Greener Grass

I do not know what kind of lawn my father planted in our first house. My recollection now solely comes from a fading photo of my parents standing in the front yard; smiling faces that look intrinsically familiar yet foreign at the same time. Each time I set that tarnished photo down, I finish by looking at the grass crushed beneath their feet. They have given no thought as to what it took make each blade so very green, just smiles offered to the camera's lens. We only lived there a few years, then an apartment for a short time, then finally the structure was built that I came to call home. When I was old enough to obtain a cognitive mind, it was the dichondra grass in the yard that became my strategic link to the formulation of the word "home". It was so exact in its growth pattern; small delicate stems terminating in a clover-like leaf. Green became my favorite color: a dark, rich, intense shade of the green worn by that dichondra basking in the Southern California sun. Every Saturday I wanted to walk through the yard in my bare feet not wanting to cut the grass as the mower lopped off those wonderful, green, leafs. Soon after my mechanized assault, the injuries healed, the grass again spring-spry as all the headless stems had grown back.
As I grew into high school the time I spent on the lawn grew shorter each week. The frail yet beautiful grass that was memory's seed became not what I did each weekend but nothing more than a pesky chore that did not always get done. Why I took great offense at my father's intent to push woody runners of St. Augustine into the tranquil sea of soft green I will never know, I just did. Why should I mind, I was waxing the Malibu for the weekend as if someone other that me would notice. The coarse, thick blades St. Augustine entwined themselves amongst the vivid green stocks just as a python wraps itself around its evening meal. I never knew the exact moment that the dichondra died and the St. Augustine assumed control; it just happened, it was there. The passionate warmth that I so wanted to have attached to the memory of my childhood home became flawed, in part, by the fading vision of that long, cozy home with the stiff, off-green lawn it had when I last saw it. I still fight to put the dichondra into that vision but with only false and soon forgotten success; the St. Augustine still pushes its way in.
I lived in Missouri for a while where my yards were never anything more than mowed fields. The remaining stubble was harsh even poking its way through the hard rubber soles of my harachis. That yard really looked appealing when it was tall, overgrown. Long, feathery stocks of Timothy about two feet high, deep purplish-red flowers of red clover, the stature and beautiful evil of thistle all blowing in concert on the evening's wind. Mowing it all down to one inch storks, I tried planting blue grass and rye but the natural growth never let that succeed. I derive more comfort from a trip I made to my father's childhood home just before I moved back West. That image still remains as intense as the day it happened. It was an old, decaying two-story house, hand built by my grandfather and his friends. You could still see the integrity of the structure but the yard around the house had grown back to its natural state. The holistic beauty the entire image is of an old farmhouse sinking into an ocean of flowing grasses and creeping vines. The collective nature in the seemingly incompatible parts of that vision giving that recollection great staying power and resonance whenever I ruminate on that memory. That was my father's house and his grass, not intrinsic enough for me to call mine like viewing art but never quite knowing for sure what the artist's impetus.
For the last fifteen years I have lived in the desert of Arizona. Supposedly, tumble weeds cannot even grow here as they just become vegetative road kill. My father and mother are no longer present on this earth but are still standing in some kind of grass somewhere, smiling. I now have my own yard, and it has grass growing in it. Most yards in the desert are planted with Bermuda grass and, for whatever sense it makes, thrives in the heat of summer then goes dormant, turning a dead-like brown in winter. I liked the Bermuda when I first moved in: the yard was already established, it is soft on bare feet, and you do not have to mow it but half of the year. As time passed, I came to the conclusion that the Bermuda was not a color that would have a lasting legacy for me. Over time its pale green blades just seem to keep getting fainter and stiff. I tried planting dichondra as if to resurrect the ideal of nurturing the perfect green grass; the ultimate comfort found within the link to my childhood home. For a myriad of reasons that did not work, so I decided to do some horticultural research to obtain success. After very little effort into the preferred grass types for arid climates, I came across some troubling data on dichondra. It really is weed, Kidney weed. The reference went on to say it was best never mowed and did well when planted where it would not be walked on. So, I dug some St. Augustine out of my head and planted it in the yard. It is still in the process of choking out the last few remnants of Bermuda, but it has almost won.

The Moment of Flight

My temptation lies beneath a thin-layered gauze,
cut with sharp intensity, shearing veiled cotton,
remnant threads holding fast to my past sense of honor.
This twisted transformation of punishment for old transgressions,
still not sufficient to overcome pure pleasure's allure.

The unrestricted resistance of fingers passing over silken skin,
youthful lust of a time worn urge,
recollecting the clear image -- a bared shoulder, satin breast,
curves the text of unmatched, ageless context,
my unfettered mind runs rampant, there is no restraint.

