Poetry | Rick Christiansen

An archaeological excavation

 

My mother would disappear, sometimes for up to a week. I would

shoplift groceries at the Ralph’s in North Hollywood to feed my

little brother and myself. It didn’t feel like stealing. I always took a list.

 

I don’t remember the movie by name. I was 8 or 9. I fell hopelessly in

love with the beautiful princess. For the next 50 years, I was sure

that I would find her in the bright eyes of every neurotic narcissist I dated.

I was always disappointed. But she was always there.

 

I hate to carry a lot of change in my pockets. It reminds me of when I had

to go to the laundromat with my little brother. I always tried to use some of

the change to buy him candy. He was easier to handle in public spaces when

he had candy.

 

I was always reluctant to make promises to my children.

I didn’t want to disappoint them.

I would just say “we’ll see…”

when they asked for a commitment. 

They were always disappointed.

 

I killed my dog yesterday. She was failing.

I killed her before she failed. I will never know

when she would have actually failed. I didn’t wait

for the end of that movie.

 

I have built a life around listening to the music others make

and trying to match the syncopation. There is some peace

in slowly going deaf.

It isn’t really silence,

just the absence of noise.

 

More artifacts—another layer:

 

My grandson told me that he thought going to prison would

be really “awesome”—

He said that it would be relaxing to be forced into compliance.

Or basically that…

 

I got $10 an hour to model nude for the art school in the 1970s.

I told my friends I was doing it for the money.

I was lying.

 

I tried to become an alcoholic during my Freshman year of college.

I drank two warm beers for breakfast every day.  But

then I went to class.

I fucked it up.

I should have skipped class.

 

Last night I dreamed that I shaved off my beard.

            My girlfriend broke up with me. Then I woke up.

I told her about the dream and she laughed…

            “Yeah, how dare you change your appearance without my permission!”

 

My biological mother was 17 when she conceived me.

            My daughter was 17 when she conceived my grandson.

                        My grandson is now 17.

                                    He lives with me.

I think about what he may be conceiving as I write this.

 

I lived with my great grandparents

until I was three.

Until my great grandfather

started having seizures.

 

I asked if he was going to get better.

If I was going to be able to come back

home to them.

They did not want to disappoint me.

                                   

They said “we’ll see…”

 

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Read a review by Maria Nazos of Rick Christiansen’s Bone Fragments.