Saturday, October 9, 2010
Ode to Mike
I was happy to see the tide was high
The bay filled brim to brim
It was a viscous, dark sea
Powerful surf
Disturbed by passing ships
And yachts
And ferries
My head felt full as the bay
Brim to brim with a sea of thoughts
Viscous
Powerful
Sloshing thoughts against my cranial containment
The tide in my head had offered no reprieve..
Hadn’t receded..
I felt like I wanted..desperately needed..
To empty it out
Shake and fluff my brain
Like a huge comforter
Turn all those crevices inside out
Refreshed
Aired out
Before stuffing back into its cavity
Salted cranium
Like the sea itself
Preserved memories
Salty as the man himself…
Salty as the day he decked out his
Weighty body in motorcycle leathers..
Fringes flying from his wrists,
Silver medallions anchoring his vest
Fancy, hand-worked leather braiding..
That thundering, shiny, bright red Harley
And his long flowing gray curls
Roared right up my sidewalk
To the front steps
Delivering a plant
In gratitude for a kindness
He then proceeded to tell
Me, my son and son’s girlfriend
The official name of some pink Cadillac
Of years past:
(‘tho we weren’t even speaking of Cadillacs)
“Titty pink” he spewed. “I ain’t kiddin’! That
Was the official name of that color! Titty pink!”
He cackled gleefully, like a child quite pleased with oneself.
His big smile revealed widely spaced pegged teeth;
His voice tightly strung and high-pitched; as if someone had a
Tight grip on a prized part of his anatomy
I considered war injuries until I met his son.
Clearly, he wanted to extend the conversation about “titty pink”
He repeated those words as his crazed blue eyes opened wide
In a manner that leaves a woman feeling exceedingly, creepily uncomfortable.
Salty.
Not the welcome brine of a good blue cheese
Or crunchy chip.
But the brine of the sea which teases a thirsty soul.
Quench denied.
The brine that can steal a man’s life in the open sea.
Or, the time I heard his booming voice at the
End of his driveway and,
Peering out my kitchen window
Saw a dark t-shirt sausaged over his body
With the words
“Stand back, Sweetie!
You don’t know how big it gets!”
I was so appalled I texted a friend who,
Knowing him,
Replied she had spat out her drink reading
My words.
Rode w/the Hells Angels in earlier years.
Wouldn’t have to convince me
Yet fancied himself a debonair Italian courtier…
Never missing an opportunity to flirt with a lady,
Kiss her hand in grand gesture, and
Toss laurels of compliments
Directly at her bosom
As if her chest were eyes and ears
Sometimes he stood by his chain-link fence
Chatting with neighbors
Wearing nothing but bibbed overalls…
The overalls were a step-up
From the uber- faded, once-red
Very worn, seldom washed, cut-off sweat pants (only)
No seeming humility about that over-sized
White-skinned, gray-haired, bared torso…
I thought the house was vacant
When first I arrived
Dried weeds filled the entire yard
Weeds as tall as man himself
Save one narrow path
Night critters, I figured
No lights; no activity.
Until the middle of night
When the rumble of all hell
Jarred one from a deep sleep
As an old, rusted Econoline van
With a throated guttural engine
Which could wake the devil himself
Fired up with a bang
Rancid exhaust filled the night air
Filtering into neighboring homes
As the Unknown would come and go
Under the cloak of darkness.
A Viet Nam vet, Marine Corp
Three purple hearts
Time had stopped for him
Everything about his life defined by that experience
PTSD shouting out from the recesses of the garage
I was to learn the narrow path in the tall weeds
Was the path of his dog
A silent pit bull
Who had been rescued after being hit by a car
And whom he took in and loved
His “roommate” for years
In spite of the dog’s serious brain injury
No: because of the brain injury..
It was that ‘imperfection’ which was their bond
He was the one who always told people he’d look out for them.
Neighbors. Especially women.
I know he meant it.
I’m not sure he really could have done anything.
But, honestly, strange as it seems
When I wasn’t fearing him with his erratic behavior
And bombastic manner
Which varied from nighttime screams to
Chasing people with baseball bats,
And calling women bitches and whores in public shout-outs,
Honestly, there were times I felt lulled into a sense of security
With him as my neighbor.
