she is not someone you meet
she's visually striking, but her beauty is revealed over time, as the elements sculpt the side of a marble cliff
she has mostly male friends, even when she's married, none of which can ever tell where things stand
she'll share a double room with you during an overnight trip, then after she takes a really long bath you awake to find her curled up at your side
she'll ride with you into the sunset till the road ends and then hop the next plane
she re-creates her family in whatever circle she finds herself
she is her own time and space and a world your dreams can only wish they were set in
she's the cashews in your chex mix - edible without them, but what's the point?
she is distant all evening and then sings haunting, wordless medieval chants as you make love
she's a guilty pleasure in that you hopelessly adore her in spite of yourself
she is almost as good of a friend as she is inspiring, yet at times, even more so
she's the risk you can't afford not to take
she forms relationships from her own mold, which if you manage to break, she'll quietly, albeit somewhat reluctantly, savor it in hear heart forever
she's a figment of your imagination even as she stands right in front of you
she perpetually keeps you within inches of the most horrendous mess you could ever find yourself in
she is wonderfully, wonderfully imperfect and may just admit it if you stick around long enough
she's a girl on the inside, obviously, but one who's unabashed sweetness sneaks up on you, making you wonder why you ever doubted her
she is someone you experience
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Damn the Torpedoes
Remind me for the zillionth time that her heart knows no bounds with him. Fight as she may, it's only a matter of time. She'll bend the rules. She'll surrender her will. She'll sacrifice goals and comfort to see things through, even enduring humiliation. She'll give till there's nothing left and follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond.
To call her a fool would prove me a hypocrite. God knows I've wagered hope and trust in even frivolous pursuits.
That gleam of approval in her eyes may as well be the headlights of an oncoming train. Their exchange of knowing smiles rings a death knell in his ears.
So are you, um, doing anything tomorrow night?
To call her a fool would prove me a hypocrite. God knows I've wagered hope and trust in even frivolous pursuits.
That gleam of approval in her eyes may as well be the headlights of an oncoming train. Their exchange of knowing smiles rings a death knell in his ears.
So are you, um, doing anything tomorrow night?
Thursday, May 21, 2009
whacked
To countless Western adolescents, as Regan talked tough with those short-time Soviet premiers who have all but escaped our minds, the greatest looming deterrent of our time bore various monikers. The Board of Education, Mr. Bo Ard, The Physical Educator, or that of a similar vein could be read along the business end of some of them, at least at my middle school. The ones you never saw sported holes for aerodynamic efficiency or even had rusty construction nails sticking out.
Just one broadside strike of a desk never failed to save souls. What we associated with that particular word was, for some, way more horrifying than a grizzly mafia hit could ever be.
Mrs. G, next to our homeroom, had the shop instructor fashion hers in the shape of a human hand and painted with school colors, if memory serves. On its fateful inauguration day our own teacher, the dry WWII vet, would-be lovechild of John Wayne and Principal Skinner, ordered us seated and silent after he was discretely asked to witness, as if anyone wanted to miss overhearing the proceedings. Breathing minimally we strain, some grinning, others solemnly, to discern the mumblings from outside the open door. If the inquisition ever became intricate he might reappear, to quell us, unless the gunpowder crack of sovereignty meeting Jordache denim invoked saucer-eyed pause. This time the report is followed by a tink-tink-tink as if someone dropped an empty soda can. Later that day most of us saw her toting the faux paw, minus a thumb, evidently shearing along the join at impact.
In eighth grade one of the guys tells me that Bonnie Bowles was able to avoid corporal punishment by citing the way of women as a nod to Jacob's Rachel. Once, while passing the assistant principal's office I could almost feel the whiff, line drive to center field.
