Blue

What I remember of your soft face
Are your eyes. And such eyes -
Blue as longing, snapping with wit,
Kind but wicked humor worked like lace
Hung upon clean windows.
How could I forget any of it?
The sneaking up behind to scare you with a kiss,
The crinkled joy in your grandmother face,
Our laughter rising in crescendos.
I would not forget any of this
Now that you have left this place.

You are There now, loved away,
Running on strong legs that do not creak;
Dancing with your boys, singing with your sister.
I would not have asked you to stay.
And though you could not hear me speak,
I would tell you that I miss her,
My own sister, now yours to play with
To spit shine all the streets of gold with,
To laugh about her last days and yours,
When she fed you dinner, sitting in bed,
Grand child tending grand mother.
(And a striking thought endures
That you savored the irony, nothing said.
Mischief smiled, took a bite, and then another.)

Your sons, your mother, your sister and mine
Have no doubt formed a competitive choir
To give the angels a good go of it.
So when comes my own time
I will breathe my last and cheerfully mount the pyre.
I expect you there to witness it
When I make my heavenly debut.
But until we meet again, I will remember
Your eyes of perfect blue.

Thanksgiving 2006

Dear Lynn,

I have good news and bad news. The good news is that the Thanksgiving ham that you should have made tastes great. The bad news is that I utterly destroyed it when I tried to carve it. Lee donated a ham from her pet pig and it was twenty pounds if it was an ounce. I have never seen such a roast beast! Neither have I ever cooked something the size of my living room. Since the butcher did not put the weight on the packaging, and also since my bathroom scales are either broken or needing batteries, I had to guess the weight like a carnie at the county fair. It seemed about the size of a small child so I guessed at around twenty pounds and cooked it accordingly. Since you were not here to ask (you could have at least waited until after the holidays, you know), I went to the Hormel web site and did a little research. That’swhen things began to go wrong.

First of all, I have made many hams. Probably about three. All of these hams have been pre-cooked, spiral sliced and properly trained and neutered. I always roast them with a few cups of Dr. Pepper and a half-cup or so of peppercini juice, smear them with mustard, pack them with brown sugar, sprinkle with cayenne pepper and mist with more Dr. Pepper. Good stuff, always perfect, and they cook in a couple of hours. This is what I was expecting.

This ham was enormous. It was bigger than both of my cats put together and slightly meaner. I think it would have intimidated my Great Dane if it suddenly got up and started walking. Not only was this carcass bigger than my own substantial derriere, it was not even pre-cooked or pre-sliced. How quaint. I felt like a medieval kitchen wench slaving over a haunch of Yuletide wild boar.

So I went to Hormel for help, and the site was very informative, explaining the different types of hams (country hams, inner city hams, suburban hams, wet cured hams, dry cured hams, pox cured hams…). I had to go unwrap the mound of fatty flesh (I think it was pulsing and sentient) and actually identify what it was. After deciding that it was, I think, a wet-cured country ham, bone-in, I waffled between roasting it in foil and putting it in a cooking bag. I settled on foil because I did not think I could ever wrastle the thing into a bag, and set the oven on 375 degrees. Then I decided to get brave and try the bag and, wonder of wonders, it fit! After rotating a few disks and pulling my shoulder out of joint, I managed to situate it in the bag and get it all cozy for its seven-hour stint in Oven Hell. All was well, and I was feeling quite smug. Undaunted, we would have a lot of glorious ham for our first Thanksgiving without you and your culinary expertise.

…

Six hours later, I happen to go by the oven on my way to get a drink and realize that I have left the oven set on 375 degrees instead of the requisite 325, as it should have been for roasting in a bag. This thing had been languishing for six hours at 50 degrees higher than it should have, and I get this sinking feeling in my stomach. Mind you, it is now 2:00 A.M. because I did not anticipate having to cook it so long – this was supposed to be a two-hour project. Gritting my teeth, I find a couple of towels and work it out of the oven very, very carefully. Five minutes and a dislocated elbow later, I manage to heave it to the top of the stove (which I had just cleaned) and cleverly slosh half the juice out onto the previously glistening white surface. Drat.

Deep breath.

It doesn’t matter. How stupid to get stressed out over a piece of meat when there will be at least three other large haunches to choose from at our feast. It doesn’t look that bad. Once I pull off the skin that looks like an NFL regulation football and pack It in brown sugar and bake It just a bit longer to caramelize It, It will be fine. Really.

