TERMINAL LABOUR
Murderous pipe
Snaking though mountains
Rips the century in two.
Calamity stitches, salt
Rituals, mollifying dances
Distract hippie protesters.
Ransack a few days off.
Sour fists, sweet mouths,
Boner in the rain.
He recalls her glass tears,
Tongue of flint
Silent in the station
Shrewd in the bar.
Dunce fat depleted,
Husk nearly ready
For the casket,
He works with her
To remove obstructions,
Excavate a trench,
Contour the land.
WET RECOVERY
Mangled post tequila,
Estrangement narcotic,
Longing, withdrawal.
Up from the basement
Pretty feet restored
I propel myself
With nothing
But will, grateful for the veil
Of mist, piano notes
Icy raindrops pelting
What’s left
Post hacking
Into,
Hacking away.
Hmph.
He’s not the only martyr
Dragging me down,
Blowing me up.
I will sleep with the river,
Esoteric toads,
A harridan
Sharper than thistle,
Embraced.
Sheltered. Cleansed.
This is a difficult subject, raising a child on the autism spectrum, especially painful in the wake of Newtown. I was heartbroken by news of the tragedy and dismayed to learn the shooter had Aspergers.
I felt both great empathy and unease watching the PBS Frontline documentary, Raising Adam Lanza, about the relationship between Adam and his mother Nancy. Though experts agree individuals with Aspergers are no more prone to violence than people without the developmental disability, I worry the public will characterize kids on the spectrum as aggressive, a huge setback in hard won autism awareness.
My son is two years younger than Adam Lanza and finding a proper diagnosis was a long, arduous struggle, finally achieved at age 10, about the same age Adam was when he was diagnosed. Initially Junior was erroneously perceived as having a “moderate to severe language disorder.” I still don’t know what the heck that means but he received years of speech therapy, which as it turns out was the last thing he needed, being highly functioning and beyond verbal to the point of verbose. It’s body language he doesn’t get. More details on this and our desperate search for information are at this previous blog post and the only other time I’ve publicly addressed my son’s ASD.
Adam Lanza had initially been diagnosed with SID, Sensory Integration Dysfunction, also known as SPD, Sensory Processing Disorder. It’s not a recognized diagnosis nor included in the DSM-IV-TR Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. As reported by Susan Donaldson James, “Whether SPD is a distinct disorder or a collection of symptoms pointing to other neurological deficits, most often anxiety or attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), has been debated by the medical community for more than two decades.” Adam Lanza’s lifetime.
My son’s sensory issues were well documented, considered part of his ASD and certainly challenging. He abhorred particular fabrics, ripping out tags and discarding the socks with “stupid seams.” Refusing to wet his head, hygiene was a serious concern. It took years to overcome his anxiety and get in the shower on a daily basis but he still doesn’t know how to swim and refuses to take lessons.
Unlike a lot of kids on the spectrum, our son’s motor skills were fine. He began walking at 10 months, was a prodigious golfer with a beautiful swing everyone envied. Though shy with strangers, he had no problems with physical contact and was always affectionate with family. He’s less demonstrative as a teenager but if I ask for a hug, he delivers a hug with no qualms.
I may seem anxious to point out how my child with Aspergers is different from Adam Lanza, but because it manifests in a seemingly random but singular fashion, every child on the spectrum is different. Unique. Our choices, options have been dictated by how ASD has affected our child.
I got the impression mother and son were becoming Continue reading
FATAL INTERRUPTION
Pond forsook, shed tippled,
I dodge gusto, the jolly,
Adroitly avoiding east, his
Brilliant mean declarations,
Confabulations,
Sorry offensives,
Our fractured liaison.
The work of forgetting
Stresses, ER expedition
Lacerating Saturday night.
Belligerent patients triaged;
Cosmo shill car crash,
Severed digit,
Cocaine addled troll.
My heart is quitting!
Erection won’t.
Happy to see me.
Stiff you.
X rays, blood work
Revealing nothing
But our deficits.
SINGLE-HANDED
Strays.
Yard rats we
Shared a railroad,
A yearning for
Burning corn,
A penchant for
Leaving one another
The dead
Of night. Tied
To the tracks.
Creosote smeared legs
Stand in a deep cove
Now, manning my boat.
Trip charted,
Lovers never quit
Beckoning, inserting
Keys, truncating
My swagger,
Saving me
From this lonely perch,
This vast wave.
Heading to the studio, they wound their way along the curves of Pacific Coast Highway past sunning sea lions, surfers bobbing at Point Dume, shithawks—seagulls—bombing the pier. Fiona watched Dennis ogling a busty brunette astride a Palomino stallion bareback, galloping through roiling surf.
“You can see the gray whales during migration.” He told them smugglers used to run liquor, opium and Chinese labor through the area.
The studio sat under the lee of the mountains, a veritable citadel by the sea. The massive foyer, a circle of mahogany pillars, opened teepee-like, rays of sun warming the slate floor.
“Hey Virgins, it’s your first time!” joked Dennis. “In a studio.”
Producer Dan Foley ambled in, gently gruff in a RECOVERING CATHOLIC t-shirt, black jeans, lizard skin cowboy boots. He sat, Virgins arranging their bums on a bank of white couches.
“Okay, so what kind of a production values are you going for?” he asked, voice like sandpaper.
