The Kiss

The Kiss, Rabi Khan


The air that slips between her lips
Tickles past her lover’s hips
She reaches in to take a sip
Of nectar from the tender tip
So nightly pass the sailing ships
E’er a full moon does love eclipse

Frost

The riverbed has been so dry of late
Moss on the rocks is powdering
I saw some new frost the other day
Hiding from the sun, in the dry leaves
Unexpected living moisture, a treasure
Just enough to wet my tongue
Not enough to really satisfy
It made me hurry myself home
To raid again my own supply

http://www.vqronline.org/

Homosopia

Myopia.
Hyperopia.
I have peopleopia.
Homosopia?
Not too close.
Not too far.
Stand over there
Where I can see you.
Stop talking.
Quit looking at me.

Man.
I really like you a lot.

Lucid

Mirage, Salvador Dali


I had a lucid dream a few nights ago. Days later, it hovers
at the edge of my consciousness, coloring my life. It was
brighter than reality.

I dreamed that Cameryn and I were sitting on a park bench
on a very sunny day, and it occured to me, because of the
position of the sun, that we must be late for Cameryn’s
tennis lesson. At that moment, I realized I was dreaming. I
turned to Cameryn and said, “This is a dream.” She
smiled at me and I stood and walked to the nearby street.
I knelt and examined the asphalt. Blue-black and dotted
with pebbles, it was cool against my hands.

I have had this experience a handful of times in my lifetime,
and every other time it happened, it concluded with my
simply looking around at my dream world and enjoying how
real everything seemed. This time, I was able to remind
myself to try and change something in my dream.

Standing, I turned back to Cameryn and called, “I’m going
to make it rain!” She smiled at me again and I pointed up
to the sky. “Rain!” I commanded. The sky began to cloud
over. I skipped around, thrilled with my power, as I felt
the first fat drops begin to strike me. The passing
people were all smiling. They knew I had caused the rain.
I knew they were pleased because I was not sleeping in
their world. I was fully awake.

I don’t believe I have ever felt such utter satisfaction. I
ordered the sun to come back out and it complied. Without
intending to, I then forgot I was dreaming, and the moment
ended, much in the way that one snaps back out of a
“Magic Eye” picture.

Whether I actually had a lucid dream, or simply dreamed
that I had one (try to wrap your mind around that existential
nightmare) does not matter one iota to me. What does
matter is that I figure out how to do it again.

What little understanding I have of the phenomenon I
gained in college. I had experienced a couple of lucid
dreams before the subject was discussed in my psychology
class. My professor told us that some people are able to
bring about lucid dreams by reminding themselves, while
they are awake, that they are not dreaming, that what they
are experiencing is real, and forcing themselves to take
note of the reality around them. It sounds silly, but most
of us walk around in a very un-zen-like state, conducting
a constant inner dialogue with a phantom community
within ourselves, ignoring most of the world around
us. In other words, we sleep while we’re awake. If we
teach ourselves to be truly awake, we will be able to
wake up during our dreams.

The night following my wonderful dream, I dreamed
that I was talking to Tim when I again realized I was
dreaming. In my excitement at this, I let it slip
away from me, a trout off an unset hook. I fairly
screamed into Tim’s face, “I’m dreaming!” when
everything faded away. I grabbed him and pulled him
to me, but I could no longer see a thing. I could feel his
face next to mine. I could tell from the smoothness of
his skin that he had just shaved. I closed my blind eyes,
hoping that, by conforming myself with the dream,
making myself logically blind, I would be able to pull
it back. It was gone. I opened my eyes to my own
dark room.

Body

Since I saw you, I just can’t
Get you out of my mind.
You revealed your innermost secrets,
Disturbing and beautiful, yet
By their very nature, secret
Even from you.

Beauty, strength and weakness
Suspended before me,
I hung there, a poor reflection,
Searching your transparency
And could not help but
Compare my flaws.

Your private parts were not
As private, really, as the rest;
A familiar reminder that
You must have had lovers.
None of them could know
You like I do.

