LIKE ALEXANDERS ASHES

I was talking with my ex last Friday night. Actually, she was talking to a group of our friends at a big party.

 She says “Do you want to see the difference between men and women?”

Of course, everyone said “Yes”, and she turns to me and asks “Steve, what is the date of our divorce?”

“I don’t know” I said “I took no note of it”

And everybody laughs.

“That’s right” she says “You didn’t even show up in court”

“Sure didn’t “ I said.

And everybody laughs.

Then she asks “Steve, how many years were we married?”

“Oh, That’s easy…thirteen years”

“Nope. Fourteen years 2 months and 12 days”

And everybody laughs and looks at me.

I think about it a minute and say:

“She’s right. I’m counting time from the day we got married to the day I got booted out of the house for good. I knew it was for good. I knew there wouldn’t  be any coming back. I’d used all those up. She had made up her mind. And there is nothing as unwavering as a woman when she ‘s already made up her mind. She’s counting to the day of the divorce.”

And everybody nods their head, and I look at her, and she's pleased as can be with herself.

And that’s the difference between man and women I guess

Whats cool is that after 16 years (according to me) or 15 years (according to her) we are able to sit around and talk about it this way.

And, like Alexanders Ashes, I am still Alexander.

SILLAGE

Sillage (n.)- a scent that lingers in the air; the trail left in the water; the impression made in space after someone has been and gone; the trace of someone’s perfume.

My friend SL @ Assorted says that the french don't say "I miss you", they say something that more closely resembles "You are missing from me".

Goes well with LIGHT BLUE... from earlier this year.

I was going to buy you some perfume.
But I decided I was trying too hard,
Holding on too tight
So I got this card instead.

I can remember the smell of you
And your perfume
The way it would linger for days
I’d pass you in the hall
And at the bottom of the stairs
And it was like you were still there
A spirit lover.
I’d smell you as I brushed my teeth ,
and put on my shirt…

I loved you so much then and I still do
I never stopped.

I’d put on my shirt and find my shoes
And I’d just feel so homeless and lost
Only your lovely scent to guide me out the door
I believe the whole world becomes a marvelous place
A marvelous place for everyone in it
When you are with me.

I step outside, you fill my empty world as
The clear sky turns light blue and full of love.

bulletholes 4/2013

RUIN ME

“Maybe...you'll fall in love with me all over again."
"Hell," I said, "I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?"
"Yes. I want to ruin you."
"Good," I said. "That's what I want too.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

UP TO ME

Previously unreleased, having not made the cut for "Blood on the Tracks", this almost seems to be a sister piece to ""Shelter From the Storm". Lyrically, this seems to be more personal, and I love the tenderness in the last lines, a tenderness for something that seemed to have gone so wrong and took a long time to resolve. Its so rich I can't single out a favorite verse.
I've lived this song more than once now.


Everything went from bad to worse, money never changed a thing,

Death kept followin', trackin' us down, at least I heard your bluebird sing.
Now somebody's got to show their hand, time is an enemy,
I know you're long gone,
I guess it must be up to me.

If I'd thought about it I never would've done it, I guess I would've let it slide,
If I'd paid attention to what others were thinkin', the heart inside me would've died.
I was just too stubborn to ever be governed by enforced insanity,
Someone had to reach for the risin' star,
I guess it was up to me.

Oh, the Union Central is pullin' out, the orchids are in bloom,
I've only got me one good shirt left and it smells of stale perfume.
In fourteen months I've only smiled once and I didn't do it consciously,
Somebody's got to find your trail,
I guess it's gonna be up to me.

It was like a revelation when you betrayed me with your touch,
I'd just about convinced myself nothin' had changed that much.
The old Rounder in the iron mask, he slipped me the master key,
Somebody had to unlock your heart,
He said it was up to me.

