Orion’s Belt hung
on the west canyon rim,
like three diamonds
on the velvet black counter
of God’s cosmic jewelry store.
I didn’t ask to buy them,
for they were already in
my possession,
and the experience,
next to the rushing river rapids,
under a waxing half moon,
caressed by the cool canyon breeze,
was priceless.
I simply pointed at the three diamonds,
smiled,
and thanked my Heavenly Shopkeeper .
I stare
into the linoleum void.
Cold it is.
Cold I feel.
Not so cold
as I could soon be.
Inhospitable
hospital.
Why?
My heart,
though stronger,
still ain’t
got
no
rhy-
thumumum.
So masked men
must stop-start it
again,
wire me up,
make me tubular,
give me the ultimate
heart burn.
Cauterize
my over-sized pump
that’s too energized.
That won’t sing: Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.
I hope it works
this time.
But if it doesn’t?
Who should I tell
that I might not return?
My mother worries enough
for the world.
She makes every
small
procedure
into some giant event.
Munchhausen by proxy.
So,
if I go,
I know
she’ll tell,
but probably
only my family.
My friends?
What of them?
She won’t know.
Perhaps Facebook quiet
will spread the word.
If you haven’t heard
by Saturday,
that I’m out …
I’m probably not.
Or maybe
I permanently
am.
Your hair falls,
soft,
flowing gently,
capturing the morning’s
first gold.
Turning into you,
I face quiet beauty.
Silently,
trembling,
I move your flaxen strands
off your face,
behind your ear,
exposing your skin.
Leaning in,
my cheek hovers above
yours,
feeling your warmth,
like morning sunshine
pulls back the blanket
of the night.
My ear floats
above your lips
so I feel and hear
your deep, morning breath,
tranquil
and at peace.
My lips
part slightly
to breathe softly
into
your ear.
Quietly,
as sweetly and
with as low moan
as possible,
I whisper a gentle
“Good morning.”
You stir slightly.
My face drops soft
against yours:
Cheek against
skin,
my ear against your
mouth’s corner,
lips against
your ear.
I trust you hear
and feel
the sound of one soft,
tender,
breathless
kiss
reverberating
against your skin
and your hearing
through
to your mind
and then your
heart,
and then,
racing,
awakening
your soul,
with a gentle,
non-verbal
morning massage message
of love.
If you research and think of/
how the Nordlanders kept records/
in Stave churches/
as they island hopped;/
How Asbjorn/
had the idea/
to put the Boks together/
the year before I landed;
How my friend’s dad/
knew right where/
Grandpa’s tiny nativity village was /
‘cuz he’d skied there;
How a young pastor/
debarked the ferry/
the same second I did/
after 2 years in the Holy Land;
How his elementary teacher/
bought the same house/
my great-grandmother’s sister owned/
and knew all my relatives;
How those aged Norsk cousins spoke/
such a strong, ancient Dialekt/
that I, Schwyzer-Duetsch schwetzen,/
could understand them/
(and they, Kojak and Rockford TV taught/
got American me, from the heart, baby!)
How much we got done, laughing,/
sharing information and old photos,/
in 2 short Norwegian November days,/
knowing it was a tongue gift;
How those Lind books landed/
in the hands of someone typing/
80 words per minute/
10 miles from a Temple;
How they held me up, /
typing until 2 a.m.,/
and woke me at 4:30 a.m., /
to do their work;
How, when the machine was broken/
and the records lost,/
the data was saved, protected,/
rediscovered and decoded;
If you think about/
and comprehend how all that,/
and more, happened,/
then you’ll know how and why/
those old fiskers/
never let me rest/
until they were,/
and are,
found,/
and bound,/
together.
The storm is coming./
It’s in the air./
You can feel it
gathering strength.
Friends, relations,
loved ones
are already being
blown away.
Church vaults open.
Worried, wondering,
hopeful,
folks peer inside.
They see the dirt,
the cobwebs,
smell the dank,
the dust,
the mold
the hidden,
the historical documents
they feared
all along.
And they wail
and rail.
“WHAT!?!!
Nobody told us!
We were LIED TO!
We were deceived!”
Were we?
Would they tell
their 9-year-olds
about 50 shades?
Would they expose them
to everything?
Or would they protect them
and show them
the good?
Let them feel
the joy?
I have no problem
with that,
with being protected.
I have no problem
with historical documents.
I never feared them,
though I knew they were there.
Why not?
Because I have
a bike path
and a red chair.
Each time
I drive my children,
my family,
my friends,
past a sloping path
for bikes
and pedestrians
that lead
from learning
to home,
I point out the spot
on the path.
It once overlooked
a baseball diamond,
red dirt infield,
green grass outfield.
Close to the tunnel,
it now gazes
into classrooms
and offices.
But the path
is still there.
“There”, I say confidently,
“is where it happened.”
“There is where
I learned
more than any degree
could give.”
“There,
on the side of the bike path,
knowledge streaming,
tears streaming,
is where
I learned,
and knew
what is true.”
