My name is Richard Braxton, and people always ask: do you go by Rich, Richey, or Dick. I tell them that I go by Richard, but I will answer to anything if I know that they are talking to me. I will even answer to “hey fuck face” if you say it politely. And I have been given many nicknames over the years like the obligatory “Big Rich,” “Big Man,” and “Big B” or their inverse like “Tiny.” When it meant something I was called Tony. But for one day, I went by “Mike.”
Being a young dick head, anytime I had to sign in for anything, I would sign my name as “Mike Hunt.” I was young enough to think that it was clever, but old enough to know that everyone had heard that one thousands of times before. But I had gone with a group of friends to their church youth group and the pastor expected us to sign in. Abought half an hour into the meeting, the pastor wanted to split us up into teams to play some sort of game, and by chance, he picked up the sign in sheet and began to assign teams by first name instead of just dividing the room in half.
I had been the last person to sign the sheet and I waited as people were called out by their first name until the pastor read out the name “Mike.” I sat back and watched my friends look around asking, “Who the hell is Mike?” And then it happened, the pastor repeated, “Mike, Mike Hunt.” I sat back quietly sinking into the leather armchair waiting for people to catch the joke then in exasperation the pastor said. “Where’s Mike Hunt?” And hilarity ensued. Eventually, someone realized that mine was the only name that was not called, and for the rest of the day my name was Mike.
The light through the glass cross opening on
His April of persistence, the old man
Stared toward the altar of an empty church.
Why with the melting frost in his hair had
He watched the blood boil on the kettle
Whistling like the distance between him and
His wife? Why had he poured it out over
The separate teabags in separate cups to
Let them steep in their own loneliness? Why
Place the cups on separate table ends to
Grow ice cold while he stood staring out the
Window at the golden light watching the
Winter grow short and cold? And why now in
The cathedral does he contemplate God?
The red iron smell of the dried wood tongue
That had been burned against the heat like the
Sweet jalapeños. As if the gap between
The bushes of peppers and his cover
In growing of the grass hasn’t brought down
Layered insects, you ask him, what does it
Mean? He responds: does your house have curtains?
Now tell me, if you can, what do they mean?
In so many ways, he had given in
Adorned like stained glass in a Catholic
Church. He had taken on the mantle of
Post-modernism. Now, he was of the
Neighborhood garden. Pushing up lifting
The front of a word so malleable.
He was a force in sports walking down Sea
Foam, Breaker, and Windward to the field by
The jetty. Ball, bat and glove in hand, he
Would meet the other kids. If they all showed
It would be a lazy Saturday game.
They’d rotate the at bats and each kid’d keep
His own score. As the day wears on, some of
The kids would wander home to “check in” or
“Get a snack.” The rest of them would jeer with
Calls of “pussy” and “mama’s boy.” When skies
Darken, he would wander home with his ball,
Bat, and glove dreaming of the next game and
Dreading the false structure of a boring
Sunday of scriptural contemplation.