Well, I watched you slowly disappear down into the officers' club,
I would've followed you in the door but I didn't have a ticket stub.
So I waited all night 'til the break of day, hopin' one of us could get free,
When the dawn came over the river bridge,
I knew it was up to me.

Oh, the only decent thing I did when I worked as a postal clerk
Was to haul your picture down off the wall near the cage where I used to work.
Was I a fool or not to protect your real identity?
You looked a little burned out, my friend,
I thought it might be up to me.

I met somebody face to face, I had to remove my hat.
She's everything I need in love but I can't be swayed by that.
It frightens me, the awful truth, of how sweet life can be.
But she ain't gonna make a move,
I guess it must be up to me.

Now we heard the Sermon on the Mount and I knew it was too complex,
It didn't amount to anything more than what the broken glass reflects.
When you bite off more than you can chew you gotta pay the penalty,
Somebody's got to tell the tale,
I guess it must be up to me.

Dupree came in pimpin' tonight to the Thunderbird Cafe,
Crystal wanted to talk to him, I had to look the other way.
Now I just can't rest without your love, I need your company.
You ain't gonna cross the line,
I guess it must be up to me.

There's a note left in the bottle, you can give it to Estelle,
She's the one you been wond'rin' about, but there's really nothin' much to tell.
We both heard voices for a while, now the rest is history,
Somebody's got to cry some tears,
I guess it must be up to me.

So go on, boys, play your hands, life is a pantomime,
The ringleaders from the county seat say you don't have all that much time.
And the girl with me behind the shades, she ain't my property,
One of us has got to hit the road,
I guess it must be up to me.

If we never meet again, baby, remember me,
How my lone guitar played sweet for you that old-time melody.
And the harmonica around my neck, I blew it for you, free,
No one else could play that tune,
You know it was up to me.

REACHING INTO THE INFINITE

Continued from "ALTO, TEXAS", a Mothers Day post---

I passed through Tyler, the Rose Capitol of the World, and all the roses in planters for sale at the side of the road. They made me think of all my lost loves.
I guess I've been lucky.

I bought a small rose for planting, for momma.  It wont  live, it wont last long down there, but I wanted to do it just the same.

Apparently Tyler is also the Psychic Capitol of the world too. I must have passed 10 places I could go  inside and have my cards read, my fortune told. I wondered what interesting things they might say. I wondered whose face these psychics could conjure when they looked into my eyes, if Madame Cassandra might know where she is, if she could see us naked in her minds eye, if she would know.

If she would know.

It made me think about “The Wizard of OZ” and how Dorothy had run away from home and happened upon  Professor Marvel.  He invites her into his trailer and is going to read her fortune. He has her close her eyes,  in order to be “better in tune with the infinite".

He says " We cant do these things without reaching into the infinite”

And while her eyes are closed he reaches into her purse, and finds the picture of Auntie Em. He tells Dorothy that somewhere there is a woman who is worried, with a broken heart, because she has lost something.  Professor Marvel  may be a shyster and a hustler, but he is a very kind man, smart too, and is just trying to do the right thing like any good psychic in tune with the infinite might. And Dorothy realizes he is talking about her Aunt Emily, and takes Toto and runs home to Auntie Em.

Anyway, this was my day dream as I left Tyler, still not knowing what the future might bring. Us humans, we always want to skip to the end of the story, but it just doesn’t work that way. We have to go along, a day at time, a breath at a time, a pain at a time.

And the psychics and rose dealers do it that way too.

I got to Alto where I found a man mowing in front of what had been  Aunt  Verda’s  house.  He said that Mary and Junior were living in Mama’s old property, and that their sons were living across the street now.  I had not expected to find kin there, but I did, 2nd and 3rd cousins.  I took a picture of an old shed that a cousin and I had thrown every potato from good-sized stack of new potatoes at, watching them splat against the wood, delighted. It almost killed Uncle Carroll to see what we had done with his hard work, and Uncle Jack was liable to have killed us if it weren’t for Aunt Laura.

