How do you explain

to your children that the

horrors of the world are real?

How will I tell my son, We

found a place you can call home but

your bus might not make it to school.

Do not look too Jewish in this part of town

Do not play in the train station

Do not get used

to the weight

of a machine gun.

Or look my

daughter in the eye and say, someday

you might say “no” and someone stronger than you might

not listen

You will not tell me

Know that this happens a lot

Know that your wrists pinned against a

backboard will

echo in the way you move your hands

for as long as you let it

But

human hands aren’t as heavy as metal shackles

And I’m so sorry

but I won’t be able to

take the weight for you

You’ll wake up in the morning

That I can promise you

You’ll wake up

and your lungs will fill with air

whether you tell them to or not.

One day

I will hold someone

small, with my face

and they’ll cry and I’ll say,

*I know.

I know you’re tied with little yarn strings to the last life

I know it hurts to be here and

(honestly)

you’re never going back

But

the older you get the less you’ll remember

what it was like

before you had a body

when you were made of ash and infinite light

You’ll convince yourself you live here and

that your hands are you,

But remember that once you were boundless

Inside my body, without yours.

Head against the backboard
Sinking into the blue
I wanna save you
Before you sink too

You walked through every tornado
So you could say that you made it alive
Through wind and rain, snow and ice
Did you bother acknowledging the
Warmth of the sun in your two melted brown eyes
And that you don’t always need to be
Struggling or fighting or competing
With something bigger
Than yourself to win
It might look like glory
Because it tastes like fresh clouds
And small lights hung in the middle of the night
But you’re tougher than tree bark
Put together stronger than bricks
Your cement must be the opposite of an escape
Only, you’ve trapped yourself hunting for a release

Falling stars make chandeliers and I wish upon each piece
To hope among a million dreams that my chances may increase
Within the creases and cracks of time as future becomes present becomes past
That you won't count me out even if you count me last

My hand, it reaches out for you like many a lover before
Closing my fragile, feeble eyes and opening my hearts door
In all and all in with the wager for a hint of you
No promise to be found in the stars or in the cosmic hue

Love is written on the blackboard of the universe
While passion's written on bed's backboard, gifting touch like verse
And as I lay in roofless rooms I look towards starlit skies
I wish for you and only you to stay eternally

“There is a bitter sting to reality, an unfairness to it all.” These words echo in the young boys ears. Holding what is left of his sanity, he traces the damage; rubbing the now forming bump on his forehead. Fingers circle the discolored flesh then press hard against it till he winces in a jagged remembrance.

He still feels the full force of her bible belt beating down upon him. Open hands smacking him with the made up words of her own book of revelations.

“And the dead shall rise. To feast upon the unclean. “She ranted.

Now, the yellow superhero tee comes off slowly enough. She has stretched the neck of his favorite shirt. Of course he is partly to blame. He never should have had a favorite shirt. He tries to swallow, but his nerves force him to take two swallows for one. The first one descends halfway down his throat.  Catching his anxious breath the second swallow finally goes all the way, followed by a trickle of blood.

“It is what it is.” He thinks.

With soft poet hands he pulls a different shirt from the closet. His brown hair slides messily from the neck hole as the red wool rolls gently over is sore skin providing a small degree of comfort. Then he put his long goofy looking brown and darker brown jacket on.

“I’m done” he mumbles to himself, as he stuffs his journal, sketchpad, the book he is currently reading, and an extra set of cloths in his black back pack.

The white window pane vibrates with October winds. He slides it open, shimmying over and out into the frigid autumn night. A shiver crosses his skin. Then he closes the window as quietly as possible to avoid any more drama. His sad eyes scan the night trying to decide which direction is the right way for him to run away in. With no indication of which way will work best for him he turns left and starts walking.

A mile down the road he stumbles upon the remains of a partly chewed up possum. Empty eyes point deeply into the pine forest. The moist matted fur almost matches the road’s color perfectly.  Dark dry stains mark the grey road. Chunks of slimy viscera lay displayed from the flayed features of the decomposing creature.

In the distance he hears the howls of teenage boys.
“A bunch of screaming fools ******* around,’ he thinks. “I don’t need this ****.”

So, he turns off the road and heads into the trees. Brown pine needles break under his feet. The soft forest bed gives slightly beneath his treads leaving little footprints. As he scans the ground he notices that the earth is swimming with strange footprints.

