Antkowiaks are like Oranges or Poem for Morgan

The youngest girl, my Morgan Rae,
Near Eight and blonde and bright.
Her reckless teeth brighten my day,
They flash all bent and white.

Her older sister, fourteen now,
Both beautiful and tall.
And even if my dad allows
I’ll kill the first to call.

Her brother Bran is big and mean
So says one who might dare
But if you pass this grizzly sheen
You find a teddy bear

My mother, goddess of the home,
Both love and grace supplies.
A mighty woman she alone
Cooked food for Bran and I.

Our father kind, the patriarch,
Would bounce me on his knee.
One day I learned his past was dark;
He’d rocked on MTV.

That leaves just me, the second son
No better and no worse,
I did what none thought could be done
Antkowiak in verse.

News

So when reporting the news, just what are "the facts"? At a gay rights parade or abortion rally is evil just as much a fact as the color of the chief organizers shirt? thoughts?

In other news, notice the new blog counter at the bottom of the page. Important numbers will be rewarded.

T

Professor Appel's Eyebrow

We stand upon this barren balding plain,
Our ranks much thinned by craft of fursome foe.
We stand the pale thin vangaurds ‘gainst the rain.
But cannot block the sun or shield from snow.
And who could be the enemy so great?
The self-important foe who drives us back,
He forays north while rests his dext’rous mate.
He flies enraged in self-impressed attack.
Twixt jutting ears, above all-seeing eyes
He reigns. Each Tuesday jumping in the air,
Our border ocean creased in pleased surprise
He sails across to make our army bare.
But who are we this eyebrow fills with dread?
We are the hairs that die on Appel’s head.

March 31

My eyes fly open and hit the day like headlights on a dear, the first flicker of the oncoming collision. As my head twists toward the digital alarm clock, the traitor, its sneering face gleefully winks 6:54. Morning Prayer starts at 7:00. I fall up out of bed and trip on yesterday’s shirt. It is black with an orange and white logo. Black hides stains. Yesterday’s shirt just become today’s. The button-down is suitably matched by yesterday’s jeans. I only have to make it through morning prayer after all, where everyone’s hair is still shower wet and everyone’s eyes can barely be seen peeking out of the bags that carry them. I trundle into my study for my brown boots and the wall clock’s long arm ends in what looks like a middle finger somewhere closer to twelve than eleven. My computer reassures me that it’s only 6:56. My watch pronounces an angry 6:59. I run through the dark house back to my bedroom. Grab keys. Grab phone. The stupid little piece of technology idiotically grins 6:58. I certainly don’t have time for a coat. I run outside and slam headfirst into the new day and six inches of spring snow.

Summer was over. Only this Sunday stood between me and the cavernous abyss that is the eighth grade. Fellowship dinner had drawn to a close and everyone except the Boswells had gone home. Dr. Boswell, my father, Brandon and I sat on my back porch, weathered and worn to a splintered gray, in the cool September air, with four glasses of wine, in four groaning green lawn chairs that shot creaking reproaches every time we shifted our weight. Dr. Boswell was wearing a blue oxford shirt. His belly fell over his belt like a blue oxford wave over a khaki beach. My father’s tenor voice said something that I was too busy poking Brandon to hear, and the good doctors epicurean eyes lit up and he nodded in grateful assent. My father walked inside past the busted screen door leaning at ease against the house. He returned as Prometheus, a wooden box tucked under his arm. The box. The humidor. It was red like blood and smelled like heaven. He handed Dr. Boswell a thick robusto. But he was not done. He put his hand in the humidor again and pulled out two light thin cigars. Six inches long and three quarters of an inch in diameter. A fitting first. Its blond tan hue laughed at my red sun-kissed hands. Its wrapper was thick with veins and smooth as felt. It tasted like chocolate and leather and fire and earth and summer. It was six inches of summer: three months of summer tightly rolled and laid in my hand.

Recess

The grass was soft. It felt like running your hand over your father’s best ties. Ten years later, when I graduated, this patch of heaven had been reduced to yellow stubble by ten more classes of glow in the dark sneakers. But back then the grass was as young as I. God’s green earth met man’s black asphault. We could get close enough to Indian landing Road to feel the wind from the cars push us back on to grass. Then Miss Brophy would yell for us to be safe. I was smaller then. As close to cute as I ever will be. I had a bowl cut. It was tag, and red shirts were it. I had a red shirt. Matt had a white shirt. Ready. Go. He was made of matchsticks. I was made of logs. It was not the fairest of chases. I grazed his shirt. He didn’t believe me, so we both kept running. As we jumped roots I shortened the gap. My legs were longer. He turned his coconut head to see just how close I was. I gave him a tag that was more like a push. He turned and his head hit a low thick branch like a softball on a Louisville slugger. He fell to the ground alternately crying and laughing. The giant knot on his head felt like a stress ball. We were young enough to worry and old enough to laugh. The perfect Godsmack.

