several feet of concrete
but i can still feel
the pulse of the water deep
over there on the other side
and i realize something.
i am helpless.
so i bellylaughed
until i cried.
(a very strange feeling)
then she asked…
yeah, now you understand
and then the dam shook
and then the dam began to crack…
now I can’t sleep.
the flood is just moments away
and I want to run
but have no where else to go
i went fishing once
in a flat bottom boat
an early morning event
all along the Texas coast
a maze through the marsh
he drove me to the spot
where he promised me that
they’d hit, more than not
i remember the sun was low
and the water was warm
i dangled my feet so
the mosquitos would swarm
put the hook through here
the tail popped and i winced
the exoskeleton in the head
it’s the strong part of the shrimp
he handed me the hook
then he began to hum
now we call it the Red Fish
but it’s really a Red Drum
so into the deep
i lowered my bait
and the rest of the morning
i’m told to wait
stillness off the water
and the smell of the breeze
then we see a nibble
and he whispers “freeze”
then my silent rod
pulls me to the edge
eyes widen like suns
yellow as a lemon wedge
put the rod right here
your stomach as a fulcrum
but i’m loosing my grip
ahh! welcome to the Red Drum!
then it’s over
and we’re in the boat
but i’m let down
and I begin to choke
it’s gasping for air
and the water is calm
it fought like a shark
but it fits in my palm
the minutes passed
and i felt electricity
my first real catch
was my first reciprocity
then down on my knees
and I began to pray
if only my life
would play out this way
from the mangled
tree
the locust sings
and it takes
all of me
to see
you disappear
from there to here
an episcopal eulogy
over a coffin
of pine
or even mahogany
cooked straight in 103
all the while
the locusts weep
but me?
that was february
and now gone and burried
the part of me
cooked in every degree
sings
and is released
yes gone and burried
the flower
from my suit
beneath that tree
and the mangled root
is on top of you
and i’m free
to become me
hallelu
“Are those reah?” Adam asked me. Though drugged and lethargic, he was very surprised. He raised his hand and waved me near. I leaned in. He put his hand to my ear. He began mashing it, folding it, and flicking it, looking for evidence while his hand shook. His face was intensely focused.
The ICU was as quiet as cold in the early evening.
“What are you doing?” I asked. He said nothing and continued to inspect my ears with wonder. I looked at Jen. She looked at me. We shrugged.
“Reah?” Adam demanded in a whisper over his swollen tongue and feeding tube. His voice sounded like a fire coughing up a chimney.
“My ears? Are they real?” I asked.
Again, nothing. He was still holding my ear, but now he was looking at my mouth. He let go of my ear and touched my lip. He gnashed his teeth, as if I was a dentist. I mimicked. He started poking my teeth, running his finger over the top of them.
“Teessh”, he whispered from behind his grimmace. His eyes were wide. His fingers were in my mouth, and he looked at Jen confused. She shrugged and laughed.
“Reah?” He asked her.
She looked at me and then told him, “of course his teeth are real.”
He looked back at me quickly. He furrowed his brow, then he looked me in the eyes very intently, as if to break my resolve.
“You fucking wissh me?”
Apparently, his medication made him hallucinate. He thought I was a werewolf he later told me.
He was in the ICU for about a week that time. His lungs had begun to bleed while working late at KMA and he had crawled into a storage closet to cough up the blood until they stopped. Thankfully, his lungs stopped bleeding just seconds before he passed out. He sat for several minutes, collected what breath he could, and then he called me.
“Hey dude. What are you doing?”
I was working late too.
“Oh. That’s cool. Can you do me a favor?”
I said sure.
“You know that closest behind my desk?”
I said yeah.
“Well, I’m in it. Can you come back here?”
Just before I hung up, he warned me, “there’s going to be some blood”.
That night Adam was admitted into the hospital, and the next morning his bleeding continued, which lead him to the ICU. And though this all happened three years ago, I will never forget the breathing seconds of that evening in the storage closet, crying as I cleaned his blood off of the concrete floor. I was forced to come to terms with the fact that my friend would die. Soon. And as we sat with our backs to a wall of boxes, waiting for help, I heard the voice of God ask me if I was ready to say goodbye to Adam.
It happened tonight. After hours of looking through old pictures with Adam’s family, i walked across the street to my car, past the very spot I watched them load him into an ambulance, the very place I saw him last, and it finally happened. I cried. Three days of tears. Three decades really.
Among the pictures were moments that I had forgotten. Moments in highschool when a group of us drove to New Braunfels to float the Guadalupe River. Moments in college when he and I dressed as cheerleaders and danced for an audience. Moments in his home, the very place i just left, when he, Jen his wife and I ate lemons then took pictures of our sour faces.
But the pictures that truly left me breathless, the ones I held onto just a little longer, were the pictures of his youth. The pictures before I knew him. The picture of him atop his brother Brandon’s shoulders. The picture of him dancing with his other brother Justin. The pictures of him playing soccer with a smaller Anthony. The picture of him dancing with a towering Alyssa. These are the memories that finally broke me. And I realized that though I knew so much about him, I really only knew so little. Couldn’t we have had a photo night before he died? Couldn’t we have let him tell these stories?
I’ve spent almost 20 years preparing for this day. The day when Adam is no longer with me. But I’ve wasted my time. Adam was the moment, and every attempt to brace myself for the next was all for naught. I am no more prepared to say goodbye today than I was yesterday. The pictures proved it. So I left. I got in my car and lost it because part of me is gone, never to return. Christ have mercy.
a woman
down there at the end of the
hall
lights like highway lines
the entire length
there’s lights and linoleum
everywhere
she’s holding a baby
she’s patting its back
she’s swaying
she’s cooing
a man
down here at the end of the
hall
eyes like a lighthouse
he looks at me
he speaks like
love
and land and home
but there’s white and confusion
everywhere
he’s walking that way
he’s looking back
he’s talking
he’s, to me
but i don’t know,
i think i say,
if i am ready.
for.
this.
a room
down here now at the worst end of the
hall
people like deer
looking for the One with the rifle
everywhere
they look at me
they come towards me
they, to me?
i hug a father.
i kiss his son
i’m long and i’m fabric
and now i’m coming undone
because it’s here
and it’s hateful
but it’s gone
and distasteful
so i came home to sing
i came home to write
i came home alone
so i can say
goodnight
i just
don’t think
i was
ready.
for.
this.
this little guy
he’s been through a lot
this little guy,
this tired little heart
laughters and hue
nights tired and used
this little guy
he’s afraid of you
pink skin is exposed
right bedding is hot
he’s red and he’s blue
in the fight to be fought
but perhaps it is true
now that the memories start
oh, but this little guy
he’s been through a lot
no, perhaps it is true
perhaps he can start
this little guy
can begin to depart
yes, this little guy
he’s been all for not
but i think he’s for you
and that mean a lot
that long silver streak of a train
pings as the heat expands and contracts
the idle engine
amtrak. with people front to back.
waiting.
for only god knows what.
that long silver pinging engine idles
and i walk underneath it on this cold
april oklahoma night.
with no idea where i’m going.
like a super nova
fear and regrets
and a ribcage miracle,
a songswell
combustion lets
constellations
circle
light and beauty
all at once pour
and i feel that feeling
joy. eyes water. i soar.
down on my knees
my. god.
down. on. my. knees. my.
god.