Dr. Phil says you gain a new life as a real parent
after your children leave home.
I slip outside, into the yard, and down to the creek,
where the waters still agitate as if in an old washer,
pick sticks up, pitch then in, and watch them float
downwards like a child on a water slide.
Eyes search banks for sprouting iris and crocus,
but see nothing new, just shoots of pampas grass.
Cogitation is about past holidays, fireworks, picnics,
cow ants, and looks from fuller branches of flowery bush,
snowy as Polaroid pictures; red, white, and blue smile at me.
Old eyes snap the photo clearer than a camera. I ask myself --
Is there evil in black squirrels, hairless dogs,
the tiger stripes of lilies, blackberry vines growing fiercer,
one by one, as memories climb barbed wire that stripes heart,
or black cows that crowd pastures like hungry blackbirds?
Am I Satan living in a tattered world of isolated trailers
in the middle of Ku Klux Klan country?
Steady drizzle of cabin fever, drippy eves, and
deceptive blue morning snakes a quiet Fourth of July.
A year ago my son had me driving down streets ending in "teenth,"
dodging creatures, meth heads, and frequent bathroom stops.
It was a little late in the day, and earlier than midnight.
The gray streets of downtown shined slick holiday banners,
and colorful vendors lined the bright streets, outnumbered humans.
The aluminum sky dimmed.
In two hours the fireworks would sparkle.
Steel hands of his loneliness sealed the soon-to-be show,
and my fate was like Kiss's tongue on a six inch envelope.
He bought every imaginable firecracker, rocket, sparkler,
and more.
Excitement exploded into pieces along the long dirt road,
doubled up like a licorice loop, on the way home.
Let me get the facts straight, and tell you the real story:
He'd swallowed the last gulp of his quart of Cobra,
and started fiddling with the fireworks.
I felt like a damned redneck trapped in a Toyota,
asking him politely to wait until we arrived home.
On the last leg of the trip past webbed thickets
of straggly pine, drenched wetland grass
lighter than South Carolina sand, he lowers
window, and a blast of swamp smell rolls in.
We pass Burn Lake Drive,
and a reflection of my car in the window
of the last trailer on the right rises up like Dante's voice,
and the side view mirror blazes along with a radio
blasting "Burn Baby Burn."
Three omens in less than one minute.
Out of thin air he pulls this ten inch gun lighter
with a trigger that clicks and clicks.
After cracked mud curves rockets blast off.
If I hadn't have been the sane one I'd jumped out
of the heap.
Heat dotted my face, and red glare spread
like green mistletoe in treetops.
Patterned noise sounded like gun shots,
and rasped pointy ears blowing up
in our faces.
Black soot ensued, the tip of his nose burned,
but the colored smoke dyed my hair blue for weeks.
Sparkler melted rubber mats in the floorboard,
and three gaping holes rose up like murderous thought.
His pupils outlined in devilish glow delivered new meaning
to the term "evil eyes."
A gypsy spirit cursed the perky child with a military cut,
and mustache.
But, this was last year and today is the present.
Demons of the past raise schizophrenic voices,
and the only red glare in my sky is one from salvia.
I s-l-o-w-l-y drink breakfast blended coffee,
decide tonight's show will be thirty one brown paper bags
lit with candles. Each one will flicker under boiler skies.
And, this swiss cheese heart will shiver brilliant,
puff up thoughts of a dead boy-grown-man,
many deemed disorderly and a public nuisance,
lighting fireworks against my windshield,
race thoughts of tinted memory;
dark stilt roots will curve
like tuning forks between two rivers,
and sadness will blur and wave
notes a patriotic heart sings.
Brandon's pick for Read of The Day for July 7, 2009
after your children leave home.
I slip outside, into the yard, and down to the creek,
where the waters still agitate as if in an old washer,
pick sticks up, pitch then in, and watch them float
downwards like a child on a water slide.
Eyes search banks for sprouting iris and crocus,
but see nothing new, just shoots of pampas grass.
Cogitation is about past holidays, fireworks, picnics,
cow ants, and looks from fuller branches of flowery bush,
snowy as Polaroid pictures; red, white, and blue smile at me.
Old eyes snap the photo clearer than a camera. I ask myself --
Is there evil in black squirrels, hairless dogs,
the tiger stripes of lilies, blackberry vines growing fiercer,
one by one, as memories climb barbed wire that stripes heart,
or black cows that crowd pastures like hungry blackbirds?
Am I Satan living in a tattered world of isolated trailers
in the middle of Ku Klux Klan country?
Steady drizzle of cabin fever, drippy eves, and
deceptive blue morning snakes a quiet Fourth of July.
A year ago my son had me driving down streets ending in "teenth,"
dodging creatures, meth heads, and frequent bathroom stops.
It was a little late in the day, and earlier than midnight.
The gray streets of downtown shined slick holiday banners,
and colorful vendors lined the bright streets, outnumbered humans.
The aluminum sky dimmed.
In two hours the fireworks would sparkle.
Steel hands of his loneliness sealed the soon-to-be show,
and my fate was like Kiss's tongue on a six inch envelope.
He bought every imaginable firecracker, rocket, sparkler,
and more.
Excitement exploded into pieces along the long dirt road,
doubled up like a licorice loop, on the way home.
Let me get the facts straight, and tell you the real story:
He'd swallowed the last gulp of his quart of Cobra,
and started fiddling with the fireworks.
I felt like a damned redneck trapped in a Toyota,
asking him politely to wait until we arrived home.
On the last leg of the trip past webbed thickets
of straggly pine, drenched wetland grass
lighter than South Carolina sand, he lowers
window, and a blast of swamp smell rolls in.
We pass Burn Lake Drive,
and a reflection of my car in the window
of the last trailer on the right rises up like Dante's voice,
and the side view mirror blazes along with a radio
blasting "Burn Baby Burn."
Three omens in less than one minute.
Out of thin air he pulls this ten inch gun lighter
with a trigger that clicks and clicks.
After cracked mud curves rockets blast off.
If I hadn't have been the sane one I'd jumped out
of the heap.
Heat dotted my face, and red glare spread
like green mistletoe in treetops.
Patterned noise sounded like gun shots,
and rasped pointy ears blowing up
in our faces.
Black soot ensued, the tip of his nose burned,
but the colored smoke dyed my hair blue for weeks.
Sparkler melted rubber mats in the floorboard,
and three gaping holes rose up like murderous thought.
His pupils outlined in devilish glow delivered new meaning
to the term "evil eyes."
A gypsy spirit cursed the perky child with a military cut,
and mustache.
But, this was last year and today is the present.
Demons of the past raise schizophrenic voices,
and the only red glare in my sky is one from salvia.
I s-l-o-w-l-y drink breakfast blended coffee,
decide tonight's show will be thirty one brown paper bags
lit with candles. Each one will flicker under boiler skies.
And, this swiss cheese heart will shiver brilliant,
puff up thoughts of a dead boy-grown-man,
many deemed disorderly and a public nuisance,
lighting fireworks against my windshield,
race thoughts of tinted memory;
dark stilt roots will curve
like tuning forks between two rivers,
and sadness will blur and wave
notes a patriotic heart sings.
Brandon's pick for Read of The Day for July 7, 2009
