the comedian 5...

i use to work the graveyard shift at a gas station. graveyard is when the drunks come, the drugs come the shadows of human beings come. it was after i committed to wearing the bag but before i was fully committed to performing.

a joke

drunk: what happened to your face?

comedian: your girlfriends crotch.

there was always a police cruiser going by the station so fights would be quickly broken up. the fights themselves would always be blamed on the drunk or the doped up, who then were booked on a d.u.i.

the owner of the station was a semi rich asian. a first generation short man with hard slick black hair. he would rarely come around during my shift and if he did it was more to assure my well being than to watch over me.

this was during the summer when the nights were warm enough to stand all shift in. the burlap covering my face would cause the skin to sweat and burn. my uniform was of my choosing save the attendant work shirt which i wore over my pale blue suit. one must always be aware of what one is pursuing.

i remember my third open mic i heard a groan in the audience.

a joke

why are asians so good at math?

no r's.

it was afterward that i handed over my work shirt with a heavy heart. he knew it was a joke and not a true heartfelt position but there are just some bridges you can not uncross. i appreciated the help that mr. lu had given me and took the position that god's will be done.

it was late august and i was now left with only the comedian.

i am thinking of this outside the blue parrot. a traditional karaoke bar but a live mic and a stage is hard to come by so i take advantage.

'that was funny,' came a voice from behind me.

what?

i turn and pause for a moment to readjust the sack. when i can see and breathe i discover wanda smiling back at me.

'that was funny. i had never heard margaritaville performed so blue. i never even knew he talked about current events or why dogs are angry.'

ah, i never saw you. sorry.

'no, it was good. you want to come in for a drink?'

boy that sounds great but i...

'c'mon i came with some friends from work. it will be fun.'

it does sound great, really...

'i'm buying.'

huh, well i can't turn that down.

a joke

what do you get when you drink five irish car bombs?

to drunk to know the answer.

the comedian 4

a routine:

good evening ladies and gentlemen. well i am supposing that for you, for me it has been a shit evening. yes i have a sack covering my face. i dream of one day using a nice lace or silk head piece like those ladies in the middle east, but for now i am too poor and even this had to be fished from the dumpster. so now, my neighbors, think it funny to holler out, 'you stink like your act!' when i walk by.

i can't think anymore. i use to have long monologues about how the trees leaned or long meditations on the idea our always are always staring. matter of fact i was not able to sleep for three days because all i could think of was that my eyes were not shut just staring at the back of my eyelids. our body is fascinating. the constant things we forget. do you remember that you are breathing? or that your heart is pumping? or that even the prettiest girl you see has a place on her body where shit comes from? bizarre.

i use to have a lot of thoughts. i don't know if this is true with you, but now when i try to think all i hear are sports updates and television shows. someone screaming the president is failing the country is dying, someone screaming the last president failed and the country would have died saved the new guy.

when i try to imagine, i don't see aliens with huge faces and long pointy fingers waving hello from masterpiece spaceships before they blast off to whatever galaxy they come from. instead i see fat pigs sweating it out in the gym. i see a bunch of television actors in situations where they are all trying to be witty.

oh the life of the television show. we stand around like nothing bothers us and we out smirk each other while having a menial job that somehow pays a million dollars a year. that or we are every day in some unbearable drama our best friend has overdosed while screwing our spouse! or the neighborhood macho man has come to put my marriage in question while my husband suffers from cancer or my kid is handicapped.

the extremities of so called life, am i right?

i don't remember any of these things.

i can recall the bills come due and not having the money for that and food so i chose food and stuffed the bills until next month. i can recall the car not starting so my dad has to take the bus to work.

there are these magazine articles, newspaper articles and television reports about how television and movie stars are out of touch, how politicians are out of touch. well if your life is a fantasy and some point you begin to believe it.

i have always wondered about actors. i have always wondered if they are nothing. if they can become characters because there is no there there to stop the growth. is today's cinema star really a bore who can thrill you as spartacus because he has no character of his own to bleed through?

i think what it comes down to, right, like those jerks that come on and talk about the mysteries of religion as if they have the answers! ha! two thousand years and suddenly they were inspired with the truth that you can obtain in a book or movie series. this is is a side track but one moment. how can you trust anybody to lead you in faith that has so many material things? that has a church built of the finest things? a desert faith practice in the dirt seems a little whored out in the american palaces of more preached from two thousand dollar suits or sang from a twenty thousand dollar sound system.

off track and my time is running low, but what i think it comes down to is that life is survivable. it is not hard, it is not easy but just a disease we live with. go pursue your dreams or stay in your rut or do what ever there are no other answers but what your working on and if times seem to tough to bear pass gas, that always seems to make me laugh.

good night.

the comedian 3

i spilled soup on my pants while working on a bit about grandparents. my blue performing slacks now have a line of white that looks like i visit jack booths. i have had an awful time of keeping this sack on my face. it slides to one side, making me appear lazy and disinterested. it covers my eyes so i can't see and run into things, the mouth hole closes so i almost suffocate and the causes me to sweat profusely.

my mother called to talk about this:

'how are you feeling?'

fine

'you know there is a cold going around. are you wearing a scarf?'

no

'i sent one out, did you get it?'

yeah

'well don't complain to me if you get sick.'

