Cary Briel

From my bed
I’d spy
first light, as it arrived,
softly cutting through the blinds,
arriving, He, in place of her reflected glory;

And for a moment,
it would seem–
He’d look–
I’d recollect my dream,
labored over many hours before;

And as I’d grab my pen to write,
I’d reach,
resolving no delay,
with names and faces fading fast
between the worlds of dream and wake,

He’d smile,
He’d wink, between the blinds,
the light of angels notified
to kindly shut
the vault of nighttime dreams.

I nudge time’s pointer
and I’m there.
The moment becomes synchronized to this–
and I see it.

As fast as my legs will take me
I pedal
toward home,
a new 2-cycle, horizontal shaft engine in right arm’s grasp.

Did you know a centrifugal clutch is like gold?
At least it is to those of us kids who know what to do with it,
and I have one.
But will it fit?

It’ll be the difference between flying down the alleyways
so fast–
to the envy of all the neighborhood kids–
or sitting amidst my tools,

staring, in the damp of our family basement,
desperately
trying
to make it all work.

Restrained, you call me,
but not with words, just a look
through a well-worn door left half-ajar
by absent-minded children.
Despite your quiet
and restraints,
I can almost taste your wetness
even before I drink you in.
I look again.
Your five siblings, they,
still restrained in plastic,
still looking from behind the door,
betray their envy.
You take no note.
You caress
and you awaken my tongue
in ways that others have tried and failed–
lesser gods.
And when I’m finished with you,
I’ll toss you away.
What remains is only salvation
for seabirds
by marriage-bound decree.

Atheist says, “Bah!”
The program that programs itself
They say–
They scream–
Reverberating the programmatic dream;

And round and round we go–
In a circular row;
But perhaps
I have it!
Perhaps it’s turtles all the way down?

Or, perhaps, I’ll just repeat “natural selection,”
And “heritable traits;”
In an environment
The weaker dissipates–
In the program that programs itself;

How many lines of code
Written in languages unknown
Give science
A desperation for new ideas?
Or perhaps the turtles know who wrote the code?

It’s just a look
Or quick glance
That will cause a man to explain
What, but a moment ago
Seemed logical–
Practical;
Attempts to escape are futile–
Even deadly;
Behold
The judging eyes of a woman.

Believe or don’t believe
As you see fit
Beliefs or faiths; To wit,
Those that
Point your soul–
As if they could;
Stand at the pit
Arm in arm
With fellow goats
And pray for wool;
As fire leaps
And bounds so close
To touch your feet–
Spy the doubled-goats
Beneath.

I love you,
The simplest of lines;
Much like others that move me not;
It, I suspect
I will remember
More than others at my end;
Have I told you
Lately?
I love you.

Frayed band-aid
Thank you for being brand name;
It’s two showers later
And you’re still there;
Soaked with your telltale blood smear
You tell–
You betray to all passers by
Of my slip;
Better you’d lie.

“It’s all yours!”
She says as she passes
My office;
As I chip away
This big block of stone won’t go away;
Does she not realize
The mountains I face–
With nothing more than a keyboard
And mandate?
But the shower is dripping
Dripping away–
My shower
According to a more forceful mandate.

I used to scream
To my Mom;
Then she’d call home my Dad
From Crowleys,
When she couldn’t wake me
No matter how much she’d shake me;
Night terrors they’d call it;

A skinny demon
Who found me–
Rather abruptly–
In the phone book of hell
Under Briel,
Had no name of his own
Or none that he’d tell;

But he would describe me
As skinny
And lean
And liked;
Why these attributes appealed
To a demon with no name
Is beyond me.

My stomach is empty
And since I cannot
Create or write a lot
Lest I feel–
I present you with this unimportant fact;
If I could eat clicks and dedication–
Instead of eggs
And bacon–
Or if I could cook–
Oh, now the females look
Their former haunts forsaken;
O Tobey Maguire
Stand in fright!
We’re slipping back to black and white.