…

3:00 A.M., and It is not fine. This monster was, as I believe I mentioned previously, not pre-sliced, so I bravely set about attacking it with fork and serrated knife. After creating about two full cups of desiccated pork-meat, I switch to a knife with a deeper serration, thinking this would be the answer. Another cup of ham-shred. A dead pig butt will not defeat me! I grab a fillet knife and go to work, painstakingly carving It and bringing all my high school biology dissection skills to bear upon this overcooked albatross. Success! A full slice falls away, slamming to the platter like a cartoon coyote falling from a cliff onto hard pan. It is about two inches thick, but it is intact. I am triumphant.

4:00 A.M. I survey my kitchen. It looks like Beirut after the 1982 Israeli invasion. Bones of fallen ham warriors litter the counters and bits of shrapnel and overcooked flesh cling to the stove, towels, refrigerator, floor, me. It is not pretty, but I will live to cook ham another day, and take what I have learned from this travesty into yet another holiday spent without you.

Pre-cooked and spiral sliced is the way to go.

Beyond Justice to Mercy

The funeral is tomorrow, and I do not know if I will be there. I might just stay home and get drunk, skip it entirely. He would have hated that, said that I was “In a far country”, but when I texted my brother, I said that’s what I would do. Just stay home and get drunk. He laughed, texted back that he would be staying home to do his girlfriend in creative, somewhat abusive ways. I’d take a good, lusty buggering over going to this funeral any day of the week.

Ding, dong, the witch is dead. The little text bytes seeped through the air, skipping several states, feathering me with fear, hope, fluttering elation, loss. All this tossed together in a confusion casserole. How should I feel? You have to respect the dead, right? Forget the evil past; let an old man die and chisel a bold RIP over a hard, seeping wound. It would make a fine headstone: a sculpted, weeping brown scab, oozing from time to time in memoriam. Fitting and dramatic.

Maybe I will go, make an appearance as will be expected of me by the ignorant throng of former sycophants. Followers? Believers? Call them what you will, but they were mostly bootlickers and toadies, false. And from my vantage, those who aren’t are simply hoodwinked and gullible. I mean, come on. This is the Oughts, and Arfod is so yesterday.

If I do go, I’ll have to be prepared for an all-day songfest. There will be lots of wobbly church opera by overrated sopranos, and there’s bound to be at least one religious power ballad sung by the Associate Stooge. The ringing words “I waaaaant tooooo knoooow…CHRIST!” aren’t so compelling when the tenor sounds like he’s trying very hard to take a grand dump by the end of the song. Lots of obligatory key changes, high notes attempted with a brand of gusto bound to leave the singer with at least one hemorrhoid. Do I really want to go there again?

People I want to see will be there. The cynics, the rebels and the free spirits who only come to these functions to see and be seen. And the gay crowd. They are the best, most irreverent troupe to sit with at a funeral. At the last one, we all sat in the back row and giggled and passed notes like teenagers the entire time. But then, the corpse was a gay friend, and would have chuckled to know we were enjoying his funeral so much. In the parking lot, afterward, one of the just-out-of-the-closet guys gave me a business card so I could stay in touch with him, and it had the name “Nancy” in bold letters across the front. Priceless.

But this funeral will be different. It’s bound to be solemn and somber, definitely longer. "There are 552 people here who would like to speak, but only 10 who should speak". Pastors will play the oratorical lottery, elbowing and shuffling to make the "in order" list. And what will be commemorated? It’s good to review, they’ll say, and parade all the good, happy memories of a life lived in constant salvation and perfect sanctification. I doubt there will be any mention of pedophilia, nepotism, greed, hypocrisy, mental instability or attempted murder. No, these are the dark secrets, and we don’t talk about them. We pretend they don’t exist. The only skeleton that will be aired will be in the fancy casket draped in syrupy roses.

When I am dead, I hope they don’t recall my missteps and failures either. I hope no one says I was a bad mother, a faithless wife, a hypocrite. I hope the people I have hurt will carve RIP onto their own wounds, and feel wistful and uncertain about my passing. I hope they will wonder if all the ugliness is worth remembering, and choose instead to let the past rest in peace.

No, I won’t go, after all. Let him be buried, let him be at peace with whatever he has found after death. I hope that it is mercy instead of justice.

cracker jill

single serving
mom in a box
with a prize
at the bottom
don't open it
that way
or it will never
close again.

she can entertain
mow the lawn
has healthy teeth
can skin a bird
in 10 seconds flat
wishes she had
killed that cat
she'll batten down belief
muscle through the rain
and like it.

oh, she takes it
makes it
creases trousers
scrubs everything
organic pasta tonight
tomorrow she'll hire and fire
and then what?
tired of tyre
brimstone belching
whoziwhatsits
have nothing on her.
she lives
hard
loud
persistent
inspired
and somehow
keeps a manicure.

she eats pie without guilt.

