I call this photograph
“Ohhhhhhhmmmmmm.”
I never posted it before,
because I knew
no one would get it.
Sunset.
Wisconsin lake water
covering my ears,
echo-amplifying
the universal harmonic call.
“Ohhhhhhmmmmmmm.”
Sound waves
mixing
with lake waves
mixing
with brain waves
mixing
with heart waves.
“Ohhhhhhmmmmmmm.”
It was never posted before.
No one would get it.
She will.
I wasn’t trying/
to “say” anything. I was/
just trying to “do”.
Blank Canvas
Location:
A grafittied and windowed
cement, brick and adobe ruined wall
in a ghost town
in Central Utah.
Ingredients:
A several foot long
orange and black
polyester rope.
Two 5-inch pieces
of bailing wire.
Several pieces of old blue tarp,
starting to dissolve,
twisted, torn
and actively ripping.
A used square red 4-holed brick.
A used broken yellow clay brick.
Two pieces,
one yellow,
one orange,
of baling twine
pulled off rotted hay bales.
Installation
Throw the rope through
the Eastern-most,
partially bricked-up
window,
Cask of Amontillado-like,
toward the snow-covered,
sunset pink mountain peaks
in the distance.
The black-orange coral-snake
now hangs over
the graffitied north wall
of the adobe and cement house ruins.
Take one end of
the largest piece
of blue tarp
and twist-tie it to the rope.
Unravel the frayed blue plastic
until you find the strongest
and longest
terminus
opposite the rope end.
Tie the open end
to another end of frayed blue tarp.
Repeat the process,
laying the tarp lengthwise
along the base of the cement/adobe wall,
until it reaches the far western wall.
Twist-tie two pieces of bailing twine
to the end of the frayed blue tarp piece.
Take the other end of twine
and run it
through a center hole of the red brick.
Tie them together.
Raise the red brick to sit on the edge
of the far West window.
The frayed blue tarp will rise.
Unfurl and untwist
pieces of blue tarp
so they are extended
as far as possible.
Final Adjustments
In the center,
raise a triangled piece
of frayed blue tarp
to the sill of the third window.
Place the yellow brick on the tarp,
holding it in place.
The blue tarp will now be draped
over the wall.
Push the red brick
through the western window,
so the tarp raises higher
and is taut.
In the center,
find a grommet
in the blue tarp.
Take a piece of baling wire
and twist it through the grommet,
leaving the wire’s end
extended.
Raise the blue tarp and grommet
as high as possible.
Insert the bailing wire
deep into a crack between the bricks
in the middle bricked-up window,
insuring it is tight.
Go to the other side
of the Eastern,
partially-bricked window,
and pull the rope
until the tarp
is completely raised
and taut.
Finished.
Is It Art? What Is?
Christo trucked in
fabric sheets
and ran a fence,
draping miles
of Nature’s perfect
California coastal
mountainside scenery.
They raised The Gates,
which stood
in Central Park,
stopping folks
wanting to bike
and play
on the lawn.
In 14 days,
the mono-colored
Tibetan Prayer-Flag-like
piece
won’t be taken down.
The fabric
and the ropes
and the walls
and the creators
won’t have grant money
given,
or books written about,
or Life Magazine photo essays
shot
extolling.
Yet who is to say that
groupings of found objects,
similarly hung
by unknown creatives
on the side of
a mud-slide destroyed
ruin
in a Utah railroad ghost town
once known as Thistle,
isn’t also art?
The red sandstone lay,
slight dimpled drill hole,
square-cut right-angled block,
beneath an ancient cross-joist
floor timber.
I thought I could take it,
a memory of someone’s old home,
a house I’d often seen
before a geological disaster
mud-slid, then drowned it
and its town,
thistle down,
into near oblivion.
Utah’s Pompeii,
covered with mud
except for a few
cut-stone
structures.
This red sandstone rectangle,
90 degree
right angle cut
not found in nature:
No one would miss it.
The rough red
would create an awesome border
on my garden,
a new use for old stone.
But even as I hoisted it
and walked car-ward,
it seemed to say:
“Stay.”
Heading downhill,
I slipped on rain-soaked mud
and had to throw it as I fell
to avoid having it
crush my pelvis.
Sitting in the back
of my car,
it seems to whisper
“Take me home.”
