On launching, landing

Album listened to during this writing: "Bring on the Snakes" by Crooked Fingers

When I was a kid, I remember taking scraps of wood and random nails I found in my dad's toolbox and building a bike ramp. I didn't have any designs drawn up or any plan at all really, but I had a vague idea that if the ramp pointed upwards, my bike would launch off of it.

I grew up in I guess what you'd call a cul-de-sac, but it wasn't really a cul-de-sac, because from what I understand about cul-de-sacs, they loop around and there are only houses on one side of them. This was like a horseshoe with houses on both sides of the street. So I guess a cul-de-sac that is stretched out and has houses in the middle, too. 

Of all the houses on my street, about half of them had kids my age. I thought it was normal to have neighbors whose doors I could bang on and say, "Can Stephen/John/Michael/Sarah/Michael/Amy/Greg/Darren/Jay/Andy/Tara/Ashley come out and play?"

And that's all you had to say to start an adventure. Or a basketball/football/baseball game.

Or to get someone to help you build a bike ramp.

Now I live on a really busy street in East Nashville. There's a lot of noise. A lot of cars. A lot of dogs barking. All the time.

But I don't know my neighbors very well. (I'll write about them in future blogs.)

This afternoon, I came home and my next-door neighbor was grilling some hot dogs and hamburgers and the smell made me miss nights on my porch as a kid. 

To me, back then, Garden Terrace, the name of the street I lived on, was the world. And at the beginning of spring, you could smell not only what was on your family's grill, but what was on everyone else's. 

A few years after my parents bought our house there, the gas company offered to rig up grills for anyone who wanted to pay to just extend a grill off of the gas line. Most of the people in our neighborhood bought in. 

That, combined with the high number of kids on the street, created a constant sort of block party on our street. On Fourth of July, everyone broke out their best fireworks. On summer nights, us kids stayed out until our parents called out the front door for "Jeeeeeeee-nnnnnnnyyyyyy or Wiiiii-iiiiilllll or Taaaaaayyyy-loooooor."  Southern moms have a great way of turning every name into two syllables. I think they mostly name their children two-syllable names so they're easy to call (not yell) from the front door when the kids have ignored the other sign that it's time to come in: the street lights coming on.

Sometimes us kids would go up a few blocks to a big vacant lot and organize these huge football games. We didn't have pads or helmets, but we played tackle. (We also played baseball with a tennis ball and you could just throw the ball at someone - rather than tag them - to get them out.)

I remember in between plays at those football games wondering if one day everyone would grow up and move away. And I had these fantasies that we would all come back as adults and play one more game.

But since I left, I haven't looked back much. 

And I've talked with several groups of friends since then about politics and religion and lots of other shit that doesn't matter much. And during those conversations, I've usually tried to pretend that I've always known about great writers and great thinkers and independent music and underground films. And that I've always had all of this figured out. But I haven't.

Mostly, I'm still standing in my front yard, trying to build a ramp out of rusty nails and broken boards.

I still don't have a plan.

I still don't know where I'm going.

Or how I'll land.

Or if it will hurt.

"For Nola"

Picture rows of brass,
Black cheeks swelled full of air;
Long summer dresses spinning upwards,
Flower prints blurred by the whirls;
Bright colors splattered on floats,
Made during late-night sessions after work at wherever;
Candy and alcohol and cigarettes,
All shapes in your purple and orange marshmallow clouds
Popping out to surround the city like an ambush.

Politicians going home to
Stiff margarita sleep.
I’ve had two beers and a glass of vanilla vodka already tonight.
Wasn’t built tough enough to hold much more.

I toast to you, Garden District
And to you, French Quarter
And to you, cheesecake so soft my fork fell through you
Without anyone to catch it.

Like everything else in this muddy mess,
This is late.
And like everyone else,
I’m sorry.

Rescues wrinkled up
Like ads for bars on Bourbon Street.
Tossed to the ground and stepped over.

Helicopter blades spin like old Satchmo 78s,
Still moving static even after the record's over.

Newborns float silent, eyes open.
Self-inflicted policemen bullets barely heard.
Grandmas rock stiff in wheelchairs, covered by blankets.
Skirts torn in the Superdome,
This aquarium busting at its seams.

And this is ripped through stained teeth,
Cracked lips,
Foreign accents
Translated from cigarette breath
To Good Morning America language.

Evacuations,
Resignations,
Accusations,
Demonstrations,
Donations.


We’re all looters
From the lost and found box
That hosted my favorite vacation
With my funny valentine.

Booked a flight just after her birthday.
Only eight passengers on the plane.
A hurricane was coming, the weatherman said.
We weren’t scared.

"The Lifespan of Ants"

I wish I could be
Blinding white cardboard
Arms and shoulders,
Strong paisley noose,
Empty shirt pocket.
Buttons at the bottom
Mean that this is ending.

We’re all bad tattoos,
Inherited tea cups,
Shaking on wooden table,
Wobbly legs, screws missing.
Piano parts, looped
Without lyrics.

Standing now in the back yard.
Fenced in this memory,
Pulled from nothing.
Oak tree in the corner,
Looking down like God.
Climb. Climb. Climb.
Fall.

The lifespan of a worker ant is one year.
They collect food, watch after their young, dig in the dirt.
When they return to the nest,
Other worker ants leave to rummage for food.
And when those return, others leave.
And when those return, others leave.
And when those return, others leave.

casting for the smurfs

I feel like I may have bummed some people out (myself included) with that last post, so here's this...

