D's Bones » manhood

Daily Reflection (41)

David Stallings — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 22:04:33 +0000

When I was seven
my father offered his secretary
a ride home.
On the way, he pulled
to the side of a country road,
slumped over the steering wheel, died
of a cerebral hemorrhage.

That night my mother tells me
he is gone forever.
I numb, suspend
in dry shock.
-Remember everything he taught you.
-He taught me exactly how to dry
between my legs after a bath.
I’ll remember.

And I do:
I saw the towel forward and backward
on both sides of my genitals.
It works well,
leaves my crotch
feeling tingly.

(No. 41 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

One of the few specific things I recall about my father was his instructing me how to towel between my legs. He and I would occasionally drive to a large, double-sized swimming pool in Murfreesboro, 30 miles southeast of our home in Nashville. On one of these outings, in the pool’s locker room, he imparted this wisdom. It was all I could think of in answer to my mother’s attempt to reassure both herself and me on the night he died.

This daily, post-showering ritual became part of my life long ago. Readying myself for a new day, an occasional shadow of grief or anger will surprise me, all these years later.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Introductions

David Stallings — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 02:59:24 +0000

My mother, a fifth grade teacher,
works as hostess one summer
at the Indian Grill. She urges me
to apply as a busboy.
The first day, she introduces me to
the owner, Mr. Wadsworth,
and his partner and chef, Mr. Graney.
Great folks, Mother says.
The head busboy, Louis, warns
me that Mr. Graney, like most chefs,
is a drunk—Wiseow, man,
watch out for him!

I have an instant crush on
Natasha, the 19-year-old Russian
salad chef. She tells me
Mr. Wadsworth screws
Mr. Graney’s wife
all the time,
and doesn’t bother
to hide it.

Colorado Springs, 1957

A counselor friend talks about the intersection between adolescence and “unmoored knowledge.” Not completely unfamiliar knowledge, most likely; rather this is the moment when you begin to more personally “get” the knowledge (and it gets you). There are miles to go, maybe decades, before the “mooring” is very firmly attached, and then, of course, you have to let it go if you want a truly mature relationship! Anyway, this poem looks at several levels of adolescent introduction to awareness of the complexity and carnality of the world.

As a so-called quad Scorpio, I’m still coming to terms with this.

Pachuco

David Stallings — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 16:55:15 +0000

One day Louis’ older brother
drops by the Indian Grill,
and we take a break from bussing dishes.
Carlos wears a wavy D.A.,
greets us with a scarred hand.
Louis tells me his brother
wanted to marry, needed a job.
No one would hire him
because of the tattoo
between his left thumb and forefinger.
So Carlos drove north of town,
up into Austin Bluffs, used his pistol
to shoot the cross and rising sun
clean off.
His hand healed OK. He got
a decent job, but his blonde
wife’s father still
hates him.

Colorado Springs, 1957

Wikipedia will tell you that the Pachuco “youth movement” grew out of Mexico in the 1930s and 40s. Think zoot suits and a whole life style. Along the Mexican border, young Hispanics (as Pachucos) defended themselves from some of the white servicemen stationed in that area. By the mid-fifties the movement had spread all through the Hispanic southwestern U.S. It evaporated by the early 70s.

In Colorado Springs, us white kids were afraid of Pachucos, or “Chukes” (“They carry knives,” we told each other). I suspect the local Hispanic kids–who hung together, looked different, and were not all angels–were more “wannabes.” The homemade, commonly seen “cross and rising sun” hand tattoo was probably more of a cultural referent. However, among whites, including the local small business community, it was the sure mark of a “trouble maker punk,” or worse.

It was only when I entered the “world of work” at 14 that the vastness, diversity, and often unfairness, of this beautiful, fucked up world began to touch me.

By the way, a “D.A.” was a “duck’s ass”, or “duck tail”, haircut. Long on the sides, coming together in a sort of V part in the back. Hispanics’ wavy dark hair looked just fine in a D.A. Some of the rest of us had less luck with this mid-50s style.

Reunion

David Stallings — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 21:01:09 +0000

We haven’t seen each other for years.
At tonight’s gathering, it’s take-out
lasagna and tired salad.
My step-nephew chats
amiably, sunglasses atop
his constant baseball cap. His mother
says Steve’s been traveling—
launching nephew into storied visits
to the Vegas adult entertainment expo.
He fetches photos to illustrate reported
marvels—pendulous latex breasts,
perfect be-thonged bottoms,
astonishingly realistic
woman dolls.
Pictures pass over cheesecake
and decaf in murmured appreciation.
When they are laid aside
conversation returns
to the Colorado Rockies’ playoff hopes,
then shifts to Hannah Montana, now singing
on the Disney channel.

