—Dedicated to the Steven Bell, Dr. Javalin, and everyone who ever lifted weights in the SRC at Humboldt State

Fingers wrapping knurled rings, the gnarled

paddings of my palms press the steely bar

the bar impressing skin, impressing me;

cold, chrome-hard steel, soon hot beneath my hands,

impassive, graven, obdurate, immune

to all intent, a last redoubt of fear.

Leaning in, I eye the steel horizon

its shaft of shine and grime divides the world—

above, below, before, beyond—a line

to hold and give direction to my course

extending to the rack, the weights beyond

a darkling blur. Above the bar my face

is not the face that others ever see;

a backward mirror-image self of grim

resistance, the bravado of a glare,

its back to the reflected world, the gym—

meaningless machines moving with the groan

of human sweat. The heart inside the heart

of my desire, between the skin and bones

the muscles wait, their and my existence

in the balance of the fray, the struggle

to abide, persevere—and yet we dread

those tiny deaths within the very thing

we fear, and hesitate, negotiate.

In charge again, I put the rebel flesh

within to rout, its own blind memory

betraying it, my need to feel the push

and pull of life birthing every second  

every heartbeat-flood of heat, urgently

moves my body, me, to its position

beneath the weight. Hands and arms restrain me

like a bar-fighter’s second, my shoulders  

to extremis, face to face my other

self, I touch my bar-kiss callus to the

rod and lock us onto one another;

it to me, eyes locked, each upon itself.

In preparation for the act, I suck

a grimaced breath, and pause only several

seconds, but, as time will have it, in this

moment an avalanche of thoughts insist

like a mother’s call, a teacher’s set of

admonitions, an order from a cop:

first, don’t think about these things that you must

think of, then forget that they have crossed your

mind, but do them, every one, even those

that you’ve forgotten, for in truth you must

forget them all to do them right, and trust

your mindless meat to know the moves to make;

swallow your complaints, don’t rationalize;

don’t think what else you could be doing or

what could be that you know will not; do not

let the pity-party start, or the road

to death will widen in the looming mist

and darkness will embrace you like a friend.

So, I rise against the weight, straighten my

angled legs, take it full upon my back

and feel the wave extending through my spine

to heels, toes, depleted pads on soles:

gravity, this force, this element of

nature, eternal, everywhere at once

the unseen truth of its larger presence

like a colossal animal, glimpsed in

shadowy dreams, with crushing strength, yet staid,

silent, steady, sheltering us from its

immensity, holding all at distance

a beautiful beast, the power of stars.

Seemingly without a mark or thought of

now the move begins as if my body

is alive without my mind, and pumping

blood from atria through aorta to

narrow veinal cataracts, I swell to

fullest girth, gut beneath the leather belt,

throbbing. Limbs and tense core still for a beat,

I release, resisting yet employing

gravity, as the slow descent ensues.

I observe myself—how the I of my

body reacts to what the I of my

mind is causing it to go through—I check

for pain—not psychic pain, the nauseous

whine of self-pity, nor the petty pain

of opportunity cost, the time lost

not doing that mythical something else,

nor even the pain of strain, of the dumb

unwillingness of selfish cells to stoke

the fires, my heart to pump, my diaphragm

to force air into soft, compliant lungs—

but the sharp ones, the deal-breakers, pain

that screams aloud that this is my last rep.

But that alarming signal does not come.

I continue the squat to the bottom—

the bounce, glutes and hammies, sacrum, coccyx,

spine coiled—then the push. The explosion

I hoped to spark ignites and bones reverse

direction as my largest muscles work

as one to elevate the weight again:

a chain of flesh against the tidal force.

It’s now as if the deed’s already done.

Nothing left but the press, the rise, the hoist.

I monitor my feet: no heels, no toes

now, just mid-foot balance, steady pressure

telling of the focus of my motion

to the top—not foregone, but past the fear.

When the rote and rigid movement upward

ends in metal-crashing as I rack it

I think about the future and the past—

how things unfinished can now be renewed,

how voices yet unheard and places yet

unseen may now be just within my reach.

I may pick wild berries in the fall—

not with the bleeding avarice of youth

when the metaphors were all erotic

and the seeds were something more than gritty

bits between my teeth—but slow and easy

down the lane, sharing, you and I, the fruits

of all the loves we nurtured in our time.

— In memory of Neal Gingery

Since I’ve heard your voice and seen you, Grandpa,

                                                                        most of my life has passed

and though forever out of reach,

                        a long-ball gone beyond the fence,

I feel your presence still;

            with me

            like the cryptic scent of neatsfoot-oiled leather

on my glove-hand,

infield dirt beneath the nails of my right

grass-stained knees,

                                                                        the easy feel of a clean line-drive.

It’s true I was afraid when you were drunk on Early Times,

            shot straight in the morning,

                        highball glass on your TV tray at night

                                    with me in Grandma’s lap as darkness grew

but that’s only shadow

                                    at the edge of light

that is my memory of you.

I remember how you gave my catcher’s mitt to me.

            You bought it new, but I could feel and smell

                                                                        you’d rubbed it up, worked it in.