Still, you remain a mystery.
I don’t even know your name.






























http://www.bodyworlds.com/en/pages/home.asp

Gremlin

I discovered a stack of old writing in a box
last night and it included the following
story that I wrote in 1996. It's been so
long since I tried to write an honest-to
god short story that I had forgotten I
ever did. If there's anybody out there, I
hope you enjoy it.












Something was wrong. The engine didn't sound right. The
Gremlin wasn't purring, but then again, she never exactly
purred. The sound the car usually made could most accurately
be described as a blat, but at least it was a familiar blat. The
noise issuing out of her now was something Jim hadn't heard
before, more like a clunk-ting. Just then, the car shuddered
twice and gave up the ghost. Jim coasted to a stop at the curb.
Great timing. It had been over an hour since he'd watched
the dim lights of Fort Lucid recede in his rearview. A
smokestack-dotted town sweltering in the armpit between
two foothills, Fort Lucid was nevertheless the only burg
he'd seen in two days which was large enough to support a
decent repair shop.

As he pulled his dog-eared map from the glove compartment,
Jim climbed out and glanced around to see where he was.
The little town he was stranded in looked to be no more than
a few small businesses struggling along two blocks of Highway
61. A couple of tiny houses with peeling paint were visible at
the only cross street. The storefronts directly across from where
the Gremlin sat immobile were empty, the glass taped and
papered over. On the next block, Jim saw "Harding's Farm
Supply" professionally painted on a window which was
thickly coated with dust. By contrast, a hand-lettered cardboard
sign humbly identified the business next door to the farm supply
to be Lee's Grocery. The grocery store's window was covered
with ancient ad flyers, faded and curling in the sun. Jim
could barely make out “MILK 65¢ HALF GAL!!!”

"No offense, Lee, but if your milk is as old as that sign, I think
I better pass," Jim chuckled to himself and then jumped as a
door beside him opened with a screech of rusty hinges. He
would have sworn that the door wasn't there just a moment
before. A man stepped out from behind it and turned to look at
Jim. In the endless moment that the two of them stood there,
too close together for comfort, Jim felt cold sweat trickle
down his back. The man looked to be at least sixty-five, not
tall - maybe five-eight, yet he was physically intimidating
all the same. He just seemed more there than anything else
around him. Tanned, leathery skin covered sharp features. A
long pony tail, completely silver, hung nearly to his shoulder
blades. His arms were thick and there was no belly pooching
over his belt. Jim, who stood six feet tall in his stocking feet,
nevertheless felt like a little boy next to him. He became
aware that the hair on the back of his neck was standing
on end. The man smiled, revealing yellow, pointed teeth.
Jim's mouth went dry as the man extended his hand.

"Hey, there, fella, looks like you got some chariot troubles.
Damned hot day for it." The man's breath was so foul and
thick that Jim expected to see gnats come out of his mouth
in a cloud.

He wasn't even aware he had put his own hand out until
the man's rough fingers closed around his. Jim felt the
world suddenly shift beneath his feet, and a distant buzzing
drone filled his head. He blinked twice, hard, and found
himself looking down into the man's wide blue eyes. "My
name's Meph, young man, and I run this little shop here.
I'd like to tell you I specialize in auto repair, but I really
just do a little o' this 'n a little o' that. I'd be glad to take
a look at your Gremlin, there, and see if I can't fix 'er up.
If it's okay with you, that is."

Jim relaxed and smiled back. He heard himself answer
in the affirmative. Had he really thought this guy was
imposing? He was just a lonely old man; he probably
didn't see many people or have much to do all day.
What kind of a name was Meph, though? Jim
wondered. He didn't notice that his hand had crept
down to his jeans of its own accord and was busily
wiping itself off.

"Let's get this little devil started again and pull 'er
around back." Meph reached in through the driver's
window and popped the hood, then bent over the
engine, simultaneously digging in one pocket. Jim
studied the front of the shop. It was identical to the
other storefronts in town, but hanging over the
door was a curved metal sign with beautifully
scrolled lettering which stated simply, "Repair
Shop". Obviously hand-made, the workmanship was
incredible. Strange that he hadn't noticed it when he
drove up. He opened his mouth to ask about the
sign when Meph stuck his head around the open
hood. "Give 'er a try." Doubtful, Jim climbed in and
twisted the key. The engine caught immediately.