As we moved on to high school, the bigger building with fresh challenges, posturing amidst peers with increasingly adult features and improved personal hygiene, the threat and awe quietly gave way. Discipline was now a clerical matter. Usually it was demerits and/or partial isolation in what we termed the hole, a one-time bomb shelter. Actually, the reprimand code had been in force since fifth grade but at first we rarely knew of anyone actually going that far. After a while it sounded almost fun to spend a month in suspension making holiday crafts, to hear one fellow relate it on the bus every morning between bodily epithets.
The girl next door once tried to describe Mrs. Wreede dishing one out from her electric wheelchair. To this day I'm not sure how she got to see that happen.
It wasn't long before a new or refurbished hand-paddle was commissioned, except this time we all know what the tink-tink noise signifies. Same kid even.
Most of those who got it possessed a certain inner strength, not so much irreverence as, well, relentless individuality. The point was not to punish delinquent behavior among a few. Our elementary principal seemed to only wield the board playfully, maybe joking about it when someone has a birthday. It was a concerted effort to counter the threat of global puberty.
Just one broadside strike of a desk never failed to save souls. What we associated with that particular word was, for some, way more horrifying than a grizzly mafia hit could ever be.
Mrs. G, next to our homeroom, had the shop instructor fashion hers in the shape of a human hand and painted with school colors, if memory serves. On its fateful inauguration day our own teacher, the dry WWII vet, would-be lovechild of John Wayne and Principal Skinner, ordered us seated and silent after he was discretely asked to witness, as if anyone wanted to miss overhearing the proceedings. Breathing minimally we strain, some grinning, others solemnly, to discern the mumblings from outside the open door. If the inquisition ever became intricate he might reappear, to quell us, unless the gunpowder crack of sovereignty meeting Jordache denim invoked saucer-eyed pause. This time the report is followed by a tink-tink-tink as if someone dropped an empty soda can. Later that day most of us saw her toting the faux paw, minus a thumb, evidently shearing along the join at impact.
In eighth grade one of the guys tells me that Bonnie Bowles was able to avoid corporal punishment by citing the way of women as a nod to Jacob's Rachel. Once, while passing the assistant principal's office I could almost feel the whiff, line drive to center field.
As we moved on to high school, the bigger building with fresh challenges, posturing amidst peers with increasingly adult features and improved personal hygiene, the threat and awe quietly gave way. Discipline was now a clerical matter. Usually it was demerits and/or partial isolation in what we termed the hole, a one-time bomb shelter. Actually, the reprimand code had been in force since fifth grade but at first we rarely knew of anyone actually going that far. After a while it sounded almost fun to spend a month in suspension making holiday crafts, to hear one fellow relate it on the bus every morning between bodily epithets.
The girl next door once tried to describe Mrs. Wreede dishing one out from her electric wheelchair. To this day I'm not sure how she got to see that happen.
It wasn't long before a new or refurbished hand-paddle was commissioned, except this time we all know what the tink-tink noise signifies. Same kid even.
Most of those who got it possessed a certain inner strength, not so much irreverence as, well, relentless individuality. The point was not to punish delinquent behavior among a few. Our elementary principal seemed to only wield the board playfully, maybe joking about it when someone has a birthday. It was a concerted effort to counter the threat of global puberty.
Monday, April 13, 2009
binney & smith
binney & smith
smith & binney
what came in that box?
think it's glue
winfield, kansas 67156
no
wait
crayons
not that we use them much anymore
so what made those two guys
whoever they are
want to make stuff for school?
open window
right next to me
there have got to be kids
there in winfield, kansas
sitting in class right now
are they doing
the same lessons we are?
cursive was fun to learn
but i get tired of writing all the time
it is sooooo nice
outside
i'll bet you your brother's hot girlfriend
they're doing something cooler
in winfield
huge numbers
we add and subtract
like amounts of money
we never get to have
buses mosey into place
lining up for us
my fingernails know
by heart
every scratch in this desk
hmmm
need to have dad get my bike ready
too bad it's not one of those days
with something special at the end
people's moms bring in cupcakes
saint patricks day
or whatever
bus drivers get to stand around
and talk
here we are like those mice
in the cage
wish we had a science thing
experiments are kinda fun
i can smell the pavement
sun on the parking lot
somewhere between
rubber and dirt
*silent sigh*
someone needs to fix
the clock on the wall
it's so
slowwww
smith & binney
what came in that box?
