Still Cherokee

A light rain fell
All day
And through the night
Turning to periodic drizzle
The following day.

Several times
I stepped onto my porch
Face toward unbroken clouds
Spreading my hands
Like wings of the owl
Turning in slow circles
Eyes and mouth wide open.

Neighbors surely thought me
Daft.

There are times
The Cherokee
Surfaces
Requiring connection
To weather
Sun and moons.

A circling red tailed hawk
Wings spread against
Rising thermals
Enraptures me.

Budding grain
Background to
A red wing black bird
Perched on a wire fence
Causes me to pull my truck
To the roadside
To exult in the ordinary miracle
Of the common.

Fields of spring wildflowers
Corn blue
Swaying softly in a morning breeze
Dance with me
In choreography as
Simple and elegant
As any Broadway production.

I wear boots
Not moccasins
My hair is cut short
Not flowing
But I still have a Buck knife
And beaded vest.
I still wear a wide-brimmed hat
And sing Amazing Grace
In the old tongue*
I still hear the flute
And drumbeat.

I am still Cherokee.


* U ne la nv i u we tsi
I ga go yv he i
Hna quo tso sv wi yu lo se
I ga gu yv ho nv

A se no i u ne tse i
I yu no du le nv
Ta li ne dv tsi lu tsi li
U dv ne u ne tsv

E lo ni gv ni li squa di
Ga lu tsv he i yu
Ni ga di da ye di go i
A ni e lo hi gv

U na da nv ti a ne hv
Do da ya nv hi li
Tsa sv hna quo ni go hi lv
Do hi wa ne he sdi

(When the Cherokee were ejected from Georgia by the US gvt. in the brutal winter of 1838-39, and their dead lay unburied along the infamous "Trail of Tears," Amazing Grace became their unofficial national anthem. It was then, as now, sung by the Cherokee as a dirge.)

Memorizing and Remembering

I run my hand through her
Long wet hair
Trying to memorize
The silky thickness
The way it tangles in my hand
The fragrance rising
From her shampoo
And conditioner.

Sunlight from the small window
Flashes upon her hair
Highlighting every hue
And color
The sienna of wheat lands
Flame
Amber and gold
That evoke memory of
The Sangre de Christos
Of Mexico.

She smiles gently
Asks what I am doing.
I tell her I am
Memorizing and remembering.

Remembering what? She asks.

I tell her
I do not know.
That it will come to me
Eventually.
But how can I properly explain?

Her hair reminds me of
Mountain gold
Glinting sun on wild rivers
Sparks rising
From hickory fires
Something lost
Irretrievable
Long ago.

Why memorize? She asks.

When I speak I am surprised
At the frailty in my voice
In the halting manner
In which truth is often born.

Because you will leave
I tell her.

She buries her head
Between my chin and chest.
I feel her breath
Warm and heavy
Against my skin.
Her hands drop the towel
Her arms encircling my body
Tightly.

I am never leaving
She says quietly.

But she will.
So I memorize her scent
The warm softness of her
The way her hair drapes my arms
And I think of wheat lands
And fire on the mountains.

The Arkansas Line*

In memory
I crossed the Arkansas line
Moments ago.
Instantly
I was a child again.

My feet dangled
From grandma’s front porch swing.
Beside me
My brother
Laughed at nothing
And I joined him.
Later he chipped my tooth
When he smacked my
Coke bottle’s top
Into my front teeth.
I got even later.

Cicadas sang their buzz saw chant
From every tree and bush.
Moths and flying bugs
Swarmed the silver glow
In the corner streetlight.

With every movement
Sweet summer sweat
Dripped from my body.
The day’s heat slept
In the concrete sidewalk
And every hard surface.

Come day time
Cotton looked like snow
Stretching from the red dirt road
All the way to the distant tree line.
Weary bodies dragged burlap sacks
Down endless rows
For pennies to the pound.

Dr. Pepper signs
Suspended from sagging screen doors
At Houston’s General Store
Reminded us to refresh ourselves
At 10, 2 and 4.

From green water springs
Trout leapt
While catfish napped
And dragonflies hovered
Above the cool water
Just beyond jutting cattails.

After sundown
Dad and my uncles smoked
On grandma's porch
The tip of their cigarettes
Glowing like small dragon eyes.

