A Poet in Training
When I was eleven
I was the second best pitcher
On our little league team,
But coach Dad used me sparingly
Because I had a low tolerance
For missed umpire calls,
Infield errors, walks, hits, passed balls,
People yelling shit from the stands.
I begged him to let me start a game.
He said you have a terrible temper.
I can’t put you out there.
I was a fucking mess.
I wanted to be the star.
When I was eleven,
I was already
A poet in training.
Clime
The weather is a character
In my biography; unlike me,
It is rarely in doubt. I have run
In rain storms and blizzards.
The clear sky gleamed with
A perfect attendance of stars
The night my math teacher
Mother died. All quiet outside
In the parking lot though I could
Feel hands around my throat.
Her generation mutated us because
They knew it didn’t matter
When it rained if you left the farm.
Storms weaken till they lose their names.
It drizzles at one end of the yard.
At the other the sun shines.
When the temperature drops
I wear myself the way
My mother taught me.
gravity XXII
tonight he prays for the poles that
hold the barn
for ripped tin and raised nails for
the ivy-covered
fence line for rain rushing into
the green gorge
for rusty cars pushed under a row
of brittle pines
for the old limping dog blind in
his left eye
for the crazy neighbor who lost his
wife last year
for the preacher with the Moses
tattoo on his back
for his son who always wanted to be
a wrestler
tonight he prays for the poles that
hold the barn
The road ended in a sweeping
Uphill right turn.
Then the gravel drive
Up up up
Between grandfather oaks
Into the blue sky,
Finally outside the three car
Basement garage.
I stopped the dump there,
The lawnmower trailer shook
In the deep gravel.
We got our stuff off
And four hours later
We finished the craziest
Three-acre estate
In the whole Blue Ridge.
The Mexicans drank
Some yellow concoction
From reused water bottles.
While I checked for a cell signal
The old man I called Hemingway
Came out the back door
Bear swaggering toward me,
All gray beard and yellow teeth.
Don’t want you boys turning
Round in my yard, he said.
I’m tired of paying good money
To have my place fucked up.
Just as quickly he stomped back
To his house where he slammed
The door, grumbling all the way about
Half breeds and retards.
The Mexicans had the equipment loaded
By the time I finished looking
At the hill where it disappeared below.
The three of them had heard he old fart;
Two were in the back of the truck and one
Riding shotgun. You got this shit, Terivio,
They said, as I cranked and looked back
Over my right shoulder.
The gravel crunched as we creeped backwards.
Right baby, right the two shouted
From the truck bed. You got this shit.
You got this shit. Beyond them, blue sky.
I prayed to my grandpa and grandma.
I prayed for God to send somebody
To come up this mountain
And kill that old man
Lies I Can Respect
Many times they told you
They had a cup of coffee
A weekend at the Show
In a September ballpark,
The season wound down.
And they had said it
So many times
That they believed it,
Sitting on a high stool
In Buffalo Wild Wings,
The Braves game on an 80 inch.
It was always the sad part
Of the interview for me
Because that’s what the game
Did to the men
Who got close enough.
One man who made his name
Later as a college coach
Wrote eloquently
About how the scorekeeper
Had confused him
With another prospect
And missed his one game
Where he even had two hits.
He was smart enough to know
About Baseball Encyclopedias
And such to get his claim
Out front of their facts.
Retirement home interviews
Are where the stories get big.
The I’m in the Hall of Fame,
Just look me up, guys.
Good men, all of them.
Earnest, telling lies I can respect.
World of Poetry
My author photo
Is going to beat your
Author photo’s ass.
Would you
Like to
Trade books???
Our new zine
Is bound
By lug nuts.
We can flip a dog turd
To see
Who gets to read first.
Flash Flood
It was raining harder than he’d ever seen and he was an old
man and he’d seen a lot of rain. He
heard it hit the cabin’s metal roof and saw it rush right across the gutters,
pounding the deck. He saw little waterfalls splashing down the twenty steps to
the driveway, but it was workout morning and he would drive the twenty miles
there and sit in the hot tub, and he would walk a little and lift some weight,
a lot of weight for a man his age, and he would talk to his retiree buddies,
and they would watch the young women on the elliptical runners and the
treadmills, or he might walk into the aerobic room and move in time to the
party music for a few minutes. Then he would grab some fresh towels and head
for the sauna because Dr. Oz said that was the best way for a man of his age to
end his workout.
When he backed the Jetta out of the drive, his dog chased
him again, but he didn’t feel like reaching into the back floorboard for the
ammonia spray, so he drove on up the hill with her following till he reached thirty
mph. The rain had slacked some as he
drove past the road that cut off toward the emerald mine and headed through the
little town with its one stoplight, store and post office. Then he was on open
road descending the several miles to the river and the eighty year old dam that
held back the river and created real estate for the doctors and dentists and
mill owners and such. He tried to listen
to Rush Limbaugh who was talking endlessly about the radio conglomerate that
was trying to screw him and how his show would be stronger in the end. He knew
this was true because Rush was the only person in the media who had the guts to
tell the unvarnished truth. He could count on Rush even when he couldn’t count
on himself or when he felt himself slipping in some way.
But this morning he was having trouble hearing Rush because
the rain had caught another gear, and it was raining harder and harder the
farther south he drove. Finally he
crossed the river, and the 28 foot gates were wide open near the top, water gushing
through like madness. And the local
radio interrupted Rush to give a flash flood warning. All this happened as he
slowed to 20 mph. The water came across his car, endless waves of it, and he
could barely see. There was nowhere to pull over and he was sure he’d make it
anyway. He always did. Water surged down
the hill toward his car, but the Jetta stuck to the road, and he continued
forward. He was almost to the first turn off though he was fighting for visibility
since the wipers could not keep up with the deluge. Rush was talking about Trayvon Martin again,
and he tried to listen even as the car fish tailed a bit as he crested the
hill.
Suddenly another car came flying around him, traveling 50 or more with no lights on. He watched it in disbelief. How could anybody be that stupid and be that much of an asshole, he thought. As he was thinking that, the car began to turn right into the cut through road , hydroplaned in two spectacular circles and flipped into the ditch. He pulled left of it when he turned, then refixed himself in the right lane. The rain was even more furious and he wasn’t about to stop for that speeding asshole. Rush was talking about how George Zimmerman should be treated as an American hero, and he knew that was right. He checked to make sure he had his pistol in his pants pocket and he did. He always did. You never knew what might happen out here. Rush was calling Trayvon a drug head and a thug and a poor representative of his race. He knew this was true just as he knew there were worse things out there than flash floods and assholes turned upside down in ditches. And though he hadn’t done it in a very long time, he said a quick prayer thanking God for not making him an asshole.
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