...

'how are things going with ____?'

we decided to break up

'she was a nice girl.'

...

'when are you going to give me some grandchildren?'

here i can hear my father from the back ground.

'first he needs a job. then you get the woman, then you get the kids. nobody wants to commit to a bum.'

'harry, you shush, he has a job. he's a...what do you call it?'

comedian

'comedian, thank you.'

'a comedian? hah! now robin williams that is a comedian. a comedian? i never heard of a famous comedian living in portland. they all live in new york or los angeles.'

'well there can always be first one.'

...

'you know jerry is doing well selling insurance.'

'harry, he doesn't want to sell insurance, do you? but really, he is doing well. we could call over there. i saw he was driving a new s.u.v and you should see his wife, beautiful...'

it is about here i place the phone on the ground and pace my studio floor staring out at the city's downtown streets watching overcoats and umbrellas tread through weather to work.

i lay down and tongue the ruined spots of my mouth. i watch the light trace itself across the ceiling highlighting the water stains and dust. through the buzz of heater i can hear my mother go on, she is talking about my sister and her success in the film industry. she is talking about my brother and his awards from the banking industry. i hear of beautiful children and gorgeous new houses. then there is silence.

i pick up the receiver and can hear her breathing. it is the breath of someone trying not to reveal they are crying.

'i just want you to be happy.'

...

'i do not why you decided to do what you've done. my beautiful boy. i...'

'say goodbye darlene.'

'i love you honey.'

goodbye.

i hang up the receiver.

a joke

i have these two friends.

a joke

i have these two gay friends who told me they wanted to get married. i asked 'why?' to which they responded, 'because we want to be happy.'

when the light turns from sunlight to head lights i rise. i drink some water and head out. tonight is tuesday, it is open mic poetry night at the latern post. with the lack of comedy clubs i take my stage time where i can get it.

the latern post is full of fat broads in plaid shirts. it is filled with dark rimmed glasses, with pale and pasty huddled masses. there is no confidence amongst them. scattered about the tables they are tender and hold their journals slightly tilted, when they grab the mic. they are quiet for the first few lines and then move, emboldened, on fire with the idea of being the star. being the center of attention. in five minutes it is over, in five minutes they return to their chair, slightly different from the applause secretly waiting to be congratulated to be admired to feel powerful.

i am here and the bag over my head has to be adjusted. the stain on my pants stands out pointing to dark secret perversions. i am third in line. i can feel them watching me, i can hear some whisper wondering if it is a gimmick.

the gate keeper is a beard belly of a man. he has a pony tail and carries his poems in a 5x8 spiral notebook. he is always the first and last to go. he always talks of being young and wandering the forest.

after the host is a wisp of a girl. she looks more apparition. wanda, her of raven black hair, her of raven black clothes and eyeliner. she will smoke until her name is called. she will float through the crowd untouched or unable to be touched. she will talk about cutting, she will talk about meth and dispassion in sex.

i am next.

a poem

shit. i am on fire

the clown

with the bubbled skin.

think that's funny

you should have seen

the skin i use to be in.

i am sweating, blind and suffocating. choking my way through. tottering like a drunk.

a poem

i used my paycheck

on this monster of

a black broad

i tipped her half

her pay

and still

yet still i mean

she laughed

when i pulled out my sex

naked save the sack

on my face

say 'come get some.'

you can't win

i tell you

there is wanda. she is smoking outside as i leave. as i gasp the fresh air. as i lean against the light pole and adjust my sack.

'i liked it.'

what?

'that second poem. i liked it.'

oh, thank you.

she uncrosses her leg. she rises from the curb tossing her cigarette in the street.

'you should be a comedian.'

1/1/10

alright you son of a bitch here we are. squaring each other up for the first time. i want no hassles or problems out of the box. i got me one of those head aches from sleeping on the top of a book and can't put up with your lip.
the last sucker that just left, he got me a few good shots to the stomach but overall we had a good time. there was more than our fair share of belly laughs. we are taking a year off so i don't want you going and making yourself the year of the newborn, save that for the next fellow.
now let's get this straight, we are going to make some big cash and go on a fancy trip to europe and then buy all them damn expensive clothes so when we come home we get to rub it in these poor bastarads faces.
let's get this straight, you can't whip me on the damn mail streets for much longer so you are going to go along with whatever i am pursuing and make it happen with very little trouble. i am going to buy a new damn car and extend this house so we look like we got the big bucks and everybody is whispering about how it all came together.
last year, that son of a bitch, had a lot of people buying lots of stuff and those jerks were walking around rubbing their materialism in my face. i don't give a damn about your junk but my wife wants good stuff and to show off, hey you should be able to show off when your the most beautiful woman around.
i think your going to be the agreeable sort that lets me get to LA and audition for extra roles in commercial and film. i am going to go there do disneyland with my family and audition in sunglasses.
after that we are going to see my old man in his new home in mexico where we travel to the sea and catch big fish.
your the year we get a hefty treasure and rub it in our friends and families faces. this is the year we don't feel obliged to go to church just because, hello, we are orthodox christian and you know you have to kind of walk what your talking. courage of your convictions.
listen i am not going to be the same dumb bastard that i was yesterday.
so welcome new year.
may we all be better at posing and have more than everybody else we know. and may we invite them over constantly to rub their faces in it!