Visits to seldom seen family can be enlightening. On this early Denver evening former boundaries between the banal and exotic interwove, making both seem oddly detached and disembodied. Whatever it is that is happening in our culture is breathtaking, anything but mundane. However, at least one thing remains clear–in one way or another, mom will always be screwing with a man’s libido.

Totem

David Stallings — Thu, 31 May 2007 19:32:43 +0000

My partner buried eight human placentas
in a circle at our meadow’s edge.
A midwife, she invoked the feminine
from all directions. In turn,
I carved a twelve-foot cedar pole,
erected it at the center.
When she and I divorced,
the pole traveled with me.
I planted the shaft,
somewhat shorter by this time,
on property shared with my new partner.
Things with her have soured,
and now the carving lies
covered by more moss
and dead branches each year.

This spring
families of bark beetles,
potato bugs, small spiders
are hard at work in their new
home.

Life giving phallus? Marauding cock? Both? Figuring this out has proven to be a lifetime’s work for me. And for many men.

By the end of this poem, it’s fair to ask, “what’s next?” a question for which I have no immediate answer. However, in the short run it looks like a pretty good deal for the bugs.

Moving the totem was interesting. It made for a protruding pickup load. I briefly considered entering it as a float in the local “Grand Old 4th (of July)” parade, but decided against it.

Caught

David Stallings — Sun, 27 May 2007 16:41:19 +0000

Over the edge of the cannery
dock, processed fish
innards are dumped daily—
lure for prowling scavengers
in Resurrection Bay.
My pole arcs, its tip pointing
to pilings below. I heave
and reel until a briny creature
breaks the surface. I grab
the grotesque head,
its mouth flashing needles.
It coils my left arm. Grip tightens.
I forget to breathe,
barely manage to scream for help.
An old dock hand ambles over,
peels wolf
eel from my arm.
Goot t’ing it wan’t a big ‘un,
he chuckles,
flinging
beast to bay.

Seward, Alaska, 1952

As a child in Alaska I quickly got the impression that my value as a human being had something to do with how competent a fisherman I became. My stepfather, a sport-minded man, reinforced the importance of this portal to manhood. I never measured up in his eyes, but that had to do with far more than fishing or with me. However, in the incident captured in this poem a kind, unknown grandfather gave me a hand with just the right touch. I was nine years old.

Denial (70)

David Stallings — Thu, 30 Sep 2004 20:02:01 +0000

My morning exercise
includes repetitively curling a pair
of 20-pound dumbbells.
I stand in my Jockey “Slim Guy”
underwear envisioning myself a tall,
mesomorphic, light-skinned black man.
My muscles don’t bulge
but gracefully arrange themselves
in fluid proportions.
This helps.

Today I curl before the bathroom mirror,
to confirm my long-held image.
Bad move.

Faltering, I quickly step away,
to become the svelte,
cat-like jungle man
who I
am.

(No. 70 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

I suppose we all do this in one way or another.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Chicken

David Stallings — Thu, 12 Feb 2004 15:42:18 +0000

Once my mother’s husband
made me cut off the head
of a chicken.
This was another effort
to make me into something
we each sensed I was not,
a man.

I clutched the chicken
by its horny feet,
extending its neck
over wood block.
Two hatchet blows necessary
to sever head strings and bones.
Then one leg sprang free
and the chicken twirled ‘round,
a wing flapping phantasm,
spraying blood and doubt
all over our
world.

This episode, and many others like it, were unconscious efforts to eliminate all but one penis in a thoroughly dysfunctional family system. Somehow, I emerged at least partially intact.

Age Bias (52)

David Stallings — Tue, 13 May 2003 04:03:02 +0000

Pioneer Square, so sunny it feels good.
Next to me, waiting for the walk light,
a trim woman smiles hello.
Encouraged, I return the smile.
Crossing First Avenue, she’s a fine sight.
I follow, ready for
casual, tasteful ogling.
She moves quickly.
My pace increases.
I scamper to keep up.
She skips up the steep terminal steps.
I am breathless,
more aware of falling behind
than of her bottom.
When I reach
the top step
she is
gone.

(No. 52 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Alas.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

The Circle (60)

David Stallings — Tue, 28 Jan 2003 20:16:17 +0000

Sometimes friends share the climb
of Cold Mountain.
On a middle slope,
Jack stops to pee—
a large circle in the dusty path.
“If you guys can say something about that,
then let’s go on,” he challenges.

Larry steps into the circle,
sits like a mountain top.
I curtsey to his stone figure.

“If you characters can do that,
we just won’t go on,” Jack asserts.
“What do you mean?” we ask,
“Look how far we’ve come.”

Storms play across the slopes
of Cold Mountain.
The view is always
perfect.

(No. 60 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

With deep respect for Case 69 of the Blue Cliff Record and my climbing companions.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)