My brother and I ran to the end
Of the sidewalk
Where the last few feet
Buckled at weird angles
By the roots of the massive old oak.
Then we ran back again
The loser being the one
To brave the "skeeters"
And find our baseball mitts
Left somewhere in the dark
Out on the side lawn.

Way in the back was grandma’s
Out house
Smelly
And home to "waspers" and dirt daubers.
To avoid the unpleasantness
We selected a boulder
Our “Pee Rock”
Which we glidingly splashed in the night.

All this returns
The moment I cross
The Arkansas line.

But I have not crossed that line
Since dad died
Since mom died.
Not in fifteen years has that
Mystical moment
Washed me clean
And made me young.

But it would take
Next to nothing
For me to chase that line again.


*My dad went home to Jesus fifteen years ago today. God, how I miss him.

Nirvana*

He is on the needle
And swallows vodka
By the case.
He is on a path
To assured destruction.
His eyes are hollow.
His soul echoes vacancy.
He is miserable
Lonely
Desperate.

Sitting across from me
He asks what I may do.

After a phone call
Consulting services
I offer him an appointment
For tomorrow
And hope for the best.
He shuffles back to the shelter.

See how the mighty have fallen!

He told me about his cars
His palatial home
His seven-digit income
His model wife
All lost
At the point of the needle.

After a career of interviews
Just like his
I remain at a loss
To comprehend the attraction
Of false realities
And the search for Nirvana.

Perhaps we all have our devices
That are crafted
To attack us at our core dependencies
Our favorite fantasies
Our familiar lies.

And I am certain, there
But for the grace of God
Go I.


* Sadly, this is true account of a recent series of interviews with a client. He agreed to undergo detox, then I entered him in our rehab program. The following week, upon receiving his monthly SS check, he left rehab with the speed lightening streaks the sky, got two bottles of vodka, scored some heroin on was back on the street. He will, of course, die. Sometimes you eat the bear...sometimes the bear eats you.

Impossibly Amazing

Lightening bugs
Spark above grasses
And fields
In tiny combustions
Of energy.

Forty thousand feet above
Summer skies flash
In sheet lightenings
Of fiery magnificence.

Beyond the atmosphere
Solar winds
Light the poles
In dancing
Shimmering displays
Of green and gold.

In spiraling galaxies
Light years distant
Gasses explode
In incredible towers
Of energy.

Light lights light.

Brilliant
Blazes
Burst onto planets
With its own
Flare
Condensing finally upon
Little insects
Flickering and twinkling
Microcosms of fathomless
Glory.

The heavens glisten
And gleam
In concentric circles
Of pulsing displays
In glorious
Light.

It is all impossibly
Amazing.

A Potent Cocktail

Fear and adrenalin
Is a potent cocktail.

The morning the bullets buzzed
Like twin bees
Past my left ear
Pocking the brick wall
Behind me
I thought I was
A very lucky man.

Ten minutes later
I was sitting on a curb
Puking my guts into
A sewer drain.

Fear and adrenalin.

The night I closed
A high speed pursuit
Got the runner out of the car
Tagged and dragged
I leaned against the trunk of my squad
With a sudden
Sledge hammer headache
And twisting stomach
Spitting up bile
Until I was as weak
As a puppy.

Fear and adrenalin.

When the nightmares began
Returning me
To the blood and bodies
I begged for relief
For resolution
That has yet to come

Fear and adrenalin.

When the ICU doctors told me
I could not survive
I felt the grip of ice
At the tips of my fingers and toes
The choke at the back of my throat
Wondering what death
Would feel like.

Fear and adrenalin.

The afternoon I came home
To an empty house
Empty bank account
And a terse note of farewell
My head swam in a fog
Of bitterness and unreality.

Fear and adrenalin.

I will drink this cocktail again.
It never is one I’d order
Had I the choice.
It is always sent by another
From across the room.
But this cup never passes
Until I drink it full.

You too will drink it.
It will bend you in half.
It will knife your gut.
It will hammer your brain.
It will seem to destroy you.
You will not know
What to do
When it is forced upon you.
You will drink it full.
And you will survive.

But fear and adrenalin
Is a potent cocktail.

A Gorgeous Little Strap

Her black bra strap
Visible beneath the thin material
Of her top
Settled upon her upper arm.

I struggled
To ignore it.
I made a valiant effort
To divert my attention.
Really…
I tried.

