The Girls Upstairs

They lived upstairs,

Liberty, Barbara, and Tara,

in that old house on Kentucky Street.

I’d give them Marlboro Lights

and we’d smoke them

on the roof outside Tara’s window.

We talked about life and dreams

and who’s dating who.

That house is gone now.

We graduated and moved away.

Now I’ve got two girls

living upstairs

that I’m responsible for.

I smoke cigarettes on the deck

after they’ve gone to bed

and worry about life and dreams

and who’s dating who.

A Song Cannot Show You

Drive the R232

and descend into Donegal

as the sun slowly slides down

over the bay

and to your right

even though you’ve heard Van Morrison sing it sweetly a thousand times

you’re ill prepared

for the late afternoon light

dancing on a sea of purple heather.

This wild mountain thyme

you may have never seen

while you huddled in your house,

your apartment for a year or two,

reading the entire Internet, and filling

the recycling bin full of wine bottles.

You ventured out in full gear for the essentials:

Toothpaste, maybe a board game, some yeast for a sourdough starter.

But if you’re reading this,

you made it through. 

You made it out alive. 

Time to go and do,

live as much as you can before you die. 

Some movies come close but cannot capture the nighttime expanse of the Sonoran Desert or the monstrous winter waves crashing in Waimea Bay.

Virtual reality cannot explain how small the Mona Lisa is in person or how much better Manhattan smells after it rains.

And a song cannot show you how she’ll look in a little, black dress,

how to fall in love,

or gather up

the pieces of a broken heart.

So go

and do. 

Live. 

Conspiracy, Faith, and the Middle Seat

    I recently flew from Baltimore to Charlotte and got stuck in the dreaded middle seat. The flight is only about an hour so not as torturous as long domestic or overseas flights. By the time I boarded, my seatmates were already engaged in conversation. They paused while I stowed my carry-ons, exchanged pleasantries, and we figured out whose seat belt belonged to whom. 

    The woman to my left then asked the gentleman to right, “So, what kind of influencer are you?” To which he replied, “I’m part of the Patriot Movement though I’ve been banned from YouTube and Twitter so I’m only on Telegram. Now I’m not sure the words, “Patriot Movement,” should be capitalized, but he said it as if it were an organization and a proper noun. I have serious doubts. 

    Over the next twenty minutes, he hit on just about every conspiracy theory that has emerged over the past few years along with some golden oldies. COVID, masks, National Guard activations, critical race theory, Hollywood/media/government collusion, and one world government totalitarianism all mixed together into a one-step-from-QAnon soup. By this time I had pulled out my book and cursed my kids for stealing my last set of headphones. 

    The woman to my left who seemed well educated and apparently was on her way to give a speech on Ethical Monotheism kept engaging with him in what appeared to be a “save a conspiracy theorist using logic and listening” approach. Though it was a valiant effort, she never really got to the logic portion. Perhaps realizing that her efforts were failing, she tried to bring me into the conversation. I tried my best to turn the discussion into a more normal exchange between strangers on an airplane. “Where are you from, what do you do for a living, etc.

    Unfortunately, Patriot Movement guy kept chiming in with more conspiracy theory nonsense. He mentioned that all the zombie shows on TV are preparing us for the future when we will live in sectors designated by the government. At some previous point I had explained that did cybersecurity work for the government. Maybe she wasn’t as bright as I had guessed because she then asked, “What do you think about all these conspiracy theories, Mr. Cybersecurity?”

    My simple reply was, “I don’t believe in conspiracy theories.” Fortunately, I was saved by the flight attendant who was gathering trash and telling us to prepare for landing. The conversation ended there likely because Patriot Movement guy realized he wasn’t recruiting us and we wouldn’t be following him on Telegram. 

    If I’d had the opportunity to continue, I’d have told them that I don’t believe in conspiracy theories because of my faith in God. God does indeed work in mysterious ways and it’s not always evident to us why the world works the way it does. Humans have a need to make sense of our surroundings. This is biological and driven by our amygdala, the part of the brain that tells us to fight or flee. We need to ingest information quickly and decide what to do with it. Sometimes that information processing produces an incorrect output. In this case, we don’t have control over the situation and therefore some other human must be in control.

    This is in direct conflict with faith in God. God is in control and we are breaking a commandment by ascribing power, a power that only God possesses, to a set of humans, real or imagined. I do concede that groups of humans have conspired and will continue to conspire to exert control over other humans, but those are conspiracies not theories. They create evidence and the truth always comes out. So unless you have proof other than “maybe,” do yourself a favor; Put your faith in God and do some work that benefits our collective time on Earth and your ultimate time in Eternity. 

Raise Your Kids

Get down here and grow up and you can get some too.

Go to work and pay your bills

and do the dishes and clean the cat box.

Dream and sleep and wake up and work out

and make the coffee and fill up the car.

Go to the movies and laugh a little.

Drink too much beer and too much wine.

Get a belly and have the doc scold you once a year.