think it's glue
winfield, kansas 67156
no
wait
crayons
not that we use them much anymore
so what made those two guys
whoever they are
want to make stuff for school?
open window
right next to me
there have got to be kids
there in winfield, kansas
sitting in class right now
are they doing
the same lessons we are?
cursive was fun to learn
but i get tired of writing all the time
it is sooooo nice
outside
i'll bet you your brother's hot girlfriend
they're doing something cooler
in winfield
huge numbers
we add and subtract
like amounts of money
we never get to have
buses mosey into place
lining up for us
my fingernails know
by heart
every scratch in this desk
hmmm
need to have dad get my bike ready
too bad it's not one of those days
with something special at the end
people's moms bring in cupcakes
saint patricks day
or whatever
bus drivers get to stand around
and talk
here we are like those mice
in the cage
wish we had a science thing
experiments are kinda fun
i can smell the pavement
sun on the parking lot
somewhere between
rubber and dirt
*silent sigh*
someone needs to fix
the clock on the wall
it's so
slowwww
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Duke Fabulous Reporting
Now this sho 'nuff takes the cake and eats it too. I ain't, I say, I ain't even a kiddin' this time. Just the other afternoon there I was shinin' my boots over by the radio, seein' as there was this ball game playin', and wouldn't you know there was a knock at the door. So I opened up and said howdy-do to some feller I ain't never seen before. With his hat in his hands and polite as could be he asks Mister Duke can I speak a question and I says all right. Turns out he's preparin' to claim paternity and wanted to get a few details straight. So I lean on the door post and raise one eyebrow as this dude 'splains this and that and th'other and how his momma said I's his daddy from a way ways back. Now, I knew that I knew that I never knew his mother, even from Eve, as they say, but what's the point in lettin' 'im off that easy? So I asks I say now do you have any documentation to substantiate said claim to my posterity? He proceeds to hand me his certificate of live birth and I reach for my speck-tackles. He keeps a spinnin' his yarn as I peruse the details, county seal and all that. In a couple more minutes he seems to run plum outta words and so I point out one detail in particular. I say, well, I say as much as I'd like to have you call me pappy I don't see how it could be. And why not, he wonders, lookin' just a tad let down. Well, it says right here, on this legal tender, you were born about five years be-fore my very own date of birth. Oh, he mutters and snatches the paper without even wishin' a good-day. So hear what the Duke sayeth. No matter how off a wall the assignment may seem at first, always, always do your homework. Duke out.
Friday, April 3, 2009
friday night
cozy house on a quiet brick street
snuggled amidst bustling foliage
'68 galaxy in the short driveway
the rest parked along the curb
misty drops on the awning
that shields the kitchen window
light's on over the sink
next to a kenmore blender
juiced on seagrams and lemons
baking sheets on the range
once held handmade pizzas
to go with tossed salad
little cubes of marble jack
and three kinds of dressing
some coffee in the melitta
hints of vanilla pipe smoke
miles davis on the hi-fi
laughter in the living room
around countless nests of rook
snuggled amidst bustling foliage
'68 galaxy in the short driveway
the rest parked along the curb
misty drops on the awning
that shields the kitchen window
light's on over the sink
next to a kenmore blender
juiced on seagrams and lemons
baking sheets on the range
once held handmade pizzas
to go with tossed salad
little cubes of marble jack
and three kinds of dressing
some coffee in the melitta
hints of vanilla pipe smoke
miles davis on the hi-fi
laughter in the living room
around countless nests of rook
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Too Many Saturdays
Such an opaque late winter bluster could not have provided a worse day to say farewell. As I walk up to that white church house in the heart of town I could not help but feel that the tables were turned. Despite being appropriately dressed for a funeral I am still distinct from the others converging this day, a middle class Anglo-Celtic raised in the country among urban African Americans. I'm the minority here, actually a passing novelty in itself.
