Body and Kentucky Bourbon

In the dark, my mind's night, I go back
to your work-calloused hands, your body

and the memory of fields I no longer see.
Cheek wad of chew tobacco,

Skoal-tin ring in the back pocket
of threadbare jeans, knees

worn through entirely. How to name you:
farmhand, Kentucky boy, lover.

The one who taught me to bear
the back-throat burn of bourbon.

Straight, no chaser, a joke in our bed,
but I stopped laughing; all those empty bottles,

kitchen counters covered with beer cans
and broken glasses. To realize you drank

so you could face me the morning after,
the only way to choke down rage at the body

sleeping beside you. What did I know
of your father's backhand or the pine casket

he threatened to put you in? Only now,
miles and years away, do I wince at the jokes:

white trash, farmer's tan, good ole boy.
And now, alone, I see your face

at the bottom of my shot glass
before my own comes through.

- "Body and Kentucky Bourbon" by Saeed Jones, from Prelude to Bruise (2014)

Yo Vivo Con La Verdad

These dudes are just another reason why I'm proud of Kansas City.

- "Yo Vivo Con La Verdad" by Making Movies, from I Am Another You (2017)

Little Love #1: Frozen Leftovers

I've decided, for my own selfish reasons, to begin a modest little series of "little loves:" minor things that make me disproportionately happy. I don't spend enough time celebrating these things, I don't think, so I'm trying to change that, and to share my tiny excitements with all of you.

I could, of course, just embrace my own Goop-iness and call this what it is—a stupid little gratitude journal—but I've got too much pride for that. So here we go.

Little Love Number One: Defrosting and eating six-month old frozen leftovers 

A few days ago, I dug into my freezer and pulled out the verenika I'd been saving. Verenika, in case I caught you unawares, is a gift from on high: little pierogi-type dumplings filled with cottage cheese and covered in ham gravy. They're a cornerstone of Mennonite cuisine, and I used to eat them every year as a kid. My parents would take us to Hutchinson, Kansas, for the annual MCC Sale, and we'd load up on the stuff. My sister and I went with our mom in April, and we both froze some to eat later on.

I'd held out for half a year, and now my wait is over. I'm eager for the small comfort of this food, this piece of my youth and my family history. I know they won't be as good as they are fresh, but verenika are like fries: even when they're bad, they're still pretty good.

Birthright

"Birthright AKA My Father Explains How We Got Here"

I’m not sure how many more times
you want to hear your own myth

The Blue Moon spit you out
which I thought was your first mistake
Son you only get a few resurrections
and you used one already
in a night full of red wings
and light dangling in steam
but hey sometimes we don’t have a choice
in what blood we rode in on

Anyway the cardinal came to the window
and I knew
somewhere something I cared about
was spilling

So I take off running after your mother
a scarlet prayer unraveling behind me
“God, I hope he looks like his mama”

I got in just before the blades
sharp things brought you into this world
sharp things might be what keep you here

they cleaved your mother’s stomach
like a fresh snowfall
you came from scars boy
if nothing else you get that from me

 - by Julian Randall, from Vinyl Poetry (July 2016)

Hisen

- "Hisen" by Susumu Yokota, from Sakura (1999)

A Small Stretch

From the backlog of things I never posted:

Grand Junction, Colorado; July 2014

Concrete Seconds

- "Concrete Seconds" by Pinback, from Blue Screen Life (2001)

Genealogy

"Genealogy"

This stream took a shorter course—
a thread of water that makes oasis

out of mud, in pooling,
does not aspire to lake. To river, leave

the forest, the clamorous wild.
I cannot. Wherever I am,

I am here, nonsensical, rhapsodic,
stock-still as the trees. Trickling

never floods, furrows its meager path
through the forest floor.

There will always be a root
too thirsty, moss that only swallows

and spreads. Primordial home, I am dying
from love of you. Were I tuber or quillwort,

the last layer of leaves that starts the dirt
or the meekest pond,

I would absorb everything.
I would drown. Water makes song

of erratic forms, and I hear the living
push back branches, wander off trail.

- by Jennifer Chang, from The History of Anonymity (2008)

Jazz for Lovers, Solitude for Me

- "Jazz for Lovers, Solitude for Me" by The Marshmallow Kisses, from Ciao! Baby (2011)