the comedian-2

i have an abscess on my gum line. most lonely hours are spent tonguing about the area. there is a twinge from the pain but nothing too great, more like an annoyance or hobby. as i sit on park bench spotlighted by street lamp i rub a pencil between hands trying to forget, though like the hiccups it comes on again. while writing i find my tongue sneaking up, giving a quick brush then off before i can catch him.
i am frustrated. i am a man in a sky blue suit, non ruffled shirt open at the collar. there is a potato sack covering my face and as i feel my tongue darting i bite down then spit a bit of blood. gasping at the new pain amazed at the pain we get used to. the pain we can forget.

a joke:

there is this father. he is forty-two years old today. he has not been able to get a replacement for the job he lost ten months ago. his family has not been able to find a buyer for the house they are going to lose two weeks from now. they have downgraded from new toyota's to old ones by way of reposession and family loan.
his wife works to make ends meet but she makes too much to qualify for public support. the state food stamps are out of reach. the state health plan is out of reach and insurance will cost them four hundred dollars.
today is this guy's birthday.

3

how ridiculous! there are some who would let it stop them. there are those that believe you have to have a stage, that you have to wait until a club allows you on before you can perform. can you believe that? my stage is where i am standing at the moment i begin.
i have performed on street corner, on escalators, on parking structures and in toilets. dreams are gardens that have to be constantly tended. some may sit in their apartments or worn couch homes and think 'i will start on this day when this happens' like the obese and their pursuit of the perfect monday or the drunk and his search for rock bottom.
i was that once. now i have a bag to cover what motivates me. now i see. alone, when i towel from a shower, the commitment it takes.
i read about the christ. i read about the begging disciples, the whining disciples his motivation. he taught before them, but now with dependents it becomes something of more power. it becomes pressing to prove the dream so to prove their time was not in vain and they are not the joke of the neighborhood. look how far he proved that.
'no, your crazy' they would say, or think.

a joke

how do you get a republican to help the middle class? have a democrat vote against it.

a joke

my neighbor went off to afghanistan only to have his left blown off by a seven year old. when the child was questioned why he did it he said, 'my father told me to.'
so i asked my neighbor, i said 'what do you think the we ought to do in the middle east?'
he stared down at his stub and said, 'glass make it lots of glass.'
i though about this then asked 'but what about the jews?'
he sucked his teeth for a moment and said, 'don't we celebrate christmas, here?'

a joke
how do you make a anti abortion rally disperse?
you ask them to adopt the babies.

there are good days and then bad. the crowd that has gathered seems to be cold. the only one who hasn't groaned or pushed their finger towards me is a woman who seems to be on her lunch break.
'boo!' they say.
'not funny!' they say.
'i know somebody that...' they say.

a joke
i use to think it should be illegal for lesbians to use dildos. then i watched my first pornographic movie.

12/30 the com.

a joke:
so this salesman is in a diner in small town south USA and he asks the waitress, 'this is my first night in town. is there anything here worth doing?'
to which she replies, 'oh yes, you just have to go to farmer jacks chicken show.'
'chicken show?' he asks.
'yes, it is a tap dancing chicken.' she says.
'well i do have to see that.' he says
so she takes out a napkin and writes the directions to the farm. the salesman pays his bill and drives through the wilderness and dark for about twenty minutes, until he comes across a farm house with a sign that reads 'thunder the tap dancing chicken'. he goes to the door, pays some old lady two dollars and walks inside.
the farm house is full, of what appears to be every person in town. kids are celebrating their birthday in one corner, men are standing around talking sports in one corner and woman are in the middle keeping an eye on everything.
suddenly there comes a clank of a cow bell and the farm house lights flicker causing everybody to go to their seats.
the salesman watches, as outsiders tend to do, and ends up with a corner piece of bench in the front row.
there is a red curtain on the stage that parts and from out behind it comes a chicken dressed in billowy white open at the throat dress shirt, his pants are tight lycra connecting to polished to shine black tap shoe.
the chicken stands at attention. someone in the crowd whistles. then the music starts. as the drums begin to thunder the chicken begins to tap dance.
the salesman is immediately taken aback. it moves in perfect rhythm to the drum. the chicken moves, not as a wild thing unknowingly typing hamlet but as a professional. it's chicken head bopping to one side then to the other as the dance dictates. the animal does not make the cluck of a chicken but keeps quiet wings tight to it's sides shirt perfect in the movement.
the dance lasts for thirty breathtaking minutes. as the curtain parts and the chicken disappears people are hollering and applauding wildly. someone stands and throws feed at the stage causing others to do so. the salesman is so moved as to wipe a tear from his eye.
never had he witnessed such random strokes of genius.
as the crowd begins to thin out he makes his way back stage where farmer jack is standing beside the caged chicken and a group of other farmers all talking weather and news of the day.
'excuse me.' the salesman asks.
'help ya?' spits farmer jack.
'i just have to know how you trained that chicken to dance,' says the salesman pointing at the bird that is now clucking and chickening about the cage.
all the farmers look at one another knowingly and smile.
'well son, it's real simple. lean in close and i'll tell ya.'
the salesman leans in until he can smell the tobacco on the old man's breath.
'yes?' said the salesman.
the farmer takes a quick glance about the room then says, 'you don't take your dick out of 'em till your finished.'

