The Bumblin' Fumblin' Prime Time False Poet Blues.

There are little signs in life that I don't know if they're true or not: little butterflies that butterfly by you just when you were thinking some random-ass memory about your dead Mom-Mom: convincing you that your Mom-Mom is now a butterfly who happens to live in the bushes and shits and eats, not say, in a Vietnamese jungle or some Kansas sunflower field, but right outside your house. And I'm not gonna lie to ya: it takes balls to even dally with the notion that your Mom-Mom is a reincarnated bug that happens to show up to flit around on the breeze when you're taking a fat bag of trash out to the garbage can.

Whatever. 

I'm the type that likes to play that game, to find myself staring down the barrel of a sign from the great beyond here, a little reminder from a parallel dimension there. It makes me feel like my imagination still has a few miles in it; that I still got Poetry Eyeballs, like a kid or an old dreamer who never leaked out all his magic sap. Don't get me wrong: its all ego. Anytime you spend thinking about how wildly creative you are in this life is basically just you being an asshole. And the punishment for that is probably that some of your creative juice leaks into your piss and you piss it away, little by little. Poets who call themselves poets are basically people running out of ideas.

Still. I have these moments when I get all giddy thinking about my super powers; how I can recognize the subtle secret signs my dead relatives send me; how I can sniff out the very light fragrance of life's essence, it's magical lyricism. I get off on feeling like some common moment has way deeper meaning than it has any right to and that I detect that. Hmph. I know, I know. What a douche bubble.

Now you catch my drift, my dilemma. I am a Sign See-er. A Reader of Moments. The Periscope: that's what they call me in some circles (no circles).  It's a hard way to live and its a racket too. But I lie to myself like a motherfucker: and I stare at my daughter's face while she's watching the Yo Gabba Gabba dude blow her mind with his orange magnificence and I think that I see my Pop-Pop staring at me through her profile. Or that I can really just bask in the badassness of my kid just flinging her arms out in spastic joy and recognize that it really is the greatest moment of my life: unfolding right then and fucking there, on the living room carpet of a rented house at five-nineteen in the evening.

It's a balm, I tell ya. A soothing agent. It's warm whiskey: to buy your own bullshit. And the buzz never dies.

So, what happened the other night was tough to take.

I gave Violet her bath, like always. I did the routine, I let her soak her ass in the three inches of lukewarm with her Dora bobber and her colored boats and her plastic dinosaurs while I set out her Penguin pj's and a diaper. I put the binky on the bookcase by the stereo. I hit the stereo to the very first note of the first song (Ladysmith Black Mambazo!) on the record she falls asleep to everynight and paused it right at the exact second it begins. You know you're a legendary bitch when you know a record so inside/out that you understand, completely, the very spaces between the music, between the songs. So, yeah, I did that.

I killed the Winnie The Pooh lamp so the room was only lit by the nightlight on the bookshelf. Everything was ready, man. Ready for that quickness that must shine when you're putting the kid to sleep. One fumble/one pause/one little chunk in the super-slick grease of tucking her in and the whole thing can just explode on you with unforgivable energy. Let her tap her head on the headboard or drop the bink down the side of the mattress where you can't find it for a sec and you might as well have leaned down into her drifting sleepy eyes and touched her nose-to-nose and let out one of those blood-curdling Middle Eastern Street Fighting Yelps you sometimes hear in the dusty background on CNN.

Everything was set. It was Go Time. I went in there and rubbed some soap on her and whispered at her like I read in some parenting book once, so my voice helps to lull her toward La-La Land. I whispered and let warm water roll down her neck and back and she was tiring of her toys and I could feel that I was casting deep spells on her desire to never sleep again for as long as her daddy lives so he can't have his half hour at the end of the massive day to unwind with a Diet Coke and some sitcom.  I lifted her out of the tub, dripping, onto her beach towel unfolded in my lap. Together, we said our "see ya tomorrows" to the boats and the T-rexes.

I carried her to her room.

