At The Window
There's a moment
When you face
The pointlessness of it
And you just
Stop
You run out of
Gas
You just don't give a fuck
Anymore
So you
Close the computer
Turn off the light switch
Stand at
The window
Watching
The fog
Breathe in to obscure
The darkness
You imagine your alternate lives
Lives in which you aren't so
Comfortable
With your
Comfortable home
And your
Loving wife
Lives in which you
Struggle with
Depression and
Loneliness and
Failure
Lives in which you
Drive reckless and
Drink remorseless and
Dance with abandon
Closing down
The bars
Drunk, driving,
Home
To your shared
Apartment with
Furniture picked up off
The street
Hoping your friends won't
Get married
Have kids
Pay taxes
Leave you
Here
Lives in which you
Wander aimless through
The streets and
The bars
Of La Serena
Not knowing a lick of
Spanish
Not knowing that
The woman
Calling you muy lindo is
A prostitute
Who follows you into
The street
Telling a sad story about
Her son
In Coquimbo
It's late can I come home with you
So you pay her 20,000 pesos
So she won't follow you
Home
Avoiding the wary packs of
Dogs
Who shit and sleep on
The street
With the
Dirty men in
The darkness
You eat only
Toast and
Yogurt
Kept in the communal kitchen
Because you are
Too poor or
Too cheap
To pay for
A meal
Instead she pays for
A meal
And introduces you to
Her daughter
Who already has a teenage
Son
Even though she isn't 30 years old yet
Hoping you will do
The right thing and
The gringo thing and
Marry her away from this
Dirty town
Maybe that was the way it was supposed to go
But instead
As it turns out
You are
Comfortable
With your
Comfortable home
And your
Loving wife
Staring out
The window
Watching
The fog
Breathe in to obscure
The darkness
When you face
The pointlessness of it
And you just
Stop
You run out of
Gas
You just don't give a fuck
Anymore
So you
Close the computer
Turn off the light switch
Stand at
The window
Watching
The fog
Breathe in to obscure
The darkness
You imagine your alternate lives
Lives in which you aren't so
Comfortable
With your
Comfortable home
And your
Loving wife
Lives in which you
Struggle with
Depression and
Loneliness and
Failure
Lives in which you
Drive reckless and
Drink remorseless and
Dance with abandon
Closing down
The bars
Drunk, driving,
Home
To your shared
Apartment with
Furniture picked up off
The street
Hoping your friends won't
Get married
Have kids
Pay taxes
Leave you
Here
Lives in which you
Wander aimless through
The streets and
The bars
Of La Serena
Not knowing a lick of
Spanish
Not knowing that
The woman
Calling you muy lindo is
A prostitute
Who follows you into
The street
Telling a sad story about
Her son
In Coquimbo
It's late can I come home with you
So you pay her 20,000 pesos
So she won't follow you
Home
Avoiding the wary packs of
Dogs
Who shit and sleep on
The street
With the
Dirty men in
The darkness
You eat only
Toast and
Yogurt
Kept in the communal kitchen
Because you are
Too poor or
Too cheap
To pay for
A meal
Instead she pays for
A meal
And introduces you to
Her daughter
Who already has a teenage
Son
Even though she isn't 30 years old yet
Hoping you will do
The right thing and
The gringo thing and
Marry her away from this
Dirty town
Maybe that was the way it was supposed to go
But instead
As it turns out
You are
Comfortable
With your
Comfortable home
And your
Loving wife
Staring out
The window
Watching
The fog
Breathe in to obscure
The darkness
The Rose and the Bird
The day Rose died, I had lunch with a bird. A small brown warbler, grey chested, black-seed eyes, shaking and puffing on a faded wooden bench in the cold afternoon mist. When I walked into the ivyed courtyard seeking solitude, she didn't fly away. She sat there, eyeing me, wary, twisting her head left then right, flicking her wings to prove she was ready to bolt; but she stayed. I on one end of a bench, she on the armrest of the other. Personal space. Through the light drizzle and the sun peeking through breaks in the clouds, its white disk sporadically visible, I started to eat.
I tried to picture Rose, picking at my memory. Immediately: a mischievous smile, batting her eyes as if she was getting away with something, which she often did. Feeding me when I visited, any time of day. 40 years of ham and cheese sandwiches, chips and orange juice, maybe some coke? (meaning pepsi) a banana? Do you want more? Sitting and watching Carl Sagan on her television. Playing my first Nintendo game. Her grasping hug when I'd leave, demanding to tell her when I'd be back. Slipping me $20 as if tipping me for my love. Her strength, her anger, her sassy pout. A stunted spitfire of a woman. For the last few years she has been trapped in a dysfunctional body with a dysfunctional brain, more shrunken, more weary, losing herself to a pathology she could feel but not comprehend. Now she is free again.