He passionately honored the military;
Those actively serving;
Veterans..
Marine corps brothers: "Semper fi"
Old Glory proudly rippled in the breeze from his porch
Along with the black POW flag for those still
Unaccounted
I have never heard a human being wail as Mike wailed
When that dog passed
He threw his voluminous body upon her on the floor
And wailed, more loudly than the van’s guttural roar…
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Ohhhhhh! Don’t leave me!”
A wail..a sorrow..so profound it pierced my very core
And left it
Feeling split, raw, exposed.
More recently, when I spoke of moving
He pleaded, “Don’t leave! Don’t leave! Don’t ever leave!”
He would have said it to anybody.
Unless he hated you. [And, there were those.]
But the pleading…from this tough old soldier:
“Don’t leave. Don’t leave! Don’t ever leave!!”
He leaned his whole body into his words
Wagging his index finger
And now
He..
has left us.
~ He has left us. ~
The thought reverberates throughout my head and assumes
A very solemn, unwelcome seat
Somewhere within
Mike.
He had lost a hundred pounds.
Watched his diet
Walked; exercised
Bought a bright red, brand new crossover car.
Told me how good it felt not to be embarrassed
By his van anymore.
Had his yard cleaned. Re-roofed his house.
Suspended blooming pots from his porch.
Became more socialized; made new friends.
Drew a happy face on a prickly pear cactus
And sat it beside his gate
He tossed ball in the street
With the kids next door
And took in his grown son who
Needed a soft landing.
And… was diagnosed with lung cancer.
I wonder, when last I saw him…as he sat in a wheelchair,
Tethered by his oxygen umbilical cord
Paramedics about to transport him to the hospital..
As I stood on my stoop…
And felt guiltily alive…
Acutely aware of the strong life-force
Coursing through my body
As I watched him struggle for his..
As his blue eyes looked upward
Locked with mine…
I wonder…
Did my eyes speak to him?
“Are you leaving us, Mike? Are you leaving??”
I am haunted
Wondering who was looking out for him
At the end
The tide is high
The bay filled brim to brim
It is a viscous, dark sea
And my head feels as full as the bay
The air wafts brine…
I was happy to see the tide was high
The bay filled brim to brim
It was a viscous, dark sea
Powerful surf
Disturbed by passing ships
And yachts
And ferries
My head felt full as the bay
Brim to brim with a sea of thoughts
Viscous
Powerful
Sloshing thoughts against my cranial containment
The tide in my head had offered no reprieve..
Hadn’t receded..
I felt like I wanted..desperately needed..
To empty it out
Shake and fluff my brain
Like a huge comforter
Turn all those crevices inside out
Refreshed
Aired out
Before stuffing back into its cavity
Salted cranium
Like the sea itself
Preserved memories
Salty as the man himself…
Salty as the day he decked out his
Weighty body in motorcycle leathers..
Fringes flying from his wrists,
Silver medallions anchoring his vest
Fancy, hand-worked leather braiding..
That thundering, shiny, bright red Harley
And his long flowing gray curls
Roared right up my sidewalk
To the front steps
Delivering a plant
In gratitude for a kindness
He then proceeded to tell
Me, my son and son’s girlfriend
The official name of some pink Cadillac
Of years past:
(‘tho we weren’t even speaking of Cadillacs)
“Titty pink” he spewed. “I ain’t kiddin’! That
Was the official name of that color! Titty pink!”
He cackled gleefully, like a child quite pleased with oneself.
His big smile revealed widely spaced pegged teeth;
His voice tightly strung and high-pitched; as if someone had a
Tight grip on a prized part of his anatomy
I considered war injuries until I met his son.
Clearly, he wanted to extend the conversation about “titty pink”
He repeated those words as his crazed blue eyes opened wide
In a manner that leaves a woman feeling exceedingly, creepily uncomfortable.
Salty.
Not the welcome brine of a good blue cheese
Or crunchy chip.
But the brine of the sea which teases a thirsty soul.
Quench denied.
The brine that can steal a man’s life in the open sea.
Or, the time I heard his booming voice at the
End of his driveway and,
Peering out my kitchen window
Saw a dark t-shirt sausaged over his body
With the words
“Stand back, Sweetie!
You don’t know how big it gets!”
