beach house

my favorite part about going away
to the beach at chincoteague 
once every three or so years 
was exploring the rental house. 
i searched for evidence about 
the people who owned the place. 
photographs hung in the hallway 
(were they stock photos 
or did they really have 
two beautiful
brown-haired children?). 
the monopoly game was missing 
the dog playing piece (the most
important one). the mystery
novels wearing worn & cracked
spines, aching from use (did they
re-read their mystery novels?).
in bed after days spent 
with my pink feet in soft 
sifting sand i tried
to imagine the lives of 
the home owners. all the houses
in chincoteague were named
& ours that particular year
was the "blue egret." i saw
plenty of egrets there but
none of them were "blue"
enough for my 4th grade
definition of the color.
the first people i created
were two brothers, they had
grown up together & never
married. they came here only
once or twice a year to fish
in the canal. the one brother
dreamed of catching a shark
(impossible?). 
the next were an elderly couple,
too tired to amble through
the sand  so instead they'd 
just park their car at the beach
& play board games, one 
time losing the dog monopoly 
piece down the cracks in the seat.
the final was a single young 
woman. she had bought the house
just to create something for
other people. she never read
the mystery novels, those used
to be her mom's. she wanted
them to get some use. 
she never visited & sometimes
forgot that she owned the blue egret.
i want to be like her if i could
ever own a beach house. i want 
to lay clues to the renters
about who i might be. strange
sculptures on the end tables,
a protein shake blender, photographs
of all kinds of people, no same
person in two pictures.
the children staying there,
whose parents are watching 
television or making pasta
in the kitchen, they will 
find the clues, they will
lay awake in bed & fantasize 
about the house belonging 
to world travels or artists 
when in fact the place will
just belong to me: a quiet man
parking his car alone by 
the beach to watch the 
sun turn orange then pink
then dark.

the afterlife

i don't think we've come close
to figuring out what happens to us
when we die. i believed in heaven when
i was a kid but now that i know 
God better i don't think he would
have any interest in judging every
individual person, that's a whole lot
of work & after all that work
you'd just have a big cloud
of people you'd have to entertain.
(imagine the small talk).

all the furniture in my apartment
was here when i got here &
the shelf by my bed reminds 
me of my grandfather. at night
when the shelf thinks i'm not
looking it begins to smell 
faintly of cigars. 

if we do come back, maybe we cycle 
our way through the world,
returning as a series of 
inanimate objects. my theory 
of this order for now is:
bookcases, chairs/sofas, beds,
& from there moving on to 
small appliances like lamps 
& down to forks 
& knives 
& spoons.

i lay in bed & wonder what
the bed's life was like. what do 
they think as they observe & 
hold the whole weight of 
my sprawled out body each night.
i toss & turn. i clutch them.
would they have loved me
motherly or loverly or otherwise?
do they sometimes wish
for another body to spend
each night with?

my other bookshelf is more 
secretive about who they were.
the structure is wobbly so 
occasionally my tea lights
drop off the top & it's hard to
fit more than a few books each
loose shelf. 

will you believe me if i tell you
that i know know all of this 
because i awoke one evening to see these 
objects all changed back. flickering
between lives. it was only a moment. 
there she was, my bookshelf; a tired
girl with stick straight hair &
thin wind chime arms. she was paging
through a book of poetry from
my shelf. i smiled at her & she scowled
as if i'd seen something i shouldn't.

i think noticed my bed, who i didn't
get a good look at, but all
i can tell you is that their
body was warm & they were crouched on
all fours to hold up mine.

now when i worry faintly about
death i try to remember my bookshelves
& bed & acknowledge all the furniture
in any given room. i look forward
to the distant future. i want to 
be a spoon. i think i have always
wanted this. pressed to
a stranger's lips as they 
sip from me for a fleeting seconds
maybe they will, in a corner of
their being, know that i was 
a boy who also ate from spoons,
who buried his face in pillows,
& stacked his shelves 
with poetry.

to bee

i have been 
thinking about 
the honey comb

with all its
little segments
& all its little 
hideaways.

call me octagonal
& eight & ocho
& i'll crawl 
in my six legs
counting 
the sides 
of the world.

i want to live
in an eight-sided
room where it's
quiet & made
of sugar & 
no one knows
i'm there 
besides the queen. 

i would pray to her
that someday 
i'll come back 
as the yellow
face of a butter-
cup.

the bees are 
dying, 
starving,
laying, 
no longer
able to move.

it is a good 
time to be a bee.

still,
i would hear
the sound of the
hive through 
the walls.

their muffle 
voices sifted  
into poems.

