Wearing Genes

I understand,
sort of,
how the genes work
that allowed for an experienced nurse
to tell from an early ultrasound of my son
that he would have my gooshy lips.

I get that there are genes for that type of thing.

But is there also some
other pair of genes that compelled him
at the age of a few months
to sleep with his arm crooked over his head
just like I do?

Or, years later, to
ask for a magazine while
sitting on the potty
(a thing I'd done regularly in middle and high school
but have since lost the luxury of time to do
and thus for him to observe)?

Which genes
have I foisted on this
poor child,
like a parent dressing their toddler,
and which ones can he
choose to wear,
changing them with the seasons,
fashion trends,
and personal taste?

I see so many genes
walking through my classroom door
each day:
skinny, sagging, hole-y, faded, flared, capri.

Which one(s) must he 
or will he choose to
be?

Negative Narrative Space

I don't mean 'negative'

As in pessimistic

Or bad

Or gloomy.

I'm talking about the voids

between the elements that usually command our attention

as the center of illustrative or musical or written creation.

This negative space

is what gives us the two ways 

or more

of viewing this optical illusion:

source here

It is what makes the chalice in The Davinci Code movie 

(as well as the book,
presumably,

I imagine in the void of my

own literary ignorance):

Source here.

It is the silence
of a Buddhist meditation.

It is what makes Miles Davis cooler
than what Billy Madison thinks 

because he knows where to

pause

(unlike my own
empty reasoning).

This in-between state is
perhaps one of the only things
that could travel
faster than light

and also hold
the intriguing capacity
of conveying
infinitely more
and infinitely more diverse
messages
than can be confined
in one finite communicative transmission
of any substance.

It's the untold portions of the stories,
the windows positioned within the created architecture,
where we find both
egress from our own minds
and entrance into another world
of multifarious variety.

For example,
I imagine
what Obi-Wan Kenobi ate
all those long years on Tatooine
and how he knew
he would turn a ghostly blue
upon Darth Vader's final hew. 

And I try to feel
the wind through the dry grass,
the accumulating perspective of identity
and its accompanying sense of forboding
that isn't included
in Luke 5:16.


And perhaps if I pause long enough

The Kindest Hacker

A symbol I suggest should signify kindly hackers,
composed of a proposed symbol for hackers (from here)
overlaid with a loving heart (from me via Microsoft Word).

The kindest crook
I ever didn't meet
was the one who apparently
hacked my PayPal account.

The company contacted me
saying any money I hadn't touched
in the last several years
was going to go to some state agency
if I didn't do something with it.

"What money?" I asked.

"The $258 in your account."

<pause>

"Where did it come from?"

They sent me the transaction history
showing companies and entities
of which I had no knowledge,

transactions occurring between a mafia member

and a CIA operative,

I'm convinced,

and out of their sheer goodness

and appreciation for my 
unwittingly allowing them to
achieve their questionable ends
in the safe haven of an
identity-thieved account,
they left me a little something.

Now
I'm left with the decision
of what to do:

Part of me wonders
if it's morally permissible
to take money that isn't mine
in any scenario.

Another part of me says,
"Duh yeah! It's from some jerk
who hacked your account
but wasn't bright enough to clean it out."

But would a second wrong
really make me feel all right?

All this moralizing makes
that part of me that wants
another Weezer album
and a superfluous piece of technology
kowtow to the now growing voice in my head
saying I ought to donate this windfall
to a charity like Kiva
or use it for the family
by chipping away at the mortgage
like a responsible adult.

The possibilities for spending are endless
when it's someone else's money...
or your own,
I guess.

Surprisingly, at times -
but maybe more often than I think -
it's hard to tell the difference. 

Attack the Hill

12 years after high school

during this 40-mile bike ride

beneath carrion birds

as I approach yet another

in a seemingly interminable sequence

of inclinations I'm rather disinclined to ascend,

Coach Turchyn's words

somehow reach forward to me

instilling the will to follow still

one of his few but oft-repeated directives:

"Attack the hill."