With a little daylight left he finds the perfect spot to stop. A tree plays backboard to his tense and tired frame as he sits down to rest.

His mind turns to dreams of love. A female figure fills his thoughts. She is dark and lights. Pale skin, leather jacket, with raven black hair that shimmers in the night sparkling with the energy of infinity. She moves with all the destructive grace of Kali. She is a frozen skin scythe less death; Hopes and wonders mixed in with nightmare prophecies. Doom pervades his soul. He feels perfectly alone with no hope.

Which means it is the perfect time to write a poem. One line flits past then the next till almost the whole page is filled. Then he rewrites copying and improving. Till two pages later he is finally fixing the finished draft.

With the last bits of daylight he completes the poem’s final lines. Shivering and exhausted he decides it is time to find a place to sleep. He packs his backpack with all the finesse of a ninety year ******* boy and heads out into the night.

Suddenly he senses something moving behind him. A shadow crosses his path. Panic seizes him. Shady black tendrils run across the ground followed by the sounds of strangers moaning. He runs. The moonlight flickers fast behind the fading pines as he quickens his pace.
He stumbles into a clearing where the ground is punctuated by broken stones and white marble dust. Small monuments stand marking the past. Somewhere slightly off to the side a Sepulcher sits as a testament to a hundred years of death.

“How perfectly macabre, I’m in a cemetery at night in the bitter cold.” He thinks

The earth shifts and swirls beneath his feet like quicksand. Losing his footing he falls backwards. The contents of his backpack scatter haphazardly across the disturbed dirt.

A thin hand pierces the brown ground. Then an arm makes its way writhing from the soil searching for something. Boney fingers feel around until they fall upon a pen and paper. The pen scratches furiously on the pad.

The young man stutters trying to make out the horrible handwriting.

“g-g-get of-f-f m-m-y head.”

The earth tremors beneath his feet, causing him to jump back in fear. Then a skull ascends. Empty sockets stare menacingly at him. More of its body rises, until the full corpse form is free. The wind whistles through the rotten frame. The monstrosity turns his head and heads away. Shambling off into the night to frighten someone else.

A sigh of relief escapes the young man’s lips. His heart slows to a normal rhythm. The blank October sky fills his eyes. He laughs in gratitude, deciding to find a better spot to settle for the night.

Then a jaw chomps down on his skull. Rotten teeth shatter but the bony mouth still pierces his noggin. Red droplets drip soaking the journal pages. The poet screams. His voice fades slowly away, as he struggles. Dying in agony he becomes a feast for the undead horde. The red splattered page reads---




The Graveyard Poet
He walks without sleep
Restless and awake burning inside
With all of the secrets he keeps
His pen and his paper
Lay softly on broken ground
The dead are his keepers
Their stones stand scattered all around
So he put his pen to paper
Ink is turned to flesh
The words bleed into
Each other and start to mesh
Thus the graveyard poet is born
He writes with passion
His mind becomes a storm
His body begins to feel numb
But his heart is so warm
On and on from dusk till dawn
Words erupt from the poets pen
Still the cold bites bitterly
He stops only to turn the page and write again
Hours come and go in a blur
Until he can’t move his arm
Even he is unsure
Of what is wrong
His eyelids grow heavy
And soon he is asleep
Rest peacefully young poet
Now your secrets are mine to keep

Seagulls hit the horizon's backboard
off the sands of Pacific Beach.
In my lungs breakers burn out
some forty feet from shore.
They will return.
This jetty'd be a monolith
if this ocean were a sky.
Silt on this deserted
coast scene is encumbered by
bits of driftwood and sun-bleached glass.
The living in this town
are accustomed to the weight. And
tidepools are their hearts:
shallow, mossy, little things
fending for breathe.
This jetty'd be a monolith
if this ocean were a sky.

Silent and alone, I solemnly gaze at the aged court.
The hallowed roar of a steady stream
Suffocates the atmosphere

Like decrepit statues, they silently stare

The deflated and beaten sphere in my tiny hands.
Bitter tears, from the blackened surface
Prickling my bare feet.

Swish, thump, swish, thump.

The rickety backboard half-heartedly
Gives off a rattling cry.
It's tattered net cannot take much more.

An ashen pit, with stale passion

Surrounding bushes gag
On bleak sunlight.
I dejectedly make shot after hopeless shot.