I Laugh

I would not scream
Child of promise that daunted me
With instant charm and beauty
Red-faced, wide-eyed and whole
You fought your way through me
And laughed with God’s voice.

I clamped my jaw and clutched
I would be a squaw
I would take it like a woman
Maybe climb a mountain after
Sling you on my back
And gather bitter herbs.

Then God’s laughter flew
Into the close room
Forced a cry from my lips.
No holding back
No keeping you from
Your right to be born
No keeping me from
My right to keep you.

All laughter is God’s laughter
So you have shown me
The gift I did not deserve
That could not be divided
By the will of any Solomon.

I screamed
And now I laugh.

The Scent of Diesel

It is a sunny day in Jerusalem
And all the bad men sleep
While visions of sugar-bombs
Dance in their heads
Busses zigzag clumsily
Among the dwarf cars
Mercedes for the taxis
Chevettes for the cops
Ancient minivans to transport
Anachronistic beggars sporting
Incredibly realistic gory parts
(Leprosy is so yesterday)
Quick, duck the tide of hawkers
Selling splinters of the True Cross
And cheap metal jewelry
No self-respecting Bedouin
Would claim as craft
Scent of fuel and bread and spice
And hot bodies sand-scoured
Common to see soldiers in green
Long hennaed hair whipping
Round their weapon stocks
In the dry holy wind
That scrapes along
The Temple Mount.

The Man I Never Chose

When it comes to the man I never chose
I know an old shard of fear
And feel again the rudder steer
Inexorably where I will not go.
Perhaps I knew it then
Before he thought to hold my heart
And when patience was his love for me
Or anyone else they condemned.

We waited together for the gun
I, with trembling mouth
Seeking some pity in the line
Of gleaming barrels, glinting sun.
Instead, I saw my life in spades
And wept for him, for me
For the girl who could not shine
For the boy who was at once
Gift and millstone, anchor and shade.

For to love me was to see the mission done
And such a task to stand upright
Waiting for the cruelly grinding missile
To char soft dreams with biting light.
The sharp report, the leaden whistle
One live bolt of spinning fury
Amid a sea of nineteen blanks
One shot for two as judge and jury.

Patience was his love for me.
To love me was to see the mission done.
To wait in line, together, for the gun
Until one of us should break and run.

And now the man I never chose
Wakes from sleep and finds
Another to lavish with his best.
One who would not be consigned
To meekly bow to a pious host
That will savage one to save the rest.
He fights for dreams he cherished most
And no longer drones of patience and guns.
He stands, he sings,
He drips joy like honey
Puts away the childish things
That bound him with sullen poetry
For here is a choice for which he is fierce.
Here is where the bullet touched
But could not pierce.

Coming Down

When I arrived home to the quiet, clean atmosphere of Greenwood Indiana, I admit I was disappointed. Where are the drunk people? Why are there no gigantic piles of muddy beads in the gutters, and hanging from giant live oak trees? Where, I ask again, where, is the blatant hedonism?

Indiana has become tame. Not that I thought it a hotbed of entertainment before, but now that I have experienced the sordid, decayed, sexy glory of New Orleans, nothing else will do. It's like an over-ripe peach that drips brown juice down your neck when you bite into it...too sweet, too sticky, on the edge of rot, and perfectly delicious.

My thanks go out to all who made the trip possible, and especially to our host and hostess - I have never been feted with such happy, generous abandon, nor been so delighted to indulge in the fruits of another culture. Expect to see me again soon (consider yourself warned!).

Dangle

Opportunity does not knock,
But squirms upon a hook
And she is fish enough to bite;
Shiny silver hypnotizing,
Pretty dancer mesmerizing;
Barbed silky promise worm,
Tasty indulgence;
Haven't eaten in years.

The sparkle-maybe dangles
Fetchingly fearful,
Seductive wiggle of
Coquettish possibility;
Untouched as a new Bible
Sultry as Flamenco,
It was meant be had.
It was meant for her.

It is so delicious;
It is all she ever wanted,
And she swallows it whole.