These 3 words came whispered but urgent

at almost every cross country meet for 

7 years to our cheer-tired ears

as the only audible thing

worth processing and applying,

for everything else is almost automatic:

the pace, 

keeping eyes on the guy ahead,

breathing and stepping,

but

when that slope rises,

the instinct is to go into

lower gear,

attack your competitor,

or attack yourself,

worrying about all the hills ahead;

you need someone there 

to remind you of this

1 task:

to just attack the hill that's next. 

Start of a race.

The high school crew.

Coach T on the right. Coach Mac on the left.

#nerdilemma

I'm in a

nerd dilemma:

I've read the studious articles 

and seen the impassioned chats

about the proper order for
nerd parents
to show their nerdlings
the Star Wars hexology,

but I realized yesterday

that a nerd father is faced with

oh so many more perplexities

than these 6 movies 

and the 720*

possible sequences
in which they could be watched.

For instance,

what's the best way 

to inculcate in one's
burgeoningly geeky offspring
a love for Weird Al?

Start with the earliest songs

to build context, 

or with the latest

to be most relevant?

And what about the 

cult classics of
Monty Python and the Holy Grail,
Dr. Strangelove, The Goonies,
Young Frankenstein, Princess Bride, & etc...?
How should these be presented such that
the geeklets might get
the inside jokes
and know the
token quotes -
those passwords and signs
which are requisite to enter geekdom?

And what of the larger question here about the
dangers of accidentally rendering such nerdifacts uncool
through the double-edged sword of
parental endorsement?

I need some sort of
theoretical framework,
proof,
researched argument, or
longitudinal study
to know the quick and easy path
for raising my son right!

I try in vain
to reason my way through this remote
yet immediate enigma
and see the solution.

Then, in a blue haze, Ben Kenobi speaks to me,
padawanizing me for my attempt to
think my way through this jedi's puzzle:
"Let go your conscious self
and act on instict."

"Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi,"
Indeed. This is my only
and new hope.

*Thanks are due to my brother-in-law David Jensen, a math teacher, for confirming this number. What a travesty it would've been to include an inaccurate calculation in such a nerdy poem. 

The Sound of (Wind in the) Music

Whenever I play certain songs

on the piano,

I hear wind
moving through trees

and feel it moving through
lungs,
blowing always from the right,
leaning me left.

This phenomenon does not occur
because the piano is 

next to the front bay window that
looks out on three 80-foot silver maples.

And, no, the rustling of those
imagined leaves
does not coincide with the
music's crescendos and decrescendos.

It just

comes,
as if I were a limb
of some larger thing
being moved. 

Lego Limericks (with pics!) - for Janette

My son's into Lego constructions.
He was just a slave to instructions.
He watched Lego Movie,
Now builds things quite groovie;
He makes mostly novel productions.

My son's also into destruction,
Which is a key lego-ing function.
He used to break toys
Like a pre-school Hulk-boy;
Now he sticks with intentional reductions.

A Pete Call original.

Our collaborative effort based on Pete's idea to make the monster truck a spaceship.

The first in my robot series - Noodle Arms.

How Santa mines those diamonds for expensive jewelry.

A landspeeder we made together.

Another Pete Call original.

Some sort of puttering spaceship. 

A duck. By Pete.

Part 2 of my robot series - Near-sighted Dog. 

Pete's magnum opus - an homage to the Power Ranger Megazord.

Haikus for Baby Wearing

Mom is gone, so I,

Dad, scrambling for you to nap,

strap you in. We waltz.

You won't fall asleep.

I nestle you in and walk

then sit. We both snore.

Strapping you on and

sashaying 'round while it rains.

Dew drops cuddling.

My stubble scratched you;

now we're even - your duck fluff

keeps tickling my chin.

My bro and I wearing our babies.
Photo from my wife - Kim Call - here.

Owl Pelletry

It was conveniently intermission -

that glorified term for a potty break -
and my wife called
to see when I would be returning
from your poetry reading
and to inform me that my son
(having fallen asleep in the car
and thus
skipped his pre-sleep poop)
had recently rolled out of bed
and defecated on the floor.

