August nights in the canyon sizzled
with crickets and weed. Bare-naked men
and chicks danced like mad, one crazy old
night when the Eagles, Neil, and Joni
played the roadhouse. Four bucks and a joint
and you rocked into California
cowboy angst. It was the kind of night
a kid could sneak into, score a high
just breathing. Still, to make sure, you swigged
a whole Coors. And recall a Fernwood
morning, a breakfast of cottage cheese,
Doritos, and wine with your mother
at Connie's. How you and Tui stood
in front of his house and wished he’d kiss
you like he did when you were seven,
chatting with Neil and Joni about flea bites
and the loudness of metal trash cans
being pulled to the side of the road
and their next albums in the flatness
of a clear summer day that brightens
the truth and longing of their lyrics.
Published: Tidal Echoes, UAS Literary & Arts Journal 2008
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The day Gary Hinman died
I cross the dwindling creek, walk the hush
and peace and arid swerves to Gary’s for piano.
His faded Volkswagon ovens in the sun.
Ground squirrels chatter and stop.
I knock, and wait on his gray stairs. Listen.
To the small, peccant voices behind his front door.
Passing cars drown the drying sound of oak leaves
curling in the shade. Gary plays piano and bag pipes.
Teaches—taught—Shawn and Holly brass and flute.
Gary would have taught me to play, too, except
Charlie hacked Gary’s left ear, slashed his face
while something small as a front door stood
between my lesson and the two stab wounds
that stopped Gary’s heart, left the tinge
of feeble blood browning on living room walls.
and peace and arid swerves to Gary’s for piano.
His faded Volkswagon ovens in the sun.
Ground squirrels chatter and stop.
I knock, and wait on his gray stairs. Listen.
To the small, peccant voices behind his front door.
Passing cars drown the drying sound of oak leaves
curling in the shade. Gary plays piano and bag pipes.
Teaches—taught—Shawn and Holly brass and flute.
Gary would have taught me to play, too, except
Charlie hacked Gary’s left ear, slashed his face
while something small as a front door stood
between my lesson and the two stab wounds
that stopped Gary’s heart, left the tinge
of feeble blood browning on living room walls.
Fiji kind of love
Brown and skinny. Stringy hair. Tui built fluttered rooms
in faded white. Sheets hinged to fences, posts in the front yard.
A castle billowing with crickets and June bugs. Just for us.
We could have been anywhere.
He kissed my palms. My neck. My cheek. My lashes.
I kissed his mouth, his Fiji & L.A. face. Under closed eyes
we swam the Pacific. 2 mermaids in search of an oasis.
in faded white. Sheets hinged to fences, posts in the front yard.
A castle billowing with crickets and June bugs. Just for us.
We could have been anywhere.
He kissed my palms. My neck. My cheek. My lashes.
I kissed his mouth, his Fiji & L.A. face. Under closed eyes
we swam the Pacific. 2 mermaids in search of an oasis.
Old Canyon Studio
My mother's studio sits in an old niche
by the side of the road. The slow smell of oils
infuse the oaks and sage brush. Engrossed
in another cross, she paints. Oblivious.
I love her studio. It looks like pieces
of strange dreams, scattered hallucinations nailed
to the barn’s silver walls: the frog our dog barfed
up; old Mexican papier-mâché dragons
dangling by their broken tails; a Balinese
lion mask; a hundred Christs on a hundred
crosses; portraits of her children; pallets, thick
with sienna, cerulean, ochre, green,
bright colors that tumbled into her blackness;
antique Chinese embroideries; dead flowers,
starfish, sand dollars, her lucky cormorant;
a milk pink potato bug in the small space
between Adam’s fingertip and life; charcoal
hands tacked everywhere; small pieces of faces:
eye:nose:brow, mouth:jaw. Paintings lining the walls.
She scrubs the 4 x 5 foot homemade canvas
with a new sable brush, a camel hair clenched
between her teeth, her face and hands a Pollock,
adds an empty wine bottle to the old trunk.
by the side of the road. The slow smell of oils
infuse the oaks and sage brush. Engrossed
in another cross, she paints. Oblivious.
I love her studio. It looks like pieces
of strange dreams, scattered hallucinations nailed
to the barn’s silver walls: the frog our dog barfed
up; old Mexican papier-mâché dragons
dangling by their broken tails; a Balinese
lion mask; a hundred Christs on a hundred
crosses; portraits of her children; pallets, thick
with sienna, cerulean, ochre, green,
bright colors that tumbled into her blackness;
antique Chinese embroideries; dead flowers,
starfish, sand dollars, her lucky cormorant;
a milk pink potato bug in the small space
between Adam’s fingertip and life; charcoal
hands tacked everywhere; small pieces of faces:
eye:nose:brow, mouth:jaw. Paintings lining the walls.
She scrubs the 4 x 5 foot homemade canvas
with a new sable brush, a camel hair clenched
between her teeth, her face and hands a Pollock,
adds an empty wine bottle to the old trunk.
Dad at 27
Exhilaration. And speed. And curves. Gray
asphalt roads, older than any Sunday.
