Confessions of a Human Nerve Ending

Maybe we aren’t who the series is designed for? My wife and I turned off Alan Ball’s True Blood (Season 4, Episode 9) with a disappointed thud…as if our computer finally going to white noise that previously always announced, “This is an HBO show and they’re always good,” was suddenly saying, “Don’t get your hopes up.” It wasn’t that we tried; we’d watched three full seasons (delayed by us not having cable nor subscribed to HBO-GO), but we just couldn’t do it anymore. Suddenly, I could see the machinery of the story telling. In True Blood (I know it’s based on a series of mystery books , and after perusing the web I know many of the elements are lifted straight from the book) the story telling became “Hey you like the characters so watch what happens when I put them in this situation,” and “Oh, aren’t they nice to look at too.” Though missing the sexuality of True Blood , it’s the same story telling that was employed through all 5 seasons of Battlestar Galactica (BSG), which...

(I almost want to start this poem by repeating the title, but merely typing the above, I know that, now, I don't have to). Language has a way of creating, so here I am...trying to tell you I wore light brown loafers,                 red knee high socks,                                 a brown rayon dress with white polka dots,                                                 a simple, yet elegant necklace,                  ...

Heather. I tried to find you yesterday in the way it’s done now:  typing your name in front of a blinking cursor. But then realized there was no real reason you’d use the same last names you used back then: One--your biological father, absent, and the other-- a step-father, that I always thought was always gone as well. Heather. I tried to remember yesterday; the last time I saw you. Vail-it must've been. You’d relocated on a promise-- a promise of a steady job in a ski town with people you knew from home. Heather. Yesterday, I tried to remember when we met, and how I liked you right away; It took me two weeks-- two weeks to find the spell. You'd  push back playingly, liked being teased and prodded . Behind a stainless counter, you’d smile then hand full drinks through a window to a car. Heather. They gave me the key and never knew what happened. We were hungry snuck in, reassembled the soda machine, turned the...

(for Robert Frost) No bigger than a housecat, a small gray roadrunner has adopted our neighborhood. Almost any morning, I can spot him. Sometimes up the road a bit, turned towards the sun with his feathers spread apart, warming up, or just bouncing from our fence to our roof, then over the top and down to the other fence that keeps our lot separate from our neighbor's. I wonder if he recognizes me, knows how I know his colors:  the red and white stretched out from behind his eyes like mascara how I recognize his stuttered step, his head ducked down so his beak is the first thing impacted on anything that doesn't get out of his way. Strange how the cats don't seem to bother him, and I wonder what he eats, and whether I should spread some bird seed on the wall. My neighbor and I exchange pleasantries and stay in our respective territories-- a smaller part of his territory--a neighborhood in the middle of the city.

Life is about listening.   Sometimes what life is saying comes at you in in strange ways.   On Friday, I was reading this story on Salon.com and it mentioned that few jazz musicians have the same clout as they once did.  Of the few who still draw considerable audiences, it mentioned Keith Jarrett .   I don't know Keith Jarrett, but I've been trying to school myself on jazz for the better part of a year now.   Since I'm relatively new to this jazz thing, I want to make sure I'm really listening to what people think of as "great."   With that in mind, I bought a book:   The Penguin Guide to Jazz Recordings .   Under Keith Jarrett they mention the album,  The Koln Concert as his best album (part of any enthusiasts' "Core Collection").   So, when I saw the album while perusing Mecca Records in ABQ, I knew I had to buy it.   Life was talking. The Koln Concert  (So, go ahead and ...

This morning, I wanted to write a poem that celebrated you, that lifted you up-- strong shouldered words. Sky held up by long cottonwood branches, but today is Rosa Parks' day. This morning, I wanted to write a poem that celebrated you, that took your hand. This is your creation, your dream. You’ve created a world where we treat each other better, Dream a world that no longer makes our desires yours. But today, my sister cracked a case that brought a serial rapist into court, He sat, alone, staring at a blank wall, shivering and afraid. My sister: all five foot two inches and one fifteen clicks open her pen. “So why did we find your DNA where we did?” This morning, I wanted to write a poem that celebrated you-- my grandmother, toddler father in her arms, kicking at the collapsed coal vein uncovering my grandfather, (back broken) and kept him awake while neighbors ran for help. She’d tend to 3 kids while he recovered, continue farming,...

                 Required Reading In a Time Magazine interview, Sherman Alexie mocks himself when he says, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought back in 1987: What’s going to make me really economically successful? Poems about Indian guys. I’m a capitalistic genius,” yet the joke is actually real. Alexie has had a lot of success writing about Indian guys. Taking stories from his earlier works, he’s added a few, shaken well, then published this collection: Blasphemy: New and Selected Stories , and I'd call it required reading. Some of the characters draw on Alexie's own history: hydrocephalus, basketball, complicated father/son relationships, living on the reservation, and leaving it behind. Many of the characters appear in multiple stories; themes crop up again and again; and through it all you see his sense of humor, his struggles with alcoholism, and his willingness to tackle reservation life that mark this as clearly a bo...