I bade you and the other poet I heard

an urgent farewell,
laughingly recounting the anecdote
and confiding I'd probably be inspired
en route home
to write a poem about this incident.

You said, also laughingly,
that you'd like to read it.

I don't know if you were serious,

so I hope this doesn't stink,

this extrusion of my own orifice,

this log entry of my own experiences...
for I found upon driven consideration
that my son's performance
and my own poetry production
were cut from the same cloth,
woven of the same warp and weft

since they are

natural byproducts of the
physical and mental digestive processes
respectively.

But pondering this parallel
threw me askew into a perpendicular
train of thought:
Perhaps this penchant for propogating poetry
is more akin to the owl pellet than the child turdlet:

I mean, owls, like people, have means for excreting
that which they have digested,
having sucked all the nutrients out,
but owls also have a means for expelling
those substances which they have swallowed whole
and cannot digest (i.e., bones, fur, and the like).

And isn't that what this and many poems are -
regurgitations of undigested incidents,
things we haven't yet figured out how
to suck the meaningful nutrients from?

And some poor sap,
in some lab or classroom,
is left to dissect it,
noting the skeletons we've spewed
and inferring what they will
about our mental -
and sometimes physical -
diets.

Pete's First Purchase

His whole life,
Pete's income from holidays and birthdays
has been hastily stashed into his piggy bank.

The recent $5 from Great Grandma,
though,
came with firm instructions to be spent,
not saved.

Like any good son of mine would do,
he eventually narrowed down his options

to 2 small character cars:

Yoda or Darth Vader.

Alas,

falling victim to the quick and easy path,

he chose the sleeker,

seemingly swifter

Lord of the Sith.

At home, he and Vader had many

hot wheeled pursuits

of me and the Chewbacca car

till we were all out of gas.

Before bedtime, he announced
he was going to sleep with
Darth Vader.

What an odd thing to say.

I suppressed my laughter,
trying to replace the image of
Pete snuggled up next to a

7-foot, black-cloaked machine-man
with what I knew
he intended.

Later that night,
when he stumbled out of bed to go potty,
the car still clutched in his fingers,
I realized that,
by virtue of cuddling up with him,
I had been kind of like

the Darth Vader

in the picture I'd previously had.

Then, as if by a jolt of

force lightning,

I realized that my previous conception of
"Return of the Jedi" could be totally wrong:

I'd always perceived it through 

Luke's perspective -

the jedi returning to conquer the Empire 

after it had struck back

at his new hope.

But,

perhaps,

I thought as I was looking through

Vader's helmet for the first time,
the title could refer to

Anakan returning as a jedi
after a long stint on the dark side.

Duh.

It made me wonder,
if in a hexalogy,
or any creative work,
a character switches from
protagonist to antagonist
and perhaps back again
or vice versa,
what do you call that?

Do they cancel out into
"neutragonist"
or combine into
"bitagonist"?

Are there creative works
where someone fills both rolls
simultaneously?

What would that be?

What if a bad character 

brings about good
unknowingly
or vice versa?

These are the $5 questions

of life,

or at least mine,

as I try to use the white noise

of my breathing apparatus

to lull young Luke to sleep,

resisting the urge

to force-choke the front yard

woodpecker.

The Cell Phone Contact List

Source here.

My wife keeps telling me,

Whenever she borrows my phone,

That I need to clean out

My contact list.

But I can't.

It's like cutting 

Some sort of cellular

Umbilical cord -

An essential connection I have

With people who are all but

Strangers at this point.

To delete them would be

To remove another straw

From the nest I build 

To comfort myself

That I exist and matter.

I know - I can find them on

Social media,

But that's so
Anti-social.

I recognize this is the mentality

Of a digital and relational

Pack rat,

But I grimace at the thought

Of despoiling the archaeological

Alphabetical sedimentation

Of a veritable life writ large

In a column of 10-digit sequences.

I scroll through it, remembering...

