My Confusion with Everything

Remember the good old days
when we could say something stupid
in the bar? Our kids, one-eyed, silly and toothless.
The breezy calm of lawn darts,
slingshots and falling from trees.
Sprawled in the sun,
we were baby-oil burnt
crackled-pork skin.

Who doesn’t feel a little cheated?
AKA the wool pulled over our eyes.
Gone is the simple retribution of a slug in the head.
The clunky charm of the Imperial system.
The V8 sedation of a Sunday drive.
Who doesn’t long to toss a bucket
of feces out the window?
Blame bad weather on witchcraft.

Thank God for the infidels.

This prickly protocol of the new normal:
Can we masturbate without going blind?
Swallow our chewing gum?
What about these leeches still stuck to our chest?

Wasn’t it enough, when they took
the cocaine out of Cola?
Forced us to strap our kids
into the back seat of a car.
Forbid them to stick their heads
out the window, feel the sting of wind,
the thrill of a bug exploding in their eye.

Before it’s over, some heretic
will come screaming:
the world is as round as an orange,
the navel of an infinite universe.
Our gravity, so immense,
stars will yearn to comfort us.

Twinkle as if everything is all right.

River Lore

I wander through rivers
stumble over rocks
tiptoe between the certainty
of logjams and the grizzly bear
hidden behind the bush.
I fling a thin line into the current,
a tiny hook disguised
as a fly, moth, beetle,
the succulent deception
of its blue-green belly.

I’ve got better things to do
than drag these fish to my knees
cradle them in my palm
twist hooks from pierced lips.

Yet, who can trust the tyranny
of evolution?

Before I return fish to water
I cast a stern stare.
I say, this is a scrap of foam.
This, a dry feather, bristled,
discarded to dirt by a peacock.
Let the hook’s glint
be your beacon. Let it remind you
of the cruelty of pointy things.

I’m teaching you a lesson:
how to become a better fish.

The Audacity of Aging

At 50, everyone has the face he deserves.
—George Orwell

One day, we wake up and realize
we’re too old to search for the drunken shoes
of missing friends. Too old to translate
their late-night babblelogue slurring
towards the door. Too old to lean against
the sink at three a.m., wash hi-ball
glasses inherited from my father.
Each one a frosted map of Florida,
and other places he dreamt about.

Yet, we’re still invited to parties
of a younger crowd, navigating
the precarious window
before we resemble their parents.
Before they hand us their clinging kids
and bedtime storybooks.
“Liam likes his back scratched,”
they will say.

In five years, we’ll call the police,
complain about the brouhaha next door,
the hipster parents playing bocce at midnight,
their hissing meat spitting at our fence.

We notice how quiet we’ve become.

We tiptoe into their homes, pause
inside the doorway, kick snow from our boots,
like fuddy-duddies in galoshes and hairnets.
In the living room, a young father is surrounded
by a ring of clapping people. He’s doing The Swim.
He plugs his nose, bloats his cheeks,
submerges beneath the surface.
He wiggles his hips, as if to deceive the water
into letting him in.  
Now, he’s a sprinkler.
Now, a robot.
Now, he’s twerking.
And although I’ve never hit anyone,
I want to slug him.

I want to retreat to the warm car,
drive home, watch Ed Sullivan introduce the Beatles.
But in the kitchen, there are beautiful women
in Asian dresses. On the counter,
a cheese tray adorned with parsley.

A Trail of Crumbs

I wander into traffic,
notice a sign suggesting I turn left.
My dad, up to his old tricks again.
One day, it’s Watch for Falling Rock,  
the next, a weathervane pointing east.
I stalk a trail of bread crumbs
he scattered before dying.
On sad days, I wonder
if they weren’t left for crows, robins
or waxwings seeking sobriety.
At the drive-thru a muffled voice
offers homespun advice
about the value of hard work
and asks for forgiveness.
But in the crackled static,
the message is distorted,
something about sugar and cream.
On the overpass, a battered pickup
slows and offers me a ride.
I snicker at how predictable life is:
the straw clenched between his teeth,
the annoying way our sun
always sets.