The Quiet

I once told my father that I didn't like to fish. I think he was vaguely disappointed, but made up for it by attending every one of my performances. He also came into the living room when I started playing piano and would look over my shoulder, trying to decipher notes like a strand of DNA. He would always say, "That sounds great Seth. Your piano sounds great." I was embarrassed by this. I couldn't lean over my father's shoulder when he was fishing and say the same thing, but maybe I didn't ever have to. I suppose the admiring looks when he would tie knots, then teach me to tie them as tightly, was my own way of saying, "Your own instrument is beautiful too, Dad." He would magick a canoe onto his shoulders as if it were a kitten lifted by its mother in her jaws, to be carried across the floor safely and quietly to rest. I suppose my father will always be somewhat magical to me, as if he is always somehow above me, aloof to me; an angel that looks down on me with laugh lines around his eyes as he casts his spinning plug into the dark recesses of a stream at dawn. I still don't really like to fish, but I will with him, because it is where he is happiest and where his artistry glows like sunrise. I am confident when he is gone, my father will live among the reeds and cool waters of mountain streams, jumping to catch the sunlight on his smooth back. And I hope I never catch him, but always live there, waiting in my boat, as he swims swiftly by, the corners of his mouth turned to a smile, the ripple of his tail reminding me of his grace.

Unfinished

I feel like we are two little bees

dancing around a flower

that we think might be poisonous

and so I say, "You go" and you say,

"You go" and we both go together

and suddenly we are dusty with pollen

our abdomens swollen

our chalklines misshapen

into one blob, so that you can't really tell

where one arm ends and the other's leg

begins.

And that's what we are doing,

we are beginning, like kindergartners

to discover our favorites.

What is your favorite mood swing?

Mine is the one where you are laughing

and then suddenly you look at me

and you are deeply serious in your soul

and so afraid and so captivated

that I can't help but smile mischievously

and smirk at your incontinence.

I think yours are my sounds I make,

like a manatee would if it were groping

on dry land,

at every bad or good or weird part in a movie.

I like that I can't remember you are lactose intolerant

and so consistently offer you milk products

which you decline politely, every time.

I like that you keep hitting me.

I like that we are unfinished, like a Sappho fragment,

and only we, who write ourselves into each other's lines

every night, know what those hidden parts mean.

Salmon Basting

Sounds of gunshot wounds at 1:30 in the morning

make me think about the life I may have lived

outside of this petty room called Time. Where

was I when Ferdinand was shot? Did I know

that Caesar was doomed to lay himself down

on the steps of the Senate? Was I one of the knives

in the crowd that broke his final resting place?

I know not. I am a traveler in my own time,

a monkey's reflection of silly little bastard children

that wreak havoc in my twilight soul. I cannot

be more than a longing in the deep midnight

of some oft-forgotten terrace down south, but

I long to be more than a Moon that Creeps

Under Doorways to lash the fine night with

haze and mystery. I want be more than a part

of you. I want to be entirely of you, as if I was

made of macaroni and cheese and you were

an art project that swam into existence on some

fourth grader's fingertips. I want to be the wind

that macerates your hair on a sailboat driven

by your yuppie ex-boyfriend, his shiny teeth

overpowering the glint off the salt-water.

I'd like to think you are laying down beside me

right now, in a jungle somewhere, licking

blood off your coat, and gazing smugly

at the sun-dappled sky. I want to be the snow

on the tip of your tongue as you catch it

twenty years ago, and realize how sweet

and plain this life is when it's fresh.

Truth

To say simply, in a few words:

When I first saw you, across the room,

I longed to sleep beside you,

that I would know the most peaceful

and most precious of your truths:

how soft you breathe.

