Could I possibly be any busier?
Could I possibly be more bored?
Could I possibly be any more confused about
What the hell I’m here for?
If “all things are possible” is true,
Then I guess there’s still a chance
That I could be more busy and could be more bored
Than I am in this circumstance.
But, Man I hope that ain’t true.
I hope like hell it just ain’t.
Cuz, if it’s true there’s no end to this rut that I'm in,
I may have to start sniffing paint.
-par
12 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Silence
Silence
I guess you think it's Golden.
I guess you think it's nice.
I guess you you think it's peaceful, lovely,
audible eidelweiss.
But me, I just can't stand it.
I'd rather hear you scream.
I'd rather hear my bones break, shattering,
than quietly kneel and seem.
So, please, say something, sometime.
Say anything you want.
Say anything you feel or think,
only stillness taunts.
-par
8 2010
I guess you think it's Golden.
I guess you think it's nice.
I guess you you think it's peaceful, lovely,
audible eidelweiss.
But me, I just can't stand it.
I'd rather hear you scream.
I'd rather hear my bones break, shattering,
than quietly kneel and seem.
So, please, say something, sometime.
Say anything you want.
Say anything you feel or think,
only stillness taunts.
-par
8 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
control
I blame the walleye. Nearly five pounds of fresh walleye…On Wednesday, while shopping at Super One for tartar sauce, Panko Japanese breading and lemons, my blood sugar tumbled down, like an avalanche. Having wrestled with blood sugar issues for nearly thirty years, one might think I’d have figured it out by now. I haven’t. About the time I think I’ve got it licked, it climbs out of its hole like a long, black snake and clamps on, thrashing and coiling, until I inevitably find a way to choke it back.
It’s temporary. The constancy of the battle is exhausting. If giving up was an option I’d have done so long ago. I ain’t proud.
In the aisle next to the frozen vegetables—no where near the lemons—I finally realized what insulin-dependent diabetics the world over know as the moment of clarity, the epiphanic instant where the brain finally connects, however briefly, with the real-world outside the cranium, blood glucose somewhere south of 45 mg/dl and dropping.
“You finding everything alright, Sir?”
“Under control, Bud.” Epic lie.
“You sure?” The kid is relentless.
“Yup. …Just can’t remember…”
“Do you have a list?” His eyes are wide. Whatever he’s reading on my face, is foreign.
“Of course, I do, Bud,” I say. “But I was supposed to…”
Next, I’m swimming. The floor is my lake. The dirty tile is cool and smooth and I feel myself giggling a little. My shirt is filthy, my necktie ruined. Beneath the giggling is a reptile anger, a penetrating, dull understanding that it’s happening again, lost control in a lifetime of trying. Swear words come out of my mouth.
“Sir, I think your son is here.”
“Huh?”
“Dad, drink this.”
“I don’t need that.”
“Drink it, Dad.”
“I don’t--”
“Drink it right now, Dammit.”
Then my wife is there. Familiar, frightened look in her eyes, worried. Kills me. She deserves more. Better. Lopsided deal…
“I’m FINE!” I shout and lie. The louder the shout, the bigger the lie.
“Honey,” she says. “Remember, you promised you’d do whatever I said, whenever I said it, no matter what.”
“I remember.”
“Then drink this. Now.”
I do. Hatefully. It’s an admission of all gone wrong. Lost control. Again. Story of my life.
Cops everywhere. Deputies. Ambulance guys. The delicate choreography of dogmatic professionalism and human compassion is humbling. Inspiring. They’re young. And smart. And good.
“You’re coming around now, Sir. I don’t think we’ll need an I.V.”
“Yes, I’m feeling much better. It’s like magic….Ironic that what’ll kill me in the long run saves me in the short run.”
“You mean glucose? It isn’t going to kill you.”
“Already is...”
I sign the stuff that needs to be signed. Shake the hands of the young men who spend their work days doing good stuff.
“Take care, guys. Thanks, again.”
“No sweat. Take care now. Make sure you eat something.”
