Book o’ Verse

There’s a bench by the Santa Cruz merry-go-round
where you can sit and watch the brass-ring jockies
as they spin past at high speeds
watch their faces shift from
crazed release last miss to
tight mad joy next shot
hook swinging into view
watch hands pull back
fingers snap from
loose, curved noodles to
crooked
ready
reach.

My 3-year-old and me
back to back at a
Route 5
pee shack

and there's this mighty roar
pours out his two-foot frame.

The rush of my doom.
As I'm flushed
out the room.

Cyril, who recently retired from service
in the British government.
Only fifty some-odd years old
and now traveling the world
in the wake of a messy divorce.
And what did you learn, Cyril,
in your fifty some-odd years?
“It isn’t worth it.”
Great.
But he seemed happy enough.

Family smiles down
long tables at
loud restaurants
there’s an extra calmness
there sometimes
and even family
blank stares and
family glares still
jaws with an
inch or so between them and
all the muscles
hanging comfortably
loose.

Senator Strom Thurmond belongs to my gym.
I see him there three, four times a week.
On the treadmill.
Sculpting his biceps.
His rock hard abs.
He doesn’t listen to music while he works out.
He just stares straight ahead
with his iron skull and his
wide, bony eye sockets.
I try to tell him it’s overkill.
“Senator, really.
At your advanced age
one time a week
would be more than enough.”
He snarls at me. “Son,” he says.
“You don’t know beans.”

He tries so hard
to look bright around the eyes
bright Kennedy eyes
kind crinkles soft
wisdom star fire big pupils with
flecks of genius
knowing, nodding
but it always
comes out
crazy.

Ow.
Ow dammit ow.
Dammit.
Ow.
Don’t walk
and write.

That’s the goal. To open it
one more crack.
Bathe in the woosh.
Fire it back.
Not to be Superman.
But to stick our heads
into the place
where the idea of Superman came from
and then wriggle out
trout
in teeth.

I wear your hatred
like a badge
like one of those
toy sheriff badges
made out of spray-painted
fake-metal
plastic.
Look at me: I’m a cowboy!

Little bird people
with their hollow bones
heads uplifted
trying out afterhours fancy soap.
Bath salts.
Sugar scrubs.
Sometimes
it’s not all about you
applying topical sweetness.
Sometimes
it’s all about
traffic hums
warm door
happy birds.