Gone

my grandparents house
still exists.

in the drawers in the bedroom
upstairs
facing out toward the street
my pop's impeccably
folded clothes

his musty forever smell

the orange carpets
that quiet the stairs
remain there

the railing that shook
but never failed.

the mirror along the living room
wall
reflecting the circle coffee table
the two lounge chairs

the kitchen directly behind

the space between the oven
and cabinets still slim
enough for only a single
body to pass

to the basement steps
just and inch or two
too short

and noticeable

the exposed basement ceiling
the sound of my nana
walking slowly upstairs

heat from the oven working
its way though the floor

she is there missing my
pop

she is there being alone

they are there at the table sitting
at each end

my nana is placing my brother
in his high chair

my pop is feigning disgust
over my sister's laughter

my grandparents house is
still exists.

my grandparents house is
still there.

those walks with you

when I was younger I would pick a direction and walk
until after a few hours I was lost somewhere new
cruching across the crabgrass everywhere new looked
                       everywhere old and the same in the suburbs
I would often follow cracks in cement winding streets
or slip through small wooded parks with rusting swings
                                              and clusters of silent trees
or step over flowered fences tramping through front yards
always the eyes would watch
                                                yet there were no fences
nothing to bar my path a few stones a welcome mat
the trash would be rotting on tuesdays and thursdays
there were never enough hours to escape the county
it just stretched on and on with cars following
cars being shuffled along a string forward and back
eventually I would start back attempting a different path
looking all the same and new and never strange back to my room
and my home looking never different always the same

Bill's taste in boys is macabre

with the car doing donuts in the left turn lane
under the bright green arrow of night,
riding over median sidewalk obstructions,
in between here and there
                                            my destination,
I am having the same thoughts as before,

once there was a man
covered in ivy
who, birthed from a tree,
walked toward me,
beside him was a woman,
made from bark of tree,
she raised her arms
toward me, moaning

But I can't quite place them
and my leg is wrapped in brace,
so the time is not quite right,
I was so much younger,
I am walking again,

and I look out to the castle,
meant to be a hospital,
on the left, right, now left,
and catching a glimpse of the driver,
up front, I see that somehow
it's my grandmother
                                 with wheel locked and pedal down
and maybe it hasn't been six years since your death.

The story starts with a falling pickle

coated in grim dirt,
dropped in a memory of my youth,
brushed clean (almost) by my thumb
it was fall,
from the wax paper bag
to poor moist ground,
it had rained,
and tho fog overcast and gray now,
I could see my house,
across the long football field of years,
the backs of one of many rowhomes,
flat and straight-bricked,
this one with a semblance of a deck
yet to be built,
on the green fence around the
small rectangular yeard, an orange mass,
a dangling tail,
an impatient scowl,
I slip through the same hole
in the same cyclone fence
that I slipped through every day
pulling my school bag through
behind, and
followed by cat paws up the
back stair I drew the sliding glass door,
inside at the kitchen table
I unzipped my bag,
the smell of vinegar and earth
and ink and paper,
the Amazing Spider-Man
and my afternoon snack.

Filing Papers Away

last 10 years.
park at end of childhood street.
this morning's sunrise.

today I realized
they were the same.
today I realized they were gone.

gone and going even further gone.
gone away from me.
gone forever.
gone.

what have I done?
since then, what have I done?
where have I gone?

look back.
look forward.
gone.

today I realized they were gone.
today I realized you were gone.

today I realized I will be gone.

grasshopper

there's a rock,
heavy, tragic
chipped and chalky
brown, nestled
among the crabgrass
of suburban ameria,

I can point to it in
our past,

an indoor porch,
screen doors, screen windows.
inside, children's toys
piled high in boxes,

my memory shift

out back behind house,
chrome ladder turned
lengthwise on its side

white shingles of the
adjacent shed,
dirty old, fading
to speckled gray

that first child's recognition of death

when rock strikes brittle legs,
a confused mind
showing pain
absurd, unnecessary
immeasurable
due to its inhuman nature
imperceptible
to the laughter and malice
of innocence

to the children
running around me

I watched you die
though I left before
the final breathe
not even looking back

I have been complicit
in your death my entire life,

still I am guilty
still I am killing you
have killed you
will kill you

everyday I am killing you
I live on

years and years
I have taken from you
buried you in them

If I could touch the past
it is in that moment
& and other cruel moments,
moments of my failure
embarrassment
that you are reborn

If you recall the sky that day
looking up now through years
and painted death
it was blue, so few clouds,

How many more remember you?

where are their thoughts headed?
Where have my own gone?
What have I gained from any of it?

Worthwhile

You type
what comes first,
then you print
labels, pull those out
of printer smelling of
heated glue and paper,
smelling like newspapers
and running belts and wheels,
smelling like childhood memories
you can't quite recapture
with the smell gone so
suddenly leaving.
Afterwards you remove
labels, place on folders
and stamp times new roman
red letters once
for stampings sake.
Place the folder
in it's categorized,
alphabetized place
between other folders
placed in their
categorized,
alphabetized place.
Then you leave it
alone, knowing
that you may
never go back to it,
knowing, maybe,
it's possible that
no one else ever will,
knowing that this folder
will outlast you,
and your children,
and your children's children,
knowing that what is in
that folder is less than
worthless,
knowing that all of
your effort is meaningless,
knowing that eventually
everything but those
folders will die.