A taunting figure cackles and booms.

The basketball says thump thump thump to the concrete
Two black kids play a hoopless game. The rules? Intuitive.
The top stair railing of the apartment is a three pointer
Both of the walls along the side are an approved backboard
The grass is out of bounds, the door opening is a time out
The constant rattle of the railing assures without doubt
That they’re draining those shots like Ray Allen
It is the first day over 60 degrees all year and the boys
Smile like the sun granted permission for happiness
They are young and carefree and pulsing with life
But they will grow out of that fickle, temperamental joy
And they’ll rent a room or two in a brick apartment
With a red railing on the third floor, so they can listen
At times annoyed, at other times enchanted, I know this,
Because I am in a brick apartment, and I know the rules



(c) Marty Schoenleber III 2013

I see reflections everywhere.

Brick walls reflect the shimmering green blade summer days,

with 4-square games in a gated yard- wherewithal a Huffy backboard and bent rim- I was LEBRON JAMES!

Glass window panes reflect the exit of dad's leather silhouette.

Tie-dyed walls reflect blue/red splatters traced with a syringe paintbrush.  

And you reflect me, because I am you, and you I.

You are more than a piece of me.

You reflect everything I ever was or wanted to be.

D is for dinosaur who walks in the rain
C is for canary. she'll never be the same
E is for eskimo

F is for functional - she feels quite insane
G is for girlfriend who is never to blame
B is for backboard I should have never came

M is for meeting he couldn't postpone
L is for license, or rent to own
P is for pretty

All of your Alphabet stepped out of line
couldn't arrange them, there just wasn't time
instead they're all jumbled- but it's gonna be fine
oh oh oh

So if you're spelling with plenty of vowels
means the wind's still blowing in, something's afoul
you're late to the blackboard, best just throw in the towel


School's almost over, this isn't a start
we've all got you, this won't stop your heart
Fall back and trust me, you won't come apart.

XY and W just weren't the same
after they learned that Q had stolen her name
the rest of the letters just did not care
That's why we're ending- so I'll just stop you there.

God does magic in French
So it says on the board
The board, the black, black board
Chalk line shoesox shinebox
Cat tracks on the hot hood
Graphite gluesticks
Musty lovelocks
Jah Rasta dreadlox
God does magic in French!

Nothing in this alley to crow
about—backboard and bent hoop
leans against an old refrigerator.

Over at   McMillin’s place
bags of garbage pile atop
a turquoise Chrysler.  

I’d give the family a pick
and shovel   if they bury
their old basset after it dies;

it’ll probably keel,
the first cold day
of 2017.  

My boots like this alley
even if my eyes don’t,
it hasn’t seen

a snowplow this winter
and, why should
it?

A basketball game is like a well conducted, beautifully written symphony. The tip off, a conductor raises his/her hands to motion the beginning of sound. As fingers reach for the orange ball and slam it in a favored direction, music takes flight and volume rises, the crowd roars as a basket is taken by the home team. Rapid pace movement of the squeaking shoes are multiple violin’s strings and bows at work, consistently changing and controlling the tune. The blare of the brass section, the scream of the fans come together in perfect unison, adding texture to the piece. The slam against the backboard, the bass drum sounds off, the dribble of the ball, a high hat’s tap-ity, tap, tap. Music is created in every pass, jump, shot, foul, score, and aspect of this game…from the smallest move to the loudest upset, from the softest flute to the biggest percussion instrument…music is present here and now

I recently unearthed old photos of me
with a mop of scraggly black hair and
a ***** smile on my face, the kind of
smile I used to give before sinking into
myself, twisting my face up to disappear
and reassess my insides, how was that heart
workin' out for you, sweetheart?

And years later I still feel the familiar jolt,
manage to think that I am too sloppy for
loving, I've always been a pallet of nudes
a swarthy child waiting to be as blue as
the sky, holding myself to a standard
physically impossible, people tell me
I'm beautiful and I still wonder why
if this is as easy as loving myself then
I want to know how,  I say thank you
with a hand over my heart to hold in
the little girls, who still wait in the middle
of empty classrooms for a partner, who still
envy the women that grew fox-glove petals
in the golden hour while I crouched in the
curly willow branches, semi-dormant
perpetually brown with too much skin
standing off the side because I was too
afraid to touch others,

too afraid of an olive complexion. Too afraid of being in this body.


