MY NEW CAREER

some call him handicapped, some call him special,
some call him mentally disabled. i imagine he’s
been called worse in his 59 years. but i just call him
Slim. i work for him midnight to eight A.M., clean
his house, see to it he has safe, peaceful sleep.
around seven he hobbles out of bed, appears in his
living room doorway, what little hair he has
standing at-attention. with his near-toothless grin he
says, “HI!!!...I’m hu-u-u-n-n-n-n-ngy!” while i
fix his cereal, he shuffles around his bedroom
donning t-shirt and overalls. he pats my shoulder,
sits down to eat, says, “thank you, Man.” he
shovels frosted flakes in his mouth, too fast, milk
dribbling down his chin. he approaches me at the
sink, so earnestly, nose-to-nose. he wants to tell me
he’s finished eating through a mouthful of
unchewed cereal, but coughs unexpectedly. there i
stand laughing at shift’s end, my face a puddle of
milk and soggy frosted flakes.

 

PRAYER FOR A PANCREAS

Rusty calls me at work at 2 A.M. from the only
gay bar in Topeka. If there’s ever a time a goofy
shit-eatin’ grin can be heard, this is it. He slurs,
says with utter satisfaction, “I can’t feel anything
on my who-o-o-l-l-l-e body!” One participant in
the conversation is aware his pancreas could go
to war with him anytime within the next two
weeks. But i’m overjoyed to hear an authentic
smile in his voice for the first time in years. i
don’t lecture – just express joy in his happiness.
And say a little prayer for his pancreas.

 

LETTER TO DAD

Father’s Day – 2001

     Some writer friends have speculated that because I don’t talk or write about you, because we have little in common, because we don’t spend a lot of time together, that we are not close, must not get along or have some unspeakably horrible history between us.
     I want to set the record straight, so I’m writing about you now. I hope it doesn’t embarrass you.
      They should know, gathering from bits and pieces of barely spoken family history, that an ever-diminishing generations-old cycle of emotional and/or physical abuse ended with you. There was never even a trace of it in you. Maybe mom helped, maybe it was all on your own. It doesn’t matter. You had the heart and mind to break it. Too few children have the luxury of believing the world is a safe and loving place through childhood, but thanks to you and mom, that luxury was mine.
     They didn’t see you working two and three jobs to support your family your whole adult life. They didn’t see you as a young father enthralled with his two sons, playing and wrestling and instilling a foundation of love, caring and affection that a 10-point earthquake could never shake.
     They don’t know the lengths you’d go to see your sons smile, to hear them laugh. After returning from a family outing to see 101 Dalmations in the early 1970’s, they didn’t see you donning a fake-fur coat, smoking a pencil and vamping around singing, “Cruella DeVille, Cruella DeVille...” Years later they didn’t hear you wailing along with my Janis Joplin records, sneering, “Sounds like she dropped something on her foot!”
     They never saw you letting me play Janis or any records I wanted. They don’t know you bought my first typewriter, paid for the publication of my first poetry book.
     They never heard you impart timeless wisdom, “All that long hair will give you headaches!”
     In spite of our disagreements and skirmishes, they don’t know I’ve looked up to you as my ultimate hero, even into adulthood. They’ve never heard me say, “Well my dad says...” as if this is the be-all, end-all, source and there’s no wisdom whatsoever in arguing with it.
     I want them to know that even though I wasn’t what you expected or wanted in a son – what father expects his son to be a gay, vegetarian, soft-hearted, strong-willed, radically liberal, loud-mouthed poet?!? – you rose to the occasion, handled it with more love and wisdom than most any other son of the American 1950’s would have had the guts to. And thought there’s no need to be sorry for who I am, I can thank my lucky stars for my good fortune in the Parents Department.
     And a couple months ago, on that drizzly April evening, I was digging a grave for my beautiful golden-white kitten who’d been hit by a car. I never felt more alone, wishing mom was alive again, thinking how I’d give anything and everything to talk to her for just a few minutes. I looked up from my sad thoughts and grim task to see a little red car, whirling a U-turn at 8th & Prairie. You stopped and chatted while I was digging. You said, “Is that the only shovel you got?” I said, “Yeah, it does okay.” You said, “I’ll get you a better one.”
     Someone might think this was a conversation about a shovel. But these words were not about a shovel. They spoke of a love that is beyond words. A love that does not need to be analyzed, belabored or shouted from the rooftops, but that just is.
     Maybe mom sent you. Maybe instinct. It doesn’t matter. The fact remains that you appeared, and as always, made everything all right again just by being there. This is the stuff perfect fathers are made of.

 
from michael's
new book

cosmic children