real time:

i am at the kitchen table, my face soaked, my head soaked in gasoline. it is near two in the morning. desperation has pushed me to this. when allowed we push away our dreams, we become sidetracked. we fear and curse and move away from the path.
in my hand is a burlap sack with the eyes cut out. in front of me is a table of pain killers. i must burn for awhile. on the table is bottles of booze. i must be left with no choice. like moses face covered to hide the scars of the kiss of god, as i deliver the word.
gone will be the hours of the cubicle. gone will be the put off of open mics and the writing sessions to television. if i must be homeless, i will be homeless, if i must starve, i must starve and if i must die i die.
i am a comedian.
i am talking into a tape recorder.
i am a comedian.
in my hand is a burlap sack.
in my hand is a lighter. it makes a clicking sound as the fire comes off and on.
faith requires the sacrifice of everything to the glory of the goal.
we have fire. we have heat. we have no turning back.

2
introducing...the comedian. the soap box.

the last of the bums-

the last of the bums,

they come at 4 am at 5 am at any am crying you from sleep. they come tugging their blankets, soiled and hungry. they the youth being dragged by the wild animals that grow in the heart, the animals of adventure and discovery and once we were them. now we are sore from the work, sore from the mountains of letters and endless hard fought miles to keep the lights on.
we the grey hairing, we the worn sunday slacks hard sighing when we squat in the pew to serious our intentions to the orthodox christ while they giggle draw and stomp their feet. we the love makers heavy flesh crashing like waves into the hard beach line of wrinkled sheets and worn thin pillows.we lay gasping for air in the raven black winter night as they call out as they stumble across darkened flooring tears falling paining under the labor of teeth eruption.
where once there was the rush of downtown where everything was wet lips rudded cheeks flushed and all sentences had the passion of an exclamation point.
'who was that!?' she would say.
'immortal lee county killers!'
'yeah!'
'yeah!'
there was fire outside doug fir where we gasped these things. where we paced, she in her white puff jacket, where we smoked cigarettes rubbed our fingers together drooling slightly from the sides of our lips hungry for sex for next for something something something!
you must learn patience for the youth. the youth do need that. you must learn you can't get red wine drunk singing outside until three in the morning. you must learn that chasing your now wife through music clubs or the art museums can't happen anymore. the youth need that. the freedom for that.
i try these things. i get hungry still. i chase still.
these the new legions of champions have little to no time for your ornaments of nostalgia and they shouldn't. if we always looked back think of the pot holes we stumble upon, twist our ankles, hair smashed flat from falling down. onward i say, burn your bridges the future is out there not behind you.
i can tell them these things. for me, i am overgrown with the roots of mine mind. i spend hours watching the light change on the pavement or ceiling in a trance of remembrance.
why remember the time i rushed across country hearing j.r. and thinking we'd be received as conquering heroes. why remember when we (dear j.r.) stopped in new mexico and slept on the blood stained sheets? remember the fear of the scorpion? shackleton and his rattling thin bones of madness? the quick steps of sundar chasing us kids down?
there are fiction machines there are philosophical machines there are theological machines there are the dream machines.
i the dream machine, the reflection machine lost in the fog of war tracing shells and corpses ready to report when asked, 'what happened?'
remember nick your rude joke we teased you about?
remember josh the double mac?
brian's fisting?
i do.
i go back to three years older than my son, that is how long this machine has been on. it was idaho, it was early fall before all the birds had flown. young over stuffed tired from peddling it was time to relax and reflect (think of those things that machine had to dream upon!). while watching the transformation of cloud to baby, from cloud to two headed hell hound, to green lantern there came a tugging at my shoe. my gaze descended to find myself surrounded by a group of local toughs, three ducks had settled on either side and one at my feet. the one a green to grey white collard joe tugged playfully at my toe as if to say remember now is the time to focus on what's going on here.
i watch the fumbles, the stumbles bonks bumps and bruises. i watch the crazy dance move, the terrible cry fests and listen to goobles and shouts. i watch and record and wonder upon him as he drfeams is it of fantasy, is it of the day or is it of the vast endless universe that he rushes to embrace thrusting his tiny hands and legs straight in the night air to anxious to begin for covers. go forth, rush on don't fret for these memories, my boy, i will collect, record and remember these things.

