What Good

Good Am I

What pulses through me

Telling me how

To purpose my hands

And mind plucking my fingertips.

Where a pace bends

The pounding of my heart

Connected; one to another

Steps synapses firing

Onward

Into the space

Where it gets done

Work is finished

that serves

Good

Let those judges 

Sit tell-all

Well if

And maybe he should have

Done is done

Remorse cannot undo

Testament to my life

The lasting gasp in a universe vast

Already over and begun again

One thousand times

Surrey

Excerpt From Compilation of Work, "Surrey"

2019-5-10

The Beating:

It was Charlie, unwilling to pull the surrey, that led to the beating.  Charlie, tied to a tree, my father swung the leather straps.  They cracked the air and whipped against Charlie's hide.  I think I cried as I watched, but I can’t remember.

There was a place in my father that, if touched, could lead to a beating.  He never hit me in a brutal way.  I was his son.  I got my ass tanned with belts, palms and boards, but that was not so uncommon at the time, not considered at all violent.  My grade school principal had a paddle patterned with round holes hanging on his wall and not just to scare.

But the beating my father unleashed upon his companion, Charlie, was something to behold.  Charlie was a big brown quarter horse.  But I had seen the love between them.  I had seen the adoration for my father in Charlie’s eye and gate, and the admiration and love my father had for that horse in his cool tone and soft hand on Charlie’s neck.  I had seen them, poetry in motion, blazing across a harvested cornfield on an early October Sunday morning, the colors everywhere bursting red, yellow, orange and green, as they kicked up thick black clots of mud into the azure sky and tore a hole clean through the lush landscape. 

He’d taken to biting his tongue on the side of his mouth, Charlie, when he was nervous.  Maybe it was something he’d always done, but we began checking it after a few of his blow-ups just to keep ourselves safe. 

What is kind of crazy, and I’m just now thinking of this as I write this, my father used to bite his tongue on the side of his mouth when he was focused on something intently.  So the two of them, see, they were connected and they both would bite their tongues on the sides of their mouths for different reasons.

And they both eventually had to accept the other for what they were.  And death being the black lacquer, big spoken wheeled surrey in my life, I can’t begrudge Charlie for taking against it, sticking to the green grass and roving rivers.  I love him for it.

At a distance, in the end, they were beautiful, hard and brilliant, my father and that horse, without regret or remorse.  The beating is just a simple little thing that lights up the memory.   

Hiding

Hiding

Have I denied myself

Enough

Giving into distraction

The nagging itch of me

Knocking my insides

While I sit and stare

Slack off into the nether

A slow eddy without intent

It is fear

Nothing less

A coward to say I won’t

Chase the obtainable

Grasp that which is mine

Drink the wine before me

And a coward I am

Hiding from my life

Burdened and burnt

All I need I have a well of black

To tell of soar and sorrow

Death of hope

Birth of I can’t

But all onward good fellows

My spirit is strong

While I hide among the shadows

Poem for Papa

To Papa on a Rainy Day:

I see you fading, old man

As the days turn into weeks

Turn into months

Now almost a year

You lay in that bed

More than anything

I wish to steal a year or two

Give you the strength to move

Talk to me as you once did

Tell me wise things

I sit writing next to you

Wanting you to understand

I love you so much

That your gentle nature

Will always be with me

The tides are turning, old man

They recede and I must go

I’m so sorry I can’t be here

Holding your hand in those last moments

When you find the other place

Wherever I am

I will carry you with me

I will keep you safe

Give you to my children

So you can live on in our lives

As a man like you deserves

Babies Take Drugs - An Attempt At Comedy

Babies Take Drugs

“What is marijuana?"

It was one of those moments as a parent when you are not really present.  My mind was scrolling through the pending day’s work waiting for me at the office.  Needless to say, the comment caught me off guard.  As I awoke from my daze I realized the radio news was running a story related to the legalization of marijuana in Colorado and my son, who usually paid little attention to what was playing in the car on our ride to school, had decided on this particular occasion to listen and respond.  

“What’s that, son?” I replied hoping I hadn’t accurately heard his question.
“What is marijuana?”  No such luck.

“Well, it’s a drug.” 

“Drugs are bad, aren’t they dad,” his voice had become suddenly serious.

“Sometimes they are son.”

Responding with this noncommittal phrase, I had a feeling every father has when he knows he may be entering a vast and barren place filled with challenging follow-up questions from his child, leading deeper into chaos and a place where the best parents become stammering idiots. 

Glancing in the rear view mirror, I could see Collins brow furrowed and his brown eyes were focused forward as he spoke. 

