Jaques 57

Just like grandmother made, she thought. The cup brought warmth to her spirit, which was in dire need of mending as this season brought both joy and weariness. From behind her giant mug of comfort she intently gazed on the man who gathered her attention as he strolled past. She remained concealed, tucked away, except for the big soft eyes peering into the outside world. What about this man is so familiar? Something pulled terribly at the yesteryear as he drifted by like the lonesome ghosts many of us are. But what?The cologne. Jacques 57. It reminded her of her grandfather. In an instantaneous manner she was whisked away into the past.

She finds herself sitting upon his sturdy knee once again. She looks around to see the house decorated, and busy with the bustle of people. It's Christmas. Grandfather is sitting with her in his three-season porch, a lit pipe giving the air a tobacco perfume. She sees his cold blue eyes and warm rosy cheeks sitting upon his weathered skin wreathed in hair white as snow. All of which are focused on her, his beloved granddaughter. The warmth in his cocked smile, and baritone chuckle fill the space between with love and joy. Besides his laughter, the only noise to be heard is Grandmother cooking in the kitchen. The farmstead remains covered in the silent snow. There is peace for all to share here.

As the cash register opens she is jolted back to reality to watch the gentleman walk away with his coffee and optimism. She quietly gathers herself as the realizes comes home; it wasn't the cup that warmed her spirit, rather nostalgia. What started with a cup reminding her of her dear grandmother, ended with an uncompromising cash register lay a memory. A memory she thought she could hold onto throughout this season. She had found her holiday spirit.

A Collection of Mondays

Dark fragments of the winter
grow upon my face
like the winds of
a fierce Nor'easter
blowing hard down
steep Atlantic banks.

I wish hard that
I had seen you then,
during our winter,
under garland & glass
ever dressed in black.
all-the-while-in
our rudimentary pleasantries
and awkward stares.

But I have since
fast collected the
fractures,
with a dull razor from
my broken skin.
I watch them wash
and swirl downward
in the tepid
crimson water,
then step aside.

"The Colossus' Glass" The Last Thing He Saw

“I remember the last thing I saw before I went blind. It was one of the Colossus, a massive herculean giant, fifty feet tall, hoisting a great lens up over his head in the burning orange of the setting sun. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, frozen in awe, or maybe fear, I can’t say now which was stronger. He stood higher than most of the buildings of our city, and his face was sullen, emotionless, unmoved by the mayhem and destruction he would reap by obeying the commands of his director. He just hoisted to his shoulder the large monocle-like glass the size of a small parachute, wreathed in gold and tungsten, and turned it slowly in a circle. As he turned the glass it focused the rays of the sun on anything in its gaze. Churches burst into flame. Playgrounds melted to boiling molten puddles. Rows of houses, entire city blocks, shriveled and shrank into the earth under a glowing furious heat. I watched from the hill. I couldn’t move. Those who remained in the streets turned and fled. They were the wise ones. Yes, I am lucky to have lived, to have lost only my sight, but foolish to have stayed. As the Colossus’ beam turned the corner toward me, he faltered. He lost his grip on the glass. And I stared too long. As he adjusted his hands, each one the size of a small car, on the edges of the glass, it quickly jerked and swept past me. In a way, it swept through me. I did not erupt into flames. I did not melt. I did not char. With a great white flare, the light reached the back of my mind and stayed. And then there was nothing. Which is exactly what I have seen since that day. Nothing.”

Any Port In A Storm.

snow day

there is a salt stain on my shoes
that runs from left to right
and up my pant leg
like a crusty reminder
of my inability to pack correctly

Christmas Memory

When I was a twelve year old boy I remember a Christmas at my grandparent’s farm. It was tradition for all of us to gather there. There was the adult table in the dining room, and the kids table in the kitchen. We had all come to gather around the tables for lunch, the two grandparents, their three children and their spouses, and seven grandchildren. This memory happened before all of that. I remember, before the goodbyes, before the sledding, before the gifts exchanged, before the lunch, before the common table prayer, I was on the porch.

I was looking over the snow covered lawn. My gaze had fallen past the garage and past the chicken coop. I had fixed my sight, through the crisp air, upon the the barn. It was there that I remember coming to rest as I chewed upon an apple that everything was right. The cows were huddled in the pasture. Their breath blowing smokey clouds from their nostrils as their sides held sheets of snow. The chickens were nestled in their beds of straw staying warm inside their coop. The cats in the barn doing whatever it is that cats do, and the dogs under the table waiting for the meal to begin. It was their in that moment, that at least in the mind of a twelve year old, there was peace. And it is in that moment that I remember Christmas. Peace like that, will be brought to the world, because of a Christmas long ago, that wasn’t in the winter.

And as I sit eighteen years later in my parents’ living room, strapped to their couch by my friend named Flu and his buddy Fever, I yearn for Christmases like that to never cease.

Sit-You-Down

He killed himself on Christmas day,
or so it seems, and so they say
He hung himself in the garage
and a tree grew up from the floor.
A tree grew up in a crack in the floor,
and as I pass by the window I

see my face reflected there.

We pass each other like clouds in the sky
not knowing, oblivious.  No where or why.
So much flour and so little bread
for so very many mouths
We are all shattered and dead
mirrors on abandoned sidewalks.
All puddle and weed, so many pieces
I look for you but I

see my face reflected there.

This is what we do at my house
we take in orphans and we pass the beer
We say "don't you DARE ignore the here"
and grab you by the collar.
Sit
You
Down
I will hear no more of your excuses.
Do but look around at each one sitting, and

see my face reflected there.