the sieve and the sand

I remember watching my father
from the back seat

studying his face as
he concentrated beyond the windshield

the stubble on middle-aged skin
sprouting from his chin and upper-lip

wondering what it would be like
to have stubble and to shave

seeing his eyes alternating from
road to rearview to sideview

and to my mother as if she
were a mirror to be supervised

I watched as every so often
his right hand slipped across the console

nudging her downturned palm
shyly with his pointer finger

until she folded her fingers in his
and they both smiled

a smile like this was the reason
we took long road trips

a front seat secret
that parents keep to themselves

I frowned at the orange symbols
glowing on the dashboard

trying to figure out the special
meaning that each one had

but most of all the speedometer
over the white numbering of sixty-five

avoiding many other options nearby
its needle vibrating steadily in place

losing or gaining a mile at most
but never more than that

I asked my father how
he got it to stay so still

he looked at the speedometer
looked in the rearview mirror at me

saying that you learn by driving a lot
and that he done a lot of driving

he smiled at my mother again
and below his foot rested on the gas pedal

I thought about what it would be like
to have done that much driving

If Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived
then I say, give me more wisdom than Solomon.
If a man unmatched in wisdom
found his delight in the ceaseless gathering of innumerable riches—
the captivation of hoarding of chariots and horses—
and the pastime of collecting seven hundred wives
and three hundred concubines of foreign princesses—
I say, give more wisdom than Solomon.
And if that harem could deceive his heart,
convincing him to build shrines of idolatry
to worship the abominations of Moloch and Ashtoreth—
rejecting the very God who gave him
the wisdom to attain all that he had—
I say, give me more wisdom than Solomon.
Tear me in two.
If Solomon was the wisest man that ever lived,
make me a beggar.

the only thing I don’t want
is getting to the end of this life
and regretting I didn’t speak loud enough

I used to know certainty
But certainty is neither knowing nor certain.

Piles and piles of stark red
Lumps and liquid abject in every sense of the word
But the blank-eyed stare on.

Every word a best seller.
Every page a Pulitzer.
Every print a controversy.

Sometimes I wondered how they
Could keep looking at the cost and still say no eventually.

Their encounter was fleeting.

Such is the way
You’ll understand when you’re older
An old man peering over the masses
The matter is closed
A broken glass
The scars leave a lasting impression
It was an ephemeral childhood
The earth undulated
You could tell by her eyes
Their certain encounter was certainly fleeting.

But most of all
It was we who believed in you.

The sky shifted to shadows
And we’ve forgotten
Forging the red to tar.

Where’s the line for Santa?
Oh where, oh where could he be?

This Chistmess
This is Christmiss
Christmaze
Christmaddness
Christmustness
Christmastide
Christmaswaves
Christmaslines

But surely this isn’t Christmas?

Mass
Masses
Mass introdus
Mass exodus

The malls have opened.
We have been commissioned:
Ite, missa est.

the hiding place survives
between
the fibers of loose leaf
and the prick of graphite pigment

It is very likely
(knowing the current culture of course),
That a title such as above,
or where ever such things are located
would evoke images of dark, braided hair
(and unusual fashion, no less)
Probably on some celebrity or peer
Or latest Snoop-Dogg video
Or latest Allen Iverson highlight.

But this is NOT how I remember corn rows.

I remember leviathan (if leviathan is three times your height) stalks
which erected themselves as solemn as Gregorian monks
(though I had no clue what Gregorian monks were at the time).
But green monks, at that. And very emaciated.
Very, very emaciated.
None of this matters.

I remember, with a running start,
Diving into the safari foliage
Armed with a machete constructed from hickory
(otherwise known as a stick with a pointy end)
And dis

appearing.

There I would hide out,
With mom imploring that I come out.
She said she knew I was in there.
To this day, present moment, in point of fact
I doubt it!

And even if she did, it matters not.
The principle remains:
I stuck it out.
“Dinner,” she offered.
But I didn’t falter
Despite the teacup chihuahua
Beginning to rouse itself in my innards.
But the hunger stalked me like something much more
Vicious than a chihuahua.

I remember a plan formed itself very plainly
As I stocked the jungles, with nineteen suns hanging overhead.
Sunflowers, clearly.
As they beat down mercilessly, I realized my folly thus far:
Provision lent its ears to me
And I devoured them raw!

Shredding their sheaves
The kernels popped and deflated between my teeth,
the white and pee-yellow carnage lay undisturbed on the moist dirt.
Which is probably what pee would look like if you pooped pee
In little turds.

Satisfied, the minutes passed,
But the poor chihuahua, idiot that he was
Got himself swallowed by a lunatic banshee that howled out of my bowels.

I pooped myself.
Diapers were still in vogue (thank goodness!)

Yet as I recall that moment,
Should my browned mess have contained a more
Abrasive, brillo quality
Then, yes.
It would remind me more of corn rows.

The kind I don’t remember.
Or at least the kind I don’t care to.

“Ya’ll hear ‘bout the feller who
sold his sole to the devil?
‘Said he felt bad for ‘em in all,
walking all that time
without no shoes.
‘Said he reckoned his feet musta
been sore as hell.”

Draping downwards
Roadside telephone wires bow like the naked bones of Circus tents.
Clutching, unmoving, lined atop each cable,
The black robed tribunal of crows
Sentences judgment on every car that passes.

Staring at a cement parking bumper
My fears squirm out of it and punch me in the nose.
I want to shed every eye and hide from view
Until they aren’t looking to me anymore.
I am a child trembling like a pencil between Parkinson’s fingers

It’s a wreck.
A downright disaster.
The floorboards creak – speak out of turn, forget to apologize.
New insulation is a necessity; heat escapes the second floor too often.
The sewer’s unpredictable, doesn’t work right as soon as you need it to.
The electricity shuts off just when you’re in the middle of an important project—
Stutters, stops, acquiesces—needs a moment.
No doubt there are more cobwebs in the attic than you could shake a stick at—
Termites seem to have infiltrated the woodwork and they’re tenacious to get out.
It’s possible there’s water damage in the basement, the structure might be unsound.
I’ve been looking into insurance, but I’d settle for assurance if you’re interested.
Yeah, that’s me. I’m a fixer-upper and I need some Tender Loving Care.
I’m looking for someone who knows a thing or two about restoration—
A carpenter, perhaps?—but his son would do.

Let me be like Thomas
that I would say,
I have felt his wounds.

Put your finger here,
see my hands.

He has awakened me
from the dead.

Reach out our hand
and put it into my side.
Stop doubting and believe.