Ca$h 4 GoldAfter forsythia comes lilac. Been weeks since you seen dried blood in the baby’s diaper. The leaves on the maple are young and thin. Apple blossom petals in the tall grass. You don’t want to know what’s happening in your own body and so you don’t think about it. You don’t know any doctors. No one you know knows any doctors. Used to be house calls and you could die in your own bed. You should quit smoking. You think once the pollen settles your cough will disappear with the orioles. And, you’re not as bad as your cousin – two packs a day even with those tubes in her nose. When the baby cries he needs his diaper changed, to eat, or sleep. There’s no code, only options, though unknown. Nothing can do when it drops below freezing in late May. Hold the baby. Pray the fever breaks. Wait and see what happens to all that fruit.
Repeat | Finish | OmMy father always says if it were easy, everyone would do it. It is easy to say hello to water. Easy to call my friend and tell him I love him. Drinking bottles of cold beer, eating venison, kale and garlic – easy. Camouflage and flashlights are easy. Super moon, Indian summer, smoking behind bowling alleys – these are also easy. For now, it’s easy to breathe. Driving a highway lined with white pine and trailers, listening to steel string John Fahey, stinking like Fireball, small trout, river. Easy, easy, easy. So easy to open-mouth kiss the blue space night, though it sometimes feels like a fawn’s first steps. Unsure of what to make of ourselves, everyone keeps searching for answers because it’s hard to know why. Why the body rattles at death. Why hundreds of birds fell from the sky over Alabama. Why the horizon hums outside Taos. Why wrists are so slight. Why, in West Virginia, do we receive radio signals from the heavens if not for alien life? Why are we so special? And you – why are you so kind? How did you learn to forgive like that? What did it take to crawl from primordial soup, reach your hand across the table, smile with your eyes, and say nothing? My father also likes to say: Michael Jordan got cut his sophomore year of basketball, but didn’t give up. Which isn’t actually true, but I see the point. Anyone can be anything and here I am trying to pull myself out from the space between what comes naturally and what makes me tilt my head like a dog. The answer I’m taught through the Myth of His Airness. A boy on a dirt court in North Carolina shooting the ball into greatness. Work. Moving the body in a productive and joyful way, so that some Labor Day we’ll all be a Midwest vacation. Pop up campers in the early evening hours, and everyone’s playing cards on the picnic table or returning from a swim glistening and warm.