When someone loves you, how will you know?
what will they do when they see my scars, the ones that only
show at certain times in certain ways? Under hot water and at
noonday? when will I be okay with a broken heritage, with a mexican
daddy who cut the ropes back to the village where I was supposed to
return to? And why do I feel like the winds and hot sands when boys hold my hands? Like I am burning up the rivers or smoldering beneath
the dry autumn brush in San Isabel, where only beetles and lizards congregate, a backboard baby with
an overprotective mother, carrying the strings I've tried to tie to others--

direct me home, sir.
direct me home, ma'am.

Tell me who I am.
tell me who i am

Back in the day before the game quit us,
We’d balled down at the rec center with an old guy
Who went by the name of Terry Easy.
He was there every afternoon, every night
(As far as we knew, he’d been there forever,
The joke being Hell, man, Easy was there
Three minutes after they got the floor down.)
Big old dude, but you could tell from the way he moved,
Even the way he walked, that he had game at one time,
Though he’d gotten to the wrong side of the transition
From solid to just plain fat
(We’d woof at him Easy, you get any more flab on your *******
And we’re gonna have to go from shirts-and-skins
To bras-and-blouses, for chrissakes.)
And he played with coke-bottle glasses so thick
You figured he couldn’t hit the backboard from outside three feet.
Still, if you didn’t pick the man up a few steps across half-court,
He’d bury you with set shots --‘course, if you played him too tight
He’d just back-door your *** for layups all night
(As far as playing D went, Easy was pretty easy pickings,
Though he’d try to make up for a lack of foot speed
With old man tricks--locking his knee behind yours
To push you off the blocks, a quick grab of the shorts
As you cut through the lane, stuff that starts fights,
Though taking a shot at Easy was just something you didn’t do
Something unspoken that you just knew was out of bounds.)
Between games, Easy would tell stories about his playground days:
He’d played on all the courts with all the legends,
16th and Susquehanna with Lewis Lloyd and Sad-Eyes Watson,
48th and Brown with The Pearl,
Ridgeway Playground with Wilt and Hal Greer.
One day Easy was telling a story about how Greer,
Playing out the string with a Sixers team
That won nine **** games all season,
Was playing against Wilt one night when the Lakers were in town.
Hal went down the lane, and Wilt was right there,
Getting ready to swat the pill…hell, eight, nine rows up,
Maybe halfway to Doylestown, but at the last moment
He pulled his hand back, and let the ball tap, tap, tap on the rim
Before it dropped through for two
(For old times’ sake, Wilt said later.)
Hal didn’t see it that way, giving Wilt a shove and glaring at him
All the way back down court, and after the game
He stormed into the Laker locker room,
Screaming Where the **** is Wilt? I’m gonna beat his ***!
And, catching sight of the big man, hollered ever louder
You play it straight with me, *******, you hear me?
You never disrespect my *** on the court again! Never!
All the time two or three guys holding Hal back
(And understand, Wilt was the biggest, baddest man in the game;
Hell, one time he picked up Mel Daniels,
Six-feet-nine of evil and bad temper, like a Raggedy Andy)
And the big man never said a word, ‘cause he knew was wrong,
So Terry told the story, anyway,
And Easy should have stopped right there,
‘Cause the story was over, but old men get foolish, get all soppy,
So he says Hal was right, understand-;
You just can’t do that to a man.
Old player like Greer, maybe all he’s got left is his pride,
Like some old lion who can’t hunt no more, but he’s earned that.
Gotta let a lion have his pride, and after he finished
All the young ‘uns just hooted at him
Man, Easy, you do go on, and for months afterward
Every time the dude covering him turned his head
And gave Easy an easy bucket, everyone on the court
Would just laugh, and yell That’s good huntin’, man.
Roar, lion, roar.

I have this new beginning
To this end
I've been writing
To this wall
I've been fighting
To hold up
And now all
The biting
All the loose pen
Writing
Is holding up
Some lighting
In my mind
I see that the backboard
Has always been
A closed door
Waiting for something
Waiting for more
And it's strange
I've known you
All along
And you've never
Really gone
And now
You're hear
Slowly cracking
Down the door
That I only
Knew before
As a dark space
A bad place
That hid
Behind my head
Now your lying
In my bed
And instead
Of deceit
And picking off
My meat
You tuck
Me soft
To sleep
And kiss
My broken
Feet
I finally have realized
That you are full
Of no lies
No disguise
And now I'm glad to say
You are all mine

The springs groan and the backboard sounds a sharp crack under my weight.
It’s been doing that ever since some friends and I used it
As a trampoline on my eleventh birthday.