And dad’s dirt bike that came with its own scream
rising and falling with every gear change.
My brothers and I fought for the season's
first ride on that worn seat. In one quick move
dad kicked back, thrust the accelerator.
We hit the road, my arms slung around him
like no thing existed that could split us,
like there would never be a time when
saying I love you could feel awkward.
Love rises in me like a scream when I
think about the first ride on any warm
weekend, time disappearing with the heaves
in the road, the edgy years just ahead.
80 degrees and 80 miles per hour,
no helmet, no leather, sometimes no shoes,
the sky poured over us like a clear blue
waterfall. We, rushing wind on that old
road, the dirt bike shrieking between our knees.
asphalt roads, older than any Sunday.
And dad’s dirt bike that came with its own scream
rising and falling with every gear change.
My brothers and I fought for the season's
first ride on that worn seat. In one quick move
dad kicked back, thrust the accelerator.
We hit the road, my arms slung around him
like no thing existed that could split us,
like there would never be a time when
saying I love you could feel awkward.
Love rises in me like a scream when I
think about the first ride on any warm
weekend, time disappearing with the heaves
in the road, the edgy years just ahead.
80 degrees and 80 miles per hour,
no helmet, no leather, sometimes no shoes,
the sky poured over us like a clear blue
waterfall. We, rushing wind on that old
road, the dirt bike shrieking between our knees.
Published: Tidal Echoes, UAS Literary & Arts Journal 2008
Mylar love
Topanga. Summer. Night. Flat
rooftop above the coyotes and rattlesnakes,
Scott’s garage our perfect canyon campsite.
Night flickered like the inside of a mylar balloon,
smelled like oak, muérdago, and other dry green things.
We. On our backs. Arms wide open. Electric fingertips
Michaelangelo close on unzipped sleeping bags. Two
Christs laid out by the galaxy, raised up in want
of verging lips, raw skin, tentative hips.
(This poem actually won the Juneau Empire love poem contest in 2002)
rooftop above the coyotes and rattlesnakes,
Scott’s garage our perfect canyon campsite.
Night flickered like the inside of a mylar balloon,
smelled like oak, muérdago, and other dry green things.
We. On our backs. Arms wide open. Electric fingertips
Michaelangelo close on unzipped sleeping bags. Two
Christs laid out by the galaxy, raised up in want
of verging lips, raw skin, tentative hips.
(This poem actually won the Juneau Empire love poem contest in 2002)
Love-in, Easter Day, 1968
We were not about to get naked,
my sort-of brothers, sisters, I. We
ran the open field of skin littered
with blankets and weed and guitars and
sex. We tried not to look, but a man
strolled by, black guitar thankfully placed,
strumming We Shall Overcome and Kiss
My Ass. A grandmother, freed from her
Lily St. Cyr’s, danced arms up, unshaved,
looking a little like Bonzo. We
ignored the speeches. Ignored music.
And tried not to look. Ugly bodies
and beautiful. Embarrassing. None
of us would need , you know, “that” talk. We
skimmed fleshy blankets with an orange
Wham-O Frisbee. And tripping
over many reshaping couples,
ducked past a group of—what in the hell
are they doing?—chasing the neon
disc into the skinless peonies.
Published: Tidal Echoes, UAS Literary & Arts Journal 2008
my sort-of brothers, sisters, I. We
ran the open field of skin littered
with blankets and weed and guitars and
sex. We tried not to look, but a man
strolled by, black guitar thankfully placed,
strumming We Shall Overcome and Kiss
My Ass. A grandmother, freed from her
Lily St. Cyr’s, danced arms up, unshaved,
looking a little like Bonzo. We
ignored the speeches. Ignored music.
And tried not to look. Ugly bodies
and beautiful. Embarrassing. None
of us would need , you know, “that” talk. We
skimmed fleshy blankets with an orange
Wham-O Frisbee. And tripping
over many reshaping couples,
ducked past a group of—what in the hell
are they doing?—chasing the neon
disc into the skinless peonies.
Published: Tidal Echoes, UAS Literary & Arts Journal 2008
My mother sketches a nude for Marlene & Jack
Colin and his old lady strip naked
(he laughs under his breath, she whispers),
light up a joint to ease their excitement,
tangle themselves on an old chaise.
My mother arranges her pastels on the pallet
to her left, clenches a charcoal pencil between
her teeth, and pins her hair on top her head
while Colin and his old lady try not to fuck.
She sets her easel and pulls a quick drag
and, while Colin and his old lady still
try not to do it, warms her oils on the bodies
in her head: muscular hands … curved bellies ….
My mother has drawn a thousand naked
Christs as though His pain were sexy,
but flinches at these two, stoned and giggling.
Colin trying hard to remain still. To relax.
Mother had invited Jack & Marlene to voyeur
from the barn door shadows her mastery
at scrubbing crayon lines into thin fleshy shapes
and not the swelling between Colin and his old lady.
These moments she forgets herself, has forgotten
Colin and his old lady in their own act of creation,
succumbing to the tension of their stillness,
moving the way naked lovers and artists move.