"How'd you do that so fast?" Jim asked, more than
a little relief in his voice.

"Just a little trick o' the trade," Meph smiled his
sharp yellow grin again and dropped the hood
shut. "Drive on around back and let me see what
else she needs."

When he drove behind the building, Jim discovered
a large rolling door which opened to reveal that the
dividing wall between two stores had been knocked
out, providing an area large enough to contain a
small pneumatic lift. The space was surprisingly
tidy, the cement floor scrupulously clean. A
wide counter ran down one wall, and it was
covered with dismantled appliances. Jim drove
the Gremlin onto the lift, cut the engine and got
out. Meph pushed a button on the floor with
his foot, a motor hummed, and the car began
to rise. Jim's eyes were drawn down into the
darkness below the lift's recess. For just a
second he saw red eyes glowing, then they
were gone. Probably a rat, or even somebody's
housecat, looking for a little mouse-snack. A
half-forgotten rhyme from his childhood played
in his mind: Love to eat them mousies, mousies
what I love to eat, bite they little heads off,
nibble on they tiny feet. This conjured up the
image of a fat striped tabby holding a banjo in
its paws. Jim shook his head to clear it. Been
driving way too long without a break, bud.

While Meph tinkered with the car, Jim
wandered over to the counter. He was
mildly surprised to see several inexpensive
items among the profusion of appliances: a
toaster, a hair dryer, a clock radio. Stuff so
cheap that most people just threw it away when
it broke instead of paying to have it fixed. Jim
also noticed that some things didn't seem to
be broken so much as burned. The toaster's
casing was charred. The hair dryer's buttons
were melted and its cord was a blackened
stump. Jim picked up the toaster, then reflexively
dropped it when water came pouring out.
Moving further down the counter, he was
examining a coil of frayed rope when his foot
brushed something on the floor. It appeared to
be a piece of farm equipment. Rust-colored
streaks covered three jagged metal teeth.
Reaching down, Jim removed a scrap of
fabric that clung to the third tooth. It was
dark blue flannel, stained on one edge to a
deep purple. Something skittered a spider's
path in the back of Jim's mind.

He was interrupted from his reverie by the
hiss of the lift as it descended. "Looks like
we're about done." Meph was wiping red
fluid from his hands on a black rag.

"How much do I owe you?" Jim reached for
his wallet, but Meph waved him off.

"I can't take money for this job. Only needed
a few minor adjustments. She should run fine,
now, though." Meph stuffed the rag in his right
hip pocket.

"At least let me buy you lunch." As the offer
rolled off of his tongue, Jim tried to remember:
Was there a cafe in town?

"Oh, no, no. I’ve already got my lunch today,
son. Old farts like me don't have much of an
appetite anyway. "

“Well, okay, then. I can't tell you how much I
thank you." Jim opened the Gremlin's door and
slid into the front seat. He reached for the gear
shift and pulled his hand back in surprise. The
knob was gone.

"No. Thank you, boy. Oh, and here you go.
I noticed you lost your gear shift knob." He
held something out to Jim. Jim took it hesitantly.
It was the most unusual thing Jim had ever seen.
It was a small gold ball, ornately inscribed all
over its surface. As he held it, the inscription
appeared to move. Jim blinked and the decoration
stilled. He turned it over in his hands and
discovered a threaded hole. It screwed perfectly
onto the stem of the shifter, as if it had been made
for the Gremlin. He gripped the ball with his
palm and again heard the little snatch of rhyme:
Love to eat them mousies . . .

"You gotta let me pay you for this, Meph."
But when he looked up, he saw the old man
already disappearing through the shop's side door.

Jim turned the ignition key and the engine roared
to life. It sounded better than ever before; almost
- but not quite - a purr. Damn. Maybe it was gonna
be an okay day after all.

Leaving the dusty town behind him, Jim crested a
hill and disappeared from sight, swallowed whole
by the mouth of the valley that lay beyond.

* * *

"Oh, come on, John, suck it up. You're supposed to
be a cop."