We did our ballet.

To the stereo, hit the Pause, pick up the binky, put it to her lips, spin the half spin of grace, to the bedside, settle her down onto the softness (onto the diaper on top of the pj's ontop of her bed with the blanket folded back so it's easy to flip right up on her).

One of my moments started to come to me. I thought I smelled greatness. The greatness of a man, in the American night, laying his beloved daughter to sleep in the bed he bought her with the money he made working with his hands. Something so pure. Something...poetic.

I zipped up her pj's, the music overtaking us both. The deep rich voices of ancient Africa chanting and singing in such harmony.

My God. I was drunk on our love, on our little poetic scene playing out.

I moved to the door to leave like I do every night, waiting to hear her sweet little voice, like it comes every night.

There!

"Byyyyyyyye," she says through her binky popping at her lips. "Byyyyyyyye," and get this: she raises her little left hand and waves from under her covers: a tiny hand saying goodbye. A tiny voice saying Bye.

Oh the humanity. The sweet bittersweet wonderful terrible world spinning a thousand miles per second under my feet, under our feet. The clouds mixed with moonbeams high above our heads, the thin veneer of night all that lies between this heaving ball of life and forever after.

"Byyyyyyyye," she whimpered.

"Byyyyyyye sweetheart," I whimpered back.

I pulled the door shut, slowly, like The Walton's lights going out.

"Byyyyyyye," I heard her from beyond the door. One last proverbial kiss to her daddy.

The door wouldn't shut.

"Byyyyyyyyye." She was still good-byeing me.

I pulled hard, risking the slam, needing to preserve the stardusted momement. MY moment.

It didn't shut. What the fuck!

I started getting a little antsy.

"Byyyyyyyye." Christ, she knows I'm still here. Still standing at the door, like a fat clueless ass clown.

I didn't answer her. My last bye had been long and lingering and had faded just as I pulled the door to close, like in a killer scene ending in a play. I'd nailed it and I knew it and I didn't want to mess with that.

I shook the door a little. Nothing. It was stuck on something. Goddamnit. Godfuckingdamnit CLOSE YOU FUCKING STUPID DOOR...YOU STUPID IDIOTIC PIECE OF SHIT CHEAPEST ASSHOLE DOOR AT LOWE'S THAT MY ASSHOLE LANDLORD PROBABLY PAID SIX DOLLARS FOR...FUCKING CLOSE!

"Byyyyyyye." An angel becoming confused. Why won't that daddy go now?

I looked up. The door was caught on one of the dumb over the top hanger things I'd put up for her coats.

Shit. I pulled again, with a lot of yank. Nothing.

"Byyyyyyye." Poor baby. Oh, for the Love of Mary why is this happening  right now? I just wanna eat some chips and salsa and watch some damn King of Queens or Bizarre Foods.

I pushed the door in a little, thinking that was it. Violet would be sucked back down to Earth from the Drifting Cloud of Impending Dreams and she would be mighty razzled about that and I'd end up having to get some freaking apple juice and all kinds of shit.

A line of light shot in her room, but all I heard was bye. Again. "Byyyyyyyye."

I jimmied with the hanger thing and pulled the door again and this time I heard it click and felt it's certain pop of closure.

The moment, my poetic moment was toast.

I stood there in my splendid shame. Utter chaos had risen up in me, born of nothing. I felt like a dick. I was a dick. You don't just drip drops of poetry down on your eveing whenever the hell you feel like it, fuckface. You're not allowed to do that.

The signs have to be real. Natural. Unexpected. And sly.

"Byyyyyyyyye."

No lie.

She said it again. As I was just standing there. I heard it cut through the music, through the wood of the door.

And without trying or even giving a shit: my kid became the greatest poet alive tonight.

You Were Gonna Be The One Who Saves Me.

When it all comes down: when the last breeze blows the last puff of human bone ash down the side of some quiet hill somewhere: when humanity is done: the beasts will gather. Squirrel Kings will emerge from the darkness of damp oak groves and stand at the edge of a hundred golden evening fields. Thousands, millions of squirrels will follow; their tiny feet scratching through the fallen leaves, the rustle so deafening you could have heard it from miles away.

