Disagree

I loved you
Like
Fire
Like
I wanted to crawl inside and just live there
And
I love you
But
It’s

Less
It’s

Not
Physical
It’s affectionate
It’s deep but it’s not desperate and I know
I know
That that means that
We have to end
But
I disagree
Strenuously
When you say that we have
“Failed”
I don’t think that we have
Failed
I loved you
So hard
And
I don’t think that’s a
Failure
You
Sheltered
Me
You saved me
You kept me and held me through some very dark times
And
I’m pretty sure I did the same for you
Because you told me so, many times
And I have
Gained
So much I have
Learned
So much from you and I will always be
Grateful
That I had
Your time
Your touch
Your love
We had
Four
Wonderful years
Two
Good ones
And we ended it without
Hatred
Without
Destruction
With
Tears but not with despair
And compared to everyone else
I think
That’s
Wonderful
And so
If you need me to
I will be
Sorry
That I loved you
Sorry
That I stopped I will
Apologize to you
For this pain
Because if I felt different then you wouldn’t feel it
But
I do not agree
I cannot agree
With you
When you say that we
Have
“Failed”
We did not
Fail

<3

You are wondrous to watch
With enemies about
And your foil shook free
With pithy dispatch you dispatch
Fallacy after fallacy
Your razor bright a thing of beauty
(Except, of course, when turned on me)
And as your ally idly by
I exult with you
Appreciated but unnecessary

I don’t need to fight your battles
I just need to have your back
And I love you for that

Ode to my Snot

O, snot of my nose! You drive me to dose
With NyQuil or Quil of the Day
And yet do I knows, O snot of my nose
You can’t be fully driven away

O, snot of my nose, I can smell no rose
Not flower nor Shakespeare’s small pun
Ambiguous goes all my thought on my nose
But I do rather wish he’d not run

O, snot of my nose, I self-diagnose
With itis or lurgy or plague
I superimpose on my effluent nose
Diseases as vile as they’re vague

O, snot of my nose! May I propose
A much better bond with my face?
For when I hover just over my lover
Preferably you’d stay in place

O, snot of my nose, I pause and compose
A long serenade from my head
With tissue and throes, o snot of my nose
I’ll replace you with headache, instead

Persephonic

You rode forth from a crack in the earth
And drew me into your embrace
Of course, the parallel is imperfect
As the chariot was my own
And I was so much more than willing

You took me to your home
While wiles and strange liquors plied me
And my skittish fear faded
(without disappearing)
And left me yours

You brought me to your land
(For certain values)
And placed me in my chambers
And there you fed me pomegranate
Three. Six. Twelve.
I ate so many more seeds than there are months
And by rules as old as time I must remain

But luckily

My mother likes you

So the world

Need not

Be fallow

All year long

Spacy Pay

The tired astronaut would loveTo stay at home today
But if he doesn’t travel up
He’ll lose his spacy pay

Poor old cosmonaut, he’d like
If he’d not go away
His grandkids all have brand new toys
But he just cannot play

His ancient, elder spaceman suit
Fits unwell and astray
It once was tailored perfectly
This causes him dismay

He wants to be a normal man
And in his bed he’d lay
But he cannot afford his bills
And costs he must defray

Oh, tired astronaut, I wish
That you could have your day
But if you do, you know that you
Will lose your spacy pay

Absinth dancer

There’s a little absinth dancer at the corner club todayAnd the eyes are all upon her as she slowly, gently sways
She doesn’t see the staring as her mind is far away
Chasing chartreuse butterflies, she’s gently soft at play

The little absinth dancer likes to gyre away her time
On this, her dimly little floor, while listening to rhymes
And the men upon the stage will drum to help her keep her time
The blank look on her patient face is serenely sublime

No one knows the absinth dancer’s name or house or role
No one knows whence she arrived upon her languid little stroll
No one knows what ghastly thing she drinks her absinth to console
They know only that to dance upon a hardwood floor’s her goal

So let’s watch the little absinth dancer rotate as she sways
And we’ll view her as she sips and spins her little time away
Let’s disturb not her gyrations lest she not decide to stay
For her presence makes the lonely little corner club less gray

Firecracker

We are gradually losing my Grandma.
When I was a child, I identified with her more than anyone in my family. She had such power—I thought she could have chewed nails and spit bullets. She was loving, and affectionate, and fiery enough that no one ever wanted to make her mad. I don’t know that I gainsaid her on anything until I was into my twenties. Fierce in love, fierce in anger, she was both frightening and comforting. Grandma told me once that if anyone ever hurt me, she would have them killed; she said she knew people. I’ve never once doubted that she’d have done it. She had – has – a qucksilver temper and a passion for everything. She has owned every room she’s ever been in as long as I’ve known her. She, as much as anyone, taught me that everything is worth knowing and that everyone is worth something.

