He wants another wife. He wants my head–
the one I wouldn’t bare before his friends
to cap their drunken revels at night’s end–
to be exposed to pecking birds instead.

Now that I’m free to spit into his face–
Nebuchadnezzar’s granddaughter’s not a peasant
woman bred for slaughter or a present
to dispel an upstart king’s disgrace–

send Esther to me. Send her. I will tell
her how to bend him, how to make her Jews
safe from him. She mustn’t think I lose
by dying. It’s a gift to choose your hell.

I hope the sword is sharp. I hope my blood
stains everything. He comes? No? She comes? Good.

Danny & Annie from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

Upright, upright when the waters came

He laughed and turned his beard away when youths
begged bread of him, asked what the wood was for.
They left their dusty heelprints in the tar
that coated every plank. One scratched the truth–
that Noah stank of wealth–pale in the pitch
then threw a rock and ran to hide before
the fat old man clacked skulls like water jars
or sent his sleek sons chasing with a switch.

Such shameful boys. But I, too, want to know
why he looks furtive in the day and gathers
beasts, grains, and mounds of kophered wood so high,
so tempting and unneighborly. I go
to ask and he just shrugs and smirks and, rather
than answer, laughs up at the hard blue sky.

Abra speaks to Holofernes in confidence

Your head is heavy. I did not expect
that you would weigh so much, that you would pull
as if you thought a rock could be your neck,
the earth your shoulders. Both my hands are full

of hair, my mouth of blood and bile and dirt.
I carry you. She creeps along behind
and hides our trail, as silent in her skirts
as only death should be. Soldiers will find

us soon, find what I bear, and stake us to
the ground like tents. If Judith knew how near
I am to screaming just to end the wait

she would garrote me with her shining plait
and drop me empty in the sand. But you
mean more to her. She would not leave you here.

Keturah Awaits the Mountain’s Reply

If I had been here sooner, if my hands
had held that knife, no god who changed his mind
could matter. My grip would guide Abraham’s–
chip through resisting flesh and bone, while wind

licked at the blood that Isaac offered, coughing.
I have slaughtered lambs before; their throats
are not so different. Still, all my laughing
sons say Abraham will give them goats

and tents and that’s enough. They chide me for
my rage as if their banishment were just
and I should submit to it like a whore
whose sons deserve no better. There is dust

and only dust pooled thickly on this stone.
Murder would not have left me so alone.

A Wheel of Birds

Who needs to read a letter when you know
what it will say? I heard my death spill out
like broken teeth from David’s greedy mouth,
heard servants whispering how my wife goes

thick-waisted down the street. Why couldn’t he
pick up a rock with his own hand and split
me like Goliath? I could bear the kiss
of stone–my flesh opened for birds that wheel

the chariot sky–if he would strike me down
himself. I’ve earned that, not a friend-held blade,
a scorpion in my blankets, poisoned grain.
I should run. It’s too late. The hills around

me bloom with armies, ready to awaken.
Let Joab’s eyes tell me that I’m mistaken.

You are Here

My father cannot understand why I
am not devout, why I look at his face
to see what my dead brothers looked like, why
I make no plans for life beyond this place.

But I barely exist. Tomorrow, rot
might kiss me, use me as a tool to test
the family piety. Neighbors forgot
how many deaths they witnessed. “Job is blessed!”

they cry, and he believes it too and yields
another lamb up to the Lord. A bleat
swells up in my own throat. A sacrifice

can know what comes, can see what fates are sealed
by righteousness. He thinks life will stay sweet.
I know what happened once can happen twice.

I don’t think he’d say that was an improvement. But maybe he shouldn’t have said I was bad at it.

If I find a meteor is hurtling toward the planet and I don’t tell anyone, you know who to blame.

pandemonium
quai
harmonium
away
hide
splinter
outside
Pinter
facing
brick
chasing
slick

Flutter

My heart is pandemonium. The beats
are no longer aligned with the smooth systemic glub
of waves against the quai,
but jigger–a harmonium of malformed
valves that struggle to carry blood away
to the cold hands, the cold feet, the blackened-in vision
that attempts to hide reality through blindness.