(he laughs under his breath, she whispers),
light up a joint to ease their excitement,
tangle themselves on an old chaise.
My mother arranges her pastels on the pallet
to her left, clenches a charcoal pencil between
her teeth, and pins her hair on top her head
while Colin and his old lady try not to fuck.
She sets her easel and pulls a quick drag
and, while Colin and his old lady still
try not to do it, warms her oils on the bodies
in her head: muscular hands … curved bellies ….
My mother has drawn a thousand naked
Christs as though His pain were sexy,
but flinches at these two, stoned and giggling.
Colin trying hard to remain still. To relax.
Mother had invited Jack & Marlene to voyeur
from the barn door shadows her mastery
at scrubbing crayon lines into thin fleshy shapes
and not the swelling between Colin and his old lady.
These moments she forgets herself, has forgotten
Colin and his old lady in their own act of creation,
succumbing to the tension of their stillness,
moving the way naked lovers and artists move.
We all gotta come from some place
1. Linda & Fred : Mother & Dad
He knocked her up for her 16th birthday
in his rod at the top of Mulholland
above the orchards, Ventura highway.
She finished high school immediately
preceding her White Rose Chapel wedding.
He bagged food at Thriftimart, she had more kids.
She started painting, he surfed Malibu,
she bought art supplies, he bought a new car,
she changed, he changed, they moved to the canyon.
They traded sidewalks and skyscrapers for
winding roads, hillsides, and a hippie van.
They gave up structure for total freedom.
2. Me
I’m 8 and I carry Ian around a lot
and my hair is bleached blonde by the sun
but it’s really “mousey brown” according
to mother and my favorite dress is yellow.
3. Scotty
Born with a hole in his heart, one drifting
eye that will go blind as rage and rabid
grief at the non-stop teasing from shitty
school kids and neighbors. He will beat them up.
Then he'll fury home, punch me for passing
the catastrophe of rubella. He
will teach himself to be faster, stronger,
to snag diamond back snakes with his bare hands.
4. Chris
Aquarian like mother, he acquired
her innate predilection for drama
and exaggeration, for acting out
and art. He loved cats, created a cat
language, and, mewing, wore a silk top hat
and cape to school. With none of the skill of
Fred Astaire, he danced between the playground
and class. His best friends will always be girls.
5. Ian
The principal announced his birth over
the loudspeaker the Monday he was born.
My brothers and I named him John. Ian
was flawless, sweet, mine. I protected him
from lightning, our goats, and Chris. At five, he
became a brat, like it was genetic,
caused another fight, and this time mother
saw him, hit him the way she hit us. Hard.
Across the face. Too stunned to cry, his eyes
and mouth wide open, we laughed ‘til we cried.
He knocked her up for her 16th birthday
in his rod at the top of Mulholland
above the orchards, Ventura highway.
She finished high school immediately
preceding her White Rose Chapel wedding.
He bagged food at Thriftimart, she had more kids.
She started painting, he surfed Malibu,
she bought art supplies, he bought a new car,
she changed, he changed, they moved to the canyon.
They traded sidewalks and skyscrapers for
winding roads, hillsides, and a hippie van.
They gave up structure for total freedom.
2. Me
I’m 8 and I carry Ian around a lot
and my hair is bleached blonde by the sun
but it’s really “mousey brown” according
to mother and my favorite dress is yellow.
3. Scotty
Born with a hole in his heart, one drifting
eye that will go blind as rage and rabid
grief at the non-stop teasing from shitty
school kids and neighbors. He will beat them up.
Then he'll fury home, punch me for passing
the catastrophe of rubella. He
will teach himself to be faster, stronger,
to snag diamond back snakes with his bare hands.
4. Chris
Aquarian like mother, he acquired
her innate predilection for drama
and exaggeration, for acting out
and art. He loved cats, created a cat
language, and, mewing, wore a silk top hat
and cape to school. With none of the skill of
Fred Astaire, he danced between the playground
and class. His best friends will always be girls.
5. Ian
The principal announced his birth over
the loudspeaker the Monday he was born.
My brothers and I named him John. Ian
was flawless, sweet, mine. I protected him
from lightning, our goats, and Chris. At five, he
became a brat, like it was genetic,
caused another fight, and this time mother
saw him, hit him the way she hit us. Hard.
Across the face. Too stunned to cry, his eyes
and mouth wide open, we laughed ‘til we cried.
Topanga, 1968
Image by Thomas Nash
Roads furl along creek beds & mountains,
coil eucalyptus & sycamores
& oaks. Smells like dry. Motorcycle
riders venerate the god of swerves.
Nam & Tet. Black armbands & daytime
headlights for the dead:King:Kennedy.
The creek winds & spins, clear & shiny
like sequins spilled across Malibu.
Frogs & bugs swim & hop like they're not
afraid of any old mayonnaise jar.
MaryJane. Communes. Tie-dye. Protests.
The: Man, right, draft, left. Outer space.
Trees shift in the wind, dusty chaparral
evaporates in the heat. Agave
ages under the gigantic white clouds
upon which we build our dream castles.
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