I heard a Smurf movie might be in the works. Here's me and Tabby's suggestions for casting:

papa smurf: morgan freeman
painter smurf: johnny depp
poet smurf: paul giamatti
brainy smurf: david cross
jokey smurf: dave chappelle
grouchy smurf: jack black
smurfette: britney murphy or scarlette johansson
gargamel: tabby totally disagrees, but i say: keith david (the guy from the military commercials and "men at work" with emilio estevez) that would be one scary gargamel.
sassette: dakota fanning
nanny smurf: kathy bates
grandpa smurf: wilford brimley (they better start recording his parts fast!)
wild smurf: tom green
clumsy smurf: michael richards or steve zahn
handy smurf: billy bob thornton
tailor smurf: matthew perry or andre benjamin
farmer smurf: johnny knoxville
dreamy smurf: snoop dogg, tommy chong or a resurrected mitch hedberg (our favorite choice)
harmony smurf: nick lachey (but he must sing every line so we can laugh at him)
hefty smurf: kevin james
vanity smurf: rupert everett or (a self-depricating) brad pitt
baker smurf: (cameo appearance) emeril lagasi (his only line would be "bam!" over and over.)
snappy smurf: jason lee

Some Things I Know About Myself

I was born in a blizzard.
One of my grandfathers was a soldier, separated from his wife of five days for four years to fight a war he believed in. He wrote her letters that were opened by men who outranked him to make sure his words didn’t give away too many details about his location.
My other grandfather’s phone number was listed in the phone book under the machine shop he worked for with the words “after hours” written next to it. He was stern and serious, and when he smiled at you, that meant you’d impressed him, and that was a lot.
I was born in a blizzard.
One of my grandmothers was a teacher. And one day, she took home a poor boy she felt sorry for, and gave him a coat. While my grandfather was away at war, she collected records. Stan Getz, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra. She would play them softly and wait.
My other grandmother raised seven children. She gave birth to one of them at home, alone, because my grandfather couldn’t make it to their three-bedroom farmhouse in time. She was a die-hard Democrat, and she was suspicious of most people. Sometimes she’d make her children brake branches of off the trees outside their house so she could hit them. She was probably more scared than her children were.
I was born in a blizzard.
My father was the king of puns. He probably didn’t think he was good at much. He could draw pretty well, and he could knock a can off a post with his gun. But he was the best at stringing words together in peculiar ways that made other clever people laugh.
My mother used to wear potato sacks for dresses. She used to get hit with branches from trees. When she went to college, she was running across a parking lot in the dark and tripped over a wire and knocked her teeth out. She married a man who wasn’t good at much, except making her smile – on the days when he could bring himself out the dark long enough to make funny words collide.
I was born in a blizzard.
My sister didn’t used to worry so much. She used to watch Saturday cartoons with me and Wil in caves we built out of chairs and blankets in the room we shared. She used to smoke cigarettes, and I thought that was cool.
My brother has always been my hero. He’s the only person I’ve ever known who did exactly what he wanted to. And to a person who is overcome with regret and fear, that is something to admire. He doesn’t look back and he doesn’t plan ahead. When we were teenagers, he used to make us pineapple upside-down cakes at 2 in the morning. And when he hugs you, you can tell that he means it.
And I was born in a blizzard.
It was February of 1978, and no one was supposed to be on the road. I guess my parents were excited; maybe they were worried. I wonder if they didn’t want me to come just then, if I was an inconvenience. Most of the time, I think I still am – and not just to them.
My wife was born a year and a half later in a city 70 miles away. When she was in elementary school, one of the boys in her class said she talked like a frog. When she broke her arm on the playground, a janitor named Sweeney carried her into the school she used to beg her mom not to take her to. She’s brilliant and sarcastic and judgmental and jealous. And one day, she’s going to change the world. I believe that.
Her birthday shares October with Halloween, one of my mother’s favorite holidays. They sat at the same table with me this morning for breakfast. Neither had much to say to the other, and I couldn’t think of anything clever.
I was born in a blizzard.And I want to die. In a blizzard. After I’ve said all my goodbyes with all the right words. I wonder constantly about how soon that will happen. And I wonder how long I’m obligated to be here.
All the little good parts of us are disappearing.

"An Afternoon Alone"

It started with a sound.
One long lull meant to still be
After the trumpet player gasped
And collapsed.

We all fall down
And I would shatter if I was able.
Instead, I smear
Onto the next line.
Surely, the end is near.

When she awoke from that dream,
She turned to me out of habit and said,
Kiss me like the rapture's coming.
And we believed in Jesus
Just three seconds too late.

We held hands on that windy Wednesday,
Praying for forgiveness.
But God is bored.
He just pretends to pay attention,
Like I used to in the back pew.

Distracted by the colors of
Soot and ash and
The smell of gasoline.

The whole world's on fire
And you're just humming in my ear,
Too drunk to hear the crackles
Before the second coming.

"Reaching Back"

Underneath the medical tape and IV tube,
the bruises on my grandfather's arms
were blackberry stains.

He reached back to greet me,
three years past a time
when he could pull down
the wire cage that never completely
kept the birds away from the bush
and pluck berries into his bucket.

I held mine up high over my head
and hoped he'd put some in there,
too.