i
cushion
on a mower
on a cushion
on a boat
on a cushion
in a truck
held together
by a rope

ii
a green rag
clamped to a cushion
clamped to a window
leaning open
out of the cap
over the bed
part of a truck
that’s hardly held together

iii
red  flag
secured
to the boat
…
for safety

iv
all the rest

Lucky was a junkyard dog – brought home just before we brought home the eldest.  By the time we brought her home, he was our soldier, protector of the house and those within it.  But as a junkyard dog and the concerns that led mom to buy us a book on how to train a dog, we had a few concerns over the manner he’d react to an infant. We set her in her crib, and he went under it, and stayed there until we pulled her out again. He never stopped looking out for her from that day forward:

He nearly ripped a man’s throat out as we walked, as Ari toddled down the street and he approached – the man reached over to pat her on the head: Lucky went into attack mode.

There was the time she was playing on the front lawn, bouncing around while Lucky sat in the old Ford pickup, and the neighbor kid failed to catch a ball tossed his direction.  It rolled across the lawn and to the little dip between our property and the next; the boy jogged over to retrieve it.  The dog rocketed through the window and stood right above the ball, bared his teeth and let the child know he’d not approach it. He didn’t go after the kid, just held position and let him know not to advance.

But the thing about Lucky – he was a soldier: He followed his commands – not with the man walking down the street. He did not like that man at all, but otherwise. So when we told him to shut it down, he let little Kevin get his ball.

Lucky was, by far, the smartest dog that’s ever joined the family.  An absolute, 100 percent guard dog that turned it off with a command, that loved to play, loved to sunbathe with his too-long tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, and he loved going for a car ride.

We stumbled on an old suburban at the junkyard, that was the blue the same as ours, the year as ours – more smashed than ours, at least at the point at which we parted.

Unlike the hound that never sits and never stops whining when we drive, Lucky would sit in a seat and just observe all that passed. Or, stick his head out the window and let that long tongue waggle in the wind.  It’s funny, because as different as they are, the current hound and Lucky would have likely been a perfect pair – the companion and guidance the hound has longed for since we got him.

Instead, he got our golden – maybe an omega. Unlike the hound and Lucky, Riley hated riding in the car – he used to puke, and would lie flat, happy to scramble out upon arrival.  He nevertheless, did go on many rides in the old Suburban, several times a summer going camping, and many times that number, going to the parks.

Getting rid of that old boat was a poor decision, and we’ve never had anything since to adequately replace it: Largely stuffing into mini-vans, that, while at the time more reliable, have never had the same utility, and a certain drain on enthusiasm held for driving.  But at the time it needed work, and we needed something that we could count on to travel distance.  So it went…

Such thought processes are likely what lead many of the discards to the junkyard, but sometimes we’ll cross a vehicle and can’t get our heads around why it would end there.

A Z in decent condition, both inside and out.

The old guy said, “It’s a rot box.” I said i’d take it, anyhow. He said it makes the lot, it’s done forever.

Another of the incomprehensible: Old MR2.

Obviously needs work, but so much potential.

The yard was something, back in the day – several years ago.  A sight to see, first thing in the morning as the sun was rising, as dew still clung and mist softened the metal hulks.  You entered through a dingy shack, and exited that through piled tires that led to the littered yard, the gravel road with a giant hole gouged in the middle.  Back then, we’d get what we were after almost every time we entered.

But now, it’s fancy. Now, we enter through automatic, sliding doors, the floors are spotless and we check in and check out at an orderly counter. The old, gravel road’s been replaced by pristine concrete, and more times than not we walk away without the part we came for.

People camp on facebook and hit the front clip of any malibu arriving within an hour.  It’s the same for many parts, such as mirrors for the silverados/suburbans/tahoes. A couple times we’ve had to claim a part, as others poke into a vehicle we’re working: It’s so far been respectful – just an inquiry, and then usually a note to disappointment – but they move along to hunt another car.

There’s also competition for the cranes: We pulled an engine for the Subaru, and as we were, as the crane was idle while we struggled to extract it, another down the aisle approached and inquired to our intentions. He sort of smirked at our struggles, and, as he was after what we had, he lent a hand – explained, “There’s two pins down at the bottom. Ya need something to wedge it open.”

