I’m never awake at dawn of the solstice,

5:21 am seems like the middle of the night;

maybe if I lived on the east coast

watched the sun rise over the ocean

or in the prairies where it comes rising

like the torch on Olympus igniting the day.

I have watched the sun rise

over Fort Lauderdale,

painting pink hues on the pale, blue Atlantic

and before 6 am bringing instant heat

to the plains east of Dallas. 

But that’s not where I’m at.

I live in a basin ten miles from the Pacific Ocean.

Sometimes, I visit the coast near sunset.

Summer crowds destroy solitude

I no longer crave surfing into solstice darkness.

I go to inspiration point to observe the sun

move west across the sky. 

Last week, king tides flooded Newport Beach north of the wedge

with huge waves and ocean encroaching the entire beach.

From Corona the sand beach was now water mirroring light.

I looked the other direction at the blue calmness

of a protected cove at  Little Corona.

I walked into the common area of the housing development,

west ‘til the sun skimmed roofs of nearby houses.

Golden rays of the corona travelled east from the roofs

to envelop me in light as I

bathed in light.   East the foothills

turned from parched brown to lustrous olive.

I wanted to be on the ridge,

of a nameless range this solstice;

facing the Pacific and the setting sun,

no roads, no people, just me sitting cross legged

observing the world from the drought

brown grasses all the way to land’s end,

listening to the rising chirping of the cicada

with no engines, jet planes, or voices to intervene.

meditating on the end of light

as a murder of crows caw otherworldly,

Shiny black against earth’s shadow.

Squiggles

I have written my squiggles on blank pages for many years. I never tire of the markings. My mother would accuse me of soiling clean sheets. These are not dirty pages. They are paper transformed—not washed and dried on a line in the breeze, altered into letters, words, paragraphs, pages.

"Oh, Marc, you make such a mess. Why can't you keep the pages clean?"

Assez propre, she would say.

Bien propre, my grandmother would say—her grandest compliment.

She would sit in a rocker, crocheting purple yarn, her hair in a white bun, and exclaim, Comme c'est bien propre.

She loved me, yet she couldn't protect me from my mother's beatings she witnessed.

My grandmother heard me say, "Maman me battre," and she'd stare from her chair.

My mother struck me again. "Idiot American. It is Maman me bat."

I don't think my grandmother was ever able to handle my mother.  She knew everything I didn’t: the rape, the syphilis, the German lover.

My mother said Grandmother only hit her once. At fourteen, she made her way into town to look at the new SS headquarters. A colonel in uniform walked across the town square to where un ivrogne, the town drunk, leaned against the steps. The officer drew his Luger and shot the drunk through the temple.

"He deserved to die," the officer explained. "He was of no use to society, and why should we waste the time and money on a trial?"

News spread quickly, and my grandmother learned that her daughter had been there. As soon as my mother entered the house, my grandmother slapped her hard across the cheek.

"Don't ever go near the SS again. They round up and shoot witnesses."

My mother nodded gravely, but it did not stop her from playing Duck the Boots, a game where children hid after curfew and fled at the sound of German boots on the street.

Life was a strange game to her.

I want to apologize for the delay. I am with my family for the week. And frankly, that is more stressful than it is vacation lol. 

<p>The kitchen was small, not unlike others in similar homes. I could see from the back door, to the tiny washing machine, all the way to the deep freezer and furnace. Despite its size, there was no shortage of places to sit. Furniture was crammed into the room. The wicker bottom chairs were placed around a table almost too big for the room. Across from there, a bar raised out from the linoleum floor. The paneling on the sides matched the same pattern and tone as the walls both yellowed with age. At the farthest end of the room was a large window overlooking mostly nothing. There was a weathered shed with peeling lead paint and a large bush of flowers. The fiery red and orange blossoms juxtaposed against the aging buildings. Under the window was a small sink. There was enough room for one person to stand in front of it. I leaned the middle of my back against the cool metal basin. I was to stay out of the way.

<p> I could watch quietly, but that was all. My grandmother, a sturdy woman with a salt and pepper pixie cut, busied herself over a bowl. On the counter, “Betty Crocker” stood out with her bright red and white packaging. I watched intently as my grandmother added eggs, milk, and oil. Though it was only boxed cake mix, I found it fascinating. I knew what was coming. The deep brown liquid was poured into a clear 9x12 pan. I knew I would soon have to leave the kitchen. But, I could go licking the spoon. I sat down at the table, walking in the kitchen would cause a cake to fall. I was not permitted to move. 

<p> My grandmother brought down another large bowl. She layered powdered sugar, vanilla, and crisco. She mixed them together, ensuring everything was incorporated. It was okay to buy cake mix. Icing however, was forbidden. It could so easily be made at home with what we had on hand. 

<p> Once the cake had cooled, I watched my grandmother cut off pieces. The edges started to soften. She plopped a heaping serving of icing onto the cake. She spread a think layer. I could still see the dark square. The icing was spread thin. Slowly, in layers, it started to take shape. She mixed potions of pink and green. The piping tips changed, seemingly by magic. She crafted delicate flowers, stems, and lace. She penned words in cursive font. I stared intently and with childlike amazement. 

Deciduous trees dotted riverbanks. Water flowed

as if an artist applied a turquoise palette to the landscape.

My sister and I stepped out of the car.

She carried a bag of sandwiches, which we ate

seated at a picnic table.

Other cars rushed off for Old Faithful.

We had faith in this moment and place.

The river so flat, it did not appear to be moving from a distance.

We sat comfortably taking in the blue sky

and munching on our sandwiches.

I gave no measure to the swift current.

We walked near the shore watching mallards bounce

like teal buoys downstream, disappearing into the flow.

It was as if we were back in Michigan in the sixties,

watching a watermelon cool beside the artificial stream bed.

At the picnic table, we were preteens again,

enjoying a peace with only limited parental interference.

It had taken a long time to reach this place of peace again.

I had the urge to drop a large rock into the water

to break the stillness and to sound its depth. 

one thing I chose not to awaken.

Smooth smoke over rip current

crash into yesterday

and tomorrow too far back.

Of the tiny creatures squeezing  out of their holes. Moonlight high tide, begging for air. Burning lungs; inhale

                                       Exhale

Sand collapsing the foundation

of the body facing the wrath of waves.

Sand in sedimentary layers

Requires a strong sense of direction

Where we get lost, looking for baby teeth

Dropped by sharks with prey too big, gaping mouths.

Glossy eyes deep in the carved sink.

Sputtering soft sand, silk through fingers.

Caves under the ocean. Built to sustain the weight heavy heads grip tightly and walk.

Soft clouds in the water, rushing with their currents.

Trying not to get the dust in my eyes.

Green and teal ocean.

Stare back and bury me in those waves.

That crashing water.

The sensation of being is too great.

Such small wonders in the deep cut.

The high tide salt, kissing ankles, sinking deeper.

Word doc fourth coming! 

I have an idea for a big poetry project coming up, so hopefully next session I’ll have both prose and poetry for you guys!

She, who is weak

of blackened edges.

In the foot of flames;

I am warmth.

Embers lick ankles; unworthy.

Listen to the screams! Unholy whores

rancid smoke. She is not herself.

It could be everlasting. I am not tired here.

The Empty Parts of Fault

A moment of softness; want and whisper.

“Please, leave something at my altar.”

Begs busted lips curved around teeth.

Longing for time

brought the light of ugliness.

Not bodies colliding, not the back and forth.

Bruises lace her neckline.

When things made sense,

I never wanted this.

How dare you blame me?

Pulled by currents

seconds between reaction and response.

I choose caressing hair and ripping out her throat