Monday, December 8, 2008


Sorry for the delay in between posts. What with the Thanksgiving holiday and my urgent hernia surgery (see above) I couldn't get a lot of posts in. But wow what a lot of things happened in between that time. I ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, watched Dwayne Wade continue his one man domination of the stat sheets, watched as the collision course for the Lakers v. Celtics NBA Finals rematch this June became even more obvious, Plaxico Burress shot himself in the leg, Pushing Daisies may get cancelled(?), and "My Girls" from the upcoming Merriweather Post Pavilion just leaked. You want action, you got action.

I've got tons to say. I want to write my Red Rose Speedwagon review, I want to write a review of the Beach House show I will be going to tomorrow night, I want to talk some more NBA shop and post some more of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt. But I also need to take my pain medicine and rest up so the staples in my stomach don't rip apart. I'll get all the posts up believe me - I'm getting better at this blog stuff.

Also, to the side, you will find a link where you can buy a hard copy of The Journey Forward my first novel. This is the first edition and there will be revisions as well as alternate cover versions so buy now or buy later if you feel the desire.

Below is a poem I wrote while I was knocked wasn't male maternity leave.

Off Your Feet

The hill rises with the church,
There is the pass of haystacks
And the sound of Diana Ross –
The persistent twinkle of the piano
Is the background of my faith.

Who will stop the post office brick?
The rattle of child-like market carts,
Which carry bags of green apples
And roll into the bumpers of big cars,
Hitting them as the radio hisses.

But you can’t tell me about letters,
Packages marked with black sharpies.
They’ll fall on your doorsteps by the wreath
Or next to your checkered apartment floors
By the door buzzers and white names.

I’ll make sharp turns by the lake
With the Vandellas in my ear
Thinking about rain in the lime groves
Where the clouds pass now black now white
And the Milky Way signals out God.

You’ll tell me with your bass,
That there is no God or Time –
You may be right, I’ll agree,
The unmistakable throb I feel at a stoplight
And the sound of Motown are not tied to heaven.

She’d be afraid to hear heaven too,
Instead of understanding her, I’d get mad.
What is heaven but a word? God too?
Something no different than the bread we ate,
The wine and my beef ragout at the table.

Not every word means blood and disaster,
Faith comes with a green apple,
The old pictures of pot-bellied little boys,
Grandmothers and mothers holding golf clubs,
Talking about how thin their husbands were.

When I talk to you of my grandfather,
He is dead and I never knew him,
But I speak his words and feel his heartbreak,
The constant addiction to love and desire,
The perspiration of the soul and its depravity for good.

You who are far away from me
Don’t put out that light for meaning
Because haystacks are objects made of air
And they can never be created or destroyed
Just like my mailbox, they just are.

So let Motown mean America
Just like Oprah and the doctor’s office do too,
And I’ll drive my car off a cliff for love,
I’ll let it soar by the farms and the limes
That I want to show my friends
So we can lean on the bark and know,
That there is no word or knowing,
There are just the things we see,
The things we try to know and put color to –
The colors we want to show the one we love.

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