My student teaching mentor,

Several college project partners,

Bus drivers from field trips long past,

The bishop from my last congregation,

Some guy I don't even remember,

Younger siblings filed under an older sibling's name,

That club sponsor who quit,

Old landlords,

A young man I tutored, now in prison,

Dead relatives and friends,

Accidental and confusing duplicates,

The Muncie, IN Boy Scout office,

Coworkers fired for sexual harassment,

Neighbors long since moved,

Families who looked after me on my mission,

"Directory Assistance" whatever that means,

4 Robs,

Friends gone off the deep end,

Former professors,

People with wrong last names listed,

Nursing homes,

My wife's old boss,

And you.

There you were - 

Right between the old flame

And the new department head.

So I called you

To reminisce on the old days

And catch up.

But you just sat silent,

Perhaps wondering,

"Who is this guy?"

"Phil.
Phil Call,"
I explained.

"He doesn't live here anymore,"
You misunderstandingly pretended.

Trying to cover for this faux pas,
I responded,
"Well, if you see him,
Could you let him know I called?"

"Sure," you fakely reassured.
"Sure."

My First Purchase

The first item I remember purchasing
with my own $10
was an utter disappointment.

The commercials pitched it as
one exhilerating adventure
after another.

To my surprise and dismay,

it was just a small plastic set of
figurines,

not from

a long time ago

in a galaxy far, far away,

but from China.

And apparently,

the fanfare,
special effects,
and nerdy friends

advertised in the commercial
were sold separately,
presumably also
manufactured in China.

I've held onto it for
two decades,
partly out of nostaliga,
I suppose,
and part pack rat,
and later,
part reminder of the chicanery of the
marketing establishment
and my own resolve to resist such.

But,
Pete saw it a while back
and wanted to play with it.

The way he
animated the characters and
lived and relived the conflicts
on this tiny world
weighted it with such import
that I found myself
sucked into the narratvies
by its new-found gravitational pull -
playing as I suppose
I had imagined myself
to be able to play
when I had bought it:
Side-by-side with Wicket W. Warrick
on Endor.

I was surprised again
- though this time in reverse -
that the marketers hadn't
completely lied
in their depiction
of unabashed toy joy -
they'd just misrepresented,
and neglected to include in the instructions,
how to glean the maximum glee from it.

Despite this gross oversight,
I've decided to take the high ground
and not sue.

A Kite Line

When we stepped into the backyard,

My son, Pete, and I,

With the kite,

My wife, Kim, warned us,

"Don't get it caught in the tree."

Now that you know

How this story will end,

Let me fill in a few details

And the inevitable
Deeper
(or in this case, Higher)
Meaning.

We really flew it quite well,

Avoiding the tree during gusts

By stepping swiftly aside,

Until Pete had the idea

To fly it atop the playset,

Which was too close to the tree

And too fenced in

To allow for any quick maneuvers,

But 30 minutes of successful kite-flying

Had made us arrogant

And perhaps a bit hungry for danger.

It caught first on a side branch

From what I unsuccessfully tried

To convince Kim was a freak wind.

I didn't know whether to pull tight
And risk breaking the line,
Or to let loose
Risking further entanglements.

Either option seemed
Equally likely to produce both
Extremes of possible outcomes. 

I let loose,

And it went higher,

Eventually spider-webbing itself

Stickily into more branches,

At which sordid moment

I did what any self-respecting

English major would do:

I started composing this poem

And took some pictures
To accompany it.

Yes, it's still in the tree.

Thanks for asking.

Once upon a time,

My dad told me,
Several years after the fact,

Of how a sibling of mine

Had become a bit
Tangled,

Not terribly bad,

Just a bit.

And he contemplated reining in with terror,
Controlling and constricting

Until immediate safety was secured

But the long-term,
Thread-thin at times,
Father-child relationship almost certainly severed.

He said he had felt,
Upon praying about it,

That his only hope,

His only link

Was that kite-line-thin love.

So, he just held it,
Firm and present,
But not forceful,

And that sibling's soaring fine now.

But if our muddled up efforts

Still result in the 50/50 chance of getting
Even more stuck

50 feet up,

There's always the route

Pete keeps exhorting me to take
But my manliness keeps
Preventing me from pursuing:

Call the fire department - 

They'll don their red gear,
Cross town,

Raise themselves up on that tree,

And descend back below 

To allow that kite to rise up again,
All for free,
I believe. 