Beginning Again

It is always exciting to enter into a new phase in life. It is even more exciting, I believe, when change occurs due to one's intent and hard work, rather than chance, fate or some other mysterious force. I am on the cusp of one such change. Yes, folks, my indentured servitude will soon be over. As of January 7th, 2005, my name will be shortened from Everybody's Bitch to simply...Bitch.

It's official! I'm the new music director at a local (Methodist! Wrap your mind around that one) church, and I will be doing the job part time until my current job fizzles at the aforementioned date. I gave notice on Friday, and have felt like a million bucks ever since. I gave these jokers 2 months notice, and if that ain't enough to find my replacement (as if!) and train him/her, then that's tooooo damn bad. I think I'm being way too nice, but that's my way.

In other news, I'm going to be published poet. Remember Christmas Morning? Well I submitted it in a poetry.com contest (on a whim, in an attempt to get a free IPod) and found out yesterday it made the semi-finals and will be included in their Winter 2005 anthology. For the low, low pice of $49.95 (pre-order), I can even get a copy of the book myself. Whatcha wanna bet that's how they get their prize money? Anyway, there's a $1,000 1st prize that I wouldn't be averse to getting. The grand prize is $10,000, but I'm not that greedy

So, soon, Lydia O. will be spending a great deal of time in her new studio, and will finally get a chance to tackle that art quilt project that's been burning on her mind for about a year now. Oh, and the Arphod Cult Collage, and the silk marbling project, and the dancing gypsy painting, and...the possibilities are endless. I may have to get a part time job at Hobby Lobby just to afford my addictions.

I'm having my eldest niece and 3 nephews over on the 20th of this month to make bread-dough Christmas ornaments. We'll be painting, and the ages range from 4 to 10, so I'm going to stock up on Resolve carpet cleaner and LOTS of paper towels. And earplugs. The 4-year old has the most piercing voice I have ever heard in my life. He's cute as a cricket, but unfortunately, he sounds like one too.

Missing the guys, wish they would call or something, but I'll see John on his birthday/Thanksgiving on the 25th. Hang in there, Luke! They'll come around eventually.

My Ghetto Name

My goddamn rock solid ghetto shiznit name is Slimmy Dawg Lobos.
What's yours?
Powered by Rum and Monkey.

This Nearly Made Me Vomit

From the Highland High School Band Alumni Page:

Date: 10 Sep 99 16:51:05 EDT
From: MICHAEL PIERCE mupi@usa.net

What a surprise--and nostalgic experience--to find you on the Web! What a greater surprise to find Mr. Fromholz's picture! (You're still there?! Do you remember the drosophila melanogaster eye-color experiment I did for Mr. Ruby's Bio I class?)

I'm currently teaching TSL 4324, ESOL Strategies for Content Area Teachers while working on the PhD here at Florida State. This is my first year. I have been an ESL adjunct instructor at Hillsborough Community College, Tampa, an ESOL teacher trainer for Hillsborough County (Tampa) Public Schools and the Florida DoE, while teaching elementary ESOL for the same district for the past eight years. Two years prior I taught junior high math in West Palm Beach. For six years before that I ran my own private academy in Muncie based on my master's thesis in alternative education: home schooling. Four years as a fourth and fifth grade teacher in Pendleton began my 20-year teaching career.

My wife, Karen, is a Pediatric RN. Our son, Kristopher, 22, lives in Tampa and works for Merchants Financial Services. Daughters, Kelle, 21, and Kara, 19, both attend the University of South Florida in Tampa. Kelle's a music major (voice) and Kara's an English/Writing major.

I'll be glad to hear from any of the HHS alumni from my era. Michael J. Pierce, MAEd,TESL,TA
Multilingual/Multicultural Education
Department of Curriculum and Instruction
209 Milton Carothers Hall
The Florida State University
Tallahassee, Florida 32306-4490
---
Office: MCH 416 (Wed 10:30-12, or by appt)
Phone: 850-644-7957, 644-6960
Email: mjp0777@garnet.acns.fsu.edu, mupi@usa.net
http://mailer.fsu.edu/~rflowers/mmed.htm

[oh ew]

The Mercy Seat

Sitting across from the blue-eyed boy, I saw his sadness, and it covered us both like a damp blanket; we huddled beneath it, together. Many had gone before me, had sat in this chair while they spoke reluctant, cruel words that caused the lines now prematurely creasing his forehead. They would disappear in an hour or so – he was too young to keep them for long. He is an old soul, though, and I am certain the scars remain.