“I’ll do that,” I say and, as I walk through the parking lot toward my wife’s waiting car, it occurs to me that more than an hour has gone by since I first entered the store. Time flies when you’re semi-conscious.
“People are good,” I say to my wife.
“They are,” she agrees and kisses me.
“And, you are beyond good,” I add.
“I am,” she agrees, winking, and kisses me again.
As we drive off, I roll down the window and close my eyes, the summer wind warm and buffeting. It smells like my childhood. Big Lake. Swimming with Wade and Jeff. My dad roofing the house. Old Dutch Potato Chips. Peanut M&Ms.
“I love the smell of summer,” I say.
“Me too,” she answers.
As we pull into the driveway, she looks hard at my face, something dawning on her, something big.
“Did you get tartar sauce?” she asks. And I hold up the bag, successfully.
“Lemons, tartar sauce and Panko.” I say. “Totally under control.”
It’s temporary. The constancy of the battle is exhausting. If giving up was an option I’d have done so long ago. I ain’t proud.
In the aisle next to the frozen vegetables—no where near the lemons—I finally realized what insulin-dependent diabetics the world over know as the moment of clarity, the epiphanic instant where the brain finally connects, however briefly, with the real-world outside the cranium, blood glucose somewhere south of 45 mg/dl and dropping.
“You finding everything alright, Sir?”
“Under control, Bud.” Epic lie.
“You sure?” The kid is relentless.
“Yup. …Just can’t remember…”
“Do you have a list?” His eyes are wide. Whatever he’s reading on my face, is foreign.
“Of course, I do, Bud,” I say. “But I was supposed to…”
Next, I’m swimming. The floor is my lake. The dirty tile is cool and smooth and I feel myself giggling a little. My shirt is filthy, my necktie ruined. Beneath the giggling is a reptile anger, a penetrating, dull understanding that it’s happening again, lost control in a lifetime of trying. Swear words come out of my mouth.
“Sir, I think your son is here.”
“Huh?”
“Dad, drink this.”
“I don’t need that.”
“Drink it, Dad.”
“I don’t--”
“Drink it right now, Dammit.”
Then my wife is there. Familiar, frightened look in her eyes, worried. Kills me. She deserves more. Better. Lopsided deal…
“I’m FINE!” I shout and lie. The louder the shout, the bigger the lie.
“Honey,” she says. “Remember, you promised you’d do whatever I said, whenever I said it, no matter what.”
“I remember.”
“Then drink this. Now.”
I do. Hatefully. It’s an admission of all gone wrong. Lost control. Again. Story of my life.
Cops everywhere. Deputies. Ambulance guys. The delicate choreography of dogmatic professionalism and human compassion is humbling. Inspiring. They’re young. And smart. And good.
“You’re coming around now, Sir. I don’t think we’ll need an I.V.”
“Yes, I’m feeling much better. It’s like magic….Ironic that what’ll kill me in the long run saves me in the short run.”
“You mean glucose? It isn’t going to kill you.”
“Already is...”
I sign the stuff that needs to be signed. Shake the hands of the young men who spend their work days doing good stuff.
“Take care, guys. Thanks, again.”
“No sweat. Take care now. Make sure you eat something.”
“I’ll do that,” I say and, as I walk through the parking lot toward my wife’s waiting car, it occurs to me that more than an hour has gone by since I first entered the store. Time flies when you’re semi-conscious.
“People are good,” I say to my wife.
“They are,” she agrees and kisses me.
“And, you are beyond good,” I add.
“I am,” she agrees, winking, and kisses me again.
As we drive off, I roll down the window and close my eyes, the summer wind warm and buffeting. It smells like my childhood. Big Lake. Swimming with Wade and Jeff. My dad roofing the house. Old Dutch Potato Chips. Peanut M&Ms.
“I love the smell of summer,” I say.
“Me too,” she answers.
As we pull into the driveway, she looks hard at my face, something dawning on her, something big.
“Did you get tartar sauce?” she asks. And I hold up the bag, successfully.
