Childhood

Father’s Day inspired post

“Rig rocket away!”

Daddy always yells this

in the acceleratory transition

from on-ramp to interstate.

Daughters always ask,

with their three

little backs faintly

pinned to the dull, beige,

kid-stained cloth seats,

“What is that?”

Every trip to Grandma’s he yells,

they ask, and he tells.

That’s a lot of trips, but somehow

Daughters will grow up

without knowing exactly

what a rig rocket is.

They’ll bet though, that

it’s something like a six-seated,

tape-decked hatch-back

with a middle front seat between

a Daddy driver and a Mommy

passenger, who is forever unbuckled

and turned,

with baby wipes in hand, to clean

Daughters’ mouths.

Energy flows, front-to-back

engagement; electricity

flies, side-to-side conflict

between sticky, spark-plug

fingers, until

the rocket drops

its first stage and drifts

to Grandma’s

on the gentle wind of Daughters’ sleepy sighs.

You’re not going to learn about a curve ball

Father’s Day inspired post

Paul Kukelaw! Oh! It’s Coach

Kukelaw now. Kate come

here, listen how he

taught me

to throw a curve ball,

a round house–“Don’t use

until you’re sixteen.”

And I didn’t, I swear

I didn’t.

Yes, yes I remember

Coach Newman, Charlie black man

Negro league super star

in white suit, in charge

of white boys “His boys.” He’d

parade around, twirling cane, cocky

as hell, hoo boy was he.

And weren’t we

cocky

but good so good

lossless Larned could throw

nothing but N words entire innings.

Kinda mad, Charlie said,

“Boys, nest inning I wan’ you

ta sit down! Frank’ll take

care a evr’thing.”

And mad, we did.

Sititng, we saw

Frank strike

one batter, two

when CRACK–

Larned got louder, a little

louder, but THWACK–

the ball went right

into Dwayne Oaks’ glove

like thwack right in there, boy

that shut ‘em up.

Yep, I tell you

we ran back to the dugout,

no big deal like

we did it every day and Kate

Coach Kukelaw’ll tell you

this happened.

Honest to God.

I think I just experienced music for the first time. Meaning, I just saw Zongo Junction, which has no vocals, more or less, by myself.  If there are no words, what do you listen to? What do you think about? And if there are no people you know, what do you look at? Who do you touch? The answer is, nothing. This is the first time I can identify letting my body move according to the music.

I’m sure it wasn’t pretty, but it’s a start…of something..maybe of beginning to not be in terrified awe of Music. Like, I know it’s powerful, but maybe now I know a particle of why.