I looked at my companion, hunched to the wind and rain, jittery. Was she proving her grit? With her stare she made it clear that she wasn't leaving soon. I turned back to my meal, the food no longer filling the hollowness welling inside me. The loss of a person. The loss of a person. A few years ago we watched a restored home video together. There was my father, my aunt and my uncle as teenagers, with other family members I've never met, all dressed in what constituted formalwear in 1968. Rose is flitting from table to table, a smile here, an infectious laugh there, obvious even without the sound. The age-etched film cannot mask the twinkle of her eyes. Then a video made at Universal Studios, tourists acting out an emergency medical scene. There she is, standing off to the side, incapable of keeping a straight face when the camera frame rolls past her. Then a musical show at the VFW, Rose playing a trollop chased by drunken ex-reservists, their vaudeville desire masking darker intention. She loved the drama. She loved the attention. Past tense. I realized that death would be more common in the next 40 years than the last.
The rain picked up, it was time to go. I turned to my companion but she wasn't there. I looked for her below the bench, in the trees, among the ivy, in the sky, but she was gone. She was gone.
I tried to picture Rose, picking at my memory. Immediately: a mischievous smile, batting her eyes as if she was getting away with something, which she often did. Feeding me when I visited, any time of day. 40 years of ham and cheese sandwiches, chips and orange juice, maybe some coke? (meaning pepsi) a banana? Do you want more? Sitting and watching Carl Sagan on her television. Playing my first Nintendo game. Her grasping hug when I'd leave, demanding to tell her when I'd be back. Slipping me $20 as if tipping me for my love. Her strength, her anger, her sassy pout. A stunted spitfire of a woman. For the last few years she has been trapped in a dysfunctional body with a dysfunctional brain, more shrunken, more weary, losing herself to a pathology she could feel but not comprehend. Now she is free again.
I looked at my companion, hunched to the wind and rain, jittery. Was she proving her grit? With her stare she made it clear that she wasn't leaving soon. I turned back to my meal, the food no longer filling the hollowness welling inside me. The loss of a person. The loss of a person. A few years ago we watched a restored home video together. There was my father, my aunt and my uncle as teenagers, with other family members I've never met, all dressed in what constituted formalwear in 1968. Rose is flitting from table to table, a smile here, an infectious laugh there, obvious even without the sound. The age-etched film cannot mask the twinkle of her eyes. Then a video made at Universal Studios, tourists acting out an emergency medical scene. There she is, standing off to the side, incapable of keeping a straight face when the camera frame rolls past her. Then a musical show at the VFW, Rose playing a trollop chased by drunken ex-reservists, their vaudeville desire masking darker intention. She loved the drama. She loved the attention. Past tense. I realized that death would be more common in the next 40 years than the last.
The rain picked up, it was time to go. I turned to my companion but she wasn't there. I looked for her below the bench, in the trees, among the ivy, in the sky, but she was gone. She was gone.
Coming Home
When I walk through the door, the air is warm and still. The afternoon hasn’t yet turned the apartment into a furnace, but it’s on its way. Throwing my keys in the dish, I walk over to close the shades on the south-facing windows to delay the unavoidable bake. I roll my luggage down the hallway, glancing in at his room as I pass. Throwing my backpack down on my bed, I sit for a moment, hearing the sounds of a summer Pasadena afternoon. Lawnmowers a few houses south. The cackle of a few crows. Cars passing on many streets. A shout. The hum of the refrigerator. A faint smell of pot still lingers from the closet, from the hydroponics project last winter, terminated when his mom came to visit for the holidays. Looking down at my bag, I remember she had been lying here only a week before, the night before I drove up to Santa Cruz for a two week trip, now cancelled. There is no trace of her here anymore.
I walk back out to the kitchen, taking in the dried-out onions and ripe bananas, then the living room. The answering machine displays the number four, so I push play. The first message is a friend asking about dinner. Delete. The next is a man I don’t know, telling me there had been an accident, asking if someone who knows Chuck could please call. Delete. The man again, telling whoever is listening to go to this hospital, that it’s urgent. Delete. Amber, frantic, asking where am I? what happened? where are we suppose to meet? Oh god. Call me back, please. The machine stops, and with my finger clearing a space of dust over the delete button I wonder if I should have saved the first three messages.