“Don’t you know?” Jackie clung to her guitar case.
“It’s your music. You tell me.”
Fiona knew. “Raw. Gritty.”
“Right,” said Rita. “And we want it tight.”
“Monster bass!” said Jackie. “I play bass like no one, melodically, but with a lot of guts.”
“Describe your sound. As a band I mean.”
Gawd. I wish we had a manager. “We sound like the Virgin Marries. Our drummer is a walking, talking, sonic boom. Our bass player is an original. Dolores plays her Les Paul like a band saw. It rips! We write excellent songs. The singer can actually sing. I have great stage presence too. We all do. Right, girls?” They nodded. “We’re talented. Fucking brilliant in fact.”
Dan feigned ducking, as if to avoid a blow. “Alright then. We have a band in the studio. Who’s responsible for the arrangements?”
Dolores groaned. “Arranging is for wimps. We don’t arrange our stuff.”
Rita brandished her drumsticks. “Yes we do! We don’t want a ton of effects, Linn drums, or a million overdubs.”
“No cowbells!” said Fiona. “I hate fucking cowbells. Let the farmers have ‘em.”
“Or synthesizers,” said Dolores.
“I hate saxophones almost as much as I hate cowbells. And flutes! I hate the flute. It reminds me of beatniks. And hippies.”
Dan stood at the window looking out over the mist-shrouded hills. “Okay, so you know what you don’t want. I will venture to say I think you need a clean sound. Organic. Unrestrained. Untainted.”
“Organic?” bleated Jackie.
“Yeah. Organic, as in authentic. Virginal. Pure. Virgin Marries, doing what comes natural.”
“Er, yeah, okay.” Jackie feigned gagging. “But we are not hippies!”
Pink Sombreros
The cowboy led his horse to water
The horse refused to drink
The cowboy roped a steer one day
The steer was full of sawdust
The cowboy saw a sign in the sky
Revolving neon stars
Dudes in white fringes live here now
Dudes in pink sombreros are here to stay
The cows are lowing, the myth is dying
This land can break my heart
I have no place to go
Beyond my wild whisky dreams
“How about piano?”
“Gimme a break! Do you want us to sound like the Eagles?”
Rita glared at Fiona. “We couldn’t sound like the Eagles if we tried!”
“It is a ballad,” said Dan.
“Yeah, it’s a ballad,” said Fiona, “but it’s a cowboy song. I hear guitars.”
“Guitar yes, of course, but this song, a wonderful song by the way, should be played on acoustic. Just the rhythm parts.”
“Acoustic!” yelped Dolores.
“Yes. Acoustic will make it a classic. Showcase the vocals. A little piano in the bridge.” Dan leveled his eyes at Fiona. “And another thing. Hit songs do not have minor chords.”
Let’s hit you. Fiona sighed.
“I thought you were tired of Continue reading
MISSION
Graves looming,
Nasty sequestered,
I hear your hulk
Shading the cliff.
Logic lemming-leapt,
We weave a net of arms,
Invent a shepherd,
Exhaust satiety.
We couple courage,
Shoo dimwits,
Estimate fallout,
You pleading neutrality,
I, soldier brain.
We are not happy
Till the cabin is razed,
Harvest ploughed asunder.
HOOD POINT
Dec. 31, 2012
Lost in stars
Brave as ash
Wrestling shadows,
Giddy with night,
I lure water taxis
To shore.
Light the oven,
Salt the path
So I may reach you
Cliffside,
Burnish your gleam.
Eagle’s nest hums,
Voices fuse.
Nearly content,
Neural bridges manifest.
Last night, last supper.
Blue heron spotting,
Tossing binoculars,
Whooping,
Over.
Lashings, lamb bones,
Bent finger
Pointing,
Steam building, hot
Boxing, fur ball
Hangovers, bellicose
Stroking, novel
Teasing, done.
News wrapped as fish,
Jesus hair obscures horns,
Sunny fog-ferries, flight
From one another
Post twelve days
Balancing hurt percentages.
Out with old, year
Of dreary brinkmanship, no end
To the apocalypse jokes,
Lucky 13 new affirmation.
“O, That this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.”-Hamlet, Shakespeare
FLESH POT
Born muscle bound
Backboned, map, matrix-
Mother intact,
Into private security firms-
Families, in slums, manors,
Stables, institutions,
To pirates or the pious,
We flourish. Raw teeth, germs,
Clubfeet do not impede us,
Rank and garbled speech fleeting
As tin jeeps, Barbie Doll drama.
Our struggle is tidy, tumult banal,
Pain prosaic, strife fueling ripeness,
Gauntlets passed through swiftly
Until the day we drop. Nominated,
Cornered, required to wither
Under the gun,
Succumb, for we remain
That tender, precious human
Flesh terminators must aim for.
WARNINGS SHUNNED
I was there
But can’t recall
A blur.
Here you are,
Transparent, coy, unsullied.
Wet towers swaying,
I admire the dirty gulls.
You land
On the top floor,
Move the mirror, ceiling,
Unhinge the doors.
Make no mistake.
Moon resting on a spire,
Limbo persists,
Olive of catharsis
Suspended in a martini,
Leaving me soaked,
Juiceless, waiting
In the terminal,
You above it all.