Grandma’s always had health problems. When I was very young, they were like quirks. It was another reason for her to rail at the world, another thing that she could fight off tooth and nail. I’d tell stories to my friends: Oh, Grandma Zeigler doesn’t have any feeling in her feet. She stepped on a nail at the fair once, drove it all the way into her foot, and didn’t know until she came home. She just pulled it out and went to the doctor, as if it was nothing. Gradually things got worse, but it was never really scary. Surely, no ailment could scare her. If anything, disease should be terrified of her, like everything else.

Grandma Zeigler has always been old to me, of course, as long as I can remember, but now she’s elderly. She’s gone from firecracker to frail, and someone who could have tackled the world now needs assistance to tackle the stairs. She is beautiful, and powerful, but also sad and frightened, and my world shakes.

She’s going to go away from me. I don’t know that it will be soon, but it will be sooner than later, and I won’t be prepared. I don’t know how the world could exist without her. She’s such a weight upon this planet that part of me is convinced it will just float away into the sky when she is gone. I love her deeply, but more than that she is a part of my identity.  In her absence I don’t know who I will be.

I don’t see her enough. More than I used to, but less than I ought to. Less than I want to. In the moment, sometimes it’s hard to make the trip; it takes a whole day, and I often have other plans. I know, though, that I need to see her more often before those other choices become regrets. I do miss her when I don’t see her, but I know that’s barely a taste of what I’ll know when she’s not there to see.

I don’t want to eulogize her here, though. I just want to love her, and to record that love before it’s too late.

I love you, Grandma.

Nick's Bourbon-Peach Pie

You will need:

  • Two 9” pie crusts. I made mine from scratch, but I don’t plan on dealing with that recipe here.
  • 1/2 cup of your bourbon of choice. I used Jim Beam, which is not actually my bourbon of choice, but it’s fine for cooking.
  • Two tablespoons of blackstrap molasses.
  • 1/2 tablespoon of sugar. I use turbinado.
  • Two chilled beers.
  • Some cinnamon and nutmeg, and just a little ginger. How much? Hell, I don’t know. Who measures spices? Use, um, two teaspoons of each, half of that for the ginger? There you go.
  • Four or five cups of peeled, sliced peaches that you picked in an orchard with someone you love very much.

Open a beer, and drink from it periodically while cooking. Combine all ingredients except the peaches, crust, and beer in a small bowl, and stir to combine. The molasses should dissolve rapidly into the bourbon. Once the mixture is fairly uniform, pour over the peaches in a large bowl and stir a bit to coat all of the fruit. Cover, and let sit in the fridge to marinate for a bit; a few hours would be good, overnight appears to be ideal.

Open the second beer, repeat beer process above. Preheat your oven to 475 degrees. Put one pie crust in the bottom of a 9” pie pan, and fill with the peach mixture. Put the other crust on top, crimp it together with the one underneath, and then poke holes in it. Wrap the edges of your crust in foil, unless you’re using my beautiful homemade crust that just browns perfectly without burning. Bake for, um, 30-45 minutes? Bake it till it’s done, I dunno. The crust will firm up and turn brown, and then it’s ready. Remove from the oven, and let cool for at least ten minutes before slicing.

Serve to people that you want to owe you a favor.

Coming up volunteer

I lived the first seven years of my life in Greensburg, Indiana, where the great majority of my family members live, provided I’m not counting ex-, step-, and ex-step-family. It’s a sweet little place, although they did just put in a Honda plant so it’s rapidly growing up. It’s the very picture of small-town rust/grain belt, where almost everyone—myself included—is at least related to someone who owns a farm and many other people who work at a factory. It’s very pretty, and very sleepy, and it’s home to me in a weird way that’s actually a little uncomfortable whenever I go back. I have a strange relationship with nostalgia.
Greensburg’s claim to fame, and the genesis of its epithet “The Tree City”, is that one day, many years ago, a passing bird must have dropped some seeds on the courthouse tower, which happened to take root among the shingles. Several trees sprang up, and grew rather happily there. Many had to be removed, but a couple were left, and to this day there is always a tree growing from the top of the tower.

