79

How hard can it be to turn seventy-nine words into something compelling?

Staring at the computer screen, blank notebook, random word stained napkin,

i am lost

My hypergraphia has abandoned me.

My excuses and distractions are a staggering pile.

The right pen, the write pen... how did i do it, back then?

Biting pieces of the bleached, recycled napkin, i chew and swallow my words.

I keep my eyes closed, knowing that when i waken this will be gone. 79

 

 

Gears of work, family, study, worry and fear

grease that does not act as lubricant but is sand gritty between the teeth

on the cobblestone road I ride, always uphill mountain pass

that throws me to the ground, torn and filthy

dragging the remains of a life as I hear the time limit passing me

I look for my salvation in a wasteland of online games

until the electric is turned off and I crash for one last time. 79

 

I can wallow or I can rise above

I can stay or I can escape

My choice how I deal with the crackers

all the symptoms not cause inherent in this as in everything else

Tired of drama games power plays

keeping eyes on the bigger picture in the empty frame

I’ll cede the point in a lose-lose situation

what else can I do?

My options shrivel

fall away like oak leaves in October

It’s all about the crackers. 79

 

Lucky numbers line the walls of my brain

lined up like prom night wallflowers in their too tight dresses

waiting to be picked, clutching a blank dance card

wanting to be that night’s jackpot

Discards litter the floor

bits of carbon scratch off stuck everywhere

I sit, mesmerized, watching the computerized balls drop

one

by

one

spinning my future into a web that I pray will be a future

No matches

None

I sigh and reach for the kool-aid. 79

So How Should I Presume?

I will roll my pants above my ankle
like the old man, his hair getting thin
wading out at the shoreline
sand rising between my toes
then falling away, with the pull of the tide.

I, too, am old
and walk alone, like the cats
barriers only I can see keeping me apart
the observation space of garbled sound
fractured light casting yellow fog
the taste of tea in the galleries
served with honey
thinly sliced lemons translucent as
the morning smoke that licks the brickwork.

A wedge of crumb cake, taste it
the smoke whispers as it traces the helix
of my ear, so soft I cannot tell if
the whispers are English or Italian
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse
searching for synapses
closing the pathways
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo
nestling down for the long winter to come.

I'll Feed Your Cats

Sure, Good Buddy, I’ll feed your cats

The nice grey one, wo rubs his head against my leg

And the nasty black one, who hisses and scratches at

Everyone

But I think that is because he had a

Difficult childhood.

 

I’ll feed your cats for a few days

While you’re in Heart of Florida

Since your neighbor waroound the corner

Decided it is too difficult

To unlock the door twice a week and

Refill the water bowls and automatic feeder.

 

I’ll stop at the store and pick up

Cat food and litter and treats

Come by twice a week even though it is

At least 90 minutes roundtrip

And I’m not retired like your friend across the way

Who was friends with your parents

And regales me with stories of card games with your mom -which he lost –

But at least he gets the mail.

 

I’ll feed your cats for a few weeks

When I’m not sitting with you at

Consulate Davenport or Palmer or Bartow

At least they lifted some of the COVID restrictions

So I can visit and not have to talk to you through a window

And I can bring you gum and pudding and new shirts

And socks and it is ok to give them to you without going through

The sterilization chamber.

 

I’ll feed your cats for a few months

While you’re home with that healthcare worker

Who is supposed to assist you with common living tasks

But when I spend the weekend, after you pick out a movie

I throw in the laundry and run by Publix to get groceries

Before we discuss God and religion and is there reincarnation and

Who is saved and I didn’t know you were a minister.

 

I’ll feed the cats for a few years

While negotiating with the HOA

Over the unmowed grass and the fallen leaves

And the lawyers and the insurance agencies

And bring your Bible

The pocket Bible, not the large one, the pocket Bible

Well-thumbed and dogeared

To the rehab center in Sebring or Bartow or

Even Celebration.

 

I’ll feed the cats for a few more years

Because I don’t want you to worry

When your heart clogs from

Untreated diabetes and ulcerated wounds

I’ll pack your books and guitars

The painting you inherited from your uncle who died of alcoholism

Bring them all to my place when the roof caves in

because I can do that for you, Good Buddy.

 

I’ll feed your cats for forever

Spending thousands of hours and thousands of dollars

And don’t fucking tell me I’m

Doing God’s work and getting Karma Points

Because I am tired and already stretched too thin and

Too depressed and too over-worked and support too many people

And I am done ith being the practical dependable reliable one

But I love you, Good Buddy,

I don’t want to lose you

Even a little bit of you

So I’ll pick up another bag of kitty litter

And another bag of dry food

And a few cans of wet as a treat for your babies

Because I’ll feed your cats.

 

Enigma Machine

Doorways, hallways, coffins of possibility

if you press the buttons in the correct sequence

if you solve the enigma riddle

stop the cypher shadow mushrooms

lasciate ogne speranza voi ch'intrate.

 

A small black bird

Turing, chained by love unspoken

never spoken.

He breaks his vow of silence

vow of fear, vow of thwarted need.