I slouch in the middle of my safe haven and look at my life decorated on the red walls.
I marvel at all of the roses I’ve ever received hanging upside-down along my ceiling.
My favorite is the dyed-blue bouquet that my dad gave to me years ago “just cause”.
Sometimes their dried, cracked petals fall to my floor, but I save those, too.

I notice the posters that have tattooed my walls since I was a kid,
An old James Dean portrait, Abbey Road, and Kissing the War Goodbye.
There’s my record player sitting underneath Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors,
One of the many vinyls my grandpa had given to me growing up.
Over there is my massive bookcase, holding well over two hundred stories.
I scan their spines until my eyes spot my two favorite books,
In Memoriam by Tennyson and Stephen King’s novella, The Body.

This is where I go when I need time to think or when I just want to be alone, safe.

But then I look behind me at the black cityscape my uncle painted on my wall
Just a few months before he hung himself.
I remember the hole in the wall hidden behind my door
That I made with my fist the night I first told my mom I hated her.
Above my record player is the last picture of my sister and me before I lost her
And scattered across the floor are the many journals that hold my darkest thoughts.

This place is me.
It is my Heaven, my haven, and my Hell.

I remember death
not by the pitting feeling of gravity
swallowing my stomach,
or the nausea that ensues
as the vertigo sets in,
or the narrowing vision preempting
liquid legs that spill
and overflow as I am drowned
by the darkness that will never cease
for them
laying forever still
at my knees.

No, I do not remember death
for how it burdens my soul.
These deaths are not mine to bear –
I merely shoulder the toll they exact
for but a few minutes,
sometimes nights, weeks, or even months.
I’ve lost count again and again and again.

They are not mine to bear.
They are not mine to bear.
They are not mine to bear.

I remember death instead by those survived
when one is extinguished,
like the amber lights that cease to spin,
the defibrillator that powers down,
the sweaty brows that unfurl and dip,
and the valiant hopes that wane.
I remember death most by those
resigned to hear the last words
I have to offer.

To the grandchildren on the phone
speeding forty minutes away too late
to share this woman’s last meal.
the charred turkey smell lingers deep
into our hungry lungs as we breathe
in and out
into her for the last time.
I’m sorry, but there is nothing more we can do.

To the son frozen while his father hollers,
rapping and tapping on the walls
just as I rap and tap on your mother’s chest
with waning form and speed.
I can only imagine who you were to her.
Her only child, her world, her life.
And yet,
I’m sorry, but we did our very best.

To the daughter singing the alphabet
while your father lay still just past that office door.
At not even six years old, you don’t whimper
when we all fall silent as your father’s heart
remains even after the shocks.
Would it be torture or mercy to lie?
I’m sorry, but your daddy is never coming home.

To the father blaming himself
for all those years he cannot take back,
trying to break past the deputies
and cut the rope suspending his son,
white in the face, blue in the toes.
I’m sorry, but the damage done is final.

To the concussed mother gripping onto life
in the trauma room next to your daughter,
broken and bruised courtesy of the drunk
driver who impaled your car,
who impaled your little girl.
We tried when we knew we’d fail.
I’m sorry, but we did everything we could.

To the wife running out of her house to find
her husband shot sixteen too many times
staining the grass she tried so hard to revive
in this never ending drought.
A mix of his brightest and darkest reds
seep down from the backboard
and into the brittle roots.
I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely nothing we can do.

It’s not death that eats away at me,
a quart of blood or a pound of flesh
for an ounce of soul.
I remember death, instead,
by the faces of those left alive.
of those left to live
with nothing
but my last words.

I’m sorry, but it’s over.

I'll play the tinker toy,
You play your game.
Use me, abuse me.
For boredom, I'll take blame.
Emotional backboard
My role and my place.
I'll keep you happy
Til you forget my face.
My role as your keeper,
One of tarnished brass,
Is full of rewards
Seldom worth all the gas.
And please hear me beg you,
A toy of my own,
To fill in the space,
That you just leave unsewn.

