A Little Family Tradition

On October 31, 2005 my 4 day old daughter, Kellan Victoria Cowan passed away in my arms at 10:40 in the morning. I had spent every waking hour of those four days either at her bedside in the NICU or my wife’s. Her short life changed me forever. In some good ways, and in some bad ways. I’ve written about this before but I’ll say it again – when you lose a child, their ghost grows with you and never, ever leaves. The last time I saw Kellan she was a tiny, beautiful baby girl. So perfect in fact that there was no way to tell that anything was wrong with her, except for the tubes and IVs. But now, when I close my eyes to see her, she is not that baby anymore. She has grown. She grows every year. She wears jeans, has long beautiful hair, doesn’t go barefoot as much as her older sister, Lillian, and she loves to snuggle. She is a ghost, but she is growing. She’s my little angel child on lay-away, and I will hold her soon enough, and smell the flowers of her brilliantly auburn hair.

Every year on her birthday (October 27) we make a trip to her headstone where we lay flowers and talk to her and release balloons into the air for her. One for every year. Later that night my wife sends me to the basement where I get Kellan’s box. It’s a large green rubbermaid plastic tub. In black sharpie, Suzanne wrote, “Kellan’s Belongings” on the lid. After Lily is asleep we set the box on our bed and open it up. It’s full to the top of every tube, blanket, card, picture, hair clipping, and nick knack that pertains to her. There are letters from the nurses who attended to her. There is the blanket she was wrapped in as she died in which I held her for hours after her death. There are cards and little notes that people left on her NICU crib. There are napkins from the hospital cafeteria. Everything is there.

The most precious item in that whole box is in the very bottom. In a ziploc bag we have the hospital onesy that she wore, the little hat, socks, and blankets she laid on in the crib. But the most precious part of those items is the smell. When I open the bag and press my face against the soft knitted blanket I can still smell her. I can smell her on the blankets, the socks, the onesy…all of it. It’s a pure and clean smell. It smells of life and hope. It is her, and when I find her in heaven and wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her neck, it is the only thing that will be familiar to me up There. For that one tiny moment, every October 27th as I close my eyes and inhale her deeply into my body – she is alive again – only for an infinitesimal instant. Smaller than a grain of sand. But as real as the Earth spinning beneath me.

Now October is passing and soon it will be Thanksgiving and Christmas and gradually she will fade from me for the rest of the year. I cannot think of her often, as the longing to see her run, to tickle her feet, to kiss her perfectly heart-shaped lips can easily overwhelm. But I have found that when you truly love. When you honestly and wholeheartedly love someone, just a tiny moment, with your eyes closed and the smell of them filling your mind and easing your memories – is somehow, just enough.

My beloved Kellan, I miss you, love you, and laugh at the commotion you must cause in heaven daily. I will see you soon.

damned

you were damned one
night in Buckhead.

and she was damned under-
neath the East Point Rail.

and he was damned when
that cruel cock crowed

and sent the brother
back to hell.

we were damned at
our eighth grade dance

and you, with Mary’s dad’s
hand in your pants.

Left For Dead

i left you for dead, i recall,
on the side of that dusty road.
it was the eighth month of our
twenty-fifth year. you were
wearing a sheer white sundress
with a hat, its pink tassels
left undone, like me, like my
heart. undone and fractured.

we rode for hours out under
the hot Georgian sun. the black
tarmac transformed into a jigsaw
of light and shadow patches.
we turned and meandered and strolled
around each big, deciduous fuzzy mountain
as if they were parting before us.

the wind whispered malice in my ear
as it passed through the open windows
of my old Ford. i looked down as
this fiendish breeze lifted the hem
of your skirt up your leg. my eyes
burned in their sockets until the
pleasantries in your smile darkened
into something far more sinister as
you quickly slid the dress back down.

i met your eyes, just as the ole sun
found no obstacle between him and me,
through countless miles of cosmos.
behind his troubling wink i saw the flash
of guilt in your face, and felt the
breath go out of my heart. and i knew.

and i knew that it was him. my heart
grew dark as i let the wheel go, my eyes
closing while time slipped quietly through
the molasses air. the sturdy steel of
us folded like pine straw, just as the steel
of my old Ford folded around a mightier oak
than you or i. the last i saw was the
weightless beauty of your dress, motionless
in mid-air as your body, angelic and demure
eased effortlessly through the windshield of
my old Ford. your broken body spent itself
ragged along that dusty old road. the dusty
road where i left you, for dead.

Each And Every Morning

Each and every morning
As the black blankets of Night
Bleed grays and pinks across
The rim of the world she comes.

When fitful morning dreams rule, she
Stands at my bedside smelling of
Lucky Charms and Cherry lipgloss,
And runs tiny fingers through my hair.

Each and every morning she kisses my
Forehead and says, “Daddy..” then she
Kisses my nose, “it’s time to…” then
My lips, “wake uuuupp!”

As soon as I open my eyes I see
The blur of her, walking out into
An early dawn future that is only hers.
“I love you,” she says as the garage
Door slams shut.

“I love you, too.”

