iowa

I never thought of my parents as hippies perse'. Despite my mother dressing us in traditional Native American garb the previous two years. It seemed normal enough.

It was the summer of 1978(maybe 77'). My parents decided to become self-sufficient. Anything we were to eat; we were to raise.

We had six acres of sweet corn. This eventually would lead to us spending weekend mornings and afternoons in the back of a pickup on some desperate corner.

We also had two acres of vegetables. My younger sister, Carla, was put in charge of weeding. She quickly ascertained that if she pulled the actual plants instead of the weeds the task would be taken away. I soon found myself in charge of weeding.

My father also decided to raise 50 roasting hens. I was to take care of the chicks. Feeding and watering them before and after school. I guess the chickens seemed a perfect fit for me. In kindergarten I had a pet black rooster named Calamari. I would take him for walks on a leash. A raccoon ate him.

The chicks arrived and found there place in the ramshackle barn they were going to grow up in until the inevitable. The first two weeks went by smoothly enough. The third week I noticed that when I came back in the afternoon the food hadn't been touched. This continued for a few more days. Chicks started dieing. 30 left. 22. And then finally 12. I was hand feeding them by now. Little eye droppers of food mixed into a paste with water. I became nervous that I was going to have to say something to my dad. I was responsible. I didn't want to let him down. The next three days wore me down to the point I knew I had to tell him. He came out to the barn with me and started picking up the chicks. He was startled, at first, noting that the chicks didn't even try to escape as he came near them. And then he turned a chick over and noticed it had no legs. And then another. I, of course, knew this already. And more until the number was 12 and the legs were zero.

My father pondered this for a few days. Talked to the neighbors. The final conclusion was that rats had crawled through the knots in the wood and snapped the legs off the chicks. So quickly the resting chicks wouldn't even know it. So cleanly that the leftover stumps would barely bleed. Then the chick would wake up hungry and find no momentum. And then starvation.

That was the end of my parent's experiment.

and so it is

wild ginger
blooming
under
snow

This is Just to Say

(The following poem is based on a segment from This American Life which aired 04/20/08. Listen to the podcast at minnesota.publicradio.org to learn more.)

This is to say I'm sorry
That while you
told me we would
watch each other grow
old together
and stole away
to find illicit pleasures
and we both believed what
we wanted to
That, ultimately, I am
better
without you
and-I am sure-
you like me better
now anyway

Now that I'm skinny.

love

I am constantly amazed by the number of people I can say," I love you" to. This little journey has led me to these souls. And I am forever grateful.

People who when I say, "good bye" to; the good-bye lingers. That in that instance I don't want to leave. I want to be forever in their presence. Consumed by warmth.

I truly am surrounded by a world of love. And in this charmed life my insides giggle.

my red rider

When I was a kid our whole family would go for bike rides on Sundays. My sisters whizzing by, on banana seats, summer breeze and all. I often rode on the handle bars of my Dad's bike. My Dad has never(still doesn't)had any reservations towards danger. It's part of what made my childhood exhilirating.

We would ride on the gravel road in front of our house and to the water tower that was about a mile away. My Dad liked to find pot holes. He would peddle the bike as fast as he could towards them. And we would sail for brief moments. Then we would come crashing down on the other side with dust announcing our victory.

One particular time things did not go as well. While we were in mid-air my foot somehow found the spokes in the tire. The bike landed and the tire continued to spin with my foot in it. The spokes chewed through my sneakers and through skin until they struck bone. My Dad carried me home. I remember very little except that my sister Debbie stayed behind and searched for skin.

That summer I was transported everywhere in a Red Rider wagon.

I felt like Caesar.

on listening to Maria Callas and reading of Paul Klee

how many voices
have gone before
us
their sounds
resounding in the
voices of us today
but do we hear
do we know
do we chance
For on soft whispers
of wind
if one strains
their ear
with hand-cupped
they can hear
and become

Hot Tub and Stars

There is something
inescapeable about connection.
Something so beyond us
that as I searched for
pen-thoughts wondering
around my head-I wondered
if I would ever be
able to allow words to
express this
monumental treasure.
That-even now-having
found pen and time to
attempt this expression
that something will be lost.
How could I attempt
to bring forth the
gift of David and I-
sitting in hot tub and
telling tales of aureola
borealis and
the synergy that exists
still as time passes
We share. It is
beyond the scope of
the words I am
familiar with-and yet
It is something I know
like I have never known
like being with your body
as it carries one
through but
never fully realizing the mole
on my left
nostril is me
It is feeling whole
It is cherished
But it is taken for
granted. But such
a part of me that
I shall never neglect
it. For in knowing
and realizing and
cherishing I have
become
the descendant
of this
perpetual motion that
shall never cease.

love

on my flight I sat next to
a lesbian couple. I noticed how
they both had the same
facial expressions in my
reaction to meeting a student
of mine sitting behind us.
One of them sneezed and the
other, unconsciously, full
of compassion, handed her
a tissue.
When one reached for
a magazine-
the other, knowingly,
handed her
her glasses
as to read
Which
reminded me that this
seemed
much more
aesthetically
pleasing
than witnessing
my father
reading the Sunday paper
in my Mother's glasses. His glasses
in hiding with the remote
control. And I thought how
could this be wrong? My
loving heart reared by a
loving God created this. Those
who think otherwise
Are.
Simply.
Wrong.

beat, beat, beat

I realized it again today.

In my Tuesday/Thursday cardio workout. I found myself sprinting after
running the first mile.

My heart racing,
breathing fast,
the swarm of feeling as if I
was lifting off,
as breeze
brushed
beside my sides.

I have always enjoyed running. I held the school record in junior high for the 400 hurdles for years.
Then, I always thought it must have been something
cliched in symbolism. My running away-
Escaping.

Now, I believe, it is
solely the mere sense of
flight. The constant thoughts
ceasing in my head. The
blood surging with oxygen through
my body. And, yes,
escape.