do the bees
think softly
of saving 
each other

or do they
unravel,

numbering 
all they can see
into 8s?

i think to 
myself

1. the last
taste in 
my mouth

2. the amber
yellow color
of honey

3. god who
is a woman

4. how she 
hums & 

5. the feel
that leaves 
in my outside 
skeleton

6. you as
a bee

7. the sugar
left in your 
mouth

8. the slowness

it's a good
time to be 
a bee.

sound machine

the crunching static sound
of metallic rain plays from 
my old bed room at my parent's house. 

that's where my dad sleeps now
& he keeps the sound machine
pouring all day set to "RAINFOREST."

when the machine was mine
i'd listen closely to the electric voice
for hours while trying 

to fall asleep. i wanted to
hear where the recording 
started over, but

i could never find it. 
instead the pattering of rain 
would rush & fall like

a real storm. i decide
that the sound machine must 
be linked to a real location,

a far off lush world where
it could rain as long as
someone was paying attention. 

i lay on the carpet & 
talk back to the sound machine.
i ask for a hint but

the downpour just keeps coming.
closing my eyes, as if trying 
to sleep, i reach out & spread

my fingers like a wide leaf
to imagine touching the droplets 
as they fall. i keep reaching

& digging myself deeper into the sound
until the warm water patters all
up my arm & across my body.

i open my eyes in a humid jungle.
there is nothing to be heard but rain.
i think "i will never

go back. it will be so easy 
to sleep here." i wonder if my dad
comes here when he naps 

in the afternoon or if 
he considers staying here & never
coming back 

to the crooked metal mattress
& the rattle of our old house. 
i search for him,

but only briefly. i hear the recording
start over, not because 
the jungle isn't real but

because there's only so many 
beautiful sounds it can make.
i'm soaked, i'm a mud footprint 

filled in with water. i'm my dad
wrapped in his son's old green blankets.
i'm turning into a sound machine. 

stewed tomatoes

her thin fingers in the pot 
of unfurling red while
we sat side-by-side at 
the little kitchen table
on which a bouquet of dusty fake flowers,
lilies, opened wider in the sweet air.

i think the only thing i miss about
you is your grandmother. there are,
of course, other things, but 
i have been thinking about 
your grandmother & the stewed
tomatoes she made us that afternoon.

she mixed in odd ingredients
like a slice of white bread &
a cup of sugar. she talked to me
in flourishes 

i used to sing in the choir but not anymore

& you are a beautiful girl i bet you sing

i'm not beautiful anymore 

it's so nice to see young people like you 
it gives me faith 

she had a piano turned side wards
in the other room, the cover half way
over its body, like plastic wrap 
on leftovers. 

the stewed tomatoes were hard 
to eat. they tasted wrong. sweet 
& warm & bleeding but i ate
them out of respect, it was
only right to do so & 

as i did i thought about how
old the tomatoes probably were
having slept so long
in a cool dark can, finally 
released by her old rusty 
opened setting on the counter.

she was an anxious person,
fearful of germs. when bringing 
in the groceries she was sure
to waive every bag out on 
the front porch 
to release the dust

having just had hip surgery 
this was hard for her.
while cooking she stopped 
to clean the bags
just to be sure

i offered to stand by
the door with her & help.
you told me not to encourage
her, that she was always OCD
like this but i hope that when 
i'm eighty that someone helps
me with whatever i need.

eating the stewed tomatoes, 
i pretended they were from far 
away, somewhere lush & tropical even.
the sun: a hot stove, the plump fruits
gathered together, the playing
of a piano in the wind.

shopping lists

i've started writing shopping lists 
for other people as a hobby. 

i observe them as they 
pass me in the store think 

"eggs" "baby food" "99% lean ground beef"
"dog food in bulk" "non-fat milk" "grape juice"

i jot these lists in my notepad &
collect them like portraits

this one is of the woman with three kids 
all begging for a different kind of cereal

she's just thinking of honeydew &
slicing one into pieces over the sink.

i found someone else's shopping list
in my cart a few months ago & the first 

thing on it was "chicken" underlined
with an exclamation point. the rest of

the vegetables that followed were 
in cursive, all dainty as if someone

was singing "celery" & "carrots 2"
as they wrote. i keep the list 

in the back of my wallet because 
i'm the only one who's supposed 

to be making lists for people. 
what were they thinking? i stand

at the entrance to the store & start
handing people their lists as they enter.

i know it's rude but i can see what
they want. if someone were to look at me

i mean really stare at me, they'd
probably see that i want to buy 

caramel apple dip & canned sweet potatoes.
i've never bought either of those things

in all my life but i want to. 
i think that my lists could help people.