Now, if I could only remember
Their number...

Walking on Water

With the story

Of Peter walking on water,

We often think of the lesson

Learned by his falling into the sea,

Becoming afraid of the storm

And taking his eyes off the Lord.

And indeed,

It's good to learn

From others' failures.

But what about his reasons and success?

After all, he's the second

And only other person

Besides Christ

In the history of the world

To walk on water.

I always wondered why he asked

The Lord to bid him to come to him -

Was it because he wanted to walk on water, too?

Was it because he just wanted to be with the Lord?

I think it might be because

He felt safer standing on the surface of even a tempestuous sea with the Savior

Than he did sticking with the standard style of sea stability during storms in his day.

There was no commandment for Peter -
And is none for any of us -
To walk on water,
To do something
No one has done before,
Especially something that breaks
Some previously perceived physical law or
Limit to human capacity.

But he still did it.
Some mix of personal motive
And the Spirit's prompting.

So, perhaps,
When our own storms rage
Or when we insert ourselves in the storms of others
Either out of stewardship or friendship,
Perhaps we should
Abandon the ship
Of conventional certitude
About what the problem and/or solution is,
Espying where the Savior is
And striving for his position
No matter how precariously impossible
It may appear to reach
Or stay
There.

Not being bound by laws of nature or norm -
But not breaking them either -
Only
Transcending.

And, inevitably,
We'll fall short.
But isn't that what Christ
Is there fore?

Saying, "Come,"
And then saving us
When we falter.

Matthew 14: 22-23

Exult

The other day,

I didn't want to vent to my wife;
I wanted to share something good,
but I wasn't sure what to call it.

(How sad we don't already

Have a catch phrase for doing that.)

"Can I...

Brim to you,"

I ventured.

But that didn't feel right.

"Can I revel with you,"

Didn't sound right either

At all.

"Can I exult to you,"

I finally tried

And felt satisfied.

"Yes,"

She replied.

So I did.

Then she did.

It seemed to provide

Much more 

Stabilization

Than usually comes from venting,

Which we think will calm us down

Since we're "blowing off steam"

When aren't we really just

Re-inhaling it?

Playing

My daughter and I play
guitar,
with stacking toys,
the diaper bag,
my lip and bicuspids.

We laugh and connect
and I realize that neither of us
will remember these moments
distinctly
and that's
sad.

Then why do them?

I suppose they form some sort of
ineffable element of our identities
individually as well as
in our father-daughter dyad.

This play like rain drops,
not distinguishably preserved
yet making the ocean of our lives
happy.

Suddenly with No Surprise

Suddenly, with no surprise,

I find myself almost 30
And realize

There are still people my age

Traipsing about

Still unsure what to do with this thing called

Adulthood,

As if it's an item of clothing

Gifted from a relative

That one's obliged to wear

Though it never fits quite right,

Always the armpits sag too low

And you can't help but alternate

Between wearing it

And hiding it,

Bucking up, grinning and wearing it

Or cringing and eschewing it

To the Goodwill pile.

I wonder, since probably that single demographic

And even myself

Who has a steady job, a mortgage,

A wife, son, daughter, and dog,

Still kind of feel like 

What seems to be a later version of 17,

If this infantile octogenarian in my mind's eye

And her motherly daughter
In the seating area at the doctor's office

Simply feel like they are

17 version 5.0
(or 17 Cougar for Mac users).

I guess I'll know someday,

And I'm sure it will seem suddenly

But 

It will be no surprise.

Dinner At Denny's

You'll say that we are indecisive
Cognitively divided
and our dates are really lame.

You'll say that we're stuck in a rut
Like a hazard in putt-putt
Cuz all we do is just the same.

And I said what about Dinner at Denny's

She said I think we did that last Wednesday

And as I recall I think we both disliked it

And I said well than what do you think?

I see you refusing to clue me

Into what you want to be doing

But are choosing not to share.

So what now, it's plain to see I'm lost,

A coin's about to be tossed,

Cuz I don't even care.