Walking up to the house, I passed where  the root cellar had been. There was no longer a trace. I passed a giant pecan, and there was a big hunk of metal grown into the bark, and I wondered how long it had been there, and which of us cousins might have done the tree this injustice. I put my hand on it, and it felt good to touch this tree that had overseen many a summer day of my youth. In fact it felt kind of like reaching into the infinite, as though the vibrations of every conversation at the family place might be in the vibration of old pecans memory, like the way traces of every meal lay in the metal of a cast iron skillet..

I stepped to the back porch, and my 90 year old cousin Mary came to the door. She had seen me coming up .We recognized each other instantly and we both held each other and I just cried and cried and cried. She said she had been thinking of me just that morning. We sat and looked at pictures for an hour, and then something interesting happened .  Her son came in, a third cousin I had never met. He is only a few years older than I but somehow we never crossed paths.

He sat down after introductions. We told a few stories back and forth and then he had a question for me.  It was one of those questions it takes five minutes to ask and boiled down to this:

“Have you secured eternal life by accepting Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?

I told him that I had not, that I was a recovering drug addict, and had only recently learned to pray again, and that I was growing closer to a god of my understanding through prayers and meditation, and I was very grateful to God for helping me stay clean, but  that I would leave eternity to my God, and just try to follow my program.

Of course, he doesn’t recognize a god of my understanding, my understanding having failed me most of my life, and I get that point. It didn’t turn into a religious argument, and I’m glad my program has helped me to be tolerant of other peoples views. I assured him that many addicts do find a deeper faith outside of the program, and that I would remain open-minded as my program has taught me to try to be. We closed with a prayer and then the next interesting thing happened.

As we stood up, I took his hand, and I leaned in to hug him. I was surprised to find that this man, full of Jesus love, my third cousin, took a step back in order not to receive my hug. All Gods Childrens is different I guess.

Then  I went for the real reason I was there. I stood next to mom and dad at their grave, and for the first time in forty years I stood next to them clean and sober, involved in a spiritual program that shapes my life as best as I will let it, keeps me striving not so much for eternal salvation, but just to have the strength and courage to do the next right thing one day at a time, and it felt good. It just sure felt good.

I think mom and dad would like that very much.

Me,   I’ll have to leave the infinite for my God and the psychics.

Oh, for those of you who read Part One....yes, Kevins rustic handmade horse training pen is still there, fashioned to gether from 1000 saplings and held together with baling wire, god knows what and Kevins cowboy spirit.
It is a sight to behold. The picture does not do it justice.

I THINK I DREAMED THIS ONE LAST NIGHT

There was a point in our lives

where if I slit my throat, it was you who would bleed.

You say goodbye too often in autumn.
Tonight the last leaf fell off the tree beyond my bedroom window,

and I could hear the sound of branches aching for love to wrap

around their leaves like limbs.

It was three a.m. in the last stretch of May.

Springtime calls for heartbeat symphonies

and when we pressed our bodies together they coincided like

chords, like staccatos when I ran my hand down

your spine.

Fog is one of the top reasons that drivers get killed each year.
In the backseat of my car we almost caused

the hundredth casualty,

but all I got were bruises in the shape of apologies

along my thighs.

There are certain people who leave scars when they go.

Tonight I cut my thumb while I was peeling an apple.

I thought of you.

— “A Rendition of Autumn,” by Shinji Moon

Gathered at Dissections, where she says its a "poem you never get tired of reading"

"Much will be said, but little will be done"

1400 posts.
That's how many posts I have written since September of 2006.. This will count as 1401. But 142 of those are in draft, and on review I don't see that any of them can be salvaged, but there you go.
Its been a strange time here at Bulletholes lately.
Many things unsettling. Many things unsettled. Many things that will just have to wait.

I think back over the last year, and it seemed like a lot of nothing.
I think back over the last year, and there were a lot of things I didn't think I'd ever feel again.
There were a lot of days I felt huge. And a lot of other days I felt so small.
There were days I felt huge and small and huge again, all inside the space of a few moments.
Those are hard days, and they leave you feeling oddly out of place..