 Royal Crows will land in the highest branches of the most ancient pines; black clouds of their followers swooping down out of the sky like a moveable night; a tempest of whoosh, a trillion strong wings spreading/touching/pushing air through the air to perch upon every inch of every branch for miles.

Kingdoms of deer, kingdoms of wildcats. Lost cities of raccoons will appear on hilltops at dusk, dust clouds rising in their long orderly wake; their numbers strectching far back down into the glistening valley behind, into some distant still wood.

The Order of Bears will lumber down off of the autumn mountain. Thousands of giants moving in unison, walking as one. Sparrows by the millions. Butterflies by the gillions. Animal Kings and Bird Queens and Insect Princes and Princesses, all coming from far away to a scooped out ampitheatre of Earth, to stand together in the final brilliant rays of a cool October eveing.

Two doves will lean on each other, tired from the long journey.

"It's hard to believe, ain't it, Stan?" one will whisper, the small sliver of straw rising and falling in his beak, with his words. "Hard to believe we made it. This many of us anyway. Harrrrrrrrrd to believe."

"Sure is, William," Stan will say. "Sure as hell is. For a while there it really seemed like they'd figure out a way to piss all over the campfire once and for all."

William will chuckle at that. Spin his straw with his bird tongue.

"Yep," he'll counter. "I never did see an opening there for a bit. Looked bleak. Bleak, I say."

"Sheeeeeeeit. Bleak. That's bein' kind, I reckon. Bleak, he says!," Stan will look over at the gang, a bunch of doves spinning straw bits in their beaks. "Hellfire yes things were bleak! Damn bleak and then some. They shot holes in everything. In the sky, in the moons. They shot holes in the goddamned holes! Never stopped to think for a second, did they? They just unzipped their jeans and started raining down their stinky piss all over everything. Serves 'em right, I say. Serves 'em right what happened."

Stan and the others, they'll just stare at William for a moment after his words float out and away. Then, slowly they'll crane their potato chip necks a little/ down towards the stage.

A murmur will ripple back and forth through the masses of creatures. It'll skip out across the miles and miles of wild heads and back again: a warm teenage wave alone on the Friday night sea.

Rows of slightly drunk beavers will sway back and forth, arms flung back behind the sholuders of their buddies, singing pub songs/happy shit.

"And after awwwwwllllll.....YOU'RE MY WONDERWAWWWWWLLLL!"

Swarms of green flies will circle them and buzz to the tune.

Everybody knows it, everyone loves it.

William will hum it a little, poke Stan in the ribs. "They had some good tunes though, didn't they, buddy? They had some killer tunes: I'll give 'em that. Dumb bastards"

The flies will lower themselves to feast on the beaver's hot craps lying in the trampled grass.

A worm will rise up out of the dirt by the doves.

"Psst! Dove Boy! Hey Mack!," the worm will be hollering at the top of his worm lungs.

Stan'll look down/ see the worm.

"Hey man," he'll say. "Howyadoin."

"Dude, eat me!," the worm will yell up.

Stan will cock an eyebrow.

"Seriously? You're cool with that? You must be pretty damn excited huh!?"

"Dude, I am totally on fire," the worm will say. " I can't believe this day is here. Seriously, man: I want ya to eat me. You and your boys. It's totally cool, I'll be able to hear from inside ya's."

That'll be the spirit of the evening. Serious giving. Heartbreakingly sweet stuff.

Stan will peck at the worm. He'll fling bits of him into the air and William and the fellas will all get a little taste. The worm won't care. His worm soul will spread out into the souls of a dozen or so doves. He'll be better, stronger. And he'll be rewarded for his love.

A badger will light a cigar. A Cuban he took from a rich man's hunting cabin. From a dead man's camp. The mellow smoke will drift slow, graceful, tickling the wet noses of some wolves and the thin dried beak lips of some wild turkeys. They'll all look over at him with soft eyes.