"I can't help it, this is really disgusting." John
took another deep breath, then leaned in the Gremlin's
passenger door. The car had been sitting in the hot sun
for days, windows rolled up, before it was finally
discovered by a county extension officer making his
weekly trip to visit outlying farms along this lonely
fifty-mile stretch of Highway 61.

John and Wes had been partners for five years, and
Wes had still not tired of telling John gross jokes and
recounting, in excruciating detail, the most stomach-
turning aspects of the job he encountered. He knew
John had a weak constitution and a vivid imagination,
an unfortunate combination in this line of work,
and Wes loved to make it worse. Today, however,
even Wes sounded a little freaked out.

After the local sawbones/medical examiner had
finished taking his photographs, it was up to John
and Wes to bag up the evidence. Obviously a
homicide, it was equally obvious that the crime
would never be solved. Too much time had passed
since it had occurred and too little money was
available for equipment and personnel out here in
the middle of nowhere. It was more than likely a
drug deal gone sour, anyway. The vicious way the
man had been killed said that much. The only
thing John couldn't figure in was the little hand
they'd found resting on the engine. When John had
first seen it, he'd thought it was a baby's until he
turned it over and saw all the hair. Doc later
confirmed it was a monkey's paw.

That was bad enough, but the worst part, the
part that woke John up in the wee hours of the
morning for three weeks straight, sweat-soaked
sheets sticking to his naked chest, was the way
they'd had to slide the guy's head off of the
gearshift post to get him out of the car.

Independence Day

"I believe that it will be celebrated
by succeeding generations as the
great anniversary festival... it ought
to be celebrated by pomp and parade,
with shows, games, sports, guns, bells,
bonfires and illuminations from one
end of this continent to the other..."
– John Adams

“Grilling outdoors is one of the highest
honors we can bestow on a guest.”
- Michael Pollan, The Omnivore's
Dilemma: A Natural History of Four
Meals


Our country’s declaration of
independence from Britain, the beginning
of the labor that ultimately birthed
the great United States of America,
is a heavy subject. Trying to write
about it with any poetry at all is like
trying to paint a sunset, something so
frequently and badly done by unskilled
artists that I shrink from the idea. I am,
in the words of Wayne Campbell, not
worthy.

So I won’t do it.

Yesterday, Tim and his kids joined
Cameryn and me and we built a fire,
talked about history, roasted hot dogs
and marshmallows and played charades
until it was time to watch fireworks.
There was plenty of laughter, just a
little bit of complaining, and a couple
of the kids got in trouble for playing
with the fire. We drove to my office
in Deep Deuce and joined some friends
from work to drink beer and champagne
and watch the lights in the sky.

It was very American.

Forty Pink Flamingos

The first handful or so
Of years, nobody
Thought to give me
Pink flamingos

Forty pink flamingos
Make me think
You know, with forty or so
You’re thinkin’ now

Forty years, or so
Only a handful pink
And those weren’t really
As pink as all that

Eastern Colorado

Dan and I grew up here
In the wind
Miles from the sea
But in a sea
Of sand

Set aside all the work
All the pain
For a minute
And let us talk
Of play

Plastic horses and men
Kung fu moves
Pigeons and eggs
And the insides
Of frogs

The greatest cat of all
Throwing knives
Tomato bugs
And the reading
Of books

Forget what else there was
Erase it
But keep the cats
Sand, play, frogs, books
And Dan

Time ticks by so slowly
Grains of sand pass like stones
Even my skin hurts
My stomach churns and tightens
I am inside myself now
I cannot hear voices
Just the clock

Fortune

It says, This is a good time to take a risk. You will succeed.

Me

It is Coming

Sometimes I dream of the tornado. I am in a burned-out
building on a high floor. I can hear it somewhere in the
distance. The roar of it. The sound of trees being pulled
out by their roots.

Where I am, all is still. Everything around me seems to
be waiting. I want to run away, but I can’t tell exactly
where the tornado is. I search from one broken-out hole
where a window used to be to the next, trying to see it,
but other buildings are in the way and I can see nothing.

It is coming. I can’t get away.