I can look back, and I see that I moved from my apartment, and I got separated from my Home group at NA, and I started going to fewer meetings.
I have been going back to more meetings lately, about one a day for two months now, and its got me through a tough time. I've even been going to a treatment center the last month, and sharing my story with addicts that are trying to get a day clean by being in a 28 day rehab. That is very rewarding to do, we keep what we have only by giving it away,and its my ministry I suppose, if you want to put it that way.

I also separated myself from something I loved, and that was hard too, and unsettling.
The ways of love are hard, and sloppy and all over the place it seems, worsened by the fact I'm not really free to talk about it, which in fact I'm finding is a blessing too, not being able to talk about it.
Talking doesn't really seem to help.  I find myself relieved many days by what I haven't said even more that by what I have said.
A guy at the group said something a few weeks ago:
"Much will be said, but little will be done."

Part of what that means is something I've learned the last few years. The circumstances of our lives may  change very slowly, but the way we view the world can change right now.

I've been playing the role of the roommate for a year and a half, and its not a role that suits me.
After abandoning the search for a house to buy a year ago, I overstayed where I'm at and find myself just about miserable there.
But I'm moving in two weeks to an apartment close to my group, where I can relax again, and cook naked in the kitchen if I like, or watch TV in my shorts on the couch,  just like the good old days.
Home hasn't seemed like home to me for many years, but maybe after this latest sojourn, I will find my place.

Oh, while we are at it, lets link to one of my favorite buddies UF Mike, and a story he wrote a while back that I think is sheer recovery beauty.
Its called "Alcohol"

APRIL SHOWERS

She and I played in the rain
We would walk to the top of the hill
And break a small piece of twig
To float in the gutter
Back down the hill we would follow our twig-boats
Wait patiently for them to free themselves from eddies
Watch delighted as they bounded over and around
Small rocks,
Clumps of leaves
Cracks in the pavement
Then skipping through the rapids
We landed at the bottom of the hill
Drenched and happy
Running back to the top
To do it all over again.

bulletholes 5/2013

ALTO TEXAS

I haven’t seen mom in 26 years. I haven’t been to her grave, where she sleeps next to dad, in more than 20 years.
But I’m going tomorrow, and take a rose, and place it there for her.

I’ll walk the dusty red road by her mothers place, look to see if the frame of the root cellar might still be there in the bank of the hill. When we were kids, into it we would peer, and shudder at the thought of what may be inside the cool dark earth.

Down the drive I’ll stroll past the big planter next to the black walnut tree; the well has been gone for some time, but likely there will be a trace, and I will remember trying to find my mother on the big porch.
I had lost her apron among all the other aprons, and I went to Uncle Jack, who told me she had fallen into the well.
“How do I get her back?” I asked in tears.
“Go turn the faucet in the kitchen on” he had told me.
What a bastard, that Uncle Jack.

I’ll look to see if my cousins homemade horse pen is still there, rustic and made from several hundred saplings, held into an almost perfect circle by baling wire and whatever, and by the sheer strength of Kevins cowboy ways.

Next door to my mothers mothers place is my mothers mothers sisters place, from a time when family and community were indistinguishable, a time when towns were just big families, and you only needed a few families and a couple of loners to make a town. A time before the family’s had all scattered. Both house’s both looked the same, with the well, and the wrap around porch, the fig trees and plum trees from which jellys and preserve were made. Under pecan trees in the back yard there would be a stove, used for canning during the summer, sitting there bare like the trees in the winter, under the glare of the Vapor light.
I'll look to see if the big iron cauldron is still there, right in the middle of the yard, used for boiling cane and sorghum to make the syrup and molasses Uncle Jack liked on his bisquits in the morning.