When I took that seat, directly opposite his, I had every intention of following through with my orders. I meant to say the words that would cut him to the quick, the words of unlove that he never deserved. I tried to be obedient, but when I saw tears sparking his eyes, tears that did not fall – oh, he was too strong for that, my boy; bright, hot tears – I could not do it. How could I sit across from my best of friends and tell him what I hated about him in front of all of these people – my uncomfortable, confused comrades? And would I be the next one to sit in his place?

But there was just nothing to hate about him. I tried to think of something, anything that would fulfill the requirements of the ‘lesson’ without devastating him further. It was some kind of experiment. We were meant to learn something from this, though what was never explained, or perhaps I have forgotten. Was it punishment? Had he been caught listening to rock’n’roll again? Had he flashed a defiant eye to our master, a man who bragged about being born on Hitler’s birthday? Why was he sitting in that chair, across from me, eyes penitent without understanding? The always-ready smile that glowed from his deep charm was crimped into an unsteady line, and it cut me.

Then I saw him through God’s eyes, or through the eyes of a god I hoped existed somewhere. Not the one we had been taught. No, that one was a punisher, a slayer of Philistine babies, a fiery sword to smite down wicked, disobedient children like us. I looked at him and saw a beautiful, kind boy with a heart full of music, and I loved him, the totality of him. I wanted to comfort him, but I was not allowed.

So I took his hand, and I put everything good and tender into my eyes that I could find, and I said “Remember when I was six years old, and you were nine, and you borrowed a dollar from me?”

He shook his head, confused.

“You didn’t pay me back. But you don’t have to.”

I saw his heart smile, and I learned that day, in that moment, that mercy given is mercy received.

All Shook Up (uh-uh-huh, yeah, hey hey)

I heard something interesting today. A story is circulating through the grapevi – I mean, prayer chain – that a guy with a hatchet broke down The Servant’s door last night and threatened his life. What really got me laughing though, was that the Servant was able to talk down the troubled, hatchet-wielding Dear One and diffuse the situation, after which he promptly called his associate stooge, Tyler, to take care of it.

This inspires a few thoughts. Firstly, there is a very small, exceedingly sinful part of me that derives great glee from the idea of someone taking a hatchet to the Door Built By Faith. That part of me, that angry, disenfranchised part of me, wishes it could have been the one to think of it first.

Secondly, how Arfod is that? Someone breaks down your door with a hatchet in the middle of the night, threatens your life, and after talking down the perp, you immediately call – not the cops, oh no – you call the associate pastor. Why was I ever surprised that Michael Pierce’s punishment was to be relocated to Florida and set up with a new house, a new job, and a new church?

Anyway, I don’t know if this is true or not as I heard it 59th hand, but I called my sources in Parker and am having the rumor verified. In fact, my source is calling the stooge’s mother as I write this to get the juicy details. After all, how can we know how best to pray if we don’t have all the dirt?

In other news, I landed a job as the music director of a local Methodist church and did my first service yesterday.

Yes, I’m serious.

Ok, so my source just called me back and here’s what happened:

Years ago there was this kid named Jeremy who used to come to church. Jeremy was an Elvis impersonator. He was being “discipled” by Tyler, the aforementioned associate stooge, and had in fact been on the phone with him earlier that evening. At 2:30am, Tyler gets a call from The Servant and hears Jeremy’s voice in the background saying something about how he’d better not be calling the police or he’d kill him, etc. Tyler calls the police, then in grand hero fashion, rushes over to The Home Built By Faith, vaults over the shards of broken glass and wood littering the porch, bolts up the stairs to the Bedroom Built By Faith, and promptly falls under the sway of the hatchet-wielding King.

When the cop arrives (this is a very, very small town – its policeman is very short, very overweight, and writes a helluva traffic ticket), he charges upstairs, breaks down the bedroom door, and finds The Servant and The Stooge quivering at axe-point, enthralled by this crazed, sideburn-sporting, grits-eating mama’s boy who is about to send them to the great Heartbreak Hotel in the sky. The cop unloads an entire can of pepper spray in this enclosed space, and you can imagine the mayhem that ensues. Everyone – Servant, Stooge, Elvis and Cop – evacuate to the hallway. Eventually, the pepper spray saves the day as Elvis falls under its sway while Servant and Stooge pray and Cop makes a mental note to, next time, use that shiny metal thing strapped to his hip that is typically reserved for just such a circumstance.

It’s lucky that they got Elvis talking, because his plan was to murder the Servant, and then to go to Tyler’s house and murder him, and probably his wife too. With a hatchet.

I guess he didn’t like the cornbread either.

McAdams Family History

I know at least one person out there will enjoy reading this.