Then I said what about that dinner at Denny's

She said I think I'd prefer JC Penny's
And as I recall I think we have 2 coupons
And I said well then let's do that.

You'll say we need to pick a wedding date,

A house, some colors, and baby names,

And that I need to settle on a career.

You'll say the futures coming on fast

Even more so than in the past

And we need a plan for coming years.

And I said what about dinner at Denny's

You smiled and said you thought 1 course would be plenty

And I said as I recall I thought you disliked it

And you said actually maybe you lied.

So we said we'll take two burgers at Denny's 

The waitress eyed us cuz we're in our twenties

And everyone else was a geriatric patient

And I said well that's one thing we've got.

The Snowball Dance

The old gym is gussied up in too much gossamer

With countless Christmas lights entwined around

Temporary styrofoam pillars

In a futile attempt to mask

Its workaday function

And permanent BO,

A fitting parallel

To the freshmen and sophomores
Bedecked in their
Personal best,

Trickling in from 

Last-legged mini vans 

And a few flaunted sports cars,

None of which holds any direct correlation

To the quality of awkward gesticulation

About to ensue.

Kim and I are bouncers at the far doors,

Corks meant to keep the effervescent

Giddy hope 

And a few other things

Contained where they belong

(Until the fire alarm sounds

And all the unpredictable flames

Leap out of control).

The DARE officer 

Plays lineman and fireman,

Running interference periodically

Through the heart of the

Frosh pits, dodging elbows and 

Other overly exposed body parts

To stamp out the first sparks of 

Reckless teenage matches

And their attempts at fire by friction.

As the dj pumps out
Paroxysmic juxtapositions of

Pop, rap, and country, 

The expanding hoard slowly begins throbbing 

Like a leg beset by growing pains or a 

Zit begging to be popped.

The full-body sequins

And other gaudy baubles 

Of the Lady Gagette elite

Flounce and sparkle

In contrast with the
Borrowed black pants and
Worn-out khakis
Of their male counterparts

Who have either
Summoned up the courage or
Been cowed into

"Taking them out."

A quiet, usually camo-strewn hunter

In my English class

With a reading style slow and steady enough
To avoid being noticed by anyone

Is moving with a natural smoothness and rhythm 

I never would've imagined

In his black dress cowboy boots.

He's short and unabashed,

And his shorter, red-headed,

Firecracker of a sociable girlfriend

Is curiously being the wallflower,
Though he keeps tracking her down,

Refusing to join in this primal ritual

That he has single-handedly 

Transformed into something that

Transcends his classmates and classes

Into something

Classy.

I'm taken aback.

But it is Monday now

And the dancing hunter-king

Is quiet

Once again camaflauging himself

Against being called or picked on.

And the gossamered, sparkly-slipper gym

Is back to pumpkin, basketball-court orange,

Its girls and boys preparing for the whistle

To begin the game of dodgeball:

That bizarre dance that perpetuates

Their ever endeavor

To take someone
anyone
out.

Emergency Room Wait-Time Billboards

As we drive home,

I see the billboard

advertising the wait time

for the hospital ER:

75 min.

I guffaw
(wouldn't you?)
and wonder

what the purpose is
of such signs.

As people are driving down the highway,

do they think,

"Oh - it's only 5 minutes to get in?

I guess I'll go get this leg wound taken care of."

Or, as they scramble with a 

hemorraging family member in the car

do they get to the sign and say,

"I'm not waiting 30 minutes for this.

Let's go home and see what happens."

Perhaps this sign would be
better served
and would better serve
outside of a decent restaurant
that doesn't accept reservations
for parties smaller than 7,
or at fast food restaurants,
showing the difference
between the drive-through
and in-store line times.

Now that's
something I need.

But perhaps it would be
too gimmicky
for decent restaurants
or even McDonalds.

But, maybe not.
Maybe it would just be too
useful.

source here

Valentines Day: 2 Options

"You have two options for Valentine's Day," I tell me wife.

"You mean instead of or in addition to the usual poem?" she replies.

"Ummm... addition to."

"Okay - what are they?"