they'd read it & think "i do want 
green tomatoes, i've wanted them for

so long." & "my mother used to buy
cannolis, i haven't thought of them in years."

at night as the store dies down i spend
my free time making lists for people 

i miss. i think of you & i write
"boston cream donuts" & "celery root."

i think of dad & i write
"doritos" & "plain bagels."

what would grandmom's list have looked like?
maybe "frankfurts" & "pastrami"

i tear them off the notepad &
fold them in half before tossing them

into the parking lot. you all 
won't find them here at a supermarket

hundreds of miles away. but i imagine
you picking the list up by happenstance

one day & wondering how someone 
could see so deeply that you want

out of this life.

winter storm harper

all this week i've been overhearing people
say things like "you hear about the snow"
& "we're gonna get hit." opening the
weather app i saw the little snow flake
icons over Sat & Sun & prepared for the worst,
stocking up on bananas & almond milk 
in case i was snowed in all weekend.
at my desk at night i looked up 
the storm's name. i figured it would 
only be right to know what to call 
her when she arrived in the form
of delicate water. "harper" as i found
was a great mass of blue rushing forward
on the radar like a scar or a birth mark
creepy up a spine. i checked my own
skin in the mirror to make sure it wasn't
on me. it's a simple name really,
"harper" means what you would think
it would mean: someone who plays 
the harp. i think of the big black
cover on the instrument in your 
music room & how no one ever uncovered
the harp the whole time i stayed with you.
when i was maybe 6 or 7 i used
to tell me dad that i wanted to play
the harp. i'd tell him every night
as he took me to bed & so he started
talking up the guitar so i'd get
the harp out of my head. in a sense
a did because i did pick up guitar
but in a sense i've been thinking
about the harp ever since & even more
than harps i've been thinking about
people who play them. i don't think
i've seen one's strings pulled in person.
i open my mouth to the size of a harp
& imagine attaching strings to every tooth,
tuning them until i pluck them.
after all that talk the snow never came,
rain plooshed all night. in a sense i was
relieved but i was also disappointed 
not just in the way that we're all 
disappointed when there's supposed to 
be a great chaos & everything turns 
out calm like fire drills or 
power outages, but also because i was hoping
to finally see someone play the harp.
i thought i'd open my front door 
in the morning & there the girl would,
nestled in the snow she brought,
strumming a golden harp. i would ask
her if i was allowed to play for 
a moment & she would politely say "no,
it'll melt if you touch it."
i'd sit & listen to her as the dust 
collected, absentmindedly i would 
checking my skin for scars & storm
systems until the snow was done falling
& she put on the black cover, walking
off, bare-footed, continuing up.

gas station flowers

last night at the 7/11 & the wrack 
of bouquets was lively & full of
these vivid purple flowers & 
scoffing yellow ones. i leaned 
down to smell them & the flowers 
smelled like caramels & ring-pops.
i wanted to buy you several of these
assortments but i hesitated. i looked
around & the man at the hot dog rollers
had been watching me, he ducked down
& dashed back to the check out counter.
we write off gas station flowers,
we think that they could never be 
any good but we never pause to wonder
where they come from. you know that 
back room? the "employees only" place.
i think they keep flowers back there,
rows upon rows of them all lush 
& fantastic all year round. i ask
the man at the counter if i can go 
back, if there was a bathroom 
i could use (an alibi). he threw
his arms wide & pleaded with me
"you cannot, you simply cannot
go back there, it's not for you."
there's a man who lives there,
i know there is. i know now at least.
they feed him taquitos & big gulps
of root beer & he takes care of 
the flowers. he invents new ones
like those strange purple flowers that
i can't seem to name & those
laughing yellow ones who 
opened their mouths at me to 
show their pink tongues. i waited
by the 7/11 all night, hoping
that maybe the botanist would
emerge, i wanted to ask him
which would be the best flowers
to get for you. i thought
that only he could really tell me. 
sadly no one came though the man
who had been at the counter 
left & told me "go home, this
isn't for you." as he ambled
into the night towards the bus stop.
i wonder if i'm the only person
who's come close to this discovery
but that would be pompous of me 
to think. i also wanted to know
how one goes about being the one
who grows gas station flowers, i think
i'm suited to it, but you would 
miss me. i'd break the rules
& let you visit at night
where i would show you the glowing
red flowers i made as night lights.
i should have got you flowers.