I failed.

My eyes continued
To lock upon that loose
Bra strap.

My wayward mind
Drifted
Far from its proper mooring.

Her soft breast rested
Within the cup
That had lost support
Because of her slipping
Bra strap.

How amazing is a breast!
It nurtures babies
And excites men.
A breast is symbolic of
Motherhood
And the very expression
Of female sexuality.
But my base nature reduces
A breast
Even further
And I shocked myself
In the thoughts I entertained
Should that breast
Be given to my pleasure.

My eyes hungrily fixed
Upon her loose bra strap.

But she put her jacket on
Turned toward the door
And left.

I made a conscious effort to shake my head
As though to dislodge the thought
From my mind.

I embarrassed myself.

I did not even know her.
I am so glad no one saw
My wayward thoughts
Or could read my mind.

I’m a better man than this.
I don’t objectify women
Or use them for my lustful imaginings.
When I find myself diverted
I lecture myself
Scold myself
Re-educate my imagination.

But, Lord
Wasn’t it
A gorgeous little strap?

The Sergeant's Question

Drop it!
Do it now!

He was centered
In my blade site.
I owned him
And he knew it.

But he kept the weapon
In his hand.
Half-turned toward me
The fear in his eyes
Was palpable.

I said drop it!
Do it now!
Do it
Or I will shoot you!

He brought his right hand up.
The shiny object in his hand
Was turning in my direction.

Strange
The games time plays
When the surge of near-panic
Hits the blood stream.

I had fractions of a second
But I had all the time in the world
To decide whether to shoot.

I fired.

The object in his hand
Clattered to the street
Spinning and bouncing
As his body crumpled.

It was a cell phone.

Replaying the training simulator
The sergeant asked me
If I was pleased with my decision.

This time I killed a man
In a training video.

A jury would not ask me
If I knew it was a cell phone.
A jury would not ask me anything.

I will never again need to make
A Shoot-Don’t Shoot judgment.
I'm done.
My semi-auto is racked and retired.

But I have thought about
The sergeant’s question
For twenty years.
And I have come to this:

It is better to be tried by twelve
Than carried by six.

Gentle Reminder to Readers

Please remember, if you are experiencing difficulty being bounced to shopping sites when you visit, simply tap your "escape" button, typically placed in the extreme top left of your keyboard. That will instantly stop the bounce. I appreciate your visits, and don't want you to be disappointed. I tap my "escape" button and it works every time. You must tap the Escape button rather quickly, or you will be diverted within moments. If you are not using a keyboard, (like an Android or iPhone) I'm all out of answers. If any reader has an idea, please leave a comment. I take my work seriously...more so than Google it seems. Okay. That was a blatant shot.

Oh...I nearly forgot..........GO BLACKHAWKS!!!!!!!!

~~ James

Take Care

Take great care
When opening
The door to hell.

There will be a surprise
Awaiting you.

There will be no blow-back.
No scream of interred souls.
No acrid stench of decay.

Rather
You will find warm welcome
And the most gentle of arms
To receive and accommodate your visit.

You will be afforded the dignity
Of a visiting head of state.
All the finery of hell will be yours.

And you would return
To call a liar every cleric
That formerly warned you
To take great caution.

That is…
If you could return.

But that is impossible.

Hell’s gentle arms are a prison
Its dignity a farce
Its finery gaudy and pitiable.

Perhaps Dante was right after all.
Perhaps Hell has digressive chambers
The first a parlor.
But every step from that is one
Into endless
Spiraling perdition.

Take care.
Do not knock.
It just may open for you.

Cypress Swamps

There are cypress swamps
In East Texas
Where a man can lose himself
For a day
Or forever.

Water like ink.
Trees as ancient
As the muck of their anchor
And a smell you’ll only know
Once you’ve arrived
Wait for you to have a bad day
And need a place to disappear.

The water there never moves.
It is as still as the Devil’s heart.

Wade into its despair
And it will talk to you.

I’ve been waiting for you
It will say.
What took you so long?

It doesn’t matter
It will assure you.
You’re so welcome here
It will say.
Stay as long as you like
Leave whenever you must.

That is
Of course
An abject lie.

There is no leaving a cypress swamp.
You will neither remember why you came
Nor the way out.