We wedged, and dropped the engine in a bucket. Considering the load as i tried to turn it, I asked – I said to him, “You think we can carry this out?”

The man laughed. He lifted the engine with one hand and said, “I can.  You probably ought to have them open the gate.” Between the two of us, we struggled to get the engine from the bucket to the tailgate…

There’s a lot of interesting people, a lot of interesting vehicles – old Corvairs. Sometimes you open up a car and some of the life that was lived within them hasn’t fully left, and you can be struck with what had been: An old doll left wedged beneath a seat. A pack of Newports in the console. Old tapes, books; receipts.

Sometimes you open up the door to a vehicle that’s been smashed to crap, charred out front end and air bags deployed and you find personal affects left behind in a hurry. Or a collection on a window, left behind, and you stop to think about what it meant – almost hear the voices: An argument that it shouldn’t have been, reluctant consent, then – “I’m gonna add another sticker on the window.”

It’s sometimes eerie to open up a door and feel the impression of lives still echo. Especially to look inside a blue Suburban and find my own.

silence is the aim.
the danger of the written word is 
someone might read it
someone could understand what the writer
was saying
someone could feel the emotion through the paper
the tears that formed the ink
someone might understand what was written
someone might realize that the person that wrote
saw something they couldn’t understand
and wanted to correct it
but they didn’t know how
all they could do was write words
all they could do was document what was happening
all they could do was share and hope someone heard
and then hope someone said something to another
someone said something to another person

it's just a little girl
he’s a boy that doesn’t want to be afraid
a father trying to do better for his family
a mother that knows
what happens
to children
and she’d rather risk
their lives
than let it happen
without fighting

the aim is silence
they fight drugs
and want you distracted by them
by fighting for them
by thinking it is oppressive that you can’t
get high
get drunk
get stoned
get stupid

did you know that she was sitting by the Clover?
no one knows
no one heard the whimper
wall street
fifth avenue
main street wherever
megaphones should deafen the ears of everyone
we should be on our knees
collapsed and suffering
because she was only a little girl that 
wanted to smell the clovers

how come no one’s paying attention
how come no one can see what’s going on
are you deaf
are you stupid
are you dumb
are you blind

question
why can’t we help someone
why do we have to accept this is how things are
why can’t we change the way it is
why do they fight change
why do they hate it
hate us
hate everyone

i know
we are wired for enlightenment
we all want to know and understand
but every side and piece of land on this planet
is ruled over by kings that want silence

look away
close your eyes
forget what you see
silence
silence
she stopped moaning
no one helped her
no one did anything
i got hit in the head
with the butt of a gun
because I started running
did you know 
she just wanted to smell the clovers

reverberation in the hollow
simmering for long
drawn –
din slimmed thin
not content to be a memory
an afterthought
unwilling to fade entirely
but never growing

In an old hunting lodge on the grounds of an ancient Norman castle in Abergavenny, Wales, a small, extinct dog peers out of a handmade wooden display case.

“Whiskey is the last surviving specimen of a turnspit dog, albeit stuffed,” says Sally Davis, longtime custodian at the Abergavenny Museum.

The Canis vertigus, or turnspit, was an essential part of every large kitchen in Britain in the 16th century. The small cooking canine was bred to run in a wheel that turned a roasting spit in cavernous kitchen fireplaces.

It was quarter after eight and just near the point of freezing as we turned into the parking lot.  A year prior, we’d entered in to see a small, blue pickup truck that displayed allegiance to ideologies pertaining to paler flesh. The gentleman that was driving made several aggressive moves towards pedestrians, slamming on his brakes before colliding.  We saw him – oblivious to what around him – do it one more time before our city’s finest. The officer pulled right behind him and boxed him in, and put an end to his evening’s fun. On exiting the establishment, the truck remained, but like the driver, the flag was gone.

That moment came to mind, last night, as we were greeted by another flying flag, as we made our entrance to the parking lot – night time’s blanket barely broken by the light that shone from the corner of the building. Just as we pulled into the drive, we were startled by a young man on a bike, head bedecked in a red-checked keffiyah, and secured, and flying high above the man and bike was a giant, Iraqi flag. The man rode past without looking at us looking at him, his face frozen in a state of sure defiance. He rode on, onto the shoulder of the road with traffic passing by at highway speeds. In the dark, in the cold – flag, regardless.