Entwined like three snakes
7 to nine, i feel the Waves
little kisses on the backboard of stored
memosas
"just for love"
whats the name of that song?
each riff like a blade, cutting salt and ice
it made the sea, it made the Tides
Whispers

There was plenty cats who could ****** a quarter offa backboard,
They used to say up at Happy Warrior,
But the Goat was the only one
Who could float so long that he could leave change,
And then they’d slap each other on the back,
Laughin' until they couldn’t breathe.
Some folks still tell the story, old timers—hell, old men now,
But they don’t laugh much no more, because they all know the story;
Ain’t one of those things where people ask Whatever became of...
Like a Boobie Tucker or Funny Kitt, because Earl was a myth, see,
A neighborhood Icarus, but one with moments of doubt
The pusher, all loud clothes and soft smooth voices,
Played Earl and played him to his weak hand.
College coach ain’t gonna push for no brother
Who ain’t got the grades,
No matter how much lift he got.  
Then what, man?
You gonna hang outside the park, leanin’ on the fence,
Some old man whose name used to get you respect?
****, man, you think you can fly?
Man, I got somethin’ make you fly.
The pusher baited and Earl hit the hook hard;
Wasn’t long before he was noddin’ on corners
Like some old **** wino,
Pretty soon a stint Upstate after he botched robbin’ some bar,
Then a long slow slide until he died.
The Hawk, Alcindor, The Pearl—they knew he was the man,
Best ever according to Lew, and man how he flew,
But the streets have their own peculiar physics
And the rim ain’t nothing but ten feet off the ground.

Got home,
kicked my shoes off,
and removed my jacket
as I strolled toward
the dear refrigerator.

Got beer,
sat before the computer,
and banked my weary brain
off of the backboard and
it swished into the garbage.

there once was a calm certain celibacy
a timeworn truancy of ******
verve substance , a quiet self serving
noted subservience to not all were satiated,
the duly noted societal
quiet under the table
observance of tension
quick and taut still,
unnamed
but in the darkest alleyways,
now , these days
the  revisionists the purveyors
of common law hold
jurisprudence over moral
things
sin is sin by the way
**** are **** and should not be jiggled
callously,
***** to the wall I jockoundly
bounce my three ***** and hefty scent upward
to a backboard
it just makes no sense.

I am calmed by the soft petals of the lotus
flower, the same petals of the same lotus flower that
rests upon the shoulder of my yoga teacher, whom I
see every Monday and Wednesday afternoon.

I am calmed by starting out in child’s pose, hips back,
arms out front, stretching shoulders wide.

I am calmed by the cool water that runs like a river down my
parched throat during our first break in the practice.

I am calmed by the soft sounds of the music that plays in
the background and the tiny thuds from the basketballs
hitting the backboard, in the court on the other side of the wall.

I am calmed by the turquoise blue of my yoga mat and the
matching towel beside it, which I never get sweaty enough to use.

I am calmed by all the warriors teaching us strength, endurance, and balance.
Warrior one: arms up to the sky, Warrior two: arms out to the side,
Warrior three: one leg held up high, and Warrior four: arms are spread out wide.

I am calmed by all of the cats and cows and tabletops and chairs
that we become, and all of the forward folds.

I am calmed by savasana, or corpse pose, at which we arrive in the end.
we lay on our backs, legs out wide, arms flat, facing up, and eyes close.
there we stay for what seems like an eternity.
Then, when we’re ready, we roll over onto our side-body, into a fetal position.
Then, we slowly rise up into a seated position with our eyes still closed
and our hands folded softly at heart’s center.
Finally, we stretch our arms out as if it was the first grand stretch of the
morning, and it’s usually followed with yawning yogis.

I am calmed by shavasana, the death and rebirth between classes.

I am calmed by the blank space my mind becomes when I close my eyes and just exist without a worry in the world.

I am calmed when we bow and say, “Namaste.”

faded backboard
frayed net
kissed gently by only the breeze

a rusty bell
married to cobwebs

faint chalk marks
left by two ghosts
who never quite finished their game

wooden swing set stained green
cracked, splintering
weeds abusing the low swings

a dead christmas tree
begging to be set into flames

a little charred chair
chipped paint
remnants of a couple little girls
floating off
away

one thick, steel chair
set on the outside
watching time tick
and the world grow, fade, die
and grow again

1.Garo Yepremian, the field goal kicker,
when he tried to throw a pass (with a football)
and it flew backward out of his hand
and was run in for a touchdown by the opposing team
in the SuperBowl. I did that when I was 12.

