Words that Matter

Barely old enough to follow orders. My sister, Kathy’s, orders—five years older.




We had our Sunday rituals in the Blade house. Up early—breakfast on your own. Sometimes dancing around the table after cereal breakfast to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, while Mom and Dad snoozed. Dancing and dancing faster and faster. Then rush to dress for church. Slacks and wet combed hair. To worship with kids my age. Church is social. Was for me. Play and pretend.



Home to a big Sunday feast. I ate for Mom—that’s how she loved. Red meat and potatoes, and the occasional trip to Furr’s cafeteria. Eat and drink after praying. Prayer was key. Key to all the nots. Could not see, not hear or understand. There’s power in prayer. I was made to realize my prayer asking for Jesus saved me from Hell. My fear tossed around like a ball on a schedule.



Sunday afternoon Mom and Dad found their way to bed behind a locked door for the afternoon snuggle. For some reason, Kathy thought what they did behind that door was wrong.







“You and Cilla take these pots and these spoons and follow me,” Kathy said.

She led us down the shadowy hall and began to sing her song and bang her pot and asked us to follow suit—and yell it out with conviction.

“Jesus knows what you’re doing. Jesus is mad at you. Jesus knows what you are doing. Jesus is mad at you. Jesus knows what you’re doing. Jesus is mad at you.” And on it went.



She got into trouble for that with my parents. Words do matter.

What did I learn?

I don't really know.

I could make something up.

I'm clever enough

to make it sound good

but not too good,

still believable.

Truthfully, I don't know

if I learned anything at all.

Cruising

Do you ever feel like a solid old car

with rust damage along the bottom;

with corrosion caused by salt;

caused by solutions?

The Kill

Life force phallus
held gentle on her
tiger tongue—
Death Chompers
poised to collapse
evil lying
boredom
at the slightest
sour scent.

Scars that still itch on occasion

I clearly remember
how I felt on the inside,
the struggle against and the
abandon to.
I can easily recall
how you felt to the touch
thighs, hands, hair
lips, forehead
and there are times
when your smell rushes at me
and my nose is full of you
and my brain reels with
unexpected memory.
How is it that connections
remain from such physical memory
when all other connections are
long dead and cold.

Wait for the Report

Shot glass splashed with tequila
full and dripping onto the wooden bar
worn with scrubbings and dried out by
alcohol, hard as a rock.
It rests, waits, impatient
wants to be thrown back, shot
and slammed back down on the bar
loud report, bam, didn't even
need lime
fuck salt
straight shot.

That is how I feel some days;
patient anger dripping onto the bar
waiting for the report
fuck limes and salt
I'll take my future neat.

Two

Two RVs
squeezed between Utah
slick red rock and
a river.
Kids, baseballs and mitts—
thirty foot perch
across a dirt road,
one on the cliff,
one on the river bank
and back and forth,
their tosses mighty
and effortless.

You're Not Seeing Me

you're not seeing me.
I'm talking
but no amount of reasoning
or preparation can get
my thoughts through to you.
I'm backing it up with
actions, daily living
puncuates my voice
to no effect.
You're not seeing me
and there is no
way around that.