“They say at school drugs are bad.  Never dare to do drugs!”

Collin raised his voice and his fist on the word “dare” with this declaration and slammed down his hand on the word “drugs” as if passing a death sentence upon the world of drugs.

I would learn later that this is where the wise parent stops talking or maybe even agrees with the child in order to finalize the conversation.  Many wiser parents in this situation would have said “that’s right, Collin, never dare to do drugs,” and move along with their day; maybe even change the subject and talk about something else.  I was not a wise parent on that particular morning. 

“Not all drugs are bad,” I offered. 

“They’re not?”

“No, they’re not.  You took some Tylenol last week when you had a fever.  When you took that medicine, you took drugs.”

“I did?” Collin responded aghast, disbelief ringing through his voice.

“Yes, you did.  And when your brother got a cold last month, we gave him the purple cough syrup, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“That medicine was also drugs.”

“It was?” He gasped with even more intensity, excited to have dirt on his brother.

“Yes.  So by that rationale, both you and your brother have taken drugs. “

“We have?!” The level of outrage echoing from my son had reached comical levels.

“Yes you both have.  And everyone you know: your teachers, your friends, your family, all of them have taken drugs at one time or another.  Even some babies get drugs when they are born.”

Dead silence in the back of the car.  Silence is often a warning to parents.  Something is happening and it should be investigated.  I knew at that moment this new and potentially toxic information was being cultivated and turned over in Collin’s mind.  I realized it was important to qualify my remarks and clearly explain to Collin the difference between good drugs and bad drugs.

So for the next five minutes I went on to explain the difference between responsible drug use and the dangers of drug abuse.  I felt confident when he got out we were square and life was good.

Later that day, around 1 pm, I had my team assembled in the conference room to go over some draft work. The project was a commercial building downtown.  Things were looking very prosperous for me as I would be the lead engineer on the project.  With two team members on each side of me, I stood at the head as we shot ideas back and forth.  It was the creative phase, probably my favorite time, when all parties have fully examined the plans and brought suggestions for improvements.  Madelyn was pitching a new form of digital wiring that operates with increased efficiency when the call came.  Apologizing to the team, I asked everyone for just a moment as I hit the speaker button on the conference table phone. On the other end was my assistant, Gene.
“Cal.”
“Yes, Gene.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your meeting but you have a call from Collin’s school; it’s a Mrs. Woodward.  She says she’s the school principal.”

Glancing at the faces of my team, it occurred to me that I should ask them to leave.

“Put her though,” I commanded with my best upbeat team leader voice.

I started, “Hello, Mrs. Woodward.  This is Cal Wilson.”
“Yes.  Hello Mr.Wilson.  I have your son, Collin, here with me and he’s pretty upset.”

Responding with a forced calm I said, “Collin is there.  Okay.  What’s happening?”

“Well, Mr.Wilson, there is no easy way to say this so I just have to say it.  Your son has indicated to his fellow students, to his teachers and now to me that you and your wife openly condone drug use.” 

 It took me a few seconds to connect this call with our morning conversation.  Shit.  Oh shit.

“Ummm, no.  What?  No, we most certainly do not.”
I noticed the shifting eyes of my team members.  They worked to remain stoic as I felt my entire blood supply rush directly to my face. 

I took in a deep breath and continued, “Collin heard a report on the news this morning that marijuana was being legalized in Colorado and he asked me about it.  I tried to explain to him the difference between good drugs and bad drugs.  It sounds like I may not have done a great job with that.”

“That would seem the case, Mr.Wilson.  Collin has been going around to his fellow students telling them that they take drugs.” I noticed the challenged suppression of smiles from team members and felt my face transitioning from a pink to more of a fiery maroon. 
“He’s also indicated to his teachers and to me that we all take drugs.  He is insisting that you told him this and that everything you say is right and true and is refusing to back down from it.”

“Well I did tell him…” she didn’t even let me finish the sentence.

 “Mr. Wilson.  We run the DARE program at our school.  Do you know what that is?”

“Yes, ma'am. Yes, I do.”  As I heard myself utter the word ma'am, one of my team members headed toward the office door.  It was Charles, my good friend and second in command.  He was smiling, biting down hard and his eyes were watering.

She continued, “The DARE program kicks off in full force next week.  It encourages all of our children to steer clear of drugs.  Your son actually believes babies do drugs.  Did you tell your son babies do drugs?” 

“Babies do drugs?” I repeated the question as if I had a learning disability.  The rest of the team broke for my office door with their own tears collecting. 

“Yes.  Babies!  Why would you tell him this?” Incredulity ran through her voice.