I’ll walk back out to the road, along the stretch I remember from when I was a very little boy and my cousin Patricia had taken me by the hand and we picked flowers from the roadside to make a bouquet. I thought she was beautiful, this young girl Pat who would become Miss Little Rock a few years later, and maybe tomorrow there will be flowers for me to pick, and to place there for Pats mother, my mothers sister. Maybe there will be enough blooms for all four sisters; raised in Alto Texas, they are together in Alto Texas, still.

Maybe there will be flowers enough for all the great aunts, and all the grandfathers and grandmothers, all the cousins and second cousins, and half brothers.
Maybe there will even be one tiny one for Uncle Jack.
It seems certain parts of the family haven’t scattered after all.

LIGHT BLUE

I was going to buy you some perfume.
But I decided I was trying too hard,
Holding on too tight
So I got this card instead.

I can remember the smell of you
And your perfume
The way it would linger for days
I’d pass you in the hall
And at the bottom of the stairs
And it was like you were still there
A spirit lover.
I’d smell you as I brushed my teeth ,
and put on my shirt…

I loved you so much then and I still do
I never stopped.

I’d put on my shirt and find my shoes
And I’d just feel so homeless and lost
Only your lovely scent to guide me out the door
I believe the whole world becomes a marvelous place
A marvelous place for everyone in it
When you are with me.

I step outside, you fill my empty world as
The clear sky turns light blue  and full of love.

bulletholes 4/2013

With the closing shamelessly lifted from Life After 40.

I thought I'd given up writing pain poems a long time ago.
I'm hoping it doesn't shine through too sharply on this. The world really doesnt need another "her smell" poem, but there you go.
I had posted it a few days ago, but took it down. i wanted it just to be for me and her for a while.

POSTCARDS

by Sarah Kay
I had already fallen in love with far too many postage stamps.
When you appeared on my doorstep wearing nothing but a postcard promise.
No, appear is the wrong word. Is there a word for sucker punching someone in the heart?
Is there word for when you’re sitting at the bottom of a roller coaster and you realize that the climb is coming, that you know what the climb means, that you can already feel the flip in your stomach from the fall before you’ve even moved?
Is there a word for that?
There should be.

You can only fit so many words in a postcard.
Only so many in a phone call, only so many into space before you forget that words are sometimes used for things other than filling emptiness.
It is hard to build a body out of words – I have tried.
We have both tried.
Instead of lying your head against my chest, I tell you about the boy who lives downstairs from me.
Who stays up all night long practicing his drum set.
The neighbors have complained. They have busy days tomorrow, but he keeps on thumping through the night convinced, I think, that practice makes perfect.
Instead of holding my hand, you tell me about the sandwich you made for lunch today.
How the pickles fit so perfectly against the lettuce. Practice does not make perfect.
Practice makes permanent.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don’t get any closer to Carnage Hall, even I know that.
Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don’t get any closer! You never get any closer.
Is there a word for the moment you win tug of war?
When the weight gives and all that extra rope comes tumbling towards you.
How even though you’ve won you still wind up with muddy knees and scratches on your hands.
Is there a word for that? I wish there was.
I would have said it.
When we were finally alone together on your couch, neither one of us with anything left to say.

Still now, I send letters into space.
Hoping that some mailman somewhere will track you down and recognize you from the descriptions in my poems.
That he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you “There is a girl who still writes you. She doesn’t know how not to.”

I was sent this poem, so I want to keep it here.

FOOD WITH GOOD TASTE

Back when I lived at Findhorn, the Scottish Spiritual Commune and classic New Age eco-center, where even the metal utensils were considered “beings” deserving of basic rights without regard the the accident of their manufacture,  and the holes in the colander were windows to the soul, poultry and livestock were well aware of their role in the cosmic scheme of things. Calf and Chick alike read the classics, listened to Opera, learned to tap dance. The television practically stayed on PBS.
Because at Findhorn, we didn’t just want food that tasted good, we wanted food with good taste.