Childhood on a bus

I realized I'd missed my legs
my boy legs, those
memories of fields & walking &
what kind of pants did I wear
what did they look like,
remembering completely
and being so sure about
where I was going & why,

I remember my little brother
as a boy--our endless stories
growing longer, longer--
further away--

I know my parents
their tender eyes and
hands--their love,

my sister scribbling on
white paper--opening a
book store in our basement--
hand drawn stapled little books--
stealing the copies back
after they'd been sold

I suddenly recall knowing everything
I'd forgotten.

Seagulls take to the skies, Men take to their graves

I caught a glimpse of myself
on an empty field, it wasn't the same
field then or the same self I am now,
but I saw something in his smile
I remembered, saw something
in the way he carried himself, how he cried out,
running, jumping, running, chasing
groups of harried seagulls,
laughing as they flapped and spun
around him in the air, I watched him
staring off into the sky as they
disappeared into the shiny gray ether above
afraid to move, afraid to lose the vision,
I wondered if he saw me too as he
turned around to chase them again
at the other end of the old faded field,
I wondered if he'd even notice me there
far off in the future a hundred miles,
a hundred millions memories away,
I wondered what he would say to the sad
old man crying for him someday.

The Statue

My beard grew grey and bitter
Waiting for you to get going
but you just sat there
immovable like a stern Buddha
saying nothing at all.

I stared really hard in every direction
tho you were directionless,
offering you a sign,

The wind whipped around
and you'd raise your head and give
me one great laugh, blinking
triumphantly into the void.
No kidding. I was there. Think about it.

I loved those Saturday mornings
and the kids playing baseball and the
red salamanders losing their tails,
and the statue of you they built
at the center on the grounds where
you sat smirking, smirking at the passersby
and the goings-on, smirking like
a real son of a bitch,

I knew it all back then, that you'd
never get outta there, and
that's why when somebody
goes, "Yeah he's still there,
believe me," I believe them, and
I smirk and laugh too,
as hard as I can, and say,
in my most stern voice,
"Well fuck you too, you son of a
bitch."

Afterlife

Why do I only remember
clearly the bad things I've
done? Like cross myself a
hundred times in all directions
at first Holy Communion and a little
boy like me looks over and says, "That's
not funny," God? And when I
tied that boy's shoelaces together
under the playground bench? He fell
and cut his knee, and
cried,
But I make up all those times
I did my chores or held, for some
old ladies, the door, overlooking--
I guess Saint Peter wrote them
down, well I hope he wrote them
down, so when he brings them up
I can say, "Oh, yeah that was clearly me!"
and he can say, and smile, and say,
"Congratulations!"

My childhood love letter to growing old

I wrote turning dirt roads through
triangular cast-away underbrush
spring green smelling foliage
between suburban sprawl houses
squat and ignorant,
and don't you think that we should have
a baseball field on the back of the quarter?
isn't that America? Lady Babylon smiling
from trimmed bushes and driveway parked cars,
waiting patient, statuesque,
our beautiful apocryphal mother,
lighting fires by night starry sky
suicide squeeze charred baptismal remains,
she kisses my head, tucks me in america,
I close my eyes a century ago
under 1910 wood plank deteriorating ceiling,
the gods found new homes
beyond Jupiter storms and baby storms,
the rivers fell shouting you loved me
churning under blue bridge steps,
calling out through cyclone fences
grayed against calm brick row homes 
pot roast and potato dinners yawning through
chipped plaster, screened windows,
bums walking by on city streets miles north,
a child's fantasy growing old
while I sleep soundly to failed music and ginger charms.

Mosaic movement quick

Rain heavy drip-drop
moving slowly on toward DC,
cling to the solid gray brooding
darkness of sick clouds, drip
and I could really go for a hot dog,
had one yesterday under spring-like sun
on Eastern Market street half-smoke polish
wit relish, onions, yellow mustard,
snaps the natural sausage casing
yellow stains on sidewalk sad
though I'm now miles away smelling
tomato soup simmer silently
we prepare some white rice, and Oh,
it's like childhood all over again
quiet apartment lights and the storm outside,
Mom calling out over stove "Dinner",
cats crying in cold of spring,
and I'd hold your hand but I had no time
for girls back then, see
Scarlet Spiders and clones
bounding from my window
at $5.99 a piece

Picture of my America (Clifton Heights)

At this very moment
cars pulling up to drive thru windows
before Egg McMuffins become
Big Macs rush to afternoon jobs
on the big city pavements of the suburbs
tagged Route 1 or US-number
all the same with flashing lights
timed seconds green-red-yellow
drivers absently following tapping wheels
pedestrians making way to supermarket nightmares
and childhood dreams in schools pock-marked with
Oak trees 50 years mature,

Road chugs on unbridled by anti-depressant wish-lists
cornered by rising squat liqour stores on your sidewalk turn,
on all our corners looking for a drink a taste some change
some dream, walked by passed or forgiven years before the hospitals
outside the city fell.