2
the honeycomb
clung to his beard
causing the hair to mat
while the fish oil
weakened the scab
an the blood flowed

3

there is no holy testament to the drunk anymore. there is no prophet of the booze anymore. the tabernacle of the blessed pub sing alone. i, man, cling to the hunger for drink drunk that rattles through my rib cage and knocks into my head.
a glorious drunk we sang, watched and danced to those that moved through the night. glorious in our wine stained button shirts meaty stomachs pressing stretching the buttons while rubber lips flap and bounced against each other calling out to perfume and rouge.
oh wifey, you know as well that we would never have made it without red wine. with your father flushed angry bald head and silence. he did not take our laughter well. how they sat as we babbled on about the future, how i came and talked for two hours straight about my failures in life. oh the joy when your full of magic, love and merlot.
do you remember hood river and the thing we broke?
do you remember your mother calling?
the threat of the orphan close?
now we sneak drinks. from nine to nine-thirty. we huddle on the couch and talk through hand signs in case we wake them. how can there be joy when there is no guffaw, no belly laugh no loud fast conversations of whats to come?
they say farmers make the best parents because their only interests are in how to make things grow. i was raised among faith healers and the latch key orphans. it was not bad parents, it was idaho where everyone learned from the fields that you leave it alone, that you let it go. they believed that in the womb of the soiled earth their fortune did grow.
i wonder if texans are the same?
could you imagine? out in kansas corn fields they can point out the window, 'look see there it grows!' out in the dairy land, 'look see they grow!' to the idaho farm land, 'look see have faith it grows!'
the ease of the faith in christ must be born from the memories of the blank idaho potato fields where a man could sit on seemingly blank soil wipe his brow and dream of a spring time treasure.
it means i pace, it means i get uncomfortable watching my children unfold. it means i understand why my father went vacant and my mother held a job. it means that with most things i want to cover them up and return later for the harvest. it means it is unnerving to watch and see children take actions that cause damage or embarrassment. it means that you get worn thin when you have to stifle your orgasm and must limit yourself to, at most, two glasses of wine or booze. it means i see the miles of mail thirty five years worth, still to come! it means i am scared that when the harvest comes there will be no potatoes just empty soil.
it means faith is not the absence of fear but that your still farming even when your terrified and consumed by the hopelessness of it all.

4

i
like
the pigeon
bob my head
in agreement
to my son's
toddler babbles
while my lips are wet
cause they kissed my wife
an yet
hunger for more.

5

it's 6:30 in the morning. i begin with the trisagion prayer, the prayer of repentance, the prayer of a parent for their children and finally the marriage prayer. it is december and good orthodox christians are fasting. while i normally fast for lent and rarely eat red meat i do eat dairy, eggs and fish with backbone. i have made my peace with the fact that walking the mail six days a week and starving do not, necessarily, go hand in hand no matter the piousness. once i held all orthodox fast, for the entire year of wedensday, friday the nativity fast, lent etc etc and almost killed a neighbors cat to satisfy the anger and poison of a body on strike.
these things, they are not fixed, they are liquid and sand running through your hand. these things that we practice. they are warm and feel important.
i can't listen to the television or the talk radio anymore. i can't listen to the opinions anymore. they are tilts towards a demographic and extremes.
we are littered with icons. the sit on the table, they sit on the walls and all are staring out, all are waiting to be received, greeted and kissed. i use to circle like an embarrassed dog stealing a kiss or finger rub. i use to walk by oblivious to their thin yearning faces, i use to walk by them and curse for the added work of this new religion.
it was my wife, syrian, long black now auburn highlighted hair, strong lean legs of a colt thin hour glass body, deep pools of innocence and fire in her brown eyes and a smile that is genuine. she is honest and tough always true. she has a great beauty and a sharp mind that required me to come out of the wilderness. my wife led me to the church, would not get married unless i converted.
i was not an easy dog to train. i curse under my breath while they prayed. i had pornographic thoughts while the priest gave liturgy and always came hung over. while they prostrated themselves i sweated and watched the lights swing. while they crossed, while they spoke the creed i rubbed my damp forehead and pinched my excess fat.
i spent my time finding holes in the cause. i spent my time making jokes about 13 men and a hooker out in the desert. i spent my time vomiting forth all sorts of nonsense about a hatred towards something i never knew i had.
faith is a thin blanket. you can see the troubles, you can feel the wind and you can hear the pleas but your warmer than before. faith is a constant exercise in embarrassment. one must kiss those wooden pictures of orthodox saints as if you mean it. one must be reverent towards a man in obnoxious robes, bow before him, kiss his hand. one must breath in incense and think of those that have passed on, say the prayer for the departed and recite names over lit candles.
i came from a man that thought faith of anything more than yourself was a waste. the faith of the dreamer is to configure a want then push the universe around until it rewards you. faith in the holy trinity is that you walk this path and god's will be done.
i came from a philanderer and an adulterer. i came from a singer and a hotel runner. i came from a lumber barron and a moonshine runner. i came from dutch blue blood and a indian chief. i came from across the ocean and from this soil. all the way back my blood must have been baptized how many times? then lost to wander foothills and war grounds now back again. i see my son and wonder at where the future will take us.
the last bums
we waggle our fingers in the air
never good at roots
we tumble
through gutters
garbage cans
and women's arms
to find a nest
with permanent address
but still
we watch
the horizon line
an wonder if we meant
to tumble
a little more
further

6

our lord
jesus christ
son of god
have mercy upon me
a sinner.