“God lives.
Jesus lives.
He died for me.
He loves me.
The Book of Mormon
is the Word of God.”
I believed it,
but I needed to know it.
And I now point
to the bike path.
“Yeah, Dad/Dave,
we KNOW!
You tell us
every time
we drive by,”
they say.
At least they know
that once I doubted.
Once I questioned.
But then I asked.
And now they know
that I know
what I know.
The red chair?
It’s probably long gone.
The apartment
above the Friseur
where two young servants
shared
a bathroom
with liquid-defecating
winos
is probably
someone else’s.
It was there,
in the red, overstuffed
chair,
I read,
I wondered,
I questioned,
I asked.
It was there,
leaning back,
thinking,
that I learned
more that I needed
to know.
The Boy Prophet
was and is
inspired,
a prophet,
like Paul,
like Peter,
like Moses,
like Adam.
God’s servant.
I didn’t know
before that.
Although the bike path
showed me truth,
I didn’t get all of it
then.
The red chair
gave me more.
Only a few
(like you)
now know
what I now know.
Ich weiss.
I’ve had more
insight
since.
Even when not
in the flock,
I learned
“Tommy True Tone”.
But the bike path
and the red chair
built
and are
my foundations.
How did
that happen?
God promises.
I believe.
Each time,
I asked.
“Ask!” He says.
So I did.
And do.
And He answered
and answers.
Now the dank,
putrid
air
flows out,
and past misdeeds
of venerated,
honored
others
come to full light.
They blind some.
People hide,
or cry,
or anger,
and get confused.
They leave.
“We were deceived!”
“We were lied to!”
They cry again
and again.
Where will they go?
I wonder.
Didn’t they know
this was coming?
From Oz,
and from the Internet,
and from billboards
along I-15,
I heard these voices
long ago.
Even before then,
“Know the Truth!” pamphlets
were passed out.
Truth,
slanted,
was there.
There is truth
in exposure.
Some of it
IS disturbing.
Some of it
IS surprising.
Some of it
IS disgusting.
Some of it
IS shocking.
I stay.
Why would I leave?
Where would I go?
It doesn’t matter
Moses killed.
It doesn’t matter
Peter ear’d.
It doesn’t matter
Joseph dug for gold,
and had hormones
and made mistakes,
and adapted his story
to his audience,
and used
when advised not to.
Folly.
It doesn’t matter
if there were Mountain Meadows
flowing red.
It doesn’t matter
if God’s servants
hid full truth
to protect me
and us.
I know:
It’s simplistic.
I know:
It’s easy.
I know:
It’s not complicated.
None of that matters
to me.
I asked.
Then I have walked
on a bike path,
and I have sat
in a red chair.
I know.
How am I? Longing/
for her silky long limbs to/
entwine around me?
This early morning,
I dreamed.
I swam with my son
and his friends in the Black Sea.
I then had a wonderful melted chocolate dessert
with a cute old couple
who had a Noam Chomsky poster,
teal, it was,
with a pink orange 4-inch paintbrush slash
in the lower left-hand corner,
hanging
in their old bistro Café.
The poster
and they
told me about Chomsky’s performance,
so I went up to the City Square.
Chomsky was performing,
reading,
and having his class read.
I became
— as is typical for me —
part of a class he taught,
where a woman couldn’t read
her poem,
written on wood in dark woodburnt letters.
So someone else read it,
and they asked me
to hit my head on the table
in front
of me “Clunk”,
saying “I could have had
a bigger apartment!”
“Clunk”.
It was a great
public
experience
I got to share.
I then walked back
toward the bistro Cafe’,
because my daughter had texted me.
As I was going back,
the ferry arrived
and emptied.
I tried crossing
in front of the traffic,
between the crosswalk bars,
and a policeman in blue and black uniform
yelled at me
and gave me a five-penny
fine.
He followed me
to the café,
where I gave him a nickel,
and the old couple helped
pay the fine
in local currency,
so I left my Jefferson head nickel
on their wooden counter.
I looked behind the counter,
and there,
in person,
was Noam Chomsky.
He was the old couple’s son!
He had to leave the bistro/Cafe’,
so I walked with him
for awhile,
and told him how wonderful
and kind
his parents were.
Then I asked
if we could take a selfie
together.
He had something wrong
with his eyes,
so he put on very thick,
dark-framed glasses.
I put on my black-framed glasses,
and the camera was upside down
and we couldn’t take the picture,
but finally we took it
and it was obvious that I was being
a pest
but I still got
the picture.
And then I went back
and found my children at the bistro/Café.
I don’t think we saw any of the city
at all
but we swam together
at night
and I played submarine
and tipped over
a large sailboat toy
like it been torpedoed …
and I didn’t even get
Noam Chomsky’s
autograph.
If I don’t write poems/
for her, that don’t mean nothin’/
‘ceptin’ that I’m tired.
Old man. Small jumper./
Serve. Pancake. Bump. Knee pad. Dig./
Good sweat. Volleyball.
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.