I almost dropped it off
last night,
right after I nearly hit
a white-tailed deer
on State Route 89,
near where there jersey barrier
separates me
and the block
from the home
it has known
for a hundred years.
Do the stones
have souls?
Do the square-cut corners
and dimpled indentations
still hold memories
and longingly speak?
I do not know.
I do know
that it does not belong
with me,
in my garden.
So I willdid return it
with honor,
and will hopefully
not slip again.
From YOUth,
my head-mind
ego-fed,
unkind,
spoke words
of doubt,
“you’re absurd”,
fear,
“you’re not dear”.
Each time I thought about
doing
saying
writing
joking
dancing
acting
laughing
being
open mic-ing,
improving,
anything-ing,
I’d hear:
“That’s stupid.”
“That’s immature.”
“You’re attention getting.”
“That’s weird.”
“Others will think you’re odd.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“You’re absurd.”
“That’s not spiritual.”
“You’re a bad example.”
“You’re scary.”
“You’re juvenile.”
“What would Jesus do? NOT THAT!”
“You’re not good.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re self-centered.”
“You’re a fool.”
For so long
I believed the voice,
the Angst,
the negative,
the stoppage,
until I was living
a blocked
shut-down,
fearing
life.
Then guides
invited me
to take an 8-inch
trip
down,
from my mind,
fearing,
name-calling,
ego,
to my heart.
I like journeys,
so I accepted
the invitation.
I took my hand
filled with thoughts
from my head,
and placed it
and them
on my heart.
There I felt
the warmth,
tenderness,
and love
growing from deep within.
As I heard-thought
those words
of fear
and rejection
and shame,
from my head,
my loving,
kind,
big,
gentle
heart
listened to them,
those embarrassment / hate words,
then simply,
calmly,
lovingly
but forcefully
whispered:
“Or not.”
She sends me
Photos
Showing her beauty.
All of it.
I didn’t ask.
I actually never have.
Well, maybe sometimes.
When I was lonely.
Back in the day.
Like yesterday.
But this time,
Really,
I didn’t ask.
They just showed up.
First,
Selfies in a mini-van.
Selfies in the kitchen.
Then,
golden-lighted,
(the way bedroom lights glow)
Copper-tonedskincolors
FromherbedohmyheckthatsAMAZING
Surprise.
But not so much.
Because many do it.
Just as, I’m sure,
Many ask for it.
So it should be no shock
To anyone
That almost everyone
Probably has gotten them
Or has probably sent them
(Except the Supreme Court
Who simply passed on
The envelope
Without even looking.)
Does thinking about it
makes you sick?
Yes.
Just like it
makes me ill.
Punched in the stomach.
Kicked in the heart.
Because I and you like
to think
We are unique
And sacred
And wanted
Only.
And I and you don’t want
to imagine
That we are common
And cheap
And normal
And doing what
Almost
Everyone else does
Or has least thought about.
I feel sadillsickpunchedkicked
Especially when
I look at the pictures
And know they weren’t taken
Today
Or last night,
For just me,
But weeks or months ago
For someone else
And I am just an afterthought,
a “may as well”,
A “I wonder what he’ll think”,
A “this should surprise him.”
Being ordinary
Makes me sadillsickpunchedkicked
And cry
And hide.
In my corner,
cowering,
contemplating,
I wonder
When I get them,
“Why me?”
Do I have
“PERVERT” or “VOYEUR”
Or “TYPICAL GUY”
or “PIGDOGRUNTMEATHEAD”
Stamped across my forehead?
Does my London Fog coat
Look like I could flash it open
At any moment?
Or do I just get those photos
Because I’m a guy
And guys like that type of stuff
And guys like that are pigs
And all guys are pigs
Therefore I should be sent those photos
To prove to her and everyone else
That I’m a pig,
And that I’m not worthy of her time.
She’d never send those photos
To “him”.
He’s too straight-laced
She says,
And would probably faint
And then write her off
And dump her.
Noooo! She,
Wearing lace
collars,
Church-going,
Righteous,
Sunday School
Or women’s auxiliary
Teacher
Or holy music
Leader
On her way to minister
To the sick
And the lonely
And the depressed
And oppressed,
That’s not the her
Who she wants to be
To herself
Or anyone else
Who matters.
