow
the tone of dispossession
which resides between keys
somewhere before your voice
meets mine
today my tears roll on
like the back hills of pennsylvania
that time we tricked sunday
and our eyes glazed sedate
off the sounds of synthesized
billboard hits and brown gravy
a hole in our brains
bigger than a bread box
torn off the residual effects
of engineered epiphanies
and i asked in twenty questions
if it was magic
we piled stones and whispered
in the waterfall's shadow
someone caught a fugitive line
that was something like:
"but the sea is too far to swim"
it crawled out of the slop
in a world war trench
slinked up the ditch
like an amoeba sprouted legs
to up and leave the ocean
through and through
like the development
of skeletal structure
calcification of the first bone
a ring in the marrow
the tone of dispossession
which resides between keys
somewhere before your voice
meets mine
today my tears roll on
like the back hills of pennsylvania
that time we tricked sunday
and our eyes glazed sedate
off the sounds of synthesized
billboard hits and brown gravy
a hole in our brains
bigger than a bread box
torn off the residual effects
of engineered epiphanies
and i asked in twenty questions
if it was magic
we piled stones and whispered
in the waterfall's shadow
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Dentalium
Clung to a shifting vernacular,
speech unclear, gnawing the soft
inside of the cheek
in nervousness.
I am sure that my inflection
is not quite right.
So it rings like pre-dream
sounds, conversations wove from
ceiling fans and knocking
radiators.
The wisdom teeth
are suspended
evolutionary echoes,
mine puncture the gums
crowd the mouth—
attempt a chance
at gnashing some tough thing,
but these days I hardly
chew meat, and molars
are best fit for sinew.
I thought how romantic
to bury a milk-tooth
under a Banyan tree.
So for some hours
I played witch,
decided fertility would be
the aim, precipitation
the result.
Thus ensued
a continuation of longing,
the rain washed
earth from the spade.
speech unclear, gnawing the soft
inside of the cheek
in nervousness.
I am sure that my inflection
is not quite right.
So it rings like pre-dream
sounds, conversations wove from
ceiling fans and knocking
radiators.
The wisdom teeth
are suspended
evolutionary echoes,
mine puncture the gums
crowd the mouth—
attempt a chance
at gnashing some tough thing,
but these days I hardly
chew meat, and molars
are best fit for sinew.
I thought how romantic
to bury a milk-tooth
under a Banyan tree.
So for some hours
I played witch,
decided fertility would be
the aim, precipitation
the result.
Thus ensued
a continuation of longing,
the rain washed
earth from the spade.
Portraits of My Father at Sea
I.
His memory
drifted--
no, adrift
it went
forth in knots
labyrinthine
longitudes,
tidal shifts
spatial subtleties,
cardinal directions
imperceptible
particular fibers,
particles awash
filtered fast
spineless
shelled
his spirit
transient,
extant, yet
unclassifiable
separation in simple
terms, suggested
categorizations
for the discorporate
we must strictly
stick to stone--
stamp initials
dates, final
remarks
cremation an option
associations strong,
largely undesirable
so, his body was casked--
no, casketed
embalmed, emboxed
interred.
defined as
one:
to place
(a dead body)
in a grave or
tomb; bury
or
two:
Obsolete.
To put
into the earth.
II.
His memory
adrift, went
sank beneath
the turning
surface
swirling pools
oceanic passage
an image,
the vasty deep
perhaps where
horizon
meets
sea
slight curvature,
shape theories concerned with
shifting horizons
astronomical
assertions of
spherical
orientations
his body, stationary then
carried east
on engines, wings
those steely
pallbearers
Smithfield, Virginia
directly
beneath the sun
genealogical proximity,
insights into
relations/personal tragedies,
beliefs.
III.