            I see now when you held it in your arms like a baby

                        just before you placed it on my hand,

taught me the signs,

            how to make a pitcher trust his pitch,

            catch a curve, marshal the infield,

showed me the heart and head of the catcher’s job

                                                                        and how you loved the game.

I never saw you

catch      throw      field      or hit

but I feel now as if that mitt was old                and yours,

and when I

            nail a runner stealing second base

            snag a wild pitch to save a run

            or block the plate and make the winning out—

when I do the work I need to do between the lines

                        on this last road trip to end the season—

                                                that I’m finishing up the game for you.

Those words have so many connotations,

denotations, demarcations. Brother.

Dear in human sense, yet I am more

brotherly with others than with you.

Reasons, unreasons, causes, casualties

are and have been many since you were ten,

now uncle to children you have never

met. Unreasonable, but with reasons.

My wondering where you are is tinged with fear.

I know that you are better now because

our sisters keep you closer and inform

me of your progress, such as it has been.

I hope you’re not on the street, or if so

that you are in your minivan. I hope

another woman has taken you in,

but fear for her, whoever she may be.

We share the same step-grandfather—grandma

Anna Mae’s second husband. He always

had a soft spot in his heart for you. Odd,

I see you in his picture on my wall,

and wonder why you look so like a man

you are not related to directly,

yet have always been so estranged from those

whose very eyes, voice, blood and bones you share.

Teacher-dreams resume as I plan to sub.

Schoolhouse Rock with veggies:

students staging Okra-homa,

biology with broccoli.

In the audience I rip

through a Playbill teacher’s text

to match dramatis personae with class-lists,

look for scenes and lessons to direct,

but the room’s too dark to read.

Action builds,

the song-and-dance an improv jumble,

while serious critics, real educators from the NEA,

tisk, frown, and shake their heads in front row desks

looking for me to stop the madness

as if I were in charge. Reviews appear

as cartoon thought-bubbles flown on wires:

This is not miosis and mitosis!

We will not countenance such tripe!

This travesty will close at lunchtime/intermission!

But the show goes on anon and on and on

as wave on wave of sparkling adolescents

shuffle across the well-waxed classroom floor.

Cardboard carrots and tomatoes dip and swing,

wide-open mouths sing through stagey smiles,

innocent, and pure, out of tune and out of time,

fresh new teeth resplendent in the footlights,

backed and framed by cheesy farm-scene

cut-outs drooping from the white-board chalk-tray.

At least this dream is not on Zoom.

I know what happened before I was born

from biology books and sex ed films.

Helical assortments of random

genetic essence

from the man known as

Charles Wesley Bickford

Wes, Dad

encounters same

from the woman

answering to the name

Mary Francis Summers

then Fewell      then Bickford      then Bergman

       Mary Francis, Mom:

hers

ensconced in a planet

of a cell

an ovum large enough

if well-lit

to be visible to naked eyes;

of her but unknown to her

no longer her but hers

within the darkness of her body

        an egg

      unfertilized but fertile

         primed to explode

           its haploid fuses

                waiting

for a match

to weld whole again within

the inner skin the

twisted ladder and begin

the doubling and redoubling

   of my life;

his

an invisible yang

in a mindless swarm

of one-legged fairies dancing

head-down on a pin-point

each tightly wrapped

in sinews, tail-whip-slashing

knobby head oozing

enzymes to dissolve

her chemical defenses,

semi-clonal meiotic

brethren tadpole-piglets

pressing a colossal

spherical teat—

a speed-eating contest

one would win

while a billion others died.

So I began before my life

to be

whoever/whatever

wherever

the genetic cogwheels meshed:

hands from Dad

eyes from Mom

combination

hair       feet       face

from both

a life inside

that cannot be ascribed.

Last night’s bright smoke

clings to hair and clothes.

Today breaks acrid,

rank with ripe decay;

burnt-out sulfur-shells,

damp in morning dew, flaccid,

toppled tubes of ash and paper

litter the lane, the battlefield fallen

line the gutter, burnt-out husks of war—

their odor mingles with fresh sea-fog

corrupting its iodine tang with smog.

On such a day as this

Adams and Jefferson were washed

and ready for embalming.

Our second and third presidents

died on Independence Day;

Adams’s son elected number six,

Tom and Sally’s children freed

on paper only.

The namesake of their death-month

was murdered by friends and colleagues

on the Ides of March—the last time

such a grand experiment in trust

as ours was killed—

that old one euthanized in full decline,

this youth may soon be throttled

in its prime.

And so, foreboding too is in the air

as I sweep charred paper bodies to the bin,

its odor thicker, nauseous,

edged with fear for those

who always do the suffering:

the children, their mothers and the peaceful.

Then, scooping up the last pan-full of ash

I see red script—the Chinese newspapers

from which the pyrotechnic tubes were made—

and I think of how Mao called us paper tigers,

and of parchment scrolls

hand inked by Master Tom,

of all our paper freedoms being lost,

and how, without struggle,

all are free

on paper only.

I don’t know why we were alone that day

            for breakfast in Cayucos’ Wings Café,

            home of the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

(Why were you so attracted to the dark?)