the raining library 

warm water like a shower pours around me
& everyone's drenched, t-shirts stuck to skin,
jeans dark & heavy with water. i have this
re-occurring dream where it's raining 
in a library. everyone there ignores 
the rain & ambles through the library,
shoes squeaking on the tile floors. 
it's not an ordinary looking library
though it's got all these mismatched
stairs going into the ceiling & trees
thick arms growing out of the book shelves. 
do you think it's possible to choose
a dream to go to when we die? i think
there's enough in the raining library
to keep me occupied, even if i went
entirely alone. i'm telling you about
the library though so that if given
the choice you might consider it too.
in the dream i never get time to open 
a book but i think if i did 
i could watch the words wash away 
in the down pour, gushing like
bitten watermelon. they would be 
sweet too, if i licked my fingers
after holding on. maybe my afterlife's
work would be to build a pool at
the bottom of the library to catch
all the words. the water would
change colors but always be a shade
of mud, like the creek after a storm.
down there all us visitors 
of the library could fill 
our miscellaneous coffee mugs
& drink from the pool, snippets 
of books & conversations glimmering
through our bodies. we would live 
like this & the rain would never 
stop & none of our skin would
wrinkle like prunes. always i wake up 
from this dream & have to resist the urge 
to pull all my books off the shelf
& lay them on the sidewalk,
waiting for rain. i settle on putting
an old dictionary in the shower,
running warm water over it
it watch the words leak 
our slowly & then rushing 
like a waterfall. i should
have collected the words but
watching them seep away 
was too wonderful. in the library
i would eventually need to die 
another time, i think. we would
make it a ritual to drop the dead 
in the pool, let the rain pelt
them until they'd sink 
to the bottom where they'd 
come apart into words, all
the words they'd every spoken
& again everyone else would
drink & get fragments of 
those words, even the most strange
& wonderful. i'd hope that someone
would taste that time we talked
about living in a house boat
or maybe that time we decided 
that we would be emperor penguins 
if given the choice of any 
other animal. after the raining library
dream i have to change my clothes,
i wake up soaked in warm rain water
& as i do i wonder what i could
do to get it to rain in the house 
like that. rain all the time.
rain beneath each of your fingers
rain under tables & desks & lamps.
rain in closets & in the back seat
of the car. rain from the roof
of my mouth & under every tooth
& not just in libraries. 

yellow ponchos

uncle rich & my youngest brother Joey are
in Disney World this week. it's january 
in New York & there's icicles growing
on the bottom of my car like chin hairs.
i check the weather in Orlando & it's 
a spring-time 60 degrees with a chance of showers.
rich took all us gow kids to Disney, 
first with me when i turned six
& then billy & now joey. a year before
the trip he started telling me stories
about the amusement park as if they 
were folklore. my favorite was the story
about the yellow ponchos. when i asked
him to re-tell it he seemed confused 
considering he'd told me about much more
interesting subjects like haunted mansions 
& space mountains & African safaris. 
he explained that when he was little 
the ponchos they sold at the parks were
yellow & they changed them to be see-through
because it was easy to get lost when
everyone in the whole park was wearing 
these yellow ponchos. i'd ask him if there
was anywhere we could get a yellow poncho
& if he had any pictures of everyone
in yellow ponchos. after i'd pretended
to fall asleep i would lay on the bottom bunk
of my bed, pull the cover over my head
& pretend to be lost in Disney would 
wearing a yellow poncho. i was fascinated
with getting lost in general. i would  
sometimes get lost on purpose in Walmart
& mom would have to have them call for
me over the intercom of the store. 
they'd find me happily coiled up 
in a wrack of jeans or laying on a shelf
next to boxes of cereal.
Disney World especially interested me,
i think i was convinced that if everyone
got lost something magical could happen there. 
Joey plays piano & he's actually getting
pretty good. sometimes i swear
that i hear him practicing scales all the way 
from New York. i get up from bed to check 
the living room for him but it's always 
the same as i left it. i have to remind myself 
that he's getting older. he's 9 now. 
i feel more like an uncle than a brother.
when i do visit every few months he asks
me frantically if we can play & if i can
listen to him on piano, as if this might
be the last time he sees me. maybe i dramatize it,
maybe he doesn't think about me much at all. 
maybe i'm a bad brother.
it's going to snow this weekend in New York.
i think one day i'll take him to Disney World,
my other brother Billy too. we'll all go when we're
too old & we don't have any kids of our own.
i'll find us yellow ponchos & smuggle them
into the luggage. in the morning, while they're
still asleep i'll dress them in the ponchos
& leave the hotel room quietly in my own. 
when they wake up they'll rush outside in the rain
to find themselves lost in a world 
of yellow ponchos. they won't find me.