“Lemons, tartar sauce and Panko.” I say. “Totally under control.”
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Rare
Rare
Rare is the swimming in my head.
Buzzing bees, spinning bed,
Whenever you touch me, kiss my hair.
Rare as magic, light as air.
Rare is the pressure in my heart.
An elephant standing. God’s impart,
Whenever you say, “I love you, Dear,”
Rare as forever. Familiar as fear.
-par
5 24 2010
Rare is the swimming in my head.
Buzzing bees, spinning bed,
Whenever you touch me, kiss my hair.
Rare as magic, light as air.
Rare is the pressure in my heart.
An elephant standing. God’s impart,
Whenever you say, “I love you, Dear,”
Rare as forever. Familiar as fear.
-par
5 24 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Why do I live here?
Nursery Rhyme 5 2010
Rain, Rain, go away.
Come again some other day.
And as for your brother, Snow,
Tell him, Stay Clear the month of May!
Why do we live here,
Do you suppose?
Long, sultry summers?
Mosquitoes?
Army Worms, Zebra Mussels
thrill our senses...
Hell-if-I-know,
I'm avoiding the census
and skipping town for
somewhere better,
where they don't have mosquitoes,
somewhere warm, less wetter.
-par
5 2010
Rain, Rain, go away.
Come again some other day.
And as for your brother, Snow,
Tell him, Stay Clear the month of May!
Why do we live here,
Do you suppose?
Long, sultry summers?
Mosquitoes?
Army Worms, Zebra Mussels
thrill our senses...
Hell-if-I-know,
I'm avoiding the census
and skipping town for
somewhere better,
where they don't have mosquitoes,
somewhere warm, less wetter.
-par
5 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Speck of Heaven (Happy Birthday Evan)
Speck of Heaven
Evan, Evan, Speck of Heaven,
Third son, last born child,
Sixteen years have come and gone
Since the world you entered mild.
And the world is milder with you in it,
A lovelier, better place.
Evan, Evan under heaven, your presence
Proof of Grace.
Son, my son, my precious son,
May the years to follow be
Like specks of heaven, every one,
The way you’ve been to me.
-par
5.6.2010
Evan, Evan, Speck of Heaven,
Third son, last born child,
Sixteen years have come and gone
Since the world you entered mild.
And the world is milder with you in it,
A lovelier, better place.
Evan, Evan under heaven, your presence
Proof of Grace.
Son, my son, my precious son,
May the years to follow be
Like specks of heaven, every one,
The way you’ve been to me.
-par
5.6.2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Prayer
PRAYER
What if it never works?
What if things stay the same?
What if the voice that kills and lies
Leaves the other voice weak and lame?
What’ll become of me?
What’ll become of them?
What’ll become of Hope and Love and
Peace and Goodness then?
Who’ll be left in charge?
Who will protect the innocent?
Who, among us, will rise above,
Fearless and beneficent?
What will the earth look like?
Cold and spinning satellite.
What noise will the wind become?
Screaming and shrill through the night…
I say, Let it work.
I say, Let it fail.
I say, in the end, the choice is small,
I either win, or I cry and wail.
And prayer is not black magic.
Prayer isn’t making deals.
So, I don’t know what exactly prayer is,
But I know what it ain’t; and it feels
Like talking.
Not begging.
-par
5 2010
What if it never works?
What if things stay the same?
What if the voice that kills and lies
Leaves the other voice weak and lame?
What’ll become of me?
What’ll become of them?
What’ll become of Hope and Love and
Peace and Goodness then?
Who’ll be left in charge?
Who will protect the innocent?
Who, among us, will rise above,
Fearless and beneficent?
What will the earth look like?
Cold and spinning satellite.
What noise will the wind become?
Screaming and shrill through the night…
I say, Let it work.
I say, Let it fail.
I say, in the end, the choice is small,
I either win, or I cry and wail.
And prayer is not black magic.
Prayer isn’t making deals.
So, I don’t know what exactly prayer is,
But I know what it ain’t; and it feels
Like talking.
Not begging.
-par
5 2010
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