The tree is an aspen. The word “aspen” probably does not, to anyone except myself and about 10,000 conascents, evoke small-town Indiana. This particular species, Populus grandidentata, does occur in Indiana, but certainly doesn’t thrive here, and generally withers. This is not its climate. When it does appear here, it is normally well north of Greensburg.

By chance, a bird dropped a seed deep in small town southern Indiana, on a new courthouse. That seed, finding itself in an inhospitable climate and an almost impossible perch, put down roots anyway, and grew into something that simply shouldn’t be where it is. People come to stare at it, marveling a bit, and then they wander away, but the tree endures, and while it may be someplace it doesn’t belong that doesn’t make it any less an aspen tree.

On some level, I think I’ve always identified with that tree.

And at the End

I have been traveling for ages, past rolling hills and green woods, house and office, skyscraper and river, through tunnels, over bridges, past hill and mountain. I have been struck through eye by the beauty of my path, bemused and hypnotized by the sights before me. A copse of trees pushed through a cornfield behind a constellation of fireflies. A square of sunlight grew large as I traveled under a mountain. Woods blued in the distance, obscured by the very air between us. My trip showed me the wonders of nature and of human nature, our construction sideby hers, each blending into the other. The towers of New York, the fields of Ohio, the namesake woods of Pennsylvania, far more of New Jersey than I ever thought I’d see, some sliver of West Virginia’s mountains, and part of Connecticut unspoilt by forced quaintness. Even my Indiana home has its sights, though it can take a practiced eye to extract them. My trek seemed shortened by the things I saw.
And at the end was you, and thus the destination eclipsed all the eyewide wonder of the voyage. Had the trip been longer and the beauty less, it would be foolish to count the time anything but well spent. You, my love, were a sight most needed, and our love itself the greatest thing to strike my eye. We are of a piece, one kind, and it is nothing but tragedy that we are far apart for long.

The denouement is that I returned, trying and failing not to let the beauties passing by in reverse be tarnished by an unwelcome trip that was as much homeleaving as homecoming. To be back among the familiar is a blessing terribly mixed. Know this, though, as I know you do; I will come to you again, and again, as much and as many times as I am capable. I need to be where you are, love, and I will work toward that with all of me.

I never fail. I will return.

Vitesse

This is
Fast

So fast and

I don’t know if our leporid pace

Is dangerous

What I do know is this:

I need to know

And to know

I must move now

I must move fast

And I must move toward you

And so speed is not the question

But the answer to the question

Of you

And the only question left is not

“Am I moving too fast?”

It is

“Am I moving fast enough?”

I’ll know tomorrow.

Mixing a Nick

Pour an ounce of sweetness in the bottom of a tall fluted glass. Drop a hard candy shell on top of that.
Float dropwise on the back of a spoon, in order:

1/2 oz. self-consciousness

1 oz. empathy and concern

1/2 oz. starry-eyed idealism

1 oz. cynicism

2 oz. snarky eloquence

With the layers constructed, pour a shot of brazen ego. When presenting the drink to a new person, add the shot on top, and light it on fire.

To drink, first put out the fire, then sip carefully. You’ll get the flavors in the reverse of the order that they were added, but to get all the way to the bottom you’ll have to crack the shell.

I still think about you

I still think about you. Six years together isn’t something that can just be set aside. I am sometimes so happy for you that I am vicariously delirious, and sometimes worried that my leaving left you to move too fast the next time. I hope this is exactly what you want. I am unutterably proud that you and I can be the kind of friends we always were now that friends is all we are. I will always care about you, and I will always think of you

I still think about you. It was just a weekend. Just a weekend, and several months of messages back and forth, detailing everything about our lives. Just a weekend, and messages, and a connection I hadn’t ever felt before. Just a weekend, and some messages, and a connection, and the memory of your skin. Just a weekend, and messages, and connection, and memories, and a little bit of myself left behind when you moved on before I did. It was just a weekend, but I still think about you, and I think I always will.

I still think about you. It was never love, and never would be. Just a few weeks, and some obvious problems from the first date. We couldn’t be what the other needed. But I knew you were troubled from the moment I saw you, and I knew that you’d never be still. You’re married now, and still troubled, and I think it won’t last. I knew you were no good for me, so I ended it, but sometimes I feel selfish because of it. I worry about you, and I wish you would return my calls, and I still think of you.