Ignoring it didn’t work. There was always a splinter
of a reminder, poking in from outside.
Always a dreg in the bottom of the pint. Errors
in my complete adherence to my fantasy creep in
and I am left facing something that could be truth.

And the heart skips like a brick spun
across a pond. There’s almost enough to keep
it bouncing. There’s almost enough to keep
it chasing immortality, or at least tomorrow.
Skip thump and the needles fly across the slick, slick paper.

That has some redeeming qualities. This one probably doesn’t, aside from maybe a line.

Pockets Full of Change

This true
pandemonium,
the scents, a new
body roils
against mine, the quai
thick with oils
and feathers–where someone
whistles
Harmonium’s
Dixie and done–
slips away.

New bristles
in my hide,
new splinters
poking out from my
blood, reaching outside
through my skin.
They seek Pinter’s

Homecoming in
the trees facing
the house.
There was one last brick
sent chasing
after a vandal boy.
Passed.
Louse.
There was one last
wave of slick
oil.

We’re looking for someone to take on a once-in-a-lifetime assignment: spend a Month at the Museum, to live and breathe science 24/7 for 30 days. From October 20 to November 18, 2010, this person’s mission will be to experience all the fun and education that fits in this historic 14-acre building, living here and reporting your experience to the outside world. There will be plenty of time to explore the Museum and its exhibits after hours, with access to rarely seen nooks and crannies of this 77-year-old institution.

Sure, it’s a commitment. But if you are chosen and can successfully complete Month at the Museum, you’ll walk away with a prize of $10,000, a package of tech gadgets, and new knowledge and experiences that may just transform you.

And I, I have cajoled, coerced, bullied, and otherwise harangued Chris enough that he’s going to try World of Warcraft with me. I may never see him again.

What have I DONE?!

The date: July 4, 2010.

The time: 10:00, 10:30, 11:00, 11:30, and change.

The quest: Finding the car.

The players: Chris. Me. A duck.

The complications: Chris. Me. A duck. A pair of sunglasses. Darkness. A kid with a vuvuzela, hooting forlornly in the distance.

The soundtrack: “Wanna Be Starting Something,” by Michael Jackson. “Too high to get over. Yeah yeah. To low to get under. Yeah yeah. Stuck in the middle. Yeah yeah. Where’s the damn car? Yeah yeah.” A kid with a vuvuzela, hooting forlornly in the distance.

The menu: Bacon-wrapped hot dogs. Admittedly, neither of us had one, but it was on the menu!

Distance covered: Something between 1 and 1 googolplex miles. Leaning toward the latter.

So, we went to a combination Drum & Bugle Corp show and fireworks. As we walked to the stadium, we passed a fence, a duck, and a drinking fountain. Saw the bands and the fireworks spectacular, and it really was pretty damned spectacular, then we left the stadium and walked to the car. It sounds rather boring until I mention that I have no sense of direction, Chris was accidentally wearing prescription sunglasses, we didn’t know where the car was, and “walking to it” involved more detours than a cross-country road trip during the height of construction season.

At one point, we walked all the way around the Rose Bowl itself. Not on purpose. How, you may ask, can one inadvertently walk all the way around the Rose Bowl? It’s easy! Let Julie navigate!

“Ooh, there’s a fence!” Indeed, there were many fences. “Ooh, there’s a fence over there!” Indeed. “I don’t see a drinking fountain.” This while I was standing right beside the drinking fountain.

Eventually a man on a golf cart took pity on us and pointed us in the direction of the drinking fountain. Fortunately, I recognized the drinking fountain the third time we passed it. Otherwise, we’d still be in Pasadena.

Next time, the duck stays with me. “Find the water, boy. Find the water!”

I think you can learn a lot about people in circumstances like losing a car in a golf course at the Rose Bowl. Chris was a little stressed, but still patient and taking it all in good spirits. Damn, that man is easy to love.

Since Steve’s death, it’s gone even further. Any change in the weather makes me a little sad. Even if it’s just a storm rolling in, a wind kicking up, or the sun finally starting to shine after a long winter.

My life is wearing rocket skates like Wile E. Coyote. This life brought to you by Acme.