Look at that badger, they'll say. That sumbitch knows how to welcome The Lord, don't he?

An eagle will appear high in the darkening sky and the endless crowds will draw a collective breath. A silence will fall over the land as the great bird circles on a thermal, over and over and over, each turn bringing him a little closer to the ground.

Then:

"Look! There he is! It's Old Man God!", a Tennesse Tree Frog will holler. And with that: a roar will rise up unlike any roar that's ever roared before. Mice voices and trout voices and elk voices and grouse voices, all the voices of all the critters left living will rise up and twist themselves into some sort of exploding soccer chant, the very puff of all that wild breath spinning the eagle backwards a few loops, as he grins a shit-eating grin down at the quivering surface of the planet.

The roar will just go and go too. A hissing rapid of joy spilling upward from the river below, splashing higher and higher up into the sky, like when Springsteen would take the stage in the old Philadelphia Spectrum, but times a million: something so powerful, so glorious, so beautiful and overwhelming and sublime: something magical that sweeps you up in it's gentle arms and carries you up into the sky with it, so you can elevate with the sound, so you can sniff in great gusts of the gushing wind, of the joy, of the moment.

Praying mantis's will pass out cold. Red foxes will weep, their arms slung around misty eye'd storks. Honeybees will shit honey drops. Wild onions will cry Hosiah. Lily pads will slap themselves onto the pond. Poison sumac vines will wrap around fat rabbits and hug them so tightly; black timber rattlers will hurl themselves at each other/entwine like honey doughnut sticks/and stare at the electric blue evening sky.

Mountains will march closer. New suns will begin setting. Every hungry gullet will simply fill with tasty grain or sap, as the eagle glides down to the timbers stacked for the King.

The living of Earth, not a human being to be found, will look reverently at the proud old eagle, at the twinkle in his Eagle Eye.

"CRITTERS (CRItters..CRittters...critters...)," he'll bellow, the word booming out of his head and echoing across the land, across the legions of cheering creatures, to silence them in its Wall of Sound wake.

"CRITTERS (CRItters...Critters......critters...), I PRESENT TO YOU, YOUR KING, THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY RETURNED!!! (RETurned!.....Returned!....returned!!!!)

And the noise will be indescribable. Unimaginable. All thunder and raging river and cracking lightning, like a slave ballad sung from the guts of the effervescent galaxy herself, from the lips of the stars in the sky; there will arise a cheering, a cheering unlike the world has ever known, I reckon. From the mouths of pigs and cows and dogs and robins and mosquitos and lizards will come the most joyous sound man never heard.

And from behind the eagles rigid dutiful head will come the sweet loving sound of the creator himself, in a voice not at all unike the awesome human comedian, Sinbad:

"Whaaaaaaaassssssssssuuuuuuuuuuppppppp, ya'll!????!!!"

And he will step out from behind the eagle's skull: a four-inch songbird of no special make, no certain species, his head a dull red, his body sort of olive green, like a Christmas ornament strangely enough. He will hold his hands up in the air and dance out onto the eagles back and the now night sky will light up like a jumbo Jumbotron so even the faraway beasts can see, and two spotlights will shoot down off of two stars six yillion light years away and the return of the messiah will be the most wonderful peaceful illuminating night in the history of nights and he will open with this nugget:

"THEY GONE!" (GOne!....Gone!...gone!!!)

Their ecstasy will follow. Their deafening cheers. A cyclone of happiness. A thousand massive tornados making pure monkey love to the storm of storms.

He will hold up his left hand to the sky, to quiet them down.

A moment will pass as their loving roar fades.

Then, he'll say:

"IT'S JUST US NOW, YA'LL! NO MORE OF THEIR SIMPLE SILLY HORSESHIT!!!! (HORSeshit!...HOrseshit!....horseshit!...)