I still think about you most of all. Everyone knows why. I wish we’d had more time.

I still think about you. We were probably incompatible, and certainly too far away to try to figure it out. I had a great time with you, but you definitely got to see the bad side of me sooner than I’d have liked. That’s all right, though, it’s all part of me, and if those times when I am generous don’t make up for those times when I am petty then it could never work. I do care about you, though, and I still think about you, and I hope your life goes well.

I still think about you. That’s mostly out of puzzlement. I’m still not sure whether you were ever attracted to me, or what it is that you felt I should do. I know that I did something that you didn’t care for, but I suspect that I’ll never know what it was. I’m not upset, just confused, and that sometimes makes me think of you.

I still think about you. One date, and then back to your ex, but I still think about you. Having met him, knowing what he’s like, I can’t decide if I’m more relieved that you don’t like me or insulted that you’d go back to someone like that. I wish you well, though, and every once in a while I’ll still think about you.

I still think about you. Just as a friend, I promise. Maybe if circumstances were different, and maybe if I didn’t see the way that you looked at him, but I have no illusions, and less desire to put myself in a place to be hurt again in the way that I have been hurt before. In other circumstances, I think we could be good, but it’s not to be. That’s fine. It won’t stop me from thinking about you.

Three Poems

Three poems, all I’ve left of you
One sad, one smart, one bold
Three poems now of what we two
Once in our hearts did hold
Three poems made in all our years
So smothered, dark and cold
Three poems, no more, my issue
Though I am years more old

Three songs I write to bring me on
Hopeful, grinning, alive
Three songs I have now I am gone
I think that I might thrive
Three songs, three months, and more to come
Alone I find I strive
Three songs, now that I’m not withdrawn
My rediscovered drive

Three times I cried when you were lost
But I have made my choice
Three times I felt too great the cost
And yet I’ve found my voice
Three times I let my tears exhaust
Urged you toward other boys
Three times I mourned our paths uncrossed
But now I must rejoice

Sweet Gina

Gina knows what’s in the mixed-up files
And Gina, she flies off to emerald isles
She’s got mermaid hair and a devil’s smile
And she’s fun even if a bit lacking in guile

Gina’s dramatic but no drama queen
And she knows of the worst art that I’ve ever seen
In a back-and-forth style she writes poetry keen
Even if voltas missed make her get mean

And Gina, sweet Gina
Six feet tall and a ball
Oh, Gina, sweet Gina
Should have it all
Never fall
Never worry at all
And I don’t think she knows
When she’s happy she glows
But that’s how it goes
Sweet Gina, my friend

She’s crossing the bridges and crossing the sea
To things Terabithian or Viennese
And even if she is a bit far from me
There’s no one whose happiness I’d rather see

And she’s opening kids up to wonder and art
A beautiful stunner with angelic heart
She just wants her kids to be happy and smart
And she works herself so hard just doing her part

And Gina, sweet Gina
Six feet tall and a ball
Oh, Gina, sweet Gina
Should have it all
Never fall
Never worry at all
And I don’t think she knows
We would fight all her foes
But that’s how it goes
Sweet Gina, my friend

And Gina
Oh, Gina
Sweet Gina
You don’t know
Gina, sweet Gina
Folks love you so
Gina
Oh, Gina
You are like whoa
You bestow
On the beaux
With a smile and “Hello”
Such a boosted ego
No, you don’t know
Sweet Gina, oh

Gina’s right hook is a mighty attack
And her eyebrows so fearsome you’re taken aback
While charm and affection she sure doesn’t lack
Intimidation can slow down the mack

Gina’s got everything all in a list
And if you meet her then she will insist
You help her find words that the others have missed
She’s filling notebooks and you will assist

Gina makes this world an excellent place
A wonderful mind and a beautiful face
And even if she’s mildly lacking in grace
She’s a friend that no other could ever replace

Gina, sweet Gina
Love you (Platonically) so

Loverbird

Lonely little loverbird, she looks for love a lotLoveless little loverbird, she finds it where it’s not
Lovelessbird, she needs her love, but why she does not wot
Loveless lonely little bird delivers love for aught

Little bird is still alone although she thinks she’s not
Lovely little bird alone is listless and distraught
Loverbird without a love likes little that she’s got
Liking little loneliness, the loverbird is caught

Learn to like yourself alone you loverbird, unknot
Lease your love less cheaply, dear, and learn to love your lot
Longing pain will lessen if you’ll like the life you’ve got
Lonely little loverbird, reject the things you ought