7

this morning broke with my son tugging my arm. we sit and watch curious george as the work hour creeps near, as the breakfast hour creeps near. he is young so i'll hold him without embarrassment, so i will tussle his hair and pinch his toes. so i will have to wait until the night. wait until he sleeps, until his sister sleeps, until his mother is off to phone call or magazine articles to try and write again.
the sacrifice is worth the reward.
amen.

8

oh abraham why did you not fight for your son? oh abraham to abandon him and his mother to the mountains. where is the obligation of man, holy man, first man back bone of a nation man? i dream as i parse parcels and letters to ebony faces, auburn faces, dirt stained white faces, bloat face, stuck in wheel chair faces, the bloat faces of the infirm in ghetto homes pregnant with the stink of cat shit and bacon.
oh where would we be without abraham and the first act of the first free trade system? i take this over that. is that not the stain of the entirety of the book? the golden calf and the choice of the martyr?
i watch three year old mexican boys wander in dirty diaper. they lean and lurch weighed down by rotund stomachs gripping bottle full of soda. i see negro girls click clack their beaded braids together as snot run down their nose smiling through half plywood great windows.
the dogs are loud, aggressive in the yards of the ghetto. protective, i wonder of what? all the junk and garbage, who would steal?
there is desperation that seeps through the rust over eldorado to the high wheeled impala. there is desperation that bonds neighbors to each other. when you got nothing you have to rely on kindness.
oh abraham what different would be your choices if you were in the ghetto. what different if your pockets were empty and the utility man cometh wrench in hand to take your water away. what different your choice if you could feel the neighbor eye prying.
the god of the desert has no space on the city street to work it's mysteries.
the god of the desert has no space to move amidst concrete towers.
the god of the desert called the jews out of the city where the buildings huddled close. come out away where it's just you an me, where no one can see and judge if it's right or wrong.
the god of the desert is always making deals.
what does that mean?
i watch the parents in the ghetto in the slums supported by social security and hud. i listen to their booming voices calling their children out of the places where mystery could happen. i listen to their booming voices chiding them out of walking alone.
'now, listen, you don't ever go anywhere without your sister. you don't go anywhere without your brother, you hear?'
the american church is a testament to the crowd.
abraham would not have withstood the gossip. would not have gotten away with no child support. would have made a different decision.
i am baptized orthodox. my church is the church of the crowd. it is uncomfortable there, amongst the faithful, rubbing shoulders, whispering about so and so's new hair cut or pending divorce. the god of the desert, the god of vast empty spaces, the god of jagged rough faced mountains is not around.
i am that i am.
i watch these crowds of humanity move through school halls, through bar halls, through shopping malls. i am apart, i am lonely and most invisible. growing up the youngest, in the empty plains of boise idaho peddling my bike through vacant streets space enough to day dream.
the mailman ghosting across miles of sidewalk and yard. invisible. listening to the chatter and witnessing the glories of the people before company arrives and their face is put on. the answer the door in robes, they answer in dirty yard work clothes. they answer unwashed and unbrushed. some don't answer at all. these people, when i arrive and make my call.
i hear the wail of babes and drift on ishmael. abandoned by his father by the god of secret whispered promises. i hear the wail of babes and drift on my own children a sickness forms in the pit of stomach that i am not there for what tears the day may bring.
we all got some promise we act on faith.
the job faith
the marriage faith
the daycare faith
that buoys us as we abandon our children for the holy dreams of the workday hours.
it is the faith that in our seed is a great nation to come. that is the faith of escape that powers the people in the great dying molded tenements. one day their seed will find it's way to purer soil.
i don't know, but i pray everyday anyway.

