Prologue:
relentless rain,
the cistern overflows,
the distillation
and collection of all the sadness of the left behind.
water, dissipation in
swirls and ebbs, eddies and whorls
of blackness into light
and back to black
bodies
of water.
(the long night)
the all encompassing ocean
is the drop of rain
concentrated as essential loss.
1. Containments and Releases
a. Volcanic: Crater Lake, Oregon
purpled by altitude,
a granite bowl of ink,
the sky, dull and listless by comparison.
drowsy with color,
drifting in all directions;
trunks in silhouette
gnarled by the short light of the long summer morning,
in a car, nearly 45 years ago;
with my parents and my sister.
b. stagnant puddle
teaming with larvae and polliwogs
losing tails to gain legs
c.
The spent and smashed battery,
the clot of leaves,
runs the gutter.
outside of Woodland,
after too much malt liquor
and too many Reds,
Cookie Del Rio wrapped her Rambler
around a light post.
where would she be
30 odd years gone down?
chasing after Mexican boys
outside of Winters?
Or reformed, working her program
and swimming laps at the Davis Y?
d.
oak table
in a green room,
the glass vase holds
daisy water from days gone long.
that room was your bedroom
and is no longer.
whenever I pass,
I am reminded.
e.
The ocean keeps getting deeper.
15 years falling
into the end
that never ends.
trickling,
cold fingers of memory
rescind the real and move it darker,
into another sadness that is
the ocean getting deeper and deeper.
15 years passed
and gone still, and utterly forever:
water over rocks
in dappled sun.
fishing for trout
on the South Fork of the American River
past Placerville, Strawberry and Lover's Leap
past Tamarack and up the hill and at the Bridge,
or in the secret spot
down by the red cabin.
Salmon eggs
on a hook
on an afternoon in 1963.
two rocks hanging onto the side of the bank
a rainbow trout skitters under.
the scent of Queen Anne's lace,
shocks of lupine across the bend,
the glint of the salmon egg on the hook
as it splashes into the darkness.
the current carries the bait under the rocks.
a slight tug
and the old Rainbow is snagged on the hook.
the slow hum of Highway 50 as
The South Fork of the American River runs and
flows through Sacramento, through Cortland and
Rio Vista and Antioch and Martinez
to the Bay and
out the Golden Gate.
(bridge to bridge)
(mountains to oceans)
2. Streams of Arrested Desire
a.
did he save or sell his soul?
did she walk to work?
did he try to get better?
did she ever really feel connected?
did he want for affection?
did he ever want to jump from a bridge
into a frigid river
under a titanium cloud cover
in a wasteland of discarded furniture and bric-a-brac?
did he ever love a man in a cabin on a beach
on a churning night
in a summer
in the nineteen- forties?
did he ever ford a stream
with his heart full with another?
did she fill his heart or
did it ever?
does it ever?
b.
Was it parenting in absentia?
under a spring moon,
on the cascading water,
blossoms drift through the breeze.
birdsong trails into a quartet.
did you ever sing for him?
did you ever reach under his arms and lift him from behind?
did you ever sit
silently together with your memories
of sad love songs from the radio?
Did you talk about the watery weather?
under the bridge.
c.
how much is real?
how much is what was memory of what was heard
or some combination of
memory and having been told?
On the back porch, flush with measles,
being washed in the concrete sink.
Happy sings in her cage
hanging over the raised floor above the basement door.
Sansaveria in a ceramic pot in the high window sill and
the scent of cleanser and linoleum.
Out the screen door,
a shrimp plant and carnations
and metal lawn furniture painted silver.
The ballerino's house was beyond the hedge
through a hidden gate.
d.
So will there be some kind of a bookend
on either side:
a neat package
of banality and revelation,
a final gift before
what is left of life leaks out?
Will it be reflected in the pond outside the window of a hospice
where just within hearing are red winged blackbirds and pheasants
in the dun reeds?
e. sparkle
bounces off the shimmering waves and
elevates the quivering motes
into a rippling and roiling current.
dappled iridescence elicits
slinking charcoal and a coral burst of
slipping into an aqueous sunset.
f. Absence of Love
is Hell
g. presence of the past
20th and G Street
Said yes
and didn't:
a living room on the second floor
a flat above Ali the Pakistani
who beat his wife.
solace, liquid in perpetuity.
it is mostly light now,
speckled and wandering in memory.
a vacuum cleaner is left behind.