You Can't Go Home Again

I’m not sure I believe that. But, then again, where exactly is
home? I’ve only lived in a few states – Colorado, Oklahoma
and Texas, which isn’t much compared to some. I’ve always
felt torn between Oklahoma and Colorado. I spent substantial
parts of my life in each place. I have dear memories, dear
people, in both. I only spent a few months living there, but I
did a lot of growing up in Texas. Although it sounds cheesy, I
left a big honkin’ chunk of my heart there.

I’ve been going on a little genealogical scavenger hunt for
my Indian roots lately. My own 40th birthday and the
pending birth of my niece are part of that. It’s also something
I’ve thought about doing over the years and it may be a little
easier now, with all of the electronic information available to
me right at my desk.

I’ve been contacting and keeping in contact with friends from
the past. I’ve been looking at old pictures. I’ve been assessing
my life. I’ve been making some changes and insisting on some
from those around me.

I’ve been gathering up my people, I guess; the people who
contributed genes to my body, the people who have touched
my life in the past, the people who are in my life now. I’ve
been taking a close look at them. Some of them have carried
me a really long way.

They’re some great people, these people of mine.

What’s for dinner?

Free Speech

“I had been flashing the peace sign everywhere in almost
every picture. David finally had enough and gave me a
lecture about God, country, the war, and peaceniks,
complete with a tearful refrain about how every time I
did the peace sign, it was like stabbing him in the heart.
So, after that talk, we resumed walking down the road,
and my mom took this picture. It is one of my favorite
pictures of all time from my youth . . .” – Mark Richards

The Writing Process

Somebody asked me the other day about my
writing process. Which I can understand,
because, being unpublished and pretty well
unpaid (except for a slam competition in
1999 when I won about twenty bucks from
a bunch of drunk poets), I am definitely the
one to ask - assuming you want to remain
unpublished.

If I'm writing free verse, I just pick it out of
the cosmos. That's what everybody does.

If I'm writing with form, it's a very complex,
frightening thing . . . sort of like a homeless
person talking to himself. I looked through
some of my aborted attempts and I found a
representative piece,which demonstrates the
thought process as well as any other piece can.
I have included it below. I imagine that
it will baffle you as much as it did me.
I don't think anything came of it, which is
what happens with most of the stuff I
doodle around with.



DA dadada da da daDA dadada

dada DA dadadada dada DA dadadada

boobooBA booBABA boobooBA booBA BA

Telling me you tell me Sending me you send me


Condescend
Apprehend
Comprehend
Recommend
Reoffend
Without end
Bitter end
Must extend
Does portend
Don’t intend
Defend

Afternoon
Moon
Picayune
Monsoon
Opportune
Commune


Out I walked
last eve, no-
afternoon
at half past
Six o’clock
dang near froze
a monsoon
at long last
I ‘bout balked
All aglo
A full moon
Its light cast
Down the block
I went, tho
Picayune
The cold

The Cremation of Sam McGee

After hearing this poem by Johnny Cash, thoughts
of any other post fled. It was for just this sort of thing
that I loved Cash so much when I was a kid, and
why I still do.

You can hear Cash's recording of the poem at:
The Cremation of Sam McGee

Close your eyes. Feel the heat of the camp fire.

And pass me a marshmallow.

Resuming My Addictions

Four months without posting, nearly three months after the
Austin marathon, I have decided to resume my blog.

My 40th birthday looms, just over a month away.

I feel something more is on the horizon. Maybe it's just
middle age, but I find myself in the middle of what feels
like a major transition in my life, and I have discovered
that (damn it!) I miss my blog. It was such a good creative
outlet.

I have begun to run again. Short runs, but they feel really
good.

After much contemplation, I have decided to participate in the
Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon each year, as long as my
body will let me. It occurs every April and, therefore, will not
require me to do long runs in the heat. I will maintain my short
run schedule, along with some weight lifting, until January
2007, when I will begin to train for the marathon.

I invite any and all to join me, spiritually and/or physically.

Yeeee-HAWWWWW!!!!