9

this is about anger, mac. this is about the stress of it all. there are days that they scream until you want to wreck the car. there are days where you step in mud holes in front of the first mail box and have eight hours of drenched feet. there are days near the river when you see the piles of garbage bobbing like fisherman on tide waves.
we spend most days alone, you see. we spend most days apart. we spend most days on the phone talking about what we lost out on because of economics or lack of baby sitter.
there will be no time off.
sunday we watch, we polish ourselves and watch a man in 20000 dollar robes swing incense in a golden ball. watch amongst the other suits and loafers, while he holds his golden and ruby cross and ask for thousands of dollars to paint icons on the wall.
it's about anger.
i am losing myself in a sea of clothes that used to fit. i am losing myself to the silence of no company where the mind dreams up passions and frustrations. i am losing myself to impotence of inaction, to the impotence of talking but not doing.
to feed to insure to roof to cloth to love these things cost. these arms are heading into my pockets leaving my penniless and exhausted. abandoning me to the abandonment of friends and their calls.
'hey, let's so and so get the kids together?'
'ah, i am only available sunday from 3- 4:15.'
'okay'
then there is no rest. then there is the pacing back and forth. then there is thinking, 'i have to be at work tomorrow. i have to be up at 6:30 to pray, stretch, eat, shit and write.' then i think of the gutters to clean, of the leaves to rake, of the car to gas, of the clothes to wash and food to buy etc. etc.
it burns slow.
there is my wife. there are the phone calls begging for a day off. there are the bills that stand in the way. there is my wife moaning the lament of the promises that fell flat. there is the grandma that has to go back to work, to eighteen hour days, there is the threat of failure all around the darkness of the void.
what if i twist my knee and can't work for a week?
there goes the mortgage.
the cycle is endless. always something to complain on...
enough!
this is about anger.
a man of full health, mind and ability can't change this? it's on you.
dream of the blind, dream of the infirmed, dream of the neighbors blown to half pieces in the war.
there are children in the streets of afghanistan orphaned whipped by shrapnel and driven to terrible acts from starvation.
there are children here, down the street, same diaper for days no food beaten by drug addicts.
if, even then, in the worst of it the heart beats and the mind dreams isn't it about hope?
i watch my son and hold him. i lay and stare at the ceiling. i can feel our hearts beat together and fuck it. life is about hoping and going for the thing you will be happy dying to reach.
if it's about anger. then it's about anger as the fuel to get you out 'the hole that he's in.'
let's us pray.

10

so we talk of death. so she runs her fingers through early morning hair. so we keep up with the jones' and the skeletons in their closet. so our son plays and dances to the twinkle of the christmas tree lights.
she talks like a woman. she talks while criss crossing her legs deep kind eyes gaze towards the ceiling and even now, without shower or makeup she is gorgeous. she of the heaving chest and quick tears when a child bumps it's head or i trip. she of the great deep belly laugh, she of deep wells of passion that erupt at a moments notice. there is love there.
the death of a partner, i watch her hands stab the air while she talks of the self imposed nunnery. while she talks of a life of abstinence. while she erupts, leaps and waves her hands over her heart.
'god forbid!' she says.
'dead is dead. what do i care if you screw some body on my dead body?' says i.
'god forbid!', she says.
'listen, forever is a long time alone. you should allow yourself...' say i.
'well your a man,' she interrupts, 'men can't be alone.'
'i'll just hire prostitutes,' i laugh.
'like that's better,' she hisses.
her lips purse and she stomps her feet like. there is a tenderness, a warming of the heart when you can see through the grown up and catch images of them as a child. i can see her now defiant against the world one shoe untied eight years old and ready for a fight.
i take time to engrave these things. these piles of innocents. it's after the storms when the world is clean and rainbows trace the path to buried treasures. it's the crisp fresh morning waiting for the fifth grade bus and going flush in the cheeks from limitless possibilities. it's the security of the promise to be true and honest at the altar of marriage.
'life is about the effort. when your dead your dead. do not bother yourself with such things dear,' say i.
my son runs an excited finger against the dark grain of our cheap coffee table. my son goes arms upstretched into a squeal and circle. my son collapses to his chair and takes in his shows. my daughter is sleeping in her crib tender fresh lips slightly parted in a blow. my wife walks towards the kitchen, she stops kisses my forehead.
'i'll wait for six months...', she flashes a smile, 'then i'll join a nunnery.' she is before the christmas tree the slow twinkle light highlighting the honest unblinking auburn eyes, highlighting the raven and ash highlight in her hair, highlighing her trim lean long athletic frame. 'i'll be laying right next to you, god willing, i WILL be laying next to you,' she says as if a threat to the universe.
god forbid.
she begins to pump her milk. my daughter stirs. the morning light brightens. life is good.

11

there are children
there
out lost to laughter and asphalt
wearing deep blue
or black
or polka dotted hats
waggling their arms
in
seasonal joy
of winter break
of the mystery of wrapping paper
the rain slicked
the grass
and roads to a shimmer
though
it's the puddles that cause one
to stop
and wonder
if that's reflection
or another universe
i seen the sky in the water
and realized we're all upside down
and none of this existed
save but in the heart
of a warm blooded
innocent
dream writing about love
for
the comfort of arms
or lips
or telephone calls
that you remember
i spent the moments
after we made love
thinking of soldiers
with their guns and santa hats
in the streets of a muslim city
i love
i hope
i dream
that we all make it home
someday
to enjoy the holiday
amen

12

it's the cold. that is when i grow this beard. scruff wild with an island of gray. it is christmas, or the morning after, it is the tens of slices of pie left to consume. it is all the noise of the electric children learning toys. it is the predawn dark of the rumble work trucks heading to paycheck alley. it is the construction of a new duplex down the street casting a black grim shadow over the neighbors house. standing as a slap in the face to humble house in front. it is the 92 year old neighbor suffering slight madness and walking in circles through the back yard snow white head twisting to the sound of a grandchild's laugh. it is the evicted cat family, cat father hat in hand mewing to be allowed entrance to the cellar, mewing that they 'most certainly won't make noise or knock apart furnace pipes this time.' it is the balancing act of my three month old daughter as she demands to stand. it is my father bringing roasted chicken and pie in his dirty pajama bottoms. it is the energy of my brother as an uncle squishing, tossing and rough housing the children into submission.
there are open shops. there is the mad woman having an argument with her split personality. 'one pack, we get one pack, no one pack, stop it, okay, sirsirsirsir, can we get two packs...is this the right chang...oh wait your right two packs. thaaats one for me and one for you, twotwotowopacks.' there is the loose eyes of the man behind me, whose presence felt seven feet tall an eight feet wide. 'i got me here some winners,' to pile of tickets.
so christ was born in spring. so what?
there is this beard and a wife's new haircut sexy though an attack on confidence. there is the morning and there are ideas to be tried. the redbook has spoken. time is up!

