Regarding Grandpa

Grandpa claimed to be a time traveler
in the first paragraph
of the last book he ever wrote.
The marked-up manuscript
labeled memoir on the title page,
was thick, musty, and terribly heavy.

Later, we snuck into his abandoned study once more,
searching for clues to corroborate his claim,
but all we found was a rusty pocket watch
and a peculiar pair of shoes.

One night we summoned the courage
to bring the thick ream of pages to father.
He winked and grinned at us, conspiratorially at first.
Upon further reading, however,
his eyes grew wide and serious as if
he’d just remembered something.

Desolation Road

This empty road interwines
with the ghostly landscape,
melting behind the fog
and the fields and the twilight.
The accelerator does nothing
to soothe your nerves.

There are miles of bare nothingness
in all directions
and you are all alone out here,
highbeams piercing the void
of oncoming darkness.

Then, over a rise,
the phantom moon appears,
low, but there, a buttermilk haze
floating through the trees
as the car coasts down
into cold valley mist.

The GPS has been silent
for countless miles,
and suddenly you think how
there is something lost and beautiful
and terrifying in that –
not missing the mystery
of where a road leads,
where a road ends.

Last Day At The Fair

Thinking of a day at the fair,
some closing Sunday years ago,
late August heaving
its last steamy breaths,
farm animals being led away
from their tents,
some by children
not a quarter of their size,
and how that reminded me
of a bible verse I’d once been taught
but could no longer recall.

I remember loud crackly voices
echoing over the speakers
announcing the final rounds
of the tractor pulls,
how I’d seen them once
when I was twelve years old
and left terror-stricken by the tragedy
of a man being ejected and trapped
under the spinning wheel
of his own machine,
later overhearing someone say
that the man had died.

I remember the midway,
all those sweaty faces,
humanity in all shapes,
sizes, and ages, and suddenly
I just want to be that scrawny kid again
walking alongside my older brother
and uncle, ignoring the hustlers
who call out to us
“Five balls, five chances! Right over here!”
Wanting nothing more from the world
than a fat dripping red snow cone
and just enough tickets for one last ride.

Something

Something strange in the air.
Something dangerous. Something close.
Something beckoning you out
into the warm summer night
with bare feet and unruly hair.
But then, under the motion lights, nothing’s there.
Nothing that can be seen.
Nothing that can be shouted at
or scared off with bluff or bluster.
There are only the crickets,
your own rapid breathing,
and a strange, uneasy feeling
that follows you back inside
to creep along beside you
across the starless desert of night.

Blackout

A blackout one summer
left us without power
for nearly three days.
No street lights.
No lamps.
No television.
The house grew oppressive
without fans or air conditioning.
Our town suddenly became
an eerie, ominous place.
Something about it felt unsafe.
Wrong.
What if we were being lied to?
What if we were being attacked,
invaded, or worse?
I was just a stupid kid, my imagination
an untamed tiger.

I remember sitting
on the upstairs porch,
staring out into pure darkness
while listening to
the neighbor’s voices below,
the bright orange glow
of their cigarettes
as they volleyed rumors
about haphazardly,
sudden bursts of laughter
exploding into the night.
And then I looked up
at all those stars.
God, there were so many,
bright, and all-encompassing.
Suddenly, I felt as insignificant
as a speck of dirt.
It was as if
I’d never seen them before.
Not like that.
Come to think of it,
I haven’t seen them since.

Knowing

Just as you know
that the sweet soul
in the bathrobe standing
over your shoulder
will still love you even after
your toast crumbs have fallen
all over her clean kitchen floor,
there will come a day
when you will pull yourself up
out of this dark funk,
straighten your posture,
lift your head to the sun,
and return every little mercy
that has ever been given to you.


Where You’ve Been

Where you’ve been
is where you are still,
and it’s been so long
since you got here.
Too long to bullshit yourself,
much less anyone else,
into believing anything
you say anymore.
Too long to win back
all that you’ve lost.
Too long to remain quiet.
Too long to shout.
Too long to crawl out
unscathed on your own.
Too long to forget
any of this.
Too long to remember
the way home.

What The Wind Said

Collect yourself.
Leave everything else
as it is.
Don another layer.
Lock the door behind you.
Pull up your collar.
Stiffen your shoulders.
Keep your head straight.
Keep your eyes on the road.
Don’t lose sight.
Go with or against the flow
depending upon what truth you know.
Protect your breath.
Find something to hold onto.
Don’t get swept away
by the whirlwind of today.

Before We Were Ghosts

We lived down the lane,
past the lumber mill,
across the old iron bridge
near the rotting church
where we used to gather
on Sundays to pray for our souls.

This was where we spent our days,
barely getting along,
disenchanted with life, never satisfied
with being part of a whole.
We thought we were all
so special, you know,
but our roads were as lonely,
empty, and cold
as a valley of ghosts.