Somewhere

You are becoming a redness in my eyes,

a vague notion of sleeplessness and pre

occupation. I am somehow a traveler

that has gotten stuck around you like

a kayak on a rock, twisting and bending,

the plastic and kevlar moaning across

the rapids as I fight to keep afloat. I am

exhausted by this chase, this madness

that floats at me like a poem on the wind,

drifting lazily into the back of my head

as if I were nothing more than a pen

meant to digest and regurgitate these

words of trouble. It frightens me, to think

I have become so unhinged by you. Now,

I'm waking up later every morning,

trying in vain to think, to pasteurize

thought into something coherent, but you

keep popping into the fruitful well that

is the underside of my eyelids and I feel

naked to its power. I am surfing, not

for the first time, on the wave of euphoria

that is you. I am tumbling, headlong, like

Alice through the looking-glass, and I have

met these strange creatures of thought

that manifest like silent drill sergeants

around my ears, ringing my senses with

their cursory glances backwards and

through my defenses. I can be no more

than a memory now, a sluggish poster

boy of promises that I simply cannot keep;

maybe never keep, to you or anyone else

and that keeps me awake at night, keeps

me dreaming and hoping that tomorrow

I may see you again, to forget, forget, forget

all the nights and their doubts that creep

around my bed and hide themselves in my

pillows, so that when I lay down, I am

suddenly alone among the dead quiet

that becomes loneliness. It is here I cannot

hide from the future that lies so perfectly

straight ahead of me, like a yellow brick road,

that began in Oz, and ends, somewhere.

But if only it could end with you, and your

golden lashes fluttering against my shoulder

every morning, and your perfect smile

and your eyes that simply are the color of dawn

reflected on the ocean on a deserted beach,

somewhere. Your eyes that contain an essence

of a soul I knew when I was much younger,

and the world was much younger, and we were

both - somewhere. How I long for us to meet,

in some future time, in some distant country,

so that we may, without the prejudice of our

former selves, fall like raindrops in love,

and kiss like fireflies whispering gold into

a twilight field. Please, whatever you may do,

wherever you might go, whoever you may

belong to in the end, agree to meet me in that

somewhere, that extends out of my heart like

a current of rippling gold. Dance with me,

like a firefly, and I promise I will love you

until my soul is worn to a thin and silken

strand of nothing and woven into everything,

so that when a butterfly beats its wings

near your skin, you will feel me calling you,

beckoning you, somewhere.

Past Lives

I have always written my best because of you.

I suppose you are some kind of muse, that often

highlights the poignant gray matter of my brain,

skipping around my neural highways

like a bicycle on a freeway. I think seeing you today

was a sort of wake-up call to all that. Speech flowed

from my mouth like a perforated gunshot wound,

bleeding red red red from freedom.

I was happy to see you, so blessedly happy to see

that you were still around, and still, after all this time,

still wanted to speak to me, and after all this time,

still happy that I wanted to speak to you.

I was a florist of words and ideas around you,

picking and choosing an arrangement of thought

that came so naturally under your careful gaze.

It will be good to visit those places, those dusty

museum pieces in the my mind; to treasure

their dusty consequence and laugh at their

hopeful naivete. I look forward to our backward conversation.

Jessie

I remember when my dog came for the first time,

the day after Christmas. My parents picked her up,

and she was still weak, and groggy, and sick

from the anesthesia that went with being spayed.

I remember seeing her, dull-eyed, looking at me as if I

were spoiled milk, and promptly retching all over the kitchen.

My grandparents, who were visiting, began then

an archaic tussle, trying to move an immovable object

to a spot already cordoned off for her: the porch.

But as she grew bolder, more comfortable, and older,

she and I became fast friends. We had a kind of mutual

respect - I would take her on long walks, indulge her

in every smell, every squirrel, every dog that had ambled that path;

and she wouldn't tell when I had my girlfriend over

when no one was home, so we could make love in the shower

like a much older and more responsible couple.

She died recently, was put to sleep while I was away at school,

and I still have not been back her grave to say goodbye.

Part of me still expects her tail to scrape against the door

as I come home for the holidays, begging me to love her

as compassionately as she gave herself to us. There are still

echoes of her nails across the wooden floors at night,

like a tinkling of bells in the beginning of a Christmas Eve service.

Perhaps that is why I never mourn her: she still lives

somewhere inside my heart, like a lighthouse on a foggy night.

Perhaps that is a measure of success. She is remembered

because she loved. Maybe that is all we can be.

Father's Song

When I was younger, we used to sleep with our doors open,

the wind blowing from one window to the next,

keeping us tied together like prayer flags on a mountaintop.