I’m here, Mom, in the water, in the light.

                        Please see me.

I see you on the beach in lingering fog

            a glow of morning sun surrounds you warm

            in your blanket with your book,

            Moro Rock so high above.

I’m body-surfing, Mom!

                        Please see me.

Let me see that you are looking at me.

I want to feel your smiling gaze, the warmth

            of your approval,

            to know you see that I am swimming

            even though that day Dad

            threw me in the pool without a word,

that I can ride the waves,

                        that I will float.

   You could not see me when I let you go,       

          but see me now, Mom, see me   

                     somehow please.

           Please let me see you see me    

                        pleasing you.                           

We rise to break the silence, open up

a cogent pattern in a mindless mist

uncaring for the human heart it feeds;

a medium that holds both oxygen

and virus, gentle rain and hurricane,

hail of destruction, calm and balm.

The stars roar with subatomic plasma

explosions human ears will never hear;

solar winds can’t reach us in this shelter.

Silence is ground — our voices figure.

First sounds: the sheering sheen of slapping waves

as mountains rose to pipe the quiet gale

through basso canyon walls and waterfalls;

the coloratura ring of reaching peaks;

the tenor of unending newborn sands

finding one another in multitudes

of dunes; the alto laughter of settling

silt sifting down into leeward shade.

Then arose the reedy swells of slender

slips of cells fed on sunlight as they sliced

the silent breeze with life’s insistent force;

another then another, standing each

alone, extending their expressive genes

first in patches then in green expanses

that grew to thickets of life, ahum with

stubborn strength against wind that never stops

but that is silent without resistance.

Broken silence mends when we stop speaking.

It will not stay in pieces on the ground

but must be broken again and again.

We rise to break a silence that smothers

us with indifference; silence, not a thing

itself, but preexisting condition

that will continue without the action

of our words. We break it with our voices—

the snapping hand, the strike of drum, the slap

of skin on skin, wet with sweat—wind taken

in with effort of our torsos and will;

a breath is drawn, then pressed from canyon lungs

between the narrow cataracts of gorge

and larynx, valleys of our fertile tongues

through chalk-cliff teeth and lips like worms that writhe

alive to form the meaning of our voice.

What can we speak of if we do not see?

What do we see of which we cannot speak?

Listen to the voices all around us

though muffled they may be through fiber fog

of masks there all along but never seen.

Eyes shut, both blind and sighted see alike.

Masked, our voices speak with common accent;

the shared shape of our personal keening

enfolds our angry shouts and blends our grief.

Yet still I see your eyes, uniquely yours.

They seem to me to be the eyes of all.

Your song, the voice of all, still sings your heart,

but closer, wiser, infinite, evolved.

Though our laughter and weeping sounds the same

through generations, across seething seas

and silent land, this shape of air, our words

here now, have not been heard or thought, since long

before the sky first moved above the Earth.

Taught to speak then told to be quiet, I

learned to talk and was taught to be silent,

then learned to write with no such restrictions.

Write!        They said write!        Quietly write.

Start with white and beige pads of blank paper

from the plant—Mom’s work, Moore Business Forms—

bound with bright red gum on top, the edges

cut smooth to fan against my lips the cheek,

hand-sized pages designed to be ink-lined

in a waitress-apron at a diner

but slightly off-square, unprinted, lopped ends

left at the chopper for Mom to bring home;

add pencil or pen from a coffee can,

and look like Mom when she writes a letter—

squint up and left as if trying to see thoughts

on the ceiling and walls through my eyebrows—

then, starting top left corner of the page,

draw shapes like letters scribbled into lines

that look like the words Mom sends to Grandma.

When very young some blank pads came

with a folded page of carbon paper

that was pulled and inserted as the pad

was used. Later on, the pads had built-in

carbons, as by third grade Moore’s invented

NCR^© paper; self-copying sheets,

and every scribbled page      self-published.

                                                                           Looking up I see empty

                                                            windows. Feels like home.

                                             I bump-slide down

                               painted steps

                 to sidewalk.

Is this a dream assembled from words I heard

before we moved to the suburbs?

I see pictures of the new house on Southgate,

blank face      no lawn      no color

hollow-winter-window eyes,

not memory.

How can my mind see so clear a vision

of 68th Street, South Central LA

when I was only three years old

but not remember the newer house

without photos to prompt me?

Which is memory,

which artifact      after-fact      art of fact?

Yet it all reconstructs so true-to-mind:

images, not hand-held like Polaroids,

remembered smudges on paper borders,

but lived vignettes edged with echoed feelings

of times      places      people      events

trick my brain into believing

                 they are real.

                 Over-bundled, pink-faced toddler that I was,

                             somehow, I feel the tree-buckled

                                         sidewalk underfoot,

                                                     hear cars along the parkway,

                                                                 smell the grass, and looking up

                                                                             I see blind-lines without a face

                                                                                         to see me through.

                                                                             I turn and run

                                                                 to find my neighbor-friend,

                                                     a laughing black-faced boy

                                         red jacketed, white capped,

                             bump-slide down his painted steps

                 to meet me.

No photo have I seen

to match this scene.