13

faith along the way. i take pictures of discoveries, of loosed twigs or branches that have fallen onto the ground to form a cross. i take pictures of children laughing as they slide. pictures of old timers that still lean into each other for healthy kisses. pictures of the things that first blush cause you to go warm. there is space on empty intersections when the weather is cold and the sun light fills. there is space between men on bar. there is a fullness an airdustrial (vitally invisible) quality to it all.
i hear garbage trucks to collect our christmas discards. does it strike a chord of joy or melancholy? do we focus on the smiles from the gifts in the boxes or on the smushed torn paper taking with it another season to the recycle pits?
i am heavy. my body aches in the morning. emits loud grunts or blasts when i bend or twist. i have to stretch in the morning now. i have to bend with my knees to pick up mail bins or my kids now. there is a feeling of marriage, safety, peace and union in our love making now.
gone to pasture the savage hunger of youth. gone savage the idea that makes your head damp and emit steam as you power up and down dirty city asphalt. gone to pasture not blinking but staring deep into fresh new women at the bars or poetry readings.
i have no patience but live on the cheap which is all patience. the patience to save for things. the patience to not eat the whole box of chips or every apple. where at first it was ah youth the consumption machine to ah father the patience machine rub their head and cheer them onto the discovery themselves.
where at first i would abandon and rush about saying,
i got me
some here fire
in the gut
and i am looking
for love
or lust
or blank fresh skin
to moan my poem
upon
an don't mean nothing to
nobody or
leave no instruction
behind
so let's us just
drink
an scream
an fuck
let's us just
drive fast
with the windows down
in the winter
to honor the dead
let's us just
spend all our money
an wake spent from it all
bathing in new sunlight

to:

son
you got's to
do it
use your pole
find your fish
dream over the
mountains
an if somebody says
can't
leave them behind
to kiss with tongue mother
i had a hard day at work
an our anniversary is too
far away
to be strong
daughter
men will come
the great destroyers
thieves in the temple
take your pole
find your own fish
an never give away
what you aren't willing
to lose
or be stuck to

i see the emptiness of my fridge. i see the sad exhausted face of my clothes hang limp and dirty from their hanger. i see the hair on the floor. i see the frozen dishes. i see my wife exhausted and leaning into the couch as the children coo and rush from mound of toy to mound to toy. there is music in the air.
we the family. we are exposed on the toilet by the son now.
there is something full mysterious and wonderful laying across us now. our burdens filled with purpose. our patience tested and grown by the farmer hands of babes.
the christmas tree dies naked on the porch. the ornaments and toys are put to slumber. the morning sun is cresting and my son is going to sit on the toilet for the first time.

14

my father wanders his cold rental thinking about failure. he holds a drum stick and apple pie, both home made. he says 'no names' full puff nose and forest of eyebrow hair dancing as he speaks. my father rub's his stomach and says 25 more lbs. his holiday in stained pajama an abandoned thing, uncared for lost to madness his voice a low grizzly growl as he rocks his grand daughter to sleep.
there is the smell of age about him. there is the threat of impending doom. there is my personal pride for all he has accomplished and overcome battling the failure's witnessed as he grew. we grow to better understand it was only the best effort that they gave and nothing was intended or malicious.
i look about, at his family in ruins. all scattered to the wind. my mother lost to the ocean waves, my sister to the LA skyline, brother to the big business bank machine and i to the circle of city blocks i trot mailing about. we are the family of the spread hand. all connected but distant from the others.
my father the outlaw.
they don't retire from the life. he drives with no license. he drives with no insurance. he carries all his money in a cash knot in his pocket. he leaves with no notice. he is the wild dog chasing dinner in the blood sun set desert sky.
i admire him.
we follow not out of loyalty but after years of instruction. i see know, with my son, how it must be. every day there is instruction. every instruction carries with it a choice, once rewarded and the other with consequence.
we are the memory machines. what you chose to study to remember to create skill is the reward generator. i the medicine memory man produce more rewards than the door knob memory man who produce more rewards than the hamburger check out man who produce more reward than the can collection and return man.
i remember him. as he liquidates his assets and burns his roots off. i remember idaho and the beard sharks. i remember the karate pajamas and freethrows with our eyes closed. the outlaw. the last of the bums. on his way to mexico to find his graveyard. as my son stirs and i can hear my wife's magazine pages i can feel the sunset on our backs as we wander fields to find the rock to pay our respects to.
i love him.

the end.