The moonlight would bathe us as if we were nothing more

than a baby, sitting in the sink, being washed and held

as only my father could hold me. He counted my breaths

on the first day I was born, and that's how I know

he still loves me. I used to sleepwalk into my parents' room,

their door wide open, and play baseball with my father

in the dark of the night, swinging at his curveball

in the pale moonlight. He would put me back to bed,

singing me all the verses of 'American Pie,' and that song

was never sung by anyone better. In his lab, I would play

with pipettes and watch as he set fire to the counters,

only for it to vanish like a magic trick. He loved his work.

He would teach my brother and I to fish, to cast out

our lines into deep pools in shady spots,

where the good fish lay deep in their brine and contentment.

He taught us to kill, to gut, and to eat the fish.

My father taught us to J-stroke, to use the paddle

as a tiller, so that even on the windiest of lakes,

battling waves above your head, you kept a straight line;

and we did. He would find things; a moose, a loon,

an owl, a flower - and he would marvel, with the concentration

of a fishing man, at its beauty and newness.

He kept books of his birds, marking down each

like another trophy he picked up for the day.

He still builds perfect fires, that glow so warmly

on Christmas Day it's as if the logs sing

'Chestnuts roasting' as they become ash.

I can see him, drifting drowsily on the sofa,

his chin on his chest, with a green turtleneck and plaid pajamas,

a book lying quietly beside him. He is so beautiful,

like an old canoe kept trim with time. He starts,

and makes his way upstairs, to pass by the open door

of my brother's bedroom, where once we both slept.

And I think he smiles, as the wind comes through the house

and the lines are drawn through his memories, tied together

like prayer-flags on a mountaintop, each gusting with happiness.

19 Times 9

Drifting towards the moment

when I may ripple through your

wake, I stop, and sit.

I cannot be more than

he can to you, but how much more

do you want from me?

I feel like a schoolboy,

duped by his smarter, more eager

and ruthless classmates.

Now I'm not sure where I stand

in your world. To what side of

the line should I stay?

Should I err with caution,

give you an ultimatum,

or languish in abandon?

The world will continue

turning, and happiness will

present itself once more -

But here is a chance for it now.

Do I take it? Do I leap?

Do you know...?

I think maybe not, not in the way

I want you to.

So I will be honest.

Which is good. Leave nothing

to chance. Leave opportunity

open. Ripples to respond.

Joker

My body sings the light electric,

like a cover of 'Blue Moon.' I'm

caught up in this storm of some

thing, some sort of magic that

is playing subtly over my fingers

and toes, deepening the damp

darkness between my ears. I

am grasping at some thing, a

monster out of reach, in a dry

basement, that creeps up the

stairs when he hears no noise

above him. He is gnawing at

my feet, playing havoc with

my sleep, and generally, most

generally, marshaling my body

for some sort of push into the

abyss. It's like I'm a massive

sponge, soaking up everything

around me, but not giving off

anything to anyone. I'm a

queer kind of parasite, who

cracks open eggs of dinosaurs,

eats their young and dissolves

into the shady night. I'm a

troll under a bridge, wishing

for solace on the side of the

road. I cannot be anymore

than I am, but life is demand

ing it somehow, like a joker

in a card deck. The lucky ones

always die first.

Playing Love

It was too easy, when you grabbed my hands

so tightly, like the world meant nothing but

them together, to look at nothing but you

and even kiss you, in a clandestine fashion,

like the way I imagine penguins might kiss,

all a huddled mass, performing private functions

in public places. It was too easy then, to watch

nothing but you, as I lay beside you, trying

vainly to sleep in your perimeter, like some

kind of clown in a too-small bed. It was easy

to regret that I could not sway your vastie

conscience, and easy to fall in love with the

next girl that came along. It was hard to leave

you there, underneath a plaid scarf wreathed

about you like a prayer. It was hard to tell you

things I didn't mean, to hurt you, to push you;