The cypress swamps of East Texas
Are made for misery.
Especially misery like yours.

How That Shakes Out

If they told you
The unvarnished truth
They’d have said
A man blew his brains out
Right where you’re standing.

If they told the truth
They’d have told you
Three children burned to death
Right here
On this very spot.

But they never tell you
Things like that.
They mop the floor
Rebuild the house
And try to forget
All the unpleasantries.

To be sure
They make a great show
Of battles and storms
But the private matters
Of people with names
Tragedies
And death dates
They want to forget.

I don’t think they do so
Because they feel anything.
I think they mop and rebuild
Because real estate has monetary value
And when you compare
Cash to causality…
Well, I suppose you know
How that shakes out.

If they told you the truth
They’d tell you
The whole of this old tired planet
Is an orbiting cemetery.
Bones pile on bones
Story covers story
But on they go
Mopping and rebuilding
As though nothing much matters
But fair market value
And location
Location
Location.

Least Common Denominator*

You don’t know me
Do you?
His face was a mask of incredulity.
Hell man
Get a newspaper.

Saying nothing
I returned his glassy gaze
Forcing myself to show
Absolute disinterest.
I wore a badge.
He was just another inmate
In an orange jump suit.

But his eyes have haunted me
For thirty years.
They were cold
Dull
Bloodless.

I asked another inmate
About the identity
Of the mystery man

Him?
Now it was somebody else’s turn
For incredulity.
He’s just the biggest mob hit man
In the last fifty years is all.
Works for the Chicago boss.

I’ve wondered about those
Whose last face they saw
Was his.
I’ve wondered whether he smiled
When he pulled the trigger.

It’s been three decades
Since he looked into my soul.

This was
Before the Gurney.
I hope somebody equally frozen
Bent to stare into his eyes
Just before they sent half a million volts
Across his worthless chest.

That’s the problem
In working among killers.
It reduces you to their
Least common denominator.


*I'm afraid this account is true. All these years later and I still see his shark-like eyes of death.

My Uncle's Mighty Red Farmall

I sat on my uncle’s lap
And he in the wide steel seat
Atop the giant red
Farmall.

Now, let out the clutch real slow
He said.
I gripped the rubber-coated
Steering wheel
While he gripped my small hands
With his great, leathery
Callused ones.

Too quickly
I popped the clutch
And the red beast lurched forward
Along the rows of soy beans
In the red Arkansas dirt.

My uncle laughed
As he applied more throttle.
Keep her headed toward that tree
Yonder
Said he.

I sat tall in my uncle’s lap
While we bounced and jostled
Toward the yonder tree.

For a few minutes
I was a grown man.
My uncle trusted me
With his life
His beans
And mighty red Farmall.

While I squashed his beans
He built my soul.

I’ve never sat in the seat of a tractor since.
But for a short while
My uncle taught me the mystery of
Trusting myself…

Even though he never let go of my hands.

The Truth

I understand
I said.
But I did not.

You can’t help it.
It’s just the way it is
I said.
But that was not true.

Don’t worry about it
I said.
I’ll be okay.
But I won’t.

Come on
I said.
Do you really think
This is such a big deal?
But it was.

Go on
I said.
Do what you have to do.
And she will.

I’ll be fine
I said.
My heart is unbreakable.
But that was not the truth.

The truth is
I have lost my true north.
Every point of the compass
Is now in dispute.

But I will never tell her that.
And that is the truth.

The Winnower of the Wind

I saw Him once
The Winnower of the Wind.

He stood upon the precipice
Of the earth
With his mighty fork
And time was in His hand.

His eyes burnt
Like embers from a
Golden fire.
His body was silver
And His feet were brass.

A great wind sounded
With the swinging of His
Winnowing Fork.
It was an engulfing force
Slicing the air
And I nearly surrendered
To its fury.

Falling upon my knees
Without a thought in my head
I was fully
At the mercy
Of the swinging fork
That would surely come again
And again.

How hot was His breath
And angry!

I felt compelled to succumb
To the force
But I fell to the ground
And time
For me
Stilled.

I was suspended
Between the parentheses
Of time and being.

But time moved again
And I remained.

I know one day the Winnower
Will return
And I will go
When the tines gather me.

When breath is forced from me
I will be gathered
And I will go
Where sheaves are stored
At the will of
The Winnower of the Wind.