Have the conversation about dinner every day

and make sure to buy eggs and decide about the paint color.

Get an acre and get a riding mower.

Get a breakfast nook and get some bar stools.

It's all yours.

One Ton Angel

I've got this one ton angel

who says, “It’s up to you.”

And I say, “That’s no help.

What kind of angel are you?”

“The worst,” he says.

“Get out of here angel!”

I bring the match up and light

the whole brown earth of Kentucky

on fire and suck it down and breath it out

and feel like I shouldn’t.

Something Wise

You’re growing up in the future.

A future of

self-truth

and plastic

and maidens

waiting for roses

and others

waiting for justice.

I’m scared

and I’m proud

and I’m sorry

that we left things this way

for you.

Beauty and wit

and stories and

determination,

some from your mother

another bit from me

and you’ll do fine

If I had to say

something wise

it’d be this,

“Apologize only for what you do,

and not for who you are.”

But remember,

we’re the ones

who got you into this mess.

Sea Level Rise

All these poems about tits 

and getting laid while 

Paul Simon sings 

about oppression and justice. 

Outrage 

and your personal crusade 

are going to get us killed. 

Maybe in the next week 

maybe in the next year 

maybe when the next guy takes office. 

So try to spend some time 

between the sheets 

before the sea level rises 

above the duvet 

and the kids’ college fund. 

You can take up arms 

or take up drinking, 

but in the end these rich guys 

will have nicer caskets 

than all of us. 

Jimmy

Paul had a girl named Andrea

and he pitched us a plan.

Jimmy gave me a look

that said, "bad idea."

He was always a cautious cat until he wasn't. 

Paul and I talked him into it. 

We turned on to Andrea Lane and Jimmy backed the truck right up under the street sign. 

Paul tried to pry the sign off

He pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled.

Jimmy and I were good for nothing. 

We couldn't reach it.

We sorta kept a lookout.

Paul finally got it loose

and Jimmy drove like a scalded dog in that little Toyota pickup. 

We got some late night breakfast and laughed and laughed, reveling in our victory. 

Jimmy's gone now. 

A monster got him. 

And who can defeat a monster?

Jimmy tried and then went to be with God. 

I didn't make it to his funeral. 

I think Paul went.

Maybe Danny made it.

I had something but then again we've all got something,

a lost dog, a busted air conditioner, the kid's first Girl Scout meeting, 

an aging Grandmom, a selfish fear of death, or some other dragon

that prevents us from saying goodbye to a friend.

Jimmy was my good friend. 

A Well Written Tribute to Jennifer Frey

I didn't know her.  I do remember the stories of locker room harassment of female reporters.  This piece by Dave McKenna about former Washington Post sports writer, Jennifer Frey, is really poignant.  It forced me to hold back tears as I read it at work.  Linking it here because it deserves to be read and maybe a handful of people will find it who otherwise wouldn't have.


The Writer Who Was Too Strong To Live

Disregarding the Laws of Science

She took her wings and ran
with a diamond in one ear
and another lost in her makeup kit.

I smoked a cigarette
as if I were Joe Friday
and wondered if three weeks
in her life made any difference,
difference being the answer to division,
and indifference, her way of showing it.

She fell in and out of my tumultuous dreams
disregarding the laws of science
and flew out of reach

I discovered the meaning of time,
that time is relative, relatively short,
and wasted time catches up to you.

Enabling

The slit of your skirt
enabling the perfection
of the surface
of your skin

Little water
enabling the
scenario
of my hand
on the perfection
of the surface
of your skin

Loneliness
enabling a little more
and that little more
enabling regret.

The Meaning of It All

There is a glue in my brain
helping me keep my shit together

Sometimes words make love in there
and sentences are formed

Sometimes they collide, explode,
or run away
and her doe eyes
tell me I've injured a beautiful creature

Sometimes words lie in wait
like childhood monsters
so I jump away from the bed
for fear that they will grab hold
of my legs

Brain, glue, words
Grain, whobirds
Wrainbluegourds
Blandwoolgirls

Irises

I played piano on a rainy Sunday night
swimming in a blood red bottle
of $9 Kendall Jackson
as the vase on the coffee table
reminded me
of a night
that will
never happen again.

You had bought flowers,
irises,
and asked what I thought.

Without looking up from
my magazine,
I said,
"They're beautiful."

An argument ensued,
about my not listening,
your past indiscretion,
the nature and composition
of the space-time continuum.

Somehow we ended up
in bed
with apologies,
and clothes,
and sweet nothings,
scattered around the room.

Now I buy fresh
irises
every few days
and they are beautiful
and you aren't here
to see them.

Rising and Falling

There is rising and falling
in a world of meticulous design.

Moonrise, nightfall,
a rise to power,
a fall from grace.

But the world of my design
was the sweat of your skin,
the pleasure of your laugh,
and the rise and fall
of your meticulous body,

rising and falling,
rising and falling.