Delete.
I walk back out to the kitchen, taking in the dried-out onions and ripe bananas, then the living room. The answering machine displays the number four, so I push play. The first message is a friend asking about dinner. Delete. The next is a man I don’t know, telling me there had been an accident, asking if someone who knows Chuck could please call. Delete. The man again, telling whoever is listening to go to this hospital, that it’s urgent. Delete. Amber, frantic, asking where am I? what happened? where are we suppose to meet? Oh god. Call me back, please. The machine stops, and with my finger clearing a space of dust over the delete button I wonder if I should have saved the first three messages.
Delete.
Driving to a Lover After a Wedding
I can’t say if I’m awake or asleep, my mind moves back and forth between. It’s the panic that jolts me aware again. I am driving 60 mph on that curved mountain road that joins the town with the valley, a road that is unsafe in any condition and suicidal in the condition I’m in now. The car seems to drive it itself, I feel no control over the steering wheel, no sense that I am braking, that I am accelerating. Am I just a passenger? No, I am in the driver’s seat. The top is down and the wind tears at my hair in a way that tells me I’m going too fast. My body slides at the turns, wheels screeching. Lights pass me to my left, how close are they? Am I on the right side of the road? The radio is screaming, a tactic to keep me awake; this and the punches to my thigh and slaps to my face keep me in the present. I shout out songs, random words, noise, anger. I am aware that I will probably die tonight, but I don’t know how to stop, to pull over. This is crazy, but then I am crazed. I am rushing back to someone who may not care if I make it, who views me with the same degree of ambivalence as I view her with desperate longing. The sharp pain in my chest rises again, but I welcome it as one more thing that will keep me on the road.
How many bottles of wine were poured into our goblets, tokens for witnessing the wedding of M and M? Goblets, that never emptied as the waiters at the vineyard hovered to keep them full. Did I drink this much because I wasn’t paying attention? Or did I welcome the chance to submerge my self-loathing, upon seeing one of my better ex-girlfriends marry a Much Better Man? A future doctor, an outdoorsman, someone who was ready to settle down, ready to get married, have kids, eager to go to church. Perhaps I am helped by my tablemates of ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends and other random acquaintances, each of us drinking our acceptance of the situation and hoping to fuck someone here as a consolation prize. None of us have dates – we are the singles table – and we are a bitter crew, straddling our 30th birthdays; M and M’s bumps on the path to their happiness, pushed to the back of the lawn. By the end of the night we are sloppy drunks. But I am driven to a random screw; I crave my apathetic lover. Can she (this once?) give me the comfort I need? Stumbling across the parking lot, I can barely open the car door; the wine hitting me hard. Someone asks if I am OK; of course I am (why didn’t he stop me?). Once I negotiate my way onto the freeway, I can’t change my mind anyways.
I wake up parked in the driveway of the ohana she rents, two blocks from the bay. How did I get here? I don’t remember exiting the freeway, I don’t remember turning into the neighborhood. How long had I been sleeping here? The sky is moonless and dark, the lights of the neighborhood have been off for a while. It’s not yet morning. The swishing sounds of gentle waves are punctuated by seal barks and gull calls, but over this I can hear my heavy breathing. The air is salty and cold but I am burning up in my sports coat. I try to take it off, but I get tangled in the sleeves. I get out of the car; the world tips over. I hold onto the frame for balance. In the dark, I look for dents or scrapes, but the car seems fine, only my tire is up on the curb. I am still fucked up drunk. I try to throw up, but I can’t, and it doesn’t matter; the alcohol is already in my blood. My head is hammering. Wrestling off my coat, I shuffle over to the gate. She’s left it unlocked. I stop, to catch my breath, to rub my temple, to consider my options.
I pull the latch and walk through, pulling the gate behind me so hard that the sound echoes down the street.
