The Arbuckles

My father's favorite place is somewhere between Norman, Oklahoma and Corinth, Texas. The arbuckles. A granite quarry. Stretches and expanses of highway, carved through slabs and jaunts of wild and amorphous rocky crags. We could build a house on top of here, he says.

The mesquite trees vie for attention, gripping the bends and breaks of the crumbling structures, they stretch their limbs to the sky, oblivious to the thick and dripping heat. to the way the blue quivers and weaves in the sunlight. To the way the clouds roll and disappear.

This place, he says.

Makes me so happy.

Fortune and veracity (blessings)

Traveling in Europe makes us feel lucky. And we notice. What luck, we exclaim.

That we are here. That we get to be here.

That, there are these things.

All of these things, and all around us.

Everywhere.

To see, and to feel. To experience.

The air in Venice, the night in Rome.

The way the light reflects off the Mediterranean and bounces onto the walls of Saint Tropez.

Where all the famous guys took their brushes.

Meanwhile,

Back here, it rains in Richmond.

And I tell myself,

Remember.

And think,

The rain that rinses my windshield and the air that smells like sunlight.

Blessings, fortune, and the sheer luck

of knowing ( and feeling)

our lives

Roma

We stopped on a bridge
You know the famous one?

And the fires lit up the sky

And we drank and we laughed

And we knew

That god wanted to show us

His love

Venezia

The world cracks and turns here, and we sway and we rock. The moss grows up and over the steps, they hide secrets in between the places the sunshine disappears.

There's a rhythm, there's a beat.

There's the march of the measured steps.

The pulls and pushes of that ignorant moon.

The cadences that only the past knows.

Lord, only God knows.

And we rock the boats and they lilt from side to side

They jostle and roll

A languished chest. Pounding. A giddy desire.

A slow and dredging, heart. beat.

And breathe.

And we throw our heads into the vulnerable breeze.

Into the spirit of things.

The stone, and the statues,

The bridges and the pillars.

The balconies, the spindly roots,

The swell of wine and the seasons that all feel alive.

And not a drop to drink.

Washing clothes in that white washer. Making coffee. Drawing a bath. Hand washing (soaking) a blouse.

Oh the wealth.

Oh the disregard.

Oh the presence, of the Lord.

Water, water.

Water.

Of us

I've had blue nails since I met you.
And if I hadn't had been there, and wanted to.

The night that it was,

And your quick conversation.

Your staggered wit and measured steps.

I watched you light your cigarette and rub your knee.

Watched your knuckles slide over and around the side of the bench you held up.

I heard myself laugh

And I knew

That I loved, the this stuff

These things, of us.

Even though we're not at Bonnaroo ( 6-16-2013)

Dear Dude,

It's not only about how much fun we have. How you're my favorite person. How we crack each other up. How we share our days when we walk through the back alleys of Birch Street, drinking Mavromatis swill and taking a minute to guess (and check) the exact temperature outside.

It's all of those things. But it's none of them too.

It's how you set a standard for my life.

As a father, as a friend. A husband, as a dreamer, a visionary. As a hard worker.

An eternal optimist.

A glass overflowing sense of humor

A brother and a son.

An intellectual.

Full of grace and humility.

Selfless and ever so devoted to your family.

I'm not scared of how high the bar is. Because I know I'm worth it. And I know it's out there.

That never settle for less joy.

That find comfort in God's love.

That love all children with abundance.

That seemingly endless enthusiasm for play.

That wake up, grateful for the day.

You. And all the skills you've given me.

A roadmap. And the foundation for it.

Happy Father's Day.

You are SO loved.

Dizzy.