He looks into me now, and smiles. 
His eyes are softer than they were
even a few years before:
He still presumes i am generally wrong,
regardless of the topic – he’s made me
more thoughtful
and less judgmental of opinions.

More curious.

He still taps madly at his keyboard,
contributing to papers
long past the age that most
have abandoned vocational pursuits
i doubt he’s any longer paid much of anything,
but i’m glad he’s still engaged.

Thirty minutes later
i sweep all the thoughts that follow
into a box and
close them in
beneath the lid. 
Thoughts decomposing
into fragmenting ribbons…

I was talking with Kenny.  I was thinking about buying a car to do some travelling, and he was bragging about his truck:  It was a white Comanche, blue interior.  He’d done some customization on it – that little shade thing over the front window, covers on the taillights and I believe he’d modified the suspension.  He was very proud of that truck.

To me, it seemed impractical.  I said, Kenny, man – why a truck? He explained it was, in fact, a matter of practicality: They’re cheap – they cost a lot less than a car.

I bought my first truck in 1992, a Ford Ranger that pumped exhaust into the cab with vinyl seats, rubber flooring, metal roof and no power steering – a five-year old, five-speed special for a thousand dollars: Transportation on the cheap.

When I was young…

It was recently reported that eight GM trucks worth about $640,000 total were stolen in Flint — one was used to smash into an ATM, Michigan State Police said.

Things were different, I say to the kids…

Entering Arlington,
passage moves through fields of infantry,
graves of soldiers lost in trenches,
on Higgins boats,
foxholes in Vietnam,
barracks in Beirut,
Iraq and Afghanistan.
The climb rises to the rarefied air of admirals
and colonels,
before the crest is reached
at the majestic memorial amphitheater,
and the tomb of the unknown soldier
that lies before it. 
The ritualistic vigil of the sentinel,
and the somber changing of the guard
is profound to see
a striking reminder to appreciate
those that have allowed us quibble in the petulance
of politic, et cetera,
to appreciate those that volunteer
despite ourselves.

It’s been several years and I’m still standin’ here
time goes by then just disappears
all the words i swear to get away from here
– same words I’ve heard for so many years

So many years just disappear when you don’t know where you’re goin’
i’ve tried lookin’ for tomorrow – end up lost in days i’ve known
all the times i’ve gone lookin’ for a place to call my home
no matter where i run to, end up standin’ here alone

I look above – feel like i’m fallin’ in the sky
i call into the wind but get no reply
i remember days i thought i’d race against the wind
and i swear someday, i’ll be there again

Now there’ve been times i’ve turned the page but the words were all the same
any time i choose a road i’m headin’ back the way i came
i’ve dreamed of gettin’ out of here but i never found the way
it seems like i’ve tried everything but nothing really changed

Now, my desires have grown, but lead me nowhere
i just want to get away from here

I call above, feels like i’m fallin’ in the sky
i call into the wind but get no reply
i remember days i thought i’d race against the wind
i swore some day – i’d be there again

– circa 1992

The sun was shining, just like the sun is shining as I look across the water: Over water that stole the prior twenty-seven years – almost three decades spent behind steel bars; on concrete floors. I watch black liquid lapping languidly against the shore: Tendrils dragging shoreline slowly underneath the surface like I’ve watched them pull, before.

The sun was shining, the air was warm; her smile, even more.

I stare across the lapping water and remember looking in her eyes. I see her smile.

I close my eyes.

They close against the present. Against a chance to live a life I never had. They close against the loss, and fear, and desperation – complete helplessness.

Eyes can never close for long: Because I see it.

I see her body dripping from our swim. I see her smile. I feel her tender fingers slip into my own. And, I see her eyes: Panic – it choked the single word she spoke, one word to express the terror felt, a single mote that raised my fear, confusion; that asked for help. She spoke my name. She called out, “Tom?” And all I thought to answer, was, “What is going on?”

The last words she heard before the water pulled.

I stand enclosed in quiet behind the windows that seal the patio. I see the water that stole her life and mine. I see the looks of neighbors in their yards, eyes casting disapproval that I’ve returned.

I was trying to pull her out, not hold her down.

i reached out as she ran toward me down grand river
hair disheveled — strewn in tears
called out
y’alright

i wish i’d had capacity for something more
a lame excuse: my head was just a stew of wreck
i let her pass

regret