A rush, toes griping rock's edge, then breaking free,
a journey to the waters of crystal clear, Muir lake.
The shock of cold unable to penetrate my inner most core,
gives pause to the flight from warmed air to water's entry,
Moments of seconds held closely; still vivid in tactile memory.

I now scream in the pleasure, and for the pain,
all consumed in the moment's collective force.
Returning to the surface, grasping for air,
a gut cramping groin freezes all thought.
Desire heightened further, no lingering regret.

Stilled reflections created in late summer's sun,
melting snow, to fill the lake, then heat surrounding stones,
a dichotomy in conflict to my choice's repercussions.
The granite warms my bared flesh, a cool wind chills my skin,
overpowering the fevor of my staying pleasure into rise;
to jump out, into air -- for the sake of descent.


Paris R Masek II
September, 2005

My Father's Hands

Sprung steel, now brittle paper covered
wisdom folded in a finger’s grasp,
thumbs twiddle, keeping time at bay.

Little white church claims the wooded knoll cedar shrouded.
A solitary bell calls him to be seated in creaking oak pews,
worn hymnals simmer in their own paper musk.
Window-stained light falls on,
on to the floor.

His neck now pivots, head erect,
grayed granite cradled in a starched collar,
speech echoing from faceless eyes.
his words now caught in the pained streams!

Why must today go just to spite my efforts?
A warmed hearth, a phrase from the window
my vision now kept close to consciousness.
its focus is but a thinned yellow light,
and its spirit will change that color tomorrow!

Letters and shades, words and darkness,
primary colors fading to nothing but pale shades of slate.
Help me stay here, to be there,
by warmed ashes,
now cooling too fast.

Paris R Masek II

An Oranged Grove Fireplace

Huge concrete rivers containing slime green streams,
old freeways built for cars at 45 miles per hour.
Even the eucalyptus trees are transplants:
shedding their bark,
littering the ground,
turning into dirt.
My eyes, cataract hazed, smog just got in the way.
LA invented smog, refined it,
turned it into art, a lifestyle,
A sense so strong,
the taste of licked chain link.

Help me picture the bricked house,
frozen framed with fancy scalloped edges,
faces barely known, now missing from my mind,
their remains returned to a final childhood.
I hate rap -- my father hated Hendrix.
Why did they come here, to the West Coast Mecca of New?
Until so much,
turned so many sweet orange blossoms into pungent,
dusty, parts of smog.

You could drive to a wooded foothill,
leave the city just behind,
where graffiti, and time, had not yet reached,
pour oil down the road to keep down the dust
that climbed away from a clear, cool creek to an old cabin
built around an older scrub oak.
No environmental police to bust you.

Modern steel and marble are there now,
oiled roads have long been paved over,
pieces of the puzzle permanently lost.
Eighty-eight year old oak now burns behind thickened glass,
no orangewood left to pass over the polished, metal hearth.

Where is the fuzz -- when you really need them?

Paris R Masek II

Carbon Dating

Carbon Dating

The charcoaled line stretches forth from soil to skyward
An undulating green spring, retaining spines coiled to keep an earthly grip
Reciprocating in transparency to a full spectrum of mature color
The sun’s refractions glinting, giving birth to starry darkness
A lily’s image fulfilled by genetic code,
hypothesis confirmed by what is found in too many dreams.
Predictable growth, stems risen from stamens
leaves unfurled, photosynthetic flags taking a natural course
paled buds, once brilliant petals, curled detritus
seeping perpetually
between the grains of soil, flowing around and over rocks to again return
towards the sun
pulling essence and vigor with its travels.

Paris R. Masek II
March, 2009

Old Wallpaper

I slipped in the oil and on the loose gravel
running down the road's shoulder
just to climb the wooden steps, creaking under foot
hearing
then jumping onto the front porch's swayed back
swinging open the screen door,
the one with little wooden pillars lining its face.
its frailty evident, slamming shut behind me
I was always running in and out, with a child’s vigor
not meaning to piss grandpa off as the door banged against the jam,
but to enjoy the arrival then the escape to the world outside.
Away from the spit baths, the unmoving, humid air
encased behind peeling wallpaper, and musty Midwestern walls.
No toilet, no sink, no air conditioner,
just one GE fan in grandpa’s room
one that you could hear, but not feel any flowing air.
So many “no’s” for such a little mind
that only became cognizant in an older state

Always just running to get outside, to get away,
once the thunder storm had passed.
To squat down, mystified by the patterns,
found in long blades of grass doted with flower petals
and clumps of clay, flattened down and mottled
under the water rushing past from the gutter above
flowing towards the wooden steps leading to the road.
Where it went from there, I still do not know.
it was going towards somewhere and
away from me all in the same moment.
A moment to be watched, almost captured
imprinted so as to be learned, and mostly understood.


Paris R. Masek II
March, 2009