Especially not
To him.
She is that good person.
I see her like that.
So does everyone else.
He, especially.
So he gets mini-van selfies
And kitchen selfies
And selfies with both of them
Happy on the trail
Or at dinner
Or at sunset
Or on the beach
Or doing something wonderful.
Sweet, gentle, peaceful selfies,
Graceful,
Censored by life,
Until the time he gets to see
Everything she wants to show him
In person.
Because he is worthy
Of getting nothing now
And everything later.
While I,
Who try so hard
Not to be “that type”,
Not to be known “like THAT,”
Get unsolicited
Golden bedroom light photos
That keep filling up
My texts
And computer-file folders
And mind
With selfie smiles
I can’t forget
But won’t ever get.
The question is not/
which outfit I shall wear/
on Super Bowl Sunday/
in Arizona.
Which garb will make me/
sweat the most
under the blazing
Phoenix sun.
Which team will have
my heart
and my throat,
and that, loudly,
the first Super February day.
That Super choice will be made
by forces far outside
my control:
Legion of Boom versus
The Receivers.
Wilson’s legs versus
Aaron’s calf.
Clay + AJ versus
The Line.
Beast Mode versus
his heir apparent.
The exuberant Peter Pan boy-man verses
“Hide Your Mic, Mike!”
Green and Gold versus
“I can’t even name those colors!”,
Lambeau Loud versus
The CLink Quake.
No, that Super choice will be made
by the two warrior groups,
two Sundays prior,
and whoever is there,
that garb shall I wear,
loving both,
cheering for them
(because the Pats
and Luck
suck.
“You mad, Bro?”)
But the question,
the conundrum,
the true choice,
is much more difficult,
poignant,
heart-felt,
painful:
The NFC Championship looms tomorrow.
One team is my birthright.
Generations
of Lake Michigan water fed.
Proclaimed on my license plate frame,
I am an NFL Owner.
A folk hero full back leaves
the “S” off his name.
My father and grandfather
attended the Ice Bowl.
My dad met Nitschke.
My mother met Lambeau.
I call my father
after every score.
I cheered for them
in the Snow Bowl.
I have Brett’s autograph.
My daughter threatened a “12”
who swiped my cheesehead
during the “Fail Mary” game,
the same cheesehead which rolls
when my top is down,
up I-15.
The Packers are my legacy.
The other team,
adopted,
is infused in my blood.
How could I help it?
I was drinking Cascade clear water
for more than 25 years,
proudly waving my 12 flag,
having my number retired,
watching my children grow up
in the Evergreen State,
Largent 80 and
Alexander 37
jersey clad,
sneaking across the street
to watch the games
at friends’ houses
on restricted Sabbath Days
(did we make a mistake?),
in the bar yelling “BEAST MODE! GRAB IT!”
5 yards before the
back leap into the end zone,
writing a defense of
the LOB,
“LOB BABY!”
and RS 25
defense,
wearing a ‘Hawks/Sounders minion hat,
knowing I’m a 12.
What garb will I wear?
Who will I show for?
The choice is clear.
I know where my heart is.
But, underneath,
my second team will
be repped.
Because, no matter the outcome,
I win.
Update after the Seahawks pulled off an incredible come-from-behind overtime win
The voice of experience
has taught me otherwise, now:
When your team is way ahead,
and implodes at the end
to loose,
you feel bad.
Sick.
Like you got kicked in the stomach.
And it will take phone calls
to your kids,
and a video
of your friends celebrating
to make you feel
a
little
better.
But,
no matter what,
you can hate
the Patriots.
GO HAWKS!
Do I dare expose me?
Do I dare
open up the soft,
white,
flabby,
pocked underbelly
of my past
to those I’m trying
to get to know?
To those who want to believe
the best about me?
To those who don’t know
this part,
Jean Valjean-ish,
24601,
about me?
Will they turn
and reject me,
my stupidity,
the pain I caused?
Do I hide?
Or do I enter the courthouse
and scream out
who I am
and what I did
and what I’m trying to
repent of,
throwing myself
on the mercy
of the court,
the jury of
Facebook peers?
Do I dare?
Today
I found her box
of pain.
Not knowing
it even existed,
I opened it,
read her words,
and drifted back
10 years.
