Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Haiku 1

I've never wanted
Any thing
That is the whole point

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

My Horse Story

I was on the phone with my grandmother.  I was thinking of when I was little and she would take me with her to feed cattle around town back when she was, as far as I was concerned, a professional cowgirl.  In reality I think she was hired by the owners of some vacant lots to take care of tax-break purposed cattle: de-worm the cows, feed them, save the random horse from a mud pit, etc.  She worked daily on the home-base ranch, a fifteen-minute drive south of her suburban home.

I was thinking about all the mornings--it must have only been on weekend mornings, but it fills my memory so much it might as well have happened every day--that we woke up before dawn to make the rounds to several grocery stores for their bakeries’ day-old pastries. We'd throw them into huge black garbage bags, hoist them in the back of my grandmother’s sky blue jeep, and haul the load to the different pastures to feed what seemed like all of the cows in the county. A five-year old doesn’t pay attention to such trivial things as road signs, but I can see the front gate of each place.  The state's major beef export must have been quite sweet in those days with the cows’ blood oozing with cheese Danishes, glazed doughnuts, and pumpernickel bread.  Grandma always let me pick something fresh from the first bakery before we took our loot. I always chose a Long John.

She wanted to know why I was asking about the cattle and I had no good answer.  I just remembered days of horses and cows, traveling to the middle of the state in a giant white Dueley truck attached to a giant white trailer to sell cattle at a small auction house with a little diner attached to it. I wanted the adult facts to complete my childish recounts of getting corndogs at the diner counter and waitresses in light blue polka dotted dresses and pink ruffled aprons would take my order.  Or that could be what happened, mixed with my memory of old episodes of “Rosanne.”  The quaint antiquity of the diner stuck in the fifties, once a comforting and satisfying treat at the end of our long trip north, now seems sticky with twenty-year old grease, the charm disillusioned by facts learned through life.  The diner was gross really; dirty, and filled with ignorant, old countrified white men.  The corndog was probably… well, of unknown origin.

Then there were, of course, the horses. Each one had a completely unique personality, just like people. Heidi was mine. My grandmother bought her for me when I was 6 years old and her name was Kansas. The previous owner said she liked to be called “K” names, but I had just seen the movie, “Heidi,” featuring Shirley Temple, for the first time and I was having none of it. My horse would be named Heidi and that was that. Heidi was previously a barrel racing horse. That means she would be raced in the rodeo arena around 3 barrels with a rider on her in a special configuration as fast as she could. She was a small Quarter horse, plain brown with dark brown mane and tail. I dressed her in purple reins and bridle. I washed her. I rode her. I loved nothing more than to take her on trail rides. Even then I had no interest in going fast; I just liked to take things slow, observe, drink in everything around me. Heidi didn’t seem to mind this. She was very intuitive and in tune with what I wanted and where I wanted to go. She was not haughty like our Black Arabian. She was not stubborn like our golden Palomino. She was like a mother to me, and I was her wild little pony.

Caught in the throws of curious reminiscence and childhood, I felt a strange desire take hold, like oil seeping through the wall, slowly becoming more visible—a wet, black spot, enlarging, but always an amoeba, shapeless.  I asked my Grandma to keep all those poems she wrote that she showed me when I was little.

“Write for me,” I asked. 

“What do you want me to write about?” she asked. 

“Everything. Start from the beginning and don’t stop.” I said.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Your Failure of a Football Team is Like a Dead Fetus

A defeat, reader -- My alma mater has disgraced its alumni in football. Forgive me if I am brief in this post. I am grieving what could have been our best season in a long time. As always, He put it best: "It's like waiting 9 months for your child to be born, and then your wife has a miscarriage the day before it's due. You want to be mad at her because you know she jogged and had knocked back a few drinks during the pregnancy. But you can't."
Tonight we're all going to go knock back a few drinks to drown away the sorrows of our dead fetus of hope. Cheers.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Saturday, August 28, 2010


I had this dream we were on a date. We were at someones house who was very rich. Downstairs, our friend kept turning into a dragon because this porcelain egg was enchanted. And so I kept running upstairs to get away. Then it was morning and the landscapers were doing the lawn.