to try in vain to fight a spell not of my own

making, but not entirely of yours either. It was

so easy, so blessedly easy to say I'm sorry, to hold

you in a muscled fashion, as a mother might hold

a child who had stopped breathing. It was so easy

to sit there, whisper jokes into your ear, to laugh

with you and intertwine our fingers like twigs

growing from the same tree, as we watched the

drama unfold from our shield of happiness. It

was so hard to leave that behind, and remember

reality's mirror; to throw you over my shoulder,

like a heavy bag from IKEA, and dance on down

the road. It truly was a dream, meant for a summer's

night, that rolled so easily, like the tide on up the

beach, to be everything and all to you. To be your

world, like a blind man that hears Chopin for the

first time, and cannot describe the beauty his ears

may sing. It was something to hold onto through

the shallow days that pervade my existing. A lilypad

floating gently in a lake somewhere up north, as my

canoe ripples its grace. A lone loon song. A catch.

Starry Night

I tried to find a beanie today, to go with my plain

white t-shirt and linen cargo shorts. I thought you

might find it cute if I became one of those hiker

guys who wears a beanie all summer, maybe because

he's balding, but maybe because he's just too cool

to take it off ever. It's a fleece one, light material that

only covers the top of the head, but says something

like, "Life's Good!" or "The North Face" to increase

its hippie and outdoor-ish value. I couldn't find it,

though I didn't look in all the best places. My one

hopeful place was a sporting goods store with a

huge section of camping equipment, but no winter

gear was to be found. I suppose that makes sense,

it being summer, but still. But I couldn't find it,

couldn't somehow complete a better version of

myself for you. Maybe a simpler version, maybe

something you might like better and better until

you finally got the courage to...be with me. I already

have the adorable backpack that comes everywhere

with me, the clever smile, and witty rapport - will

the beanie do the trick? I even showed you my dance

moves, read you some poetry. But if life has taught

me anything, it is that the heart of a woman is

as complex as fleece fabric. She is twisted into

a million tiny strands of soft wool and cotton, each

one holding a secret she keeps so dearly to her heart

it's as if she were growing a pearl there. I have dared,

so many ancient times to open such a shell and pluck

that brilliant jewel from her breast, but nothing will

protect me from its aftermath, from its inevitable

decline from dream to reality, myth to periodical.

So I steamroll on, in the hope of keeping the dream

alive, even though I know it will probably fade and

die like the rest of them. But I have watched the stars

under a strange sky, and seen how long it takes for

them to flicker out. My hope will not wane so quickly.

Patterns

I guess it's true that I always fall in love with the wrong woman.

Maybe she is entirely too much, entirely too little, entirely too

taken, or entirely too brittle to bend to my shifting, changing

shadow; a reflection that time should not be measured by.

Honestly, I don't know where Time goes. It's like a three-legged

race, but Time has three legs and I have none. I'm crawling

across acres of my past to catch up to it, but it's simply out

of reach, out of the manic, underlying energy that pervades my

heart and spirit like some wild colt running free across a moonlit

field. What I want I see in front of me, and so it takes me on a

journey into familiar outposts - stations of longing I set up

a long time ago, back when love was such an adventure and

a woman was but a subject line in an e-mail address. We were

the worst kind of pen pals, making promises to visit each other,

wait for each other. It was a ridiculous courtship, a scenario

of vastly understated naivete, broken now and again like a glass

bottle, which was briefly held up to each other's throats in turn,

passing it back and forth to mean nothing in the end but a

turncoat phrase: "Goodbye again. I won't be speaking with you

until I've found myself." So many women have been handed

that phrase, and I left them like a rubber sole peeling from a shoe.

They wore me out, tramped on me as if I were nothing but a pet.

They treated me the way you treat a hamster, telling it to run on

its wheel, eat its food, drink its water, and occasionally, bring it

out to stroke, or fondle, or show off to a few friends on weekends.

I liked to watch the birds eat off the feeder, while she was watching

reality television. I liked to cry at heroic movies, while she watched

me weep, without understanding. I liked to read her poetry, that

I had written for her, but that she could not understand. I wanted

to have sex all the time, and she wanted more; more understanding,

more pity, more feeling from me. More something. Who knows?

I am a vigilante of love, seeking out the next thrill, but always, always

falling in love with the wrong woman.