Indoor Baseball

“It smells like a gym in here,”
my mother used to say. Jonathan
would laugh, and I
would wind up and throw
another pitch
in the living room,
Nerf ball zooming
toward the closet door,
Jon standing, crouched,
ready to pummel a line drive;
both of us drip
another drop of sweat, and mom
sniffs in loving disapproval
from the kitchen.

A Vietnam Vet Reads His Poetry

Again and again and again . . . we do this.
-moderator of the poetry reading, speaking of war

Back row - me;
two seats down, perspiring black man
holds tightly to his wife's hand.
"It's coming back to me,"
I hear him say.

The poet reads of death
and killing, Vietnam at seventeen,
bodies which never leave
nor are left, carried somewhere inside,
untouchable, unmovable, unburnable -
less than ashes yet bigger, heavier
than they were when they were alive.

I have never been to war.

I look again to the black vet two seats down
whose knitted cap is pulled tight
over kinks of gray-white hair,
the cap black on top and stripes of green,
yellow, and red around his memories.
I watch him, too fearful to show fascination
by turning my head. Slow rocking man,
forward and back, forward and back,
his wife's hand shaking because of his.

The applause dies; people stand
and whisper their way to the door.
I sit watching the black vet
still from the corner of my eye
as he walks up to meet the man
who read his memories back to him.
Poet-vet sits in a chair,
crutch propped beside him;
cap-wearing vet approaches,
faces him, kneels down,
and they exchange quiet words.
They stand and embrace.

I wanted in that hug oh yes, yes, I wanted to hug the black man when he sat two feet away, when he sat and I watched with my corner eye. I wanted to know what he felt wanted to hug him yes, I did, but I knew it would never work, would never do -
I had nothing to offer
but my beating blood and a stranger's face.

At a poetry reading I came to understand
that I could never understand.

Boy Against Girl

I slam the heel of my Doc Martin's
into ice coating the street. It feels good
to wield such power.

Like ceramic tiles tossed aside,
the mud-speckled shards of ice clap
against the brick street as I kick them
apart. This display of force
makes me wonder if I am angry,
and reminds me that I had a wife

ten years ago.
With her off birth control
I took control: Baby?
No baby. Sex? No sex.

I stand surveying the damage
to the ice. Do I have the upper hand
now? My Doc Martin's move
grudgingly, nudge a few pieces
of the ice-puzzle
with the toe of my boot,
return them
to their original positions.
But there are gaps,
un-mended seams.

What is gone is
gone; what is broken
is broken:

Essential crystals lie
scattered over bricks,
like a shattered backboard on a gym floor,
like a spread of diamonds
in a jeweler's unfolded cloth.

The Sacrifice

(a slightly inaccurate recreation of a scene from Schindler's List)

They are lined up, a dozen, side by side:
an old man with a shaven head,
shoulders slightly slouched; a woman
who recently gave birth - her breasts
should be bloated with milk, but her child
has been taken away, killed, cremated in a pit,
and she herself has been starved --
her skin is beginning to stretch
tight over bones; a young boy
is in the line, maybe a teenager, maybe
not, and he stands like the others, head up,
looking forward with fearful discipline,
arms at his sides, palms back.

A uniformed soldier stands facing the line,
his narrow, lethal pistol raised.
He moves toward the old man -- one,
two, three steps -- the barrel of the gun leads
the way, stopping at the old man's forehead.
The soldier freezes in this position, his head
turns mechanically left and right down the line;
his stare touches each trembling body. He

fires. The old man falls forward, dead,
exhibit number one. The soldier steps
away. He looks back and forth down the line;
every head is bowed, eyes to the ground.
"Who committed this crime!" he yells, daring
any of the defenseless to accuse him. There is
only silence as the soldier's starved steel eyes
scan the line. His jaw clenches; his head jerks
as he screams out again: Who committed
this crime! He waits, his gun now at his side,
his fingers and arm tense, ready to spring to action.

There is movement in the line,
and the young boy steps forward. He
raises his arm stiffly and points
at the old man's dead body on the ground.
"He did!" the boy says. "He committed the crime."
Hearing these words, the soldier's body
relaxes. He does not pocket the gun,
but the tension in his arms
fingers hands is released.
He orders the prisoners away. The boy
has answered correctly
in accusing an innocent man.