Bill

Last Sunday morning, the sunshine felt like rain.
Week before, they all seemed the same.
With the help of God and true friends, I come to realize
I still had two strong legs, and even wings to fly.

And oh I, ain't wastin time no more
'Cause time goes by like hurricanes, and faster things.

Lord, lord Miss Sally, why all your cryin'?
Been around here three long days, you're lookin' like you're dyin'.
Just step yourself outside, and look up at the stars above
Go on downtown baby, find somebody to love.

Meanwhile I ain't wastin' time no more
'Cause time goes by like pouring rain, and much faster things.

You don't need no gypsy to tell you why
You can't let one precious day slip by.
Look inside yourself, and if you don't see what you want,
Maybe sometimes then you don't,
But leave your mind alone and just get high.

-The Allman Brothers Band



That song always makes me think of Bill Strout. The lyrics
are similar to things he said to me, and when I have listened
to the song over the years, it has always lifted my spirits in
the same way that he was able to do.

When I met Bill, he was a bright young litigator at the
politically-active law firm where we both worked. Prior to
our firm, he had worked for David Walters in his successful
bid for Governor. His legal assistant, Sandra Monko, remains
one of my best friends, although we don’t see each other as
much now. She was extremely close to Bill. Another bright
young lawyer, Scott Thompson, was Bill’s best friend, and
the four of us used to go out drinking together and we would
eat lunch together on a regular basis.

I wanted to put Bill’s picture on this post, but none of us seem
to have one. Bill was a tall, dark and handsome Texan. He
always dressed well. He drove a great big shiny pickup truck
of one kind or another the whole time I knew him. I’ve
known a lot of arrogant litigators, but Bill was more arrogant
than all of them put together. He was a good lawyer, a good
writer, and he could talk. Oh, man, could he ever. He could
lift you up or knock you down with his words. He was
also goofy at times, and crude - always.

Bill lived in a whirlwind; Bill was a whirlwind. In the
middle of a case, he would work non-stop, night and day,
until he made himself ill. He would call me at two or three
in the morning from the office. He never really needed
anything; I think he just wanted to hear someone’s voice –
it was lonely in the office at night - and he had already
talked to Sandra and Scott until they finally told him they
had to get some sleep. Bill didn’t sleep much.

Hanging out with Bill was nearly always a good time. He’d
give me a call in the evening or I’d give him one and he’d
pick me up and take me for drinks and a steak, or a dozen
oysters, or both. We’d sit and talk, mostly about fishing.
He’d tell me about his trips to the Gulf of Mexico. He and
friends would rent a boat and catch huge fish. When we
went to lunch with the others, Bill would often rope me into
sharing a pizza with every type of fish the restaurant had on
it – shrimp, smoked oysters, anchovies, the works. Nobody
else would touch it. He loved to eat and he loved to drink.
He drank too much and, when he was on medication, he
wasn’t supposed to drink at all.

Despite the fact that my contact with Bill was come-and-go,
he sealed his position as a true friend in two ways. First, he
took the details of one my most embarrassingly irresponsible
moments to his grave. Second, ironically enough, he helped
save my life.

Before you start wondering about my irresponsible moment,
it wasn’t as simple a thing as sleeping with Bill and I wish it
had never happened, so you ain’t gonna hear about it.
Despite having witnessed it himself, he apparently revealed it
to no one. To his credit, he only mentioned it to me once and
he only laughed a little (and mostly with me, not at me).

I met Bill at one of my lowest times. I had just disrupted the
lives of everyone I loved by having split with my husband of
11 years. I had started back to work after a one-year stint as
an at-home mom. My three-year-old daughter was upset to
have to return to daycare, and I was wracked with guilt.
During that period, I frequently fantasized about killing
myself. I told this to only a couple of people, Sandra and
Bill. Sandra helped me beyond measure, but that is a story
for another memorial, one I fervently hope never to write.

Bill’s help took the form of propping up my self-esteem. Bill
was an all-time, record-holding bullshit artist from the
Bullshit Artist Hall of Fame. In short, he could sweet-talk the
wimmins. The funny thing is that, even though you knew Bill
was full of shit, you still believed him when he told you how
smart you were, how pretty, what a great mom you were, how
much you had going for you.