How many bottles of wine were poured into our goblets, tokens for witnessing the wedding of M and M? Goblets, that never emptied as the waiters at the vineyard hovered to keep them full. Did I drink this much because I wasn’t paying attention? Or did I welcome the chance to submerge my self-loathing, upon seeing one of my better ex-girlfriends marry a Much Better Man? A future doctor, an outdoorsman, someone who was ready to settle down, ready to get married, have kids, eager to go to church. Perhaps I am helped by my tablemates of ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends and other random acquaintances, each of us drinking our acceptance of the situation and hoping to fuck someone here as a consolation prize. None of us have dates – we are the singles table – and we are a bitter crew, straddling our 30th birthdays; M and M’s bumps on the path to their happiness, pushed to the back of the lawn. By the end of the night we are sloppy drunks. But I am driven to a random screw; I crave my apathetic lover. Can she (this once?) give me the comfort I need? Stumbling across the parking lot, I can barely open the car door; the wine hitting me hard. Someone asks if I am OK; of course I am (why didn’t he stop me?). Once I negotiate my way onto the freeway, I can’t change my mind anyways.
I wake up parked in the driveway of the ohana she rents, two blocks from the bay. How did I get here? I don’t remember exiting the freeway, I don’t remember turning into the neighborhood. How long had I been sleeping here? The sky is moonless and dark, the lights of the neighborhood have been off for a while. It’s not yet morning. The swishing sounds of gentle waves are punctuated by seal barks and gull calls, but over this I can hear my heavy breathing. The air is salty and cold but I am burning up in my sports coat. I try to take it off, but I get tangled in the sleeves. I get out of the car; the world tips over. I hold onto the frame for balance. In the dark, I look for dents or scrapes, but the car seems fine, only my tire is up on the curb. I am still fucked up drunk. I try to throw up, but I can’t, and it doesn’t matter; the alcohol is already in my blood. My head is hammering. Wrestling off my coat, I shuffle over to the gate. She’s left it unlocked. I stop, to catch my breath, to rub my temple, to consider my options.
I pull the latch and walk through, pulling the gate behind me so hard that the sound echoes down the street.
Banging My Gavel On The Pipe Organ
I reach out for the metal bar
Standing on my tippy toes on the last rung
Holding the pole for support.
I’m just big enough now to reach
But I’m off balance
I’ve got to commit.
The cherries behind me chatter
Impatient to have their turn
But I’m green of falling down onto the mahogany.
Someone shouts, “C’mon, indict all already!”.
I take a deep breath and bang my gavel.
But I don’t have enough stenographer,
And when I object for the next canopy, I miss it.
Panicked, I put both of my bark on the first canopy
And bang my gavel to a stop.
Now I’m just misting there
The cherries behind me are chattering “Leaves! Leaves!”,
But my rusty refrigerator won’t budge.
The stench is too far.
I try to bulldoze my legs to bang my gavel back, but it’s no use.
My bark is starting to pile.
One of the cherries cleans up on aisle four and tells me
“It’s ok, just push your bark, I’ll open you,”
But I don’t trust him and bulldoze him away.
One of the bigger cherries gets on a canopy on the other side of the pipe organ
And starts to bang his gavel toward me.
Now two then three cherries are sermonizing on my legs,
Trying to force me to push my bark.
When I finally pile onto the mahogany,
I toss the bouquet and end up on my vista,
Tearing my belay line and cutting my bark.
I start to snow.
The cherries around me chatter and buzz.
I get up and thorn past them.
I never want to bang my gavel on the pipe organ again.
Standing on my tippy toes on the last rung
Holding the pole for support.
I’m just big enough now to reach
But I’m off balance
I’ve got to commit.
The cherries behind me chatter
Impatient to have their turn
But I’m green of falling down onto the mahogany.
Someone shouts, “C’mon, indict all already!”.
I take a deep breath and bang my gavel.
But I don’t have enough stenographer,
And when I object for the next canopy, I miss it.
Panicked, I put both of my bark on the first canopy
And bang my gavel to a stop.
Now I’m just misting there
The cherries behind me are chattering “Leaves! Leaves!”,
But my rusty refrigerator won’t budge.
The stench is too far.
I try to bulldoze my legs to bang my gavel back, but it’s no use.
My bark is starting to pile.
One of the cherries cleans up on aisle four and tells me
“It’s ok, just push your bark, I’ll open you,”
But I don’t trust him and bulldoze him away.
One of the bigger cherries gets on a canopy on the other side of the pipe organ
And starts to bang his gavel toward me.
Now two then three cherries are sermonizing on my legs,
Trying to force me to push my bark.
When I finally pile onto the mahogany,
I toss the bouquet and end up on my vista,
Tearing my belay line and cutting my bark.
I start to snow.
The cherries around me chatter and buzz.
I get up and thorn past them.
I never want to bang my gavel on the pipe organ again.