I’m freezing
My wife says it’s beautiful;
Lies!
Snow plows build banks to new highs;
As if adults still make snow angels!
I’d rather pull a nose hair
Or grind glass into my eyes;
Fingernails on the blackboard–
Bret Michaels–
Asylum ward;
Anything but snow;
Spring is the season
Of the logical,
Any other supposition is criminal.

He was and is still
A god to me;
Optics, lenses–
Boxed in his closet;
Each packaged in paper
Each having a scribbled spec
I didn’t understand;
But, O my heart wanted to be him;
It still does;
What wouldn’t I give to go back
To days when he talked to me of his father
Orion Sr.
To be frozen in those moments forever?
I had no idea what they would mean to me;
How many dreams of his
Did I have the privilege of living with him?
How many crazy ideas
Did I, too, excitedly indulge?
O Lord, let me be crazy again
If only to sit in his presence just once more!
Let me see his eyes behold mine again!
Everything I am or will ever be
Answers to a hope that was behind his kind eyes;
If I succeed
It will be him that succeeds and not I;
If I love
It’s him loving;
Every breath I take
It is he who draws in and not I;
He was and is my world
I see myself only in his eyes;
My heart screams his name in horror because he’s gone!
Father, father, tell me again of the four rivers:
Pison,
Gihon,
Hiddekel,
Euphrates;
Let me forget all that I know
To sit in your presence and be taught by you;
Let me forsake all that is me
To be your son again.

Age comes
It doesn’t go–
It stalks–
I’d pay it if it’d take a walk;

I’ll seek a court for Age
And restrain it from the bench
Order its distance
And arrest

If boobies grace my breast
Or gray hair show its face;
At fifty– or so I’ve heard–
Each man has earned his face.

“Chickens!”
This was icing on the cake, I suppose,
As they sped by
Launching their precision-guided taunts;
We both knew their intended effect;

A slight head shake–
The mumbled line of profanity or two–
This was all that was returned for my quick glance at Lane,
Designed to save whatever face we had left;
But the two vixens had already disappeared into the city;

Afterward, we wouldn’t talk of it,
What almost happened in that apartment in the city;
After all, what could we have been thinking?
Today as much as then
I’d still urge we leave to buy beer.

I’m a project starter
It’s finishing that hasn’t found
My resume;
My wife will tell you tales– willingly, exuberantly,
As if in their telling she finds therapy
Without the hourly rate–
Of the bathroom that lived toilet paper free
With its sandwich-bagged sewer pipe
And dried rubber band
Though I never understood her much ado;
An even better toilet
Flushed quite perfectly right down the hall;
Not to mention the stress averted
In not needing to monitor
Two toilet paper dispensers.

As I sleep
None the wiser she’ll be;
As my intellect wanes
Then just maybe she’ll see

Just a beast–
Not a god;
Under all fours,
I swear, mud and sod;

I’ve been instructed and warned
With dire consequences
To spit like a camel or to grunt like a pig
Lest she come to her senses

And lie with a beast;
Call not unclean
What God has made
To seem a lesser sheen.

I don’t recall her nude
It escapes me, or I it
Buried in synapses, hidden from wit
As interlude

Between what was
And what comes ahead;
Though what stands in it’s stead
Undoes

Every cell of my being
From heaven-most hair
To callused sole, if it dare
Disagreeing

As it were
With what I expected
As if I’d neglected
What once had seemed sure.

Happy, yes!
You asked, so I’ll answer
Though I’ll have to admit
Life of late’s such a blur;

It’s not as it was
With its goings and comings;
Kids’ games that are past
But new dreams of becoming

Something different!
But what?
Only God knows that;
Doors will open or shut;

I’d prefer open!
Maybe I’ll pray?
Though my beliefs say it’s moot,
At any rate, I’ll pray;

It’s not really that
I think He won’t hear me;
Of course He hears
To each and every degree;

It’s if it’s decided or not?
That’s the question at hand
But should it have been
Then my prayer, too, is planned.

Gape out
Behold your vineyard
O lonely son
Of Swineherd;

Behold–
What did you expect to find?
Respectful logic
Of your own kind?

Or Idol
Vexed to nightmare?
Pitiless?
O ruthless stare!