1975
Mona, Gavin, Roger He is So White He is Wong,
The Lady Montessa de Rambova and
Dino, who might have been there,
but I am not sure,
one by one
jumping out the first floor window into the hedge.
the dew dampened the back of my shorts.
after, around the table in the dining room,
peaking as Mona talks about Pioche,
I see spheres within spheres,
and hear the sound as they radiate outward and to the side: Spheres;
sounds within (within Spheres)
sounds within (within Spheres)
sounds (within Spheres).
July, midnight blue under street lights and stars night.
You will always remember your wedding cake and
the back of the red couch
and the scent of the disintegrating geometric patterned hotel rug.
Could you forget the drops of light
that sparkle in geometric patterns from every object?
h.
Mona took me to
The psychedelic shack high in the sky.
Behind another house
and up a rail less, steep staircase.
The black walls,
patterned with fragments of broken mirror,
shimmered with reflections of leaves and sky.
The psychedelic shack high in the sky
was more shack and less psychedelic.
3. Currents
Riptide
pulls out stronger than in.
go under.
deeper
and go out further without a raft
into the night.
there are no stars under the water.
phosphorescence is no substitute.
b. Lumahai Beach, Kauai,
with John and Zella and Bob and Chris.
We were the only ones on the beach.
A steep drop from the mangroves to the water,
but just enough room for mats
and places to drift off into the afternoon in the
overarching sun.
Body surfing:
swimming out and waiting
for a wave
to ride back to the beach.
Zella caught in a wave
tumbled to the floor of the ocean,
twisted her shoulder
and had her breath knocked out.
She lost her confidence
around the ocean for a long time.
c. Water Falling On Rocks in the Redwoods
4. Cycles
There are more questions than answers.
questions breed more questions.
answers are mutable.
questions are permanent.
Will there ever be a resolution?
or will the questions become the resolution?
the rain evaporates into the atmosphere as
sadness dissipates,
yet never disappears.
the cycle of grief is not the the cycles of water and weather.
ten years without clouds.
ten years of rain without end.
ten years a reign of something other than joy.
yet, in the joyless sound there is
a tinkling chime that somehow allows it all
to go on.
somewhere there is a glint or glimmer
that plays as a refrain
returning and reminding
that the past is ever present and
the future never arrives.
in the cabinet in the living room
Aunt Cassie and Grandma Nettie are still bickering
so many years after death.
Aunt Edna is ever suffering.
the arbutus in the front yard drops fruit
at once brilliant and bland.
Grandma Lopez is ever present with coffee milk and little fish.
Grandpa's hat is on the lampshade, ever on this side of singe.
It is before he got more mean and before she became a bear.
The living room and dining room are taken over by an amalgamation of tables
that stretch so long
that if you are sitting in the living room
and need something in the kitchen,
you have to go outside and around the house
and go in through the back door
to retrieve what it is that you need.
Mom and Dad and Zella
and Grandma and Grandpa and Grandma Nettie
and Aunt Lollie and Uncle Raymond and Patty
and Aunt Babe and Uncle Tom and Diana and Karl and June in a high chair,
Aunt Vera and Uncle Jack and Johnny and Jimmy and Mickey,
Dick and Jan Ryan and Donna
and sometimes Uncle John and Aunt Dorothy
and sometimes Uncle Buster and Aunt Marianne and Butch and Tommy and Jimmy
(it is before the little Ben) gather to celebrate or mourn
or both.
Most of them are gone now,
but the memory of putting pitted olives over my fingers
and plates of ice cold celery with cheese spread
are as vivid this night as they were
when everyone had gone home
and my Mother was washing dishes at the kitchen sink
and my sister drying the dishes
and my Mother saying that she would never do it again
until the next birthday
or holiday came around
and everyone would be at the table
eating spareribs from Barbecue Heaven or take out from China Palace
or Grandma's awful concoction of chicken in Sacramento brand
tomato sauce with hard boiled eggs.
Disintegrated into energy,
reformed by breath alone
Floating, disembodied,
detritus and ephemera:
the stuff that comes together to form
the veil.
The closet becomes an elevator
the bare light bulb
with a string and chain to pull on and off.
Floor please?
3rd please.
2nd floor - ladies foundations, better dresses and coats
3rd floor - notions and yardage, cafeteria and gift wrap.
It was never my turn to be Miss Universe.
I was always the first runner up,
Miss Venezuela.