God is the April Fool.
He gives us snow in undo season.
He makes men with strong jaws and covers them with thick fur.
He gives women beautiful legs and then puts knees in the middle of them.
He makes toes.
He made me.
He made Canada.
God made the principle of the swerve. The Atomists weren’t crazy after all. Almost.
Everything falls in an almost straight line. Almost.
God made man. God made monkeys.
Darwin wasn’t crazy after all. Almost
God made us similar enough to apes to give Darwin an excuse.
And different enough to damn him.
God make fat men the best singers.
Asians the best cellists.
Thieves the most generous.
Liars the best storytellers.
God made my brother and I together.
He the son of Vulcan, I the son of Bacchus.
Both sons of Mars.
Both Sons of Jeff.
God is the Mad Prankster.
He made this mortal temple.
This gas expelling, hair growing, ass scratching temple of the Holy Spirit.
He made Moscow.
He made it wet.
He made it snow in the end of March.
God is the April Fool.
We are April fools for not seeing it.

Hey... he's alive.

The Travel Post

Sorry for the Late Great Blog Silence. The mind is weak and the body is busy. I’ve finished my third term at New Saint Andrews and I’m happy to report it went well, quietly even. No broken bones were had, a rarity, respectable grades and good fellowship aplenty. I’ve begun singing at several nursing homes this past term that have made me laugh to the point that I nearly shared my entertainer’s incontinence. Between Wild Bill (from over the hill, who never worked a day in his life and never will), Evelyn who openly criticizes our singing, and my friend who has told me about her granddaughter who wore a little bathing suit on the grass at least once a visit, I think I’ve found a favorite: I was talking with a woman who will be turning 96 in April. After exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather (freezing rain and snow) she asked my name.
“Tyler Antkowiak, ma’am.”
They all really like being called ma’am.
“And what type of a name is that?”
“Its Polish, ma’am.”
Long pause.
“And how have you enjoyed your time in our country?”
“Oh just fine, ma’am, America is a beautiful place.”

My Question:
If movies are the modern equivalent of novels, are trailers the modern equivalent of poems? Watch a few for cinematographically charged dramas, or emotionally charged (ha!) action movies.
My Book: The Supper of the Lamb By Robert Capon. This book reminded me what it is to be human. I recommend it particularly if you have no culinary interests.
My Food: Corned Beef Reuben (best I’ve ever had) from Nana’s Irish Pub in Newport, Oregon.
TyTunes: Stevie Ray Vaughan: Live Alive. Great live album especially the tracks Superstition, and Willie the Wimp.

Uncle George

His hands were like gloves, filled with rocks and sticks. They were oil stained and rough and brown. His hands pulled trees up by the roots, mashed potatoes out of bowls, and new believers out of the baptismal font. His hands held me while we both fell asleep watching figure skating during the 96 Olympics. His hands scratched everything. His hands threw a wicked wiffle ball. His hands held Kathy tight every time she cried. His hands patted Randy on the back every time he was proud. His hands gave noogies. His hands operated hammers and trucks and guitars. Its easier to remember his hands. They drew cartoons that I still keep. They called strikes and threw ignorant coaches out of games. They showed me how big Boog Powel’s forearms were. They missed buttons, wiped stains on jeans, and grabbed more chips than he could fit in his mouth. Those hands worked harder than mine ever will. They will always be stronger than mine. The world will never know better hands. Those hands now play catch with the greats. Those hands now hold pierced hands. I’d give anything to hold those hands again.

It is certainly curious that “The Poets have been oddly silent on the topic of Cheese.” This most glorious invention of man and gift from God, I hardly dare speak of. How could I in a mere 250 words, words that could never convey the reality that is cheese, tell you of the joy of Jarlsberg, the richness of Ricotta, the marvels of Mascarpone, the pleasure of Parmesan, the greatness of Gouda? To make cheese is Covenant fulfillment. God sent the Israelites into the land of Canaan, the land of milk and honey, to subdue it. Surely God did not merely want Joshua to subdue the land and the pagan people. God wanted him to subdue the milk. The Israelites would have known this and most assuredly began making Brie and blessing it with the bees’ hard labor. Cheese also bears a redemptive message. Limburger reminds us of the odiousness of our sin, while a Danish blue cheese, like an ancient Ebenezer, can remind us of the bitterness of the cross. A tart Lorraine Swiss reminds us of our need to be holy. We learned last week that the blessed curd is an allegory of our total depravity and justification. If you can get something as noble as cheese from something as ignoble as a cat, then God surely is strong to save. After all if cheese is not noble and praiseworthy sustenance, why would the God of goats and grapes have so perfectly married it to wine which makes our hearts glad?