On Writing.

A year ago or so, I wrote a lot of poems and the like, and posted them on here with little thought. It was a major part of the site. Then, as I "developed" as a writer, I started thinking about graduate programs, publications, and the like. Many publications and journals require that your work be unpublished. This includes websites, school magazines, or any form besides a sheet of paper written or typed by your hand for an academic or personal enjoyment purpose. So, long story short, I stopped posting my work on here so it would be able to count in my "unpublished" portfolio. Now, with those thoughts of the Iowa Poetry Workshop or getting into the Anchorage Quarterly being replaced with "Did I water the sheep?" or "Where did I put the 300 grit paper?" or "How do you say "How much?" in French?", I've decided that its high time to start posting my work again. If not for you, for me. So I can see the progression, or regression. Either way, here is my favorite product of the past year. From a time when I was heavy into Berryman, and writing hours a day. Hope you enjoy. (Please read aloud.)
Love,
Zac

Poem for My Dead Grandfather.

I.

The once Heavy Hitter hides in hang-outs,

unapproachable and unaware.

Again, he is on (or off) about another wiley-way.

I can see what he's getting at tho.

Not always suited, the suitor,

he will drink his drinks alone but frequented.

All the while he has had,

at some point or another.

Then Heavy had departed

and sinking slowly inward, in a puff of smoke

he became dark-eyed

and quick to retreat from the noise of the walkie-talkers.

And left to decide his travels

here and here and her.

Once, in a brief memory, I too was proud

and made documents to prove so.

No breath is missed 'til absent

and teeth don't age, rot.

II.

Oh, Heavy Heavy! How you drip long hours

hammering and making your homes.

When I grow up I too would like to be a carpenter

or a jet plane, but neither would pay the rent.

“Come to my house to stay Heavy Heavy”, strong chested men

in states of hibernation will appear the most feminine, saggy.

He sulks sad by the sea shore

glasses fixed on glass, clear to the grass

It appears he needn't reproduce this time

“..too many of us here already”, dismissive.

Predators posing as prey

pray oft to the image of themselves as Apollo

Sun on his stomach side, eyelids red

Heavy rolls over to find mouths of sand.

And today the pipe looks a chore, with too many steps.

Remember the sea crashing and crashing?

The jellyfish moves easy in the wash

and in the sand, still.

III.

Big boxy bags of concrete

that thrum-hum-stop of the shaker

and a dozen red Radio Fliers line

Mallard True-Value Hardware.

My grandfather built

an empire out of nails and hammers.

My father has blue eyes

this his hefty title to question

seeing out of my chocolate pools

some other input (or interest differed).

Same as when the road widening crew

swallowed up the wagons' house.

Stones we threw from the door

would land on the tarmac, or grass,

or wings of four-seater twin prop planes.

Cancer ate my grandfather (broke'd all his legs)

Berryman jumped and missed the river.

Seems some boards aren't meant to sell, cracked.

IV

Heavy Heavy was there when she called

to tell about the man sized fist of cells in her intestine.

“Lymphoma” they call it, inoperable.

She calls the golf ball in her breast that drove her

to the doctor at the start “lucky”.

Some words could be eliminated.

Heavy Heavy knew Dad wasn't ready,

knew he wants to be first to exit.

When I was a boy I kissed my animals

holding them and trying to disperse my life.

“I'll die two years early if you make Gilly live 5 longer”.

Turns out God is toast with cherry jam when she drown in the pool.

Mom shook the cancer tho.

And her hair came back curly.

Gilly got buried in the back yard,

dug her grave myself- iced with a cross.

And when I wasn't there for Max's death

Dad used the marker to lay them beside each other.

V.

Heavy too once held business,

the business we call “The” business.

Heavy got smart, saw the exit, and took to it.

Ankit got more business, vulture eyed, hazy-mazy mind.

And at the bar last night, he was the annoying drunk girl

talking too close, too loud, too pill'd.

It wasn't for the money tho, when I played.

I made the music for the melody, not the record.

Got mine and got out.

I remember smoking with the boys out back.

They call me “Baby-boy”

“Ay-yuh! Whur da ol damn ting Baby-boy? We tryna get rizzy!”

In the shower I sat down, itching.

I told him he could take my soul if he was buying 'em

like a fiend, or a child, in the pawn shop, self loathing.

No contracts lead to small claims court,

and a judge making a ruling on day-time television,

stretching me out for all the cigarette smokers to see.

VI.

Henry jumped- I could imagine the feeling.

I too fly often, at night, in darkness,

we get up, we get down.

And to think some went as far to say we'd never

do anything better than this.

Don't you fret tho, mothers, I've got more plans prior.

If I could tho, Id gather all the Radio Fliers

put them in the shakers, and leave the building.

We don't all need to make things

some of us are here to clean up- tear down.

A concrete slab with a aluminum hanger

was the product of years of love and labor.

My father has provided me with too much,

and often I am left alone to wander.

If the money runs out there is more,

I still hold a door key if needed to turn,

and I remember Dad's Corvette was red

like the Radio Fliers, like the blood he gave me.