Death may have come to all . . .

I see myself standing, pointing
at a man on a cross.
"He did it," I say. "That man
is the guilty one." My voice shakes,
and I remember the quivering lips
of the boy, and the water in his eyes
as he pointed a finger.

Heroes

Feats of legend
used to come in war,
works done
with tragically blessed hands.

It is still hands and bodies
entrancing us: the pass,
the catch, the last second
shot, the acrobatic touchdown
unbelievable, even in slow motion.
What kind of miracles are these
done by men?
Is this where the "image of God"
comes in?

Bicycle Dynamo

A red Schwinn with shiny silver fenders,
a tiny boy with a new toy and soft yellow hair.
The fantastic toy hugs the bike tire as the boy
looks down to see the headlight dull in the
daytime, the blurring street. Feet dig hard,
whirling pedals to compete with the sun,
racing downhill, spinning
mechanical energy magic
like he were God peddling furiously
to make the light a little brighter.

Hitchhiker

One can see
a little improvement in the craft
as hours go by, a certain
tilting of the thumb, a particular
sag of the shoulder, a masterful
trudging in the legs, and a realistic
sigh of accomplishment
when the first car stops.
"Need a ride?"

The Lost Art

Two hours walking
and no rides yet.
Johnny takes a banana,
pockets his thumb.
Thanks, Abe, he says,
flinging the peel into the grass.

A lost art,
Abe says. Hitchhiking.
Seems to be, says Johnny.

A truck roars past.
We could drive to Denver.
No art in that.
No, agrees Johnny.

Video Game Recruits

on watching Mercenaries: Playground of Destruction video game commercial

I am Sam, and I feel powerful,
video stick in hand, with a video woman
at my command, and a playground
of destruction. I can flip a coin,
see what to destroy, then blow
not one, but both buildings
anyway. My video woman knows
there's no way to save the world
without a little explosion.

With a press of a button
I do a charity drop:
a little food in cans, or clothes
in a box, all in an effort
to save Syrac.

But a good mercenary
like my video woman knows,
with her neck-breaking biceps
and bulging breasts, that bombs
and machine guns are the first
to assist a country in need;
questions are second,
along with mouths to feed.

I end the game with another charity drop:
a few video games and a new X-box;
what I know already I'll teach the kids
in Syrac: there's no way to save the world
without a little destruction.

one of a Loose Park medley

the Dylans in my life

i gorge myself on the blowin'
wind and the milkwood;
i rejoice and feel my heart
lurching to be more than
i am, to be a poet,
a musician, a player of chords
unheard and words unwritten,
undiscovered combinations, or
unlawful ones. but i can only admire
and pray as i throw my words
on paper and watch a pale
chocolate dog run with joy
on the Loose Park grass, and this is
enough, enough to open in me
the rejoicing, the rejoicing life
demands, if i will only embrace
each moment as an unknown
lover and thank wine for open eyes
and see how the wind fucks
blades of grass and realize
i am the grass.
i am the grass.

Taking Attendance

2^nd hour.

Forget the literal role:

there is a sense

in the soul

sounding out absences,

each like a missing spirit,

a ghost

silent for a day,

tomorrow returning

full of body and noise,

blessed with movement,

graced with laughter.

the mirror

now, I see my fingers

tapping at keys, adding

letters, words, curved hands

reflected in the laptop screen,

light like cupid’s arrow

shot from the window behind me.

before, I’ve stood intentionally

watching my hands in the mirror,

fingers moving on guitar frets,

hurried hand, up, down, strumming;

I am impressed to see

my own movement

is something to be admired—

more beautiful than expected.

Woman Tree

Woman Tree

Down the hill from me
is a tree like a woman
on her back with her legs
spread out; the tree opens
into two as it emerges
from the earth, and i wonder
as i jump through its legs

did we just do it? and
if i could go down, if i
could enter between
those two trunks,
so strong
so thick,
so open,
would i grow?
would i be torn
or made whole? would i
become the working earth
and all that lies beneath?
would i put roots down?
would i see other roots
beneath ground with
my phallic eye and
fight or welcome
with community,
eternity and water,
mud and day? would i say,

you, oh woman tree are greater
and equal to me. you, oh woman
tree, entrance me
with your mystery.