Even before she knew,
or I knew,
or we knew
the end
was near,
there was sorrow,
hurt,
pain.
Only this time,
it wasn’t mine.
It was hers.
Words screaming
on the screen,
loudly,
yet in her soft,
patient,
“I can take it all”
voice.
There was passion
and problems
and pain
and fear
and hurt
and anger
and loneliness
I never knew
she carried.
Reading
opened up
all the things
I didn’t know,
or hadn’t cared
to see.
Her vision:
She saw me
clutching the side
of our bed,
lonely,
back to her,
but I never saw
her fear,
her wondering,
her begging,
her confused yearning
what to do
so I wouldn’t yell,
or be angry,
or threaten to leave,
or emotionally
hurt
her
who I should have
been protecting
and loving.
Like a drug
of pain
I couldn’t stop
feeling,
I kept reading,
and reading,
and piling on
the “whys”
and
the “why nots”
and
the cruelty
I never knew
was me.
She piled it on,
words on
words,
more
and more,
but it wasn’t
about hurting me.
It was about
how
to protect
herself.
How
to keep herself
from fading away.
From dying.
From loneliness.
From nothingness.
In her words
were reflected
and broken mirrored
so many
similar stories
I’ve heard
for years,
from others,
about the pain
women felt
from abusive men,
from cheaters,
from liars,
from narcissistic
self-righteous
SOBs
they’d escaped from.
Hearing the pained stories,
these pig-men were creatures
who have disgusted me,
who have enraged me,
who have made me sick.
Selfish men who hurt women
they’d vowed to protect,
left them cold
and vulnerable
and unsafe
and desolate
and alone
and scared
and lonely.
Are they blind?
How could someone
do such things
and call himself
a man?
How could someone
be such a thing
and call himself
a human?
Much less
a Christian?
Much less a righteous
Priesthood holder?
WWJD?
Not that!
Disgusting!
File > Open.
Now I stand,
looking in her box
of pain,
words black
on pale blue,
reading what she’s gone through,
probing her thoughts,
sneaking into her mind,
knowing what she’s going through.
My stomach churns
more than it ever has
for anyone else’s story.
More than it ever did
as I’ve held others
and comforted them
and said
“That’s in the past”
and
“That’s disgusting.
I’m sorry that happened
to you.
It shouldn’t have,”
and asked
“I don’t know
how someone could do that.”
But it did happen.
And someone could do that.
Only this time,
I’m not hearing about it.
I’m reading about it
in an old family folder
dot doc
from an old
blue light
hard drive I’d rescued
for the photos
and the good memories
I thought I’d find.
Not knowing
I’d find this
memory,
words lining
her box of pain.
Does this pain
ever stop?
Does this repentance process
ever end?
Does this discovery and learning
ever quit?
Or will I always
and forever
keep uncovering how much
I hurt her
and what a bad man
I was?
Am I still?
I’m sick
and sickened
as I read about
the man
she knew.
The pig-thing
clutching to his side
of the bed,
clutching to
his side
of the story,
clutching blindly,
blind to the hurt
he dished out.
He makes me sick.
Does this pain
ever stop?
Does this repentance process
ever end?
Does this discovery and learning
ever quit?
Or will I always
and forever
keep uncovering how much
I hurt her
and what a bad man
I was?
Am I still?
I’m ready to puke
on my shoes,
and take my son’s nine iron
to my knee caps
and punch
myself out.
BOOM!!
You know what it is.
You’ve heard it before.
It’s lake ice
cracking,
contracting,
expanding,
shoving
and shelving.
Never that loud.
Never rattling the windows.
Never shaking the house
and your chair.
Never that violent.
Nature at her best.
Coolest.
BOOM!
You run outside,
look up,
making certain
it’s not a cold war
jet,
no “bombs bursting
in air”,
BOOM!
You walk over
next door,
look inside,
talk to the construction guys,
making sure
they didn’t blow up.
The BOOM!crashrattleshake
you heard
is what you thought.
You’re part
of the freezin’
season.
But even though
you know,
the BOOM!
still surprised
and scared you.
Just for a moment.
Just a little.
Your heart beats fast,
BOOM!,
boom,
boom,
until you learn
for certain,
it’s just Mother Nature
playing percussion.
Cool.
Real cool.