“I…well…I,” as I listened to my own stammering.  It felt as if my body were shrinking.  While my general brain functions shut down one after the next, Mrs. Woodward fired on.

“Will you to please come to the school and sit down with your son and I so we can all get this straightened out.  Collin seems very confused and so am I.”

I managed to blurt out, “yes, I will.  I will do that now.  I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

After hanging up the phone, I called Gene and let her know to contact the team and get a meeting set up for the next morning.   Fear was already manifesting within me that this would get back to Collin’s mother.  Sitting down in a black leather chair at the drafting table, I allowed myself a moment to lean back and take a deep breath.
“Babies” I said aloud with my hands over my face.  “Babies take drugs.”

Zoink

Zoink

I’m entertained

Glammed up

Storm porned

All goosey 

Movie bits

Clips me-tubed

Senseless nips

Sneaky clever

Ever stored

Snap hit record

Sick stupid cost

Lost knitting

Unwitting innovation

Void of creation
A just sensation

Fuckfaced bullshit
Flash it streaming

Twiddle dumb

Zombieland scag
Still steaming

shit
sleep
eat

Boot up

Repeat

Being Lucky

Just Chris: On Being Lucky

I have a friend, a good friend, who not so long ago told me I was the “luckiest unlucky guy” he knew. My friend, we’ll call him Bill, attended the same college and fraternity as I did. I was best man in his wedding. Needless to say, we were close. I'd let the comment slide off me, but it occurred to me, some time after the conversation, just what Bill was implying. He was saying that I was lucky because I have money and because I didn’t have to worry about some of the difficult financial matters he was facing. But I was also unlucky in the way the money came to me. He had long known about my parents passing away when I was a kid and he also knew I had inherited their wealth through this tragic event. And so he deemed me, “the luckiest unlucky guy” he knew.

I am a rich man’s son. My father, before he died, wrote to me about it. He told me I’d always have to do better, work harder and achieve more for people’s respect. He told me it was the nature of things. Over the years, I have found this to be true and although gaining approval of others isn’t the most important thing in life, the opinions of others do sometimes matter. How people perceive you affect how they treat you. This became especially important to me when the person in question was a good friend.

Bill had gotten married to a fantastic woman, he had a healthy son, about one-year-old, and they shared a home in downtown Phoenix. Both he and his wife were working solid salary paying jobs and Bill’s dad and aunt both lived close by. From the outside looking in, someone might label Bill as “lucky.” Bill didn’t see it this way. They had bought their home at a bad time and it was worth less than what they paid. Bill had saved little before getting married and what he had, he'd lost on an investment.  They’re jobs barely covered all the costs of raising a family. To make things more difficult, Bill’s father-in-law, who had done well in business, didn’t like Bill and created additional challenges in his life. My friend now held a negative view of wealthy people, especially those who were successful in business. I felt this in our visit and had a hard time understanding why my good friend held such hostile feelings, some of which were pointed in my general direction. It took me some time to sit on it, sort it out and later write him a letter in response.

My letter explained to Bill that I have always been lucky, and just lucky, but money had little to do with it. What my parents gave to me in heart, mind, and soul, I carry with me today and it goes where I go. My wife and sons and the way they make me feel every day when I see them, they make me lucky. The relationships I build with friends, colleagues and my community make me lucky. Yes, money affords opportunities and opens doors, but the meaning and value in my life come through people and my own response to life's experience. I’ve been lucky enough in my life to have many wonderful people in it and I still do. I’ve been lucky my whole life. As for monetary wealth, I’d give all away if I could, just for one day to see my parents playing with my children and embracing my wife. Knowing this is knowing it isn’t about money.

It seemed clear to me, my friend, Bill, was unhappy, resentful, even angry, not at me, but at something he himself couldn’t really put a finger on. As a friend, I wrote the letter to tell him how I felt and that I was his friend, I would be happy to travel to see him so we could talk, drink a beer and laugh. He didn’t’ take me up on the offer. After months, he called to tell me he and his wife are having another baby. “Congratulations,” I told him, “on another blessing to your family.”

I think today, more than I have ever seen, there is a growing tension between people. And if you listen to the broadcasters and politicians, you’ll hear it is about class, or race or politics. I don’t buy it. What I do believe is we are all responsible for nurturing and caring for one another and doing our best to make this life about meaning derived from the human experience. If we work together, there is nothing we can’t accomplish. If we turn our thoughts to one another and do what is right, who knows, maybe we’ll forget about just how awful things are and start to feel…what is the word I’m looking for…lucky.