Morning Masquerade

Bubbled in gray mist
Enclosed
All fades from view
A morning fog renders
My world quiet and small
And I am
Myself

Freed
From
Expectation
I am as I am as I would be

Masked from all
Unadorned
Behind this veil I lift my veil
And for a moment, oh so brief
I am me

Outside my globe
Bustles one larger
And I am to it to return
I will once again
Be
Scrutinized
By
Others’ eyes
And again will wear my own mask

Escape

She was little, and a little shy, and a little awkward. It took her a while to warm up to someone new, and she’d never break the ice on her own. She was reserved, but a little empathy could see, behind that tense expression, a flood barely checked. When that dike broke, the deluge was astonishing. Out of that bound-up little package would come a light that turned on the whole world. If she could be seen like this by someone who did not immediately fall in love, I have no evidence of it.

I think this city killed her.

Once past that reserve, once through those walls, she was something unearthly. She would dance and play and charm, and nothing could hold her back. Her smile was a crescent moon, a maniac grin, full of mad beauty and laughter. She had a voice like a bell and a sway like the sea.

All was hardly sweetness and light, though; she had a crude sense of humor, and she could keep up a stream of unsubtle innuendo that would make a trucker blush. Her music was—like her—dark, beautiful and troubled.

The difference in our ages was, while uncomfortable, not enough to hold me back. Something about her drew me, at a time when I wasn’t sure that there was anyone here I could connect to. Things were slow to start, because we were both very skittish for very good reasons. We were nervous around each other, both scared by the sense of connection. Inertia will hold you still, but once things get moving inertia just carries you forward.

In a town this full of people, it’s astonishing how hard it is to meet someone. This place is full of runners who can’t see over the side of their ruts. People here will speak to you if spoken to, but when your words don’t require responses the conversation will end. Their eyes glaze back over and they continue on their somniac way. They sleepwalk down the sidewalk from their office to their home, never looking up.

She was always looking up.

I think this city killed her.

We’d talk about daring escape plans until the small hours of the morning. Plotting our getaway became like pornography for us, a new method of arousing one another. In these discussions, the thousand things that mired us home would drop away, and we’d forget family and friends, leases and mortgages, debt and logistics and supplies, and for a while we were there, somewhere. Another where. San Francisco, Portland, New York, Toronto, Beijing, the Hague. Just, anywhere. Anywhere but here.

Maybe we’d sell everything except books and a change of clothes, and just run west as far as our gas money would take us. We’d sing for our supper when the money ran out. I’d learn to play guitar and she would dance. When we hit LA, we’d be snapped up with a record contract and make dark, pretty, earnest music that would be a surprise financial success without ever breaking the mainstream. We’d tour the world, but never come back here.

We’d run away and join the cliché. She’d become a lion tamer and I’d start out as a clown. Working my way up the ranks through a combination of guile and charm—and with a few convenient Panthera leo related accidents—I’d become ringmaster, and we’d take the thing over. We’d craft a new and interesting cabaret-style show—a little bit Cirque du Soleil, a little bit Dresden Dolls. We’d rewrite the circuit route, and it wouldn’t go through this town ever again.

We’d join a van full of traveling proselytizers. We’d gradually corrupt them from the inside, turning them into a full blown cult. We’d declare this city anathema, and command our followers never to cross its borders. Eventually, our little cult would hit the mainstream, convert the country, and this city would become a ghost town. In an orgy of religious furor, we’d descend on it, razing it to the ground and salting the earth behind us.

Maybe we’d just get on the bus, or the train, or just start walking. We should have. It’s surprisingly hard to leave a prison with no walls.

Realities kept us apart. Schedules, obligations, reasons good and bad. Fear. We tried and failed, because we didn’t try very hard, but we were getting better about that. Neither of us was spending time with other people, and yet we just couldn’t manage to spend time with each other. We’d forgotten what a rare and amazing thing it was to meet anyone here who didn’t blend into the background, and we let it slip away.

They found her in her room, peacefully reposed but for a terribly traumatized cat that had been locked in with her all day. Questions were asked and only ever partially answered. It was probably an overdose, probably an accident, and there was probably no one to blame. She’d just been in pain, and took enough medication for it that her little frame was overwhelmed. The toxicology reports came back, eventually, and any doctor who looked at them would tell you that it was the morphine.

Me?

I think this city killed her.

Sometimes I think it’s killing me.