It sounds shallow, but how can you keep on feeling bad when
someone else thinks so much of you?

He never chastised me for wallowing in self-pity. I suspect
he understood how I felt. He just stopped by, picked me up,
bought me a steak and a couple of margaritas, gave me a pep
talk, then dropped me off at the house feeling better. I didn’t
realize it at the time, but this was the equivalent of a drunk
staggering through a china shop and somehow managing to
bump the dishes into more stable positions. I don’t question
the miracle of this – I’m just grateful.

Bill, himself, wasn’t stable. He never took care of himself
and he seemed to only have fun when he was engaging in
self-destructive behavior. He crashed and burned once while
I knew him and had to be hospitalized for awhile. I believe
he was diagnosed as bipolar at that time. When he got out, he
was different for awhile, shakier, quieter.

I saw him several months later and he seemed his old self
again. I noted that he had started drinking again. I talked to
him about the counseling I was undergoing at that time and he
told me, dryly, that “those doctors don’t know what the fuck
they’re talking about – it’s all bullshit.” We all worried
about him.

He helped me again, a couple of years later, when I had just
had my heart broken. (Again, a story for another time.) He
showed up for a few weeks, just in time to prop up my self-
esteem, then he was gone. I didn’t know it would be the last
time I would ever see him.

Sandra called me, yesterday, and told me that Bill apparently
killed himself. It happened on June 6, 2005, in San Antonio,
but we know little else. His ex-wife in Oklahoma City didn’t
tell anybody here who knew him about his death, so we were
unable to attend services.

When he died at 35, Bill left behind several ex-wives, numerous
children, friends who wish we had stayed in better touch with
him, and at least one who did stay in touch as best he could.
Bill kept changing his phone number. He seems to have been
experiencing paranoid delusions before he died – he thought
someone was after him.

I fell asleep last night, trying to will myself to dream of Bill.
I have so many questions I want to ask him.

Big Chiefs

Big Chiefs have spoken.

Tribe's duties in Austin:

First night, rest and pray to Great Spirit
that tribe will have light feet and much joy.

Second day, trial by fire.

Second night, tribe will rest, see
medicine man, and thank Great Spirit
for living through trial by fire.

Third day and night, tribe will celebrate
with much fire water.

Don't mean to be a bitch, but this thing is. A bitch, I mean.

Pluggin' along.
Chuggin' along.
Not budgin'
From drudge trudgin',
But all the time, I'm
Afraid of the train.

It's drainin' my brain
To maintain
The mundane strain
Of this insane campaign
Without my main
Chiefs.

I'm in grief,
In disbelief.
They've forsaken me.
Shaken me.
It's breakin' me.
Oddly enough,
This thing’s tough.
C'mon boys, tell us,
Compel us.

Goals

We’re getting down to the wire, people.
D-day is just over a month away.
Time to assess where we are and where
we need to be to complete our goals.
I believe I can finish the marathon, but
at this point, only on bloody stumps.
I did 20 miles yesterday, my longest
distance, and I don’t believe I could have
gone one inch further. It will take a lot
more work for me to be able to go over
6 miles further than I did yesterday.
(Jaysus – 6 miles!!! Further!!!! Kill me.
Now.) In the next three weeks, I need to eat
right, drink enough water, and I must get out
there and run – no skipping a run, I just can’t
afford it – run, run, run.

Like the wind.

Birds

I listened to a story on the radio the other day about the avian flu
in Turkey. It mentioned some little girls who stood by, unhappily,
as their pet chickens were loaded into bags to be killed. Although
poultry is eaten and kept for eggs, the birds aren’t generally viewed
the same way in Turkey and China as they are here. Kids in those
countries play with them, hold them, pet them and give them
names, as we would a dog or cat.

It may be hard for some Americans to take seriously the concept of
a pet chicken, but I think most of us know that children can make a
pet out of almost any animal. Birds respond to interaction with
humans. Some birds actively seek out their human companions.