I produce two fliers - one from last Sunday and the other from a friend.

"Option 1: church dance with a bunch of people who have kids almost as old as we are.

"Option 2: poetry reading and jazz music at a bar downtown."

"Those are quite the options," she lols.

"Do you have a better idea," I parry.

"Well, we could get a Little Caesar's pizza, put the kids to bed early, and play Mario Brothers."

"Oh.

"I love you," I say, like Han Solo did in Return of the Jedi
when stuck between a storm trooper and the blast doors: 

part appreciation and 

part attraction.

"I know," she says, like Leia
presenting the solution to the problem: 

part assurance and 

part showmanship.

And if those 4 moving parts aren't what animate love,

Then I'm a scruffy looking

Goomba herder.

Neighborly

My neighbor is wearing shorts while shoveling snow,
And I ask myself,

"Why?

Why is he shoveling snow in his shorts?

Is he from Alaska?

Does he have a high tolerance for cold?

Is hypothermia setting in?

Is he a mutant?"

These are the questions that go through

A neighbor's mind.

Then I am reminded of

The second great commandment -

To love thy neighbor as thyself,

And I wonder what interrogations 

I should perform on myself.

What ridiculously absurd beams

Do I have in my life 

Compared to this mote of winter clothing choices in his?

None come to mind.

I finish shoveling my driveway,

Or rather, that of a single mother's around the corner

Since a more financially stable neighbor
With a mammoth snow blower
Has already taken care of mine and the elderly neighbor's next door 

(I guess he did mine since I'm the neighbor with little kids), and

I walk past this short-clad neighbor,

Comment on the weather,

And offer a hand, 

Which he appreciates

But declines.

He bids me,

"Have a good night,"

Though it's 11am,

And I'm now convinced 

hypothermia is setting in.

"You too,"

I reply,

Walking away.

And I realize he's probably asking himself,

"Why is that guy wearing snow pants?

And a high school drama club sweatshirt 

Underneath an unzipped 2nd sweatshirt?

Is he a thespian wuss?

And why is a grown man wearing a -

What is that - a Yoda hat?"

Yes it is, neighbor.

Let's call it even.

A Prayer for Optimus Prime

My son over Thanksgiving week
volunteered for the first time
to say the blessing on the food at dinner time.

In his honest orison,
in the most stereotypical
heartfelt tone I've heard
from him yet,
he thanked God
for the things he
treasures most:

Optimus Prime,
Bumblebee,
and sundry other characters
from the Transformers franchise'
lastest efforts to ensnare the young
in consumerist culture:
Rescuebots.

That's how you know you have market penetration:
4-year olds are praying thanks over your fictions
and asking blessings on their well-being.

I think that Hasbro needs to cut us
a bit of a check
for the benedictions since then
that have fallen from Pete's lips,
undoubtedly benefiting
the brand.

Till then,
I suppose my pay will be
the smirks,
side-long glances exchanged with my wife,
and satisfaction
from hearing my son
pray for Deus' sublime
gift
of Optimus Prime.

My 6-Month-Old Kisses Herself in the Mirror

And not just some little peck -
A big wet one -
Like she's trying to eat ice cream,
Which she is as sweet as,
But her reflection,
Judging by the confused reaction on her face,
Is a little disappoitning...
and flat.

And which of us doesn't
Like ice cream?

And who of us doesn't engage in some sort of
Self-aggrandizing personal osculation
Ultimately to discover that
Whatever mirror we're first-basing with
Dissapoints,
Reflecting
Not the finer traits
We'd intended and hoped
But a more 2-dimensional perspective of our character,
As if the very act of introspection for the sake of vanity
Sucks all the Depth out of one's character in order to
Satisfy the growing Heights and Breadths of
Self-promotion's demands,
No magnanimous mysteries or secret successes left in the shadows of our own
Non-disclosure.

That depth of character
Which can only be plumbed
When it is left to pool quietly dowsnstream
Rather than dumped wholesale on one's head
Like an Ice Bucket Challenge
(the YouTube video of mine being
available for you to like online.
I'm already at 1,200,000.
No really!)