2. Bill Buckner, the first baseman,
when he bent over to pick up the weak grounder
(a baseball) that would have let him make the final out
in the World Series in 1986, the first one his team
would have won since the Stone Age,
and instead let the ball roll between his feet
out into the outfield. I did that when I was 9.

3. Vinko Bogataj, a Yugoslav ski jumper
who fell and flew sideways off the ramp
in a tangle of skis arms and legs, and was exhibited for
years on TV as "the agony of defeat". I did that over and over
whenever I tried to move upright on ice or hard-packed snow.
I still do.

4. LeBron James, who, at the end of the last game when
Cleveland won the NBA Finals, blocked a shot by
flying about fifty feet through the air in one second
(apparently descending from the ceiling)
and flattening an easy layup perfectly against the backboard.
I did that last Tuesday night, in my dreams.

5. Lorenzo Bandini, a Formula One race car driver for Ferrari
who died in a fiery crash in the 1967 Monte Carlo Gran Prix,
which I saw on TV when I was fourteen the same day,
though there must have been some broadcast delay.
There was also a delay before two crew members
went to pull him from the smoldering wreckage,
and as the cameras watched, there was a small
secondary explosion, and they dropped him and ran.
I'm sorry if this sounds like sick humor, but
until then my ambition in life was to drive Formula One.
I've never learned to drive.

i would like to
say i have breathed
a little since then but
I have been holding
it, a gust of wind
bubbled inside,
lots of quips
and retaliations
scenarios that
God is letting me
whittle because I can
and i am hoping that
soon a sense of peace
will overtake me because
seeing you rebound, straight
off the backboard, hurt a
little, and all I could do
was replay your sly
dip over your shoulder
a coors pressed into your chin
saying hi like i(t) was nothing
and maybe it was.

I have memories of laying in my bed,
Beneath the Bobby Jack monkey covers.
My head rested on the backboard with roses,
The pace of my mom's breathing was a comforting sound to me
As her nimble fingers would pinch and scratch my back
I would drift to sleep.

And as I grew older
My bedtime ritual no longer required three people
I stopped begging my dad to sit at the foot of my bed
The thick books translated to Spanish  
With magical endings and happy characters got dusty
There were only the prints of my dad's big hands turning the pages
And the remembrance of my eyelids flickering
Attempting to stay awake so that I could hear again how Cinderella got her Prince Charming

The bedtime stories stopped and I didn’t remember when they’d begun
A dip formed at the corner of my bed where my dad had sat but I didn’t want the extra space
I started sleeping with my back to the wall and the coolness was my new comfort
I didn’t really have to hear what would happen if you gave a mouse a cookie, right?
The stories stay the same anyway.
The breathing of three became one
Meditation music flew through the air
So I learned a new way to swim into the oceans of deep sleep.

One night my mom slept with me again
I wanted to remember what bedtime was like before I forced myself to grow up.
She reached to pinch my back
The single apple that had been my daily breakfast didn’t give much to pinch
And the skin on my back didn’t seem so much of a protectant more so needed to be protected

What no one tells you about growing up
Is that it happens at its own pace
Yet I still felt the need to paint my toenails the hottest pink
And switch my Bobby Jack covers for the blue one with the pink butterflies.
Colored lipgloss the scent of strawberries
Replaced the cinnamon Lip smackers
I forced myself to grow up

Counting on my fingers for math homework
Became counting calories on a tracker that made unhealthy eating habits seem appetizing
Growing up made my mouth water more than sweets
And being cool with an iPod made me think of myself as a twelve-year old-icon

Growing takes time but you’ll get there
No need for the rush to be someone bigger or stronger
And when stuck in traffic take the time to think and ponder the beauty in the world  
As expected I grew up without anticipating it to happen so quickly
Now the real question is would you willingly choose to waltz into growing up blind-sighted?
Or had you been waiting for so long that if you were to rub a magic lamp and get three wishes all three would be to grow up?

I remember the Bobby Jack monkey covers
If only I had created a cocoon with the soft polyester and waited until it was my turn to burst into a beautiful butterfly.