When I was seventeen, I had a pet tom turkey for about a year.
He was the only poult to survive out of a brood of a hundred my
father bought, obviously a failed venture. The tom lived in a
doghouse by our calf pen and clearly recognized me, probably
because I was the one who fed him. Whenever I walked outside,
he would come out of the dog house and spread his splendid tail
feathers, puffing up his back and chest until he looked twice his
actual size. “That turkey’s in love with you,” observed my
stepbrother, wryly. I moved back to Oklahoma, away from my
father’s farm, in September that year and was thus spared having
to participate in the tom’s inevitable Thanksgiving fate.

Although the subject of the girls in the avian flu story wasn’t
the reporter’s main thrust, I found myself unable to stop thinking
about them and their chickens. What was it about these little girls,
powerless to halt the killing of seemingly healthy pets, that
bothered me so?

And then it all came back to me.

When Danny and I were kids, our father kept a number of racing
pigeons. He was in a racing club and a lot of money changed
hands over bets on the races. Some of the races were 500 miles
long, and some of the birds were worth quite a bit of money.
Danny and I were intimately involved in their care. We fed and
watered them. We cleaned the cage. We shooed the birds away
from landing on the cage, so that they would stay in the air and
exercise. I held them while my father sewed up their wounds
and gave them shots of penicillin when they were injured by
a high wire.

Danny and I named our favorite pigeons. The ones that stand
out in my memory are those that we named first – a male, pale
grey with silver bars on his wings, and a female, white with
splashes of dark grey all over her body. They were “Silver”
and “Splash.” We were ecstatic when our father decided to
breed them. I don’t know if he did this because they were
our favorites, or if it was a happy coincidence, but, from my
9-year-old point of view, the pairing seemed more romantic
than Camelot. Silver and Splash hatched an ordinary-looking
lump of fat which pooped copiously and was covered with fuzz.
We christened him “Screaming Baby.” All young pigeons scream,
but he seemed to scream especially loud to us, hence the name.
One should take a moment to appreciate the budding creativity
that these descriptive names evidenced. (Cameryn seems to
have excelled over us; her favorite stuffed monkey, black
but for face, hands and feet, is referred to as “Blackamostly.”)

Looking back, I realize now that Screaming Baby probably
screamed louder than the other squabs because we were
forever handling him. We played with Screaming Baby all
the time. Before he was able to fly, we put him on the gear
teeth of our father’s cement mixer while it was running, a la
treadmill. It wasn’t as dangerous as it sounds.

Our father wasn’t a stable person, to say the least. Without
trying to diagnose him, I will sum him up for the purpose
of this story by simply saying that he was given to unpredictable
rages. Danny and I did the best we could to find normal
childhood moments together among the daily frightening and
violent events that made up our young lives.

One night, just after falling asleep in my pink and white room
across from Danny’s blue and red one, I found myself suddenly
awake, heart beating hard, limbs shaking. The tone of my
mother’s voice, frightened and breathless, had forcefully pulled
me out of my dream.

“What’s wrong?”

“I killed them.”

“What?”

“I killed them all.”

“All the pigeons?”

“Yes. I pulled off their heads.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why.”

“Even Silver and Splash?!”

“All of them.”

I cried, silently, in my bed. They were gone.

My father had a heart attack the next day. Mom
believed that this was, somehow, why he did it, but
I didn’t buy it then and I don’t buy it now. He did things
like that all the time. He did it because it’s just what he
did. The pigeons were small things, much smaller and
more fragile, more defenseless, than even a 9-year-old
child. My father was a tornado. A hurricane. A terrible,
destructive force of nature. You don’t ask a tornado why
it kills. It would be futile.

Those little Turkish girls clearly understand this.

You can scream into the wind all you want, but it will
never hear you.

Emptiness

I have grown to understand that this process is about emptiness. To fill myself with worry is to deny myself the journey.

I will arrive at the starting line, an empty vessel.


Thirty spokes are joined together in a wheel,
but it is the center hole
that allows the wheel to function.

We mold clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that makes the vessel useful.

We fashion wood for a house,
but it is the emptiness inside
that makes it livable.

We work with the substantial,
but the emptiness is what we use.

Tao Te Ching - by Lao-Tzu
Translation by J.H. McDonald