Happy Holidays

Farm Security Administration: Christmas dinner in the home of Earl Pauley near Smithland, Iowa. (Circa 1935)

This Particular Game

Tired. Of this particular game, I say we play
Another game of an entirely different origin
and design.
A. Game. Where. instead of motion and gesture
We create a new language
Formed entirely of words of love.
and wine.

Words of love, you say words of love
Burping, swilling scotch, tipping and pointing
You asshole, you fucking existentialist, don't you know
you ruined my fucking life
in the process of constructing yours? Ouch! My eye!

This is an eyesore, a damned walmart where
trees should be
and I can no longer find my way home.

This geography. This flat landscape.
Within it a damsel with long blond tresses (no victim) whose braids twine around billboards and blocks of gray concrete (a heroine!) snake under highway overpasses (chanting words of love) climb rusted shell oil monuments and twist through foreclosed homes and vacant lots (no one dare climb) scans the nearby hills

Where children wander,
searching for parents who have already disappeared.

Dancing with Dolly

Dolly's veined hands jerk up.up. on wires leading to monitors and bells. Then down.down. her head rests, slightly tilted. "Wirepuller," her dry mouth open.open. close.close. "make me dance!" Propped-up on the hospital bed, catheter controller, pelvis twitch, underpants down, door open, audience peers in.

"Wirepuller, make me sing!" Knobby fingers swing upward in arcs and a scuffy little song, accompanied by bells and monitors, begins. A duet, mother and daughter, a little soft shoe accessed from the far reaches of memory, a little Mack the Knife, a little Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, as we drive past pine trees decked with holiday lights, closed businesses, she wrapped only in blankets and hospital footies, me driving lost in the snowy Michigan night, something of a party.

We have something of a party! A crazy little drive, a reckless adventure, but soon I recognize this landscape, this street name, where we are going.

Dolly thinks someone was sleeping in her bed when we get to her home. "Why is it so messy?!" She wants to tidy up, tells me to fold her blanket. I, mimicking myself, throw it on the floor. "Dolly! You are such a neatnic! I'm coming over and mess this place up very soon!" She laughs and I slide her nightie over her head. "Go to bed," I direct, but leaving, I glance back down the long hall and she is still there, in her long nightgown, peering at me playfully from behind her open door.

Making a marionette dance requires three movements, a walk, a wave and a bow. It takes practice to make the marionette do all three together. Always grinning, hand jerking up.up. in a final wave, controller rocking from side to side like an airplane dipping it's wings, I walk away.