A Midnight Thief

There are flames inside of me
That no drink can quench
No lesson learned at God’s oaken desk
Will slow this fate; no, not one inch.

I’ll walk right out of this safe home
In chase of a spark or a tale of me.
Spill my guts on the courthouse steps
Disemboweled for all to see.

There is darkness down deep in me
Where creep and buzzard play.
Outside the walls of such a soul
Women cry for the break of day.

So Mothers run and hide your brood
For Midnight comes this time.
He’ll steal the love right from your heart
Just as he once stole mine.

KISS, a stingray, and boots – what could go wrong?

So some of you know that I play in a little southern rock band called Radiolucent. Just a few good ole country boys who love music and love rock n roll. A couple of weeks ago my manager sends me an email that reads, “Hey Mike, can you go to the Bahamas?” What planet would you need to be from to answer no? In fact, if you know of someone let me know. I’ll put together the firing squad. That’s an entire segment of the gene pool that simply need not be. Turns out KISS, yes, KISS is putting on this little cruise to Nassau with a couple thousand of their biggest fans. The Wet, Wild, and Rockin’ KISS Kruise to be exact. And yes, I mean their BIGGEST fans. Imagine a quiet breakfast when you glance to your left at a table of people in full KISS attire complete with face makeup. It’s both startling and fantastic. Greatest bunch of fans I’ve ever encountered. I was so humbled by these people of all ages that I realized I’ve never been a fan of anyone. Listen, until you will wear leather and metal spikes and face paint to breakfast, you aren’t a fan.

Day two we land on some private little island to swim and drink and tan and drink and watch KISS face makeup ooze down people’s sweaty faces for the day. It was lovely. At some point I lost my wife’s and my ship entry cards. My manager, Cohutta, yes, Cohutta from the REAL WORLD, lost his card AND his driver’s license as well. We didn’t discover this until about 45 minutes before the last ferry leaves the island. Armed with a pair of goggles and 4 other drunk people and the biggest stingray I’d ever seen, we managed to find all four cards on the bottom of the goddamned ocean! Can you even appreciate, dear reader, the miracle that was? The enormity of that? Well probably not, but that’s why you’re reading and I’m writing. At one point, while hovering a few feet over the stingray, a thought occurred to me. The thought went something like this, “That stingray is huge. Crocodile Hunter. He’s amazing. His stinger is about 3 feet long. Crocodile Hunter. Look at those gills. Wow he’s fast. Wow he’s close. I could touch him, right? Crocodile Hunter. Crocodile Hunter. Hrm, did a stingray KILL the Crocodile Hunter? I’m nothing like the Crocodile Hunter. Why am I here?”

On a boat full of rockers in face paint, 4 country boys and one country girl donning some fine cowboy boots were able to effectively rock ourselves into some small amount legend. I mean hell, the first night we managed to catch a speaker on fire. Fire. As in smoke and ship security running to the scene as if Gene Simmons himself had been mugged. As I left the ship, knees still shaky from the constant swaying, I knew that given just one millionth of a chance, I’d be back next month to do it all over again. This time, I’d bring face paint. Oh and by the way, on Saturday night I saw KISS perform a 2 hour show. Not sure if you realized this or not, but those dudes can ROCK. I mean rock. I’m talking they could melt grandmas face right off her skull and laugh as 3 dozen vampire bats flew screaming from her mind, salty blood dripping from their fangs. That kind of ROCK! Thanks KISS. Before I was fan. Today, I’m a FANatic.

I’m the smirky one by Gene. And you see his thumb? Right, that’s black and blue from the previous night’s show. Goddamn I love Rock n Roll.

sex, drugs, and …

there’s no
drunk like
the stupor
that beguiles
me when the
liquor of
your voice
drips low
inside.

and no
high quite
as heavy
as your
beating breasts
pressed into
the warm
contours of
mine.

what music
would you
make with
the silky
wet walls
around your
soul; should
you drag me
across those
pristine strings?

20,000

Thanks guys and gals for all the reads and visits to my blog. Thanks for all the encouraging comments. Hopefully the best is yet to come.

a washing

blue skies part,
peeled, like an
orange from the
halcyon skin
of night.

bulbous boiling
clouds roll over
her, gorged with
the wet fingertips
of rain.

and down she falls
into his muddy
ground,

her stains
succumbed to his
washing sound.

crossing

i’m balancing on
the pinpoint
of this

with infinite moments
between the here
and now we
should
never

arrive, and yet, we do.

a tasty dish

she is small, delicate,
frivolous and puerile -
a breath of budding wind

in an otherwise perishing
field; where flowers and
green grasses once kudized

the warm, caroming sun. her
petite stature is perfectly
paired with the smallest

of hands. so fair under
moonlight. as if her skin
and the moon’s were forged

in the same fire. bleakest
midnight shines from her eyes
and men are lost in the
impossible beaming darkness.

flirt

i’ve known the delicate
space between our mouths
a breath before they meet.

i’ve caught the wafting
death of your fragrant flowers
when bitter became sweet.

but i’ve never known a
touch like this
when grit and silk
make such a kiss.