departure lounge

to fly is the thing

to spread out your wings

and depart--

that is the art

so here we are at the gate

a few awkward minutes left

waiting to wait   

before you leave me here

on the scraped grey edge

of the sky

i don’t know why

i said i’d see you off

or even why you asked

i guess you needed

a witness

i guess i needed

one last glimpse of your ass

as you walked

up the ramp

and checked in

to the hollow museum

of my past

i don’t kid myself

that you’ll call

so don’t kid yourself

that i’ll answer to you.

after so long kidding each other

it’s a relief to be through

a gift to be simple and true

i’ll miss you

like i miss the radio’s hum

that itch in my ear

where a sound used to scratch me

to sleep, all white noise and numb

to leave is the thing--

who cares about landing

when flight

is the point?

so here we are

at the departure gate

and you’re shedding feathers

i’m as far from the horizon

as i’ve ever been,

still home

but home free.

i don’t know why

i said i’d see you off

but i’m glad i thought

to check my phone

the moment you looked back.

i’m glad when i looked up

you were gone.

how to kill a bird

dan takes the twine
ties the ankles tight because
we've heard the bird will run
even
after the head is gone
     then, not knowing
what comes next, we two fool kids
throw the line over a limb
cowboy-style we guess because
all we know of death
we've learned from film.
     only
          now
my childhood business farming eggs
is flipping fictions for
real-life execution.

once a chicken's old
it ain't no use, the crusty neighbor says.
once you stop paying your way
we slay, toss your feathers away
forget you had a name--
ashes to ashes, clay to clay.

     pause.

     consider the stump:
axe-scarred and waiting
for a neck thumb-stretched
and shaking
weak hand covering that yellow
eye that won't stop blinking
don't dare to wonder
what a chicken might be thinking.

the first swing

is a miss. hatchet swish and thunk
a chunk of wood. you flinched.
infirm of purpose.

didn't think you could, dan says,
tugs the rope. gulp down hope
and try to cope. once more
heft handle in hand review
the plan: neat swing clean cut
string it up to bleed out
the true red cost of food on table.
i'm ready, able
to swing. no tremble
this time. we are but young
in deed.
     dan yanks the bird away
head still under my hand
up and out the leg-trussed body arcs
spasm and sputter-vein frenzy
swift death to the myth of dying easy
i freeze in my
murderer's pose
unbelieving.

like any pendulum
splendid dependable
weight on a string
the corpse swings back
     trembling
over my penitent head
and i am baptized in blood
dissolved by the rain of what i have done
and reformed into something
     a little taller
          a little older
               a little callused
where the hand
held the axe.

Had a Band

i knew them back in high school

just because they went to my school

but it’s not like we were friends,

i mean, i knew they had a band

but they were stoners, they were skids

and we were only kids

so we laughed at them because they didn’t

know how to play

Free Bird.

I had a guitar that i

would play out in the yard;

i was starting to get good

and they were only two-bit hoods

but they were making up their own riffs,

a bit like old Black Sabbath

only faster, and we all knew

they had stolen all their gear; and

somehow

that was cool.

At the talent show that spring

we did the “Battle of the Bands” thing

my band went on first

so they would have to eat our dust.

We played U2 and R.E.M.--

we covered all the latest bands

we had a drummer from the army

and a teen tour jazz guitarist;

i played bass

because somebody has to, right?

We were cool; the crowd was dancing

we were not quite like the real thing

but we’d learned it note for note

and we were trying to emote

someone else’s emotions--

we were calculated fictions

and everyone believed us; we got a reasonable facsimile of a

standing ovation

when we stopped.

They were up next.

The crowd held it’s breath.

We looked at them, they looked at us

And they laughed as they took to the stage.

They started with a bang--

a song 38 seconds long

entitled “Ms. Kelly, the Librarian,

is a Servant of Satan.”

A fight broke out somewhere,

the vice-principal appeared

and flicked at the house lights--

which, of course, started more fights--

while the band ground our ears down

with exquisite mountains

of menacing sound.

Well, the cops did what cops do

and the ambulances ambled through;

three kids and a teacher

were hurt when the bleachers collapsed.

The band was expelled;

word is, they were sued

by Ms. Kelly, the librarian,

who suffered a breakdown

next Sunday at church.

I never saw those four guys again,

but later that week i wrote my first song

and it sucked,

but at least it was mine.