In the shadow of downtown skyscrapers strolling amidst houses of working families, how unavoidably the mid-morning chill brings out the city's soul at its nastiest. The young man had been shot fleeing from police.
Soon I'm greeted by a cacophony of voices and warmth of many bodies inside. Taking a folding chair toward the rear, the pews already stuffed to capacity, I quickly surmise from the program that I've stepped into a different world where the church ushers are actually union labor. At one point a petite, pretty gal sits next to me with her young son. Without a word or making eye contact she keeps him close and vigilantly guards his antsy little feet from swinging into my legs. Also seated nearby is a fellow who appears to contain World War Three until he hastily gets up and seeks refuge outside. All around the dark sea of faces are looking at nothing or no one in particular.
Anyone speaking into a mic up front prefaces with "Praise the Lorrrrd" and waits for a likewise response which always seems anemic from such a bustling crowd. After the ministers and song leaders are gathered the formal bereavement begins with some words and condolences from sister congregations throughout the country. As a musician I tend to notice arrangements but I could not have been less prepared for the divine squeeze brought on by the brooding jazzy turns in Shield About Me. It was church. They only do three songs, no more were needed. Most sing, a few are on their feet in surrendered worship, many seem catatonic and I simply cannot move a muscle. Be Still My Soul.
The senior pastor had invited me. He nears the pulpit during a rousing chorus and then preaches flaming arrows of grace, he told me, on a mission to reach the kid's family. During the response I nearly break as the ministers reach out their hand to invite those who will to the altar.
A few weeks later I ran into the shepherd again. Those wondering sheep had since come into the flock.
On the drive home, now free from trying to find a place I've never been, I can now mentally ponder the mess on my car from a birds' nest that had blown out of a tree overnight. At first it's the inconvenience of having to clean some strange egg yolk off the paint and glass in unfavorable weather. At last, a budding life robbed of its potential.
In the shadow of downtown skyscrapers strolling amidst houses of working families, how unavoidably the mid-morning chill brings out the city's soul at its nastiest. The young man had been shot fleeing from police.
Soon I'm greeted by a cacophony of voices and warmth of many bodies inside. Taking a folding chair toward the rear, the pews already stuffed to capacity, I quickly surmise from the program that I've stepped into a different world where the church ushers are actually union labor. At one point a petite, pretty gal sits next to me with her young son. Without a word or making eye contact she keeps him close and vigilantly guards his antsy little feet from swinging into my legs. Also seated nearby is a fellow who appears to contain World War Three until he hastily gets up and seeks refuge outside. All around the dark sea of faces are looking at nothing or no one in particular.
Anyone speaking into a mic up front prefaces with "Praise the Lorrrrd" and waits for a likewise response which always seems anemic from such a bustling crowd. After the ministers and song leaders are gathered the formal bereavement begins with some words and condolences from sister congregations throughout the country. As a musician I tend to notice arrangements but I could not have been less prepared for the divine squeeze brought on by the brooding jazzy turns in Shield About Me. It was church. They only do three songs, no more were needed. Most sing, a few are on their feet in surrendered worship, many seem catatonic and I simply cannot move a muscle. Be Still My Soul.
The senior pastor had invited me. He nears the pulpit during a rousing chorus and then preaches flaming arrows of grace, he told me, on a mission to reach the kid's family. During the response I nearly break as the ministers reach out their hand to invite those who will to the altar.
A few weeks later I ran into the shepherd again. Those wondering sheep had since come into the flock.
On the drive home, now free from trying to find a place I've never been, I can now mentally ponder the mess on my car from a birds' nest that had blown out of a tree overnight. At first it's the inconvenience of having to clean some strange egg yolk off the paint and glass in unfavorable weather. At last, a budding life robbed of its potential.
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