Otherworldly roars of approval. A star will shine down on the horse kingdom on a hillside out there and the songbird/Big Guy will point at them and wink at them like a Rat Packer.

The roars will fade.

"THAT TUCSON SHIT WAS THE LAST STRAW, YA'LL!" (YA'll!...Ya'll!...ya'll!....)

And just like that, all of us who ever lived, from the beginning of time, will feel the cameras pulling back fast: from the eyes of the songbird/ back out over the fields of heads/ rushing backwards/ backwards/ the cameras zooming out rapidly/ the stage now a distant speck of starlight off beyond the darkened miles of creatures staring at it/ backwards/ peeling backwards/ moving away from all we've ever known/ away from the greatest night ever/ magnets behind us, drawing us backwards/ the shot pulling/pulling/pulling/ sliding back and taking off now/  looking back off the belly of a rising jet we are moving miles per second/ all of us/ the good the bad and the ugly/ away from the deer and the wildcats and the rats and the daffodils and the wild onions/ rushing backwards now/ like a beam of light/ blazing/ all of us/ out of his eyeball forever now/ cut loose by the songbird/ cut loose by him.

Rushing backwards. Further and further out there, into the blackness.

Cut loose like we never could have imagined.

The Year In Pictures.

 Years ending have become samey.

Some snow, some ice; pictures of celebrities who bit the dust back in May, who you forgot even died.

The last month limps off out the room after the ass-kicking; the Christmas tree's still standing there: like some stink-bum at the free doughnuts in the rectory. New Years Eve blows up all over the world, fireworks cascading down over the Opera House in Sydney Harbor while I'm still having an afternoon Diet Coke on the couch. As I feed my kid some chicken nugget hunks for her last dinner of the year, fireworks bedazzle the darkness above the Eiffle Tower.

When I finally get around to taking my first sip of eleven dollar celebration wine/the ball drops in Times Square. Anderson Cooper. Probably douchey Steven Tyler or someone standing down in the crowd, with the frozen peasants. Some music. Carrie Underwood, I guess. Or Taylor whats-her-face. Maybe some Pink. Huzzah.

We'll sit there on the micro-fibre couch, on the dirty cream cushions. Two years ago that thing was our prized possesion. Our brand new RC Willey $550 Sea Foam White sectional. Then life waltzed in; he waltzed in with his bag of liquor and plopped down on the snow bank and started pissing himself and shitting himself and blowing his snots out on the heels of his hand and slyly slathering them across the fabric like some kind of nuclear butter on our warm family toast. The dogs came tracking in their creek dirt, hopping up on the soft white cloud in the living room and farting out dead bugs and ground up deer guts, peppering the fucking proud symbol of our middle-classness with goddamn foul jams leaked from their rotten guts; skidmarks from their parked asses all up and down the marble halls of prosperity.

Monica spilt a little salsa here.

I bring in a little drywall there.

Violet dances across the cushions in her dusty striped socks. Time stains, man. Every unstoppable hour is a bucket of soot.

The year turns over into another year and we're four feet away from each other, me and her. Two pilots throttling down the runway/banging through air pockets and seagull shit and evening mist/ready to fly the filthy sponge straight through the thin cieling of clouds, and up into the clean outer blackness of something mysterious and new.

By two glasses of wine in, I'll be slurring my little speeches. I'll be talking at Dick Clark when he starts mumbling. I'll be yelling at whatever shit band they march out there in the 20 degree night. I'll look down through my Spanish buzz and spot the sign for Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory, down in the middle of all those lights, all that action. And I'll wish I was there, if only long enough to sip a nine dollar Miller Lite: some Long Island asshole in a four hundred dollar Yankees parka blowing one of those New Year's plastic horns in my ear. Ba-ba-booey.

The dizzying promise of the coming year rising up out of me like the warm whiskey shots used to do; back on those New Year's Eves when my neck would unhinge from my young wild head and I could celebrate the simple galaxy of my youth with a pure and proper sick: in an alley, in a city, wrapped in the cold forever night.