In the garage
mixing a potion
of blueing, bleach, and amonia
and painting it
on the three foot dancing doll.
Waiting to see the results
as the fumes wafted out the door
open to the street
across from Mrs. Clark
who lived next door to Wilda
who raised earth worms
in a bathtub
in her back yard.
Wilda lived across from Don and Hazel
Janice wore a makeshift veil to
married her Siamese cat, Charlie,
with a backdrop of pink "Naked Lady" Amaryllis.
Patty officiated as a priest
of the one Holy and Apostolic Church.
I was ring bearer and witness.
at about 4:30 p.m.
in the late Spring
at the side of Aunt Lollie and Uncle Raymond's light green house.
Strawberry guava scent the ceremony.
Twice, we went to Seattle.
The first time I was six
and the second time I was eight.
The first trip was
picking blackberries along the street,
watching Curtis and Rodney and Janice fighting over
chicken hearts and gizzards,
and waterfalls and Puget Sound.
The second trip was
the Seattle World's Fair,
digging for razor back clams
and a kitten caught in the fan belt
We stopped both times
to visit Mrs. Pearsons and Maxine.
On the second trip home,
we stopped in Tillamok
and tasted cheese at the factory.
We stopped at the Tress of Mystery and
posed with the giant Paul Bunyan and
his Blue Ox, Babe.
My Mother and Father would wake us at 2:30 or 3:00 a.m.
Zella and I would be in our pajamas.
Groggy in the backseat
we set off in our Ford
up 99 through the Valley.
Sleeping and dreaming on vacation.
We would stop for breakfast.
Zella and I got dressed in the car.
Hash Browns. I always wanted whatever came with hash browns.
We crossed the Columbia River near dusk.
We crossed the Columbia River in the early morning.
We stopped at a beach in Oregon
and climbed down a steep cliff
and collected colored pebbles.
We stopped at Shasta Dam.
Once, Gordon and Vera
came to Sacramento.
They brought Rodney and Janice and Curtis and Cheryl.
Rodney and Curtis and I slept
in Uncle Carl's and Aunt Lil's house trailer parked
in the driveway.
Rodney and Curtis taught me how to play squirrel.
Go for the nuts.
I wanted to play Squirrel every night.
Another time, older, Rodney returned to Sacramento.
He taught me how to roll cigarettes from butts.
He was a narc.
Cheryl married a black man.
The only time we ever made Grandma Lopez angry
was when Zella sat on the salt shaker and
the little metal ball at the top broke off in her butt.
We all laughed and Grandma scolded us as
she comforted Zella.
The little silver ball is still buried in
Zella's butt.
Afraid of my uncles in this order:
Tom
Raymond
Danny
Ted and Lynn were with Peps.
Ted set a church on fire
and ate wax fruit.
Ted put a bean up his nose
and it sprouted.
Lynn doesn't register.
Pep's died of cancer the night
I went with Wade and B Bill to see "Help
at the drive-in.
Ted went to jail
for shooting a man
who had spit
on his car
while cruising K.
Tehedingo.
Dan and Marianne lived in the projects.
Aunt Lollie and Uncle Raymond did too.
Dan and Marianne lived in a brick house
down by Southside Park and the cemetery.
We took Grandma Nettie to cemeteries.
We cleared the weeds from the graves
and put sweetpeas and carnations
in mason jars.
It was Uncle This and Second Cousin That,
a neighbor and
a child.
Flintridge.
5. Bath
Eleven years and forty-seven days gone
and still, when I walk into that room,
you've never left.
It seemed like days were night and
it would never end
and then, it did.
The rattle is real.
Until you've heard it,
you'll never know.
After the rattle ended,
I closed your eyes
and called the doctor and the coroner.
I went into the yard to tell Zella
and called Theresa and Rabih.
They tried to comfort me.
But, I did not know how to accept this comfort
until I had performed
the ritual that I knew I needed to complete.
I put warm water in a basin.
I found a cloth
and I began to wash your lifeless body.
I don't know why I did
I just knew I had to.
I washed the lesions and wounds.
I washed your feet that had not touched the ground in weeks.
I washed your hair and your once beautiful face
I washed your arms that had been so recently connected to the IV.
I washed what had been public
and I washed what had been most private
I dried your body with a soft towel.
At some point while I was performing this last offering for you
I saw your soul fly out of your body and through the open window.
The coroner came, wrapped your body in a bag and took it away.
You were not gone for long.
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