Obscurity’s Great Lament

. . . or where do you suppose this guy got his MFA?

Dashzilla

Vaughn sitting on the floor
in the living room, rebuilding
her Lego tower. When Dash
totters over and knocks it down
again, she turns to him and says,
“You're a monster, Dashiell.
You're the god of grief.”

Sharma sleeps on

Sharma sleeps on the ottoman under the desk in the dining room. Her favorite place to be since our second kid came along. A purple mouse-toy clumped with cat hair looks almost gray as it pokes out from under her fat rump and stupidly eyes the Georgian green wall. Torn envelopes and statements sticking up at all angles from the mini mail sorter. Constant on-and-off again beeps from the construction work across the street. Rumble of dirty yellow machines moving dirt around. Toy plates and baby-doll paraphernalia across the floor. But Vaughn is upstairs in her room building a Lego tower shaped like a bird, and Dash is conked out in his crib, lullabied to sleep perhaps by the whispering water of KC's shower. Alone in the back room with my mug of black tea staring stupidly with half-awake eyes into the harsh light of the monitor screen bearing the news of a massive Fisher-Price toy recall, unacceptable levels of lead paint found again in toys made in China. Makes me wonder why we have so many toys, especially when Vaughn's favorites, often enough, are Birdhand and Duckhand, which would be my right hand and my left hand. I suppose we have so many toys (it's not so many really) because our families love them, and holidays are capitalist events, and most importantly grownup hands get tired.

Parts of the vacuum

Parts of the vacuum scattered about the house like pieces of Osiris. One attachment in the half-bath. Another between my office chair and a crate stuffed with old literary journals in the back room. The body of it down in the basement under the utility sink. The smaller attachments also in the basement shoved back on the low shelf of KC's old computer desk. Dash upstairs in his white crib sleeping his light sleep. Can't start the chore yet. Vaughn just picked up by Nana. They'll do lunch then spend the afternoon painting and working on crafts. Earlier, KC at the grocery store, Vaughn and I built separate towers with the Duplo blocks. A green home for the penguins, Chalk and Dot; a blue home for one Little Boy; a red home for the other; a yellow home for Sea Lion. Poor "Little Guy" missing and we didn't even notice. The Little Boys drove their red and blue cars. Went hiking Litchfield hills. Tea with Sea Lion. Checked out the cars at the Penguin place. Hit the grocery store, picked up milk and ice cream, hot dogs, hamburgers, and buns. Went back to the red house and grilled themselves some lunch. I took a break to use the potty Vaughn didn't need to, then I got some water, came back. Vaughn was watching out the window for Nana. Playing our "We're not waiting for you, you're just a stranger" game every time a car not hers drives by. But it's KC's white Saturn that pulls into the driveway. Vaughn runs to the side door. Vaughn startles her as KC pushes open the slightly-jammed door. We're there to help carry the groceries in. KC's thankful. Flurry of activity. Milks to the fridge; vegetables, too. Meat for the freezer and ice cream cones, mmm for the cabinet. Soon Nana arrives to pickup Vaughn. Hugs and kisses goodbye. Vaughn won't leave anymore without them. After a few moments of looking around, remembering the dust bunnies and tangled strands of cat hair on the floor near or under the furniture when Vaughn and I were gathering up the blocks to build with, I ask KC where the vacuum is. "All over the place," she says.

Time of lifting spiders

Time of lifting spiders on the garage door. Time of filling the Yard Machine with gasoline. Time of pulling the string. To Sartre everyone had a string to pull. I'm skeptical. Unsure of the "every," unsure of the pull. In lives so pulled. Time to pull becomes time to push. Time of waist-high weeds along the edges. Time of the neighbor's treacherous fence, jutting at us through his property-line-speak smoke screen. Time of know your rights. Time of swallowing allergen-induced post-nasal drips. Remember the time of action figures in exotic jungles of not extraordinarily tall grass. Remember the time of die-cast metal cavalry. Outlaws and marshals and Texas rangers. Sioux, Cheyenne, and Apache. Brown patio of the mid-western plains. Surreal fields of freshly mowed grass. Father and son animating cowboys and Indians. Cowboys and Indians meeting their demise by the roll of the dice. Sgt. Pete Stone fires at Painted Horse. Storm Eagle wings an axe at Wes Bonner, the great scout. Rain Hat positions his rifle from behind a petrified tree, taking aim at "Shotgun" Crawford. Remember the names, remember the time. Worlds we leave behind. But who's that in the make-shift saloon behind the walls of Fort Larame? G . . . W . . . Bush. Don't remember him.