His memory
drifts,
drifting
the sea at
eighteen
for months
left home,
to breathe salty air
to chew boiled meat, soft vegetables
in the mess
forks and knives
scraping
in time
a bell rings the hours
years later,
a tale about a man with no teeth
but cafeterial
status
navigation principles
charted clusters
deceased, persistent
then rising landmasses off the abyss’
edge
boy of eighteen--
maybe nineteen,
no matter, awash
out about
the mighty ocean
tying knots,
raising sails
hardening skin
on upturned palms.
His memory
drifted--
no, adrift
it went
forth in knots
labyrinthine
longitudes,
tidal shifts
spatial subtleties,
cardinal directions
imperceptible
particular fibers,
particles awash
filtered fast
spineless
shelled
his spirit
transient,
extant, yet
unclassifiable
separation in simple
terms, suggested
categorizations
for the discorporate
we must strictly
stick to stone--
stamp initials
dates, final
remarks
cremation an option
associations strong,
largely undesirable
so, his body was casked--
no, casketed
embalmed, emboxed
interred.
defined as
one:
to place
(a dead body)
in a grave or
tomb; bury
or
two:
Obsolete.
To put
into the earth.
II.
His memory
adrift, went
sank beneath
the turning
surface
swirling pools
oceanic passage
an image,
the vasty deep
perhaps where
horizon
meets
sea
slight curvature,
shape theories concerned with
shifting horizons
astronomical
assertions of
spherical
orientations
his body, stationary then
carried east
on engines, wings
those steely
pallbearers
Smithfield, Virginia
directly
beneath the sun
genealogical proximity,
insights into
relations/personal tragedies,
beliefs.
III.
His memory
drifts,
drifting
the sea at
eighteen
for months
left home,
to breathe salty air
to chew boiled meat, soft vegetables
in the mess
forks and knives
scraping
in time
a bell rings the hours
years later,
a tale about a man with no teeth
but cafeterial
status
navigation principles
charted clusters
deceased, persistent
then rising landmasses off the abyss’
edge
boy of eighteen--
maybe nineteen,
no matter, awash
out about
the mighty ocean
tying knots,
raising sails
hardening skin
on upturned palms.
Friday, October 23, 2009
A Momentous Rediscovery
the summer swept us by
sweat on the brow, sun
on the brim
shine in the eyes, and once
on a vast expanse of field
I looked to you and dared
to seek my own reflection
in your fluctuating pupils
sweat on the brow, sun
on the brim
shine in the eyes, and once
on a vast expanse of field
I looked to you and dared
to seek my own reflection
in your fluctuating pupils
The Slovenian Bell Ringer
We rang the bells near dawn
to cue the sunrise,
and the women wept
wailed, donned black for thinking
someone had died. The sun came, haloed its light
on the sounds, and echoes admired themselves
reflecting off the wet grass and distant
crags. Men kept the children
from the belfries, so they pounded sheet metal,
grenade shrapnel, measured out water in
glass bottles to make
various sounds, beat the earth
with scythes and pickaxes
to keep time. It was then
we knew it would crumble, as the bricks
loosened and bells cracked with the hammers’
relentless strikes. We, embracing, fled to the hills
to watch at a distance. From there we saw it,
like giant shining flower bulbs,
like magnificent beasts shot down:
hundreds of bells wheeled away
to toss in the furnace then
flatten, their melted remains
fashioned to bronze cannons.
and the women wept
wailed, donned black for thinking
someone had died. The sun came, haloed its light
on the sounds, and echoes admired themselves
reflecting off the wet grass and distant
crags. Men kept the children
from the belfries, so they pounded sheet metal,
grenade shrapnel, measured out water in
glass bottles to make
various sounds, beat the earth
with scythes and pickaxes
to keep time. It was then
we knew it would crumble, as the bricks
loosened and bells cracked with the hammers’
relentless strikes. We, embracing, fled to the hills
to watch at a distance. From there we saw it,
like giant shining flower bulbs,
like magnificent beasts shot down:
hundreds of bells wheeled away
to toss in the furnace then
flatten, their melted remains
fashioned to bronze cannons.
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