I was so appalled I texted a friend who,
Knowing him,
Replied she had spat out her drink reading
My words.
Rode w/the Hells Angels in earlier years.
Wouldn’t have to convince me
Yet fancied himself a debonair Italian courtier…
Never missing an opportunity to flirt with a lady,
Kiss her hand in grand gesture, and
Toss laurels of compliments
Directly at her bosom
As if her chest were eyes and ears
Sometimes he stood by his chain-link fence
Chatting with neighbors
Wearing nothing but bibbed overalls…
The overalls were a step-up
From the uber- faded, once-red
Very worn, seldom washed, cut-off sweat pants (only)
No seeming humility about that over-sized
White-skinned, gray-haired, bared torso…
I thought the house was vacant
When first I arrived
Dried weeds filled the entire yard
Weeds as tall as man himself
Save one narrow path
Night critters, I figured
No lights; no activity.
Until the middle of night
When the rumble of all hell
Jarred one from a deep sleep
As an old, rusted Econoline van
With a throated guttural engine
Which could wake the devil himself
Fired up with a bang
Rancid exhaust filled the night air
Filtering into neighboring homes
As the Unknown would come and go
Under the cloak of darkness.
A Viet Nam vet, Marine Corp
Three purple hearts
Time had stopped for him
Everything about his life defined by that experience
PTSD shouting out from the recesses of the garage
I was to learn the narrow path in the tall weeds
Was the path of his dog
A silent pit bull
Who had been rescued after being hit by a car
And whom he took in and loved
His “roommate” for years
In spite of the dog’s serious brain injury
No: because of the brain injury..
It was that ‘imperfection’ which was their bond
He was the one who always told people he’d look out for them.
Neighbors. Especially women.
I know he meant it.
I’m not sure he really could have done anything.
But, honestly, strange as it seems
When I wasn’t fearing him with his erratic behavior
And bombastic manner
Which varied from nighttime screams to
Chasing people with baseball bats,
And calling women bitches and whores in public shout-outs,
Honestly, there were times I felt lulled into a sense of security
With him as my neighbor.
He passionately honored the military;
Those actively serving;
Veterans..
Marine corps brothers: "Semper fi"
Old Glory proudly rippled in the breeze from his porch
Along with the black POW flag for those still
Unaccounted
I have never heard a human being wail as Mike wailed
When that dog passed
He threw his voluminous body upon her on the floor
And wailed, more loudly than the van’s guttural roar…
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Ohhhhhh! Don’t leave me!”
A wail..a sorrow..so profound it pierced my very core
And left it
Feeling split, raw, exposed.
More recently, when I spoke of moving
He pleaded, “Don’t leave! Don’t leave! Don’t ever leave!”
He would have said it to anybody.
Unless he hated you. [And, there were those.]
But the pleading…from this tough old soldier:
“Don’t leave. Don’t leave! Don’t ever leave!!”
He leaned his whole body into his words
Wagging his index finger
And now
He..
has left us.
~ He has left us. ~
The thought reverberates throughout my head and assumes
A very solemn, unwelcome seat
Somewhere within
Mike.
He had lost a hundred pounds.
Watched his diet
Walked; exercised
Bought a bright red, brand new crossover car.
Told me how good it felt not to be embarrassed
By his van anymore.
Had his yard cleaned. Re-roofed his house.
Suspended blooming pots from his porch.
Became more socialized; made new friends.
Drew a happy face on a prickly pear cactus
And sat it beside his gate
He tossed ball in the street
With the kids next door
And took in his grown son who
Needed a soft landing.
And… was diagnosed with lung cancer.
I wonder, when last I saw him…as he sat in a wheelchair,
Tethered by his oxygen umbilical cord
Paramedics about to transport him to the hospital..
As I stood on my stoop…
And felt guiltily alive…
Acutely aware of the strong life-force
Coursing through my body
As I watched him struggle for his..
As his blue eyes looked upward
Locked with mine…
I wonder…
Did my eyes speak to him?
“Are you leaving us, Mike? Are you leaving??”
I am haunted
Wondering who was looking out for him
At the end
The tide is high
The bay filled brim to brim
It is a viscous, dark sea
And my head feels as full as the bay
The air wafts brine…
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