The lid will slide over his shrouded form

over the coins pressed into his eye sockets

gently smother his breath

as the raven mutters a prayer

scatters a beakful of dirt.

Three Seasons of Glass

                                                                   

Scratching at the glass

the casing the sills

I suck the tiny

lead paint infected

wood flakes

from under my nails

feeding the pica that will kill me

sometime in the future.

Snow builds up on the grilles

ice patterns on the panes

hold my hand to melt another pattern.

It is cold here, almost as cold as out there

no one looks my way

no one looks at me

no one sees

no one remembers

me, licking the glass, waiting.

Rain makes new designs

wearing off the dirt

press against the glass

banging head until welts form.

Blood trails bookmatch the rivulets

Harder. More blood.

I see the sky,

deeper blue behind the rain,

as I wait and wait, for sun.

Library Nooks

Memories of here with my mother

Did we sit and read, look at pictures?

Each book another color, different binding,

faded, new, embossed.

Love for words sacred source

a place with books always

a haven

a heaven.

When pain and hunger clawed

she lost herself in words

crawled into the pages

under the flyleaf.

Will I tell her story?

Will I tell my own?

Each book another color

Walls of books surround us

I transcribe the echoes of her whispers

write our stories

and am

Happy

Catulli Carmina 101: A Play in One Act

Catullus has returned to Rome from delivering the eulogy at his brother’s funeral.

He is sitting at a bar, about to be cut off. His friend is trying to get him to leave.

                                                                       

You think I’m a pathetic little turd?

Pfft! I’m not.

I’m something much stranger

much sadder

than that.

A Hack.

Yes, a hack.

Paid by the verse

by the line

by the word.

Joy to the newly wedded virgins – ha!

Sadness to the mourning widows – ha!

Enlightenment to the beardless youth – ha!

Success to those who pursue – ha!

Redemption to those who repent – ha!

Please don’t insult my intelligence

by believing in

my output.

Why do you think there are cliché phrases?

Formulaic thinking?

Repetitive images?

You think I’m not better than that?

Excuse me while I sip my wine.

You’re such a kidder.

Except for …

the words I write for me

and the words I write for her

but I won’t discuss those.

Barkeep! More wine.

Shoo. Leave me in peace.

Ave atque vale, frater, ave atque vale. Shoo.

Celeste

“Unfortunately, there is no mistake,” she said, closing the file.

“You can’t do anything? Anything?”

“I can call around, see if there is space at one of the courtesy hotels, but we’re booked.”

I looked at my friend. She shrugged. “Fine. We’ll stay. Two beds, right?”

“Your reservation is for a king.”

Celeste whispered, “It’ll be fine. A king bed is huge. Let’s stay.”

But I didn’t want the bed to be huge. I was going to be in the same room, the same bed as Celeste, for three days. Agony. 

“It’ll be fine. Chill. We’re going to have a good time here, I promise. You’ll pick up all sorts of new skills, meet lots of people. For me? Please?” Celeste smiled, the dimple in her right cheek peeking at me.

“Okay, fine. Let’s just do what we came here to do.”  The desk clerk handed us the keycards and vouchers for complimentary cocktails to compensate us for the inconvenience.

Great.  A conference I didn’t even want to be at because I’m not a writer or a poet or an agent or anything.  One room, one bed, and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Celeste had picked up a few boxes of cardbordeaux, some white zinfandel, sangria and a case of some limited edition IPA for me.  Our plans were to get plastered together, but not to be plastered together. Man plans and gods laugh. Ha ha.

She put two six-packs and the white zinfandel in the mini fridge. “I’m going to donate the sangria and the cardbordeaux to the greater good, take them down to the office later,” Celeste said as she lined up her toiletries in the bathroom and hung her clothes in the closet.  “Two big towels, two hand towels, two washcloths.  That’ll be fine. I’m going to shower. Be a doll and get some ice, I don’t think five minutes in the fridge will do anything for it.”

I filled the ice bucket and returned to the sound of running water and singing. Celeste liked to sing in the shower.  She claimed it muffled her atonality, but that wasn’t true.  The atonality, not the muffling.  I loved listening to Celeste sing, in the car, on her porch, and now, in the shower.  It was a nice change from listening to her cry.

Celeste cries a lot. With me, anyway.  Guess I’m the shoulder of choice for this girlfriend did that, that boyfriend did this, her parents sucked, her job was meaningless, her friends were thoughtless, yadda yadda.  Singing was sweet.

I filled a large glass with ice and zinfandel, opened an IPA and drank.  The water stopped, but Celeste continued singing, something about a hippopotamus for Christmas, then segued into Rascal Flatts’ “Broken Road.”

And then she opened the door.

Celeste was naked except for the towel wrapped around her hair.  A pair of Dias de Los Muertos skulls surrounded by roses were tattooed over her mastectomy scars.  She smiled.

“I told you there were just enough towels. Oh good, I’m so thirsty. How ‘bout them Mets?”  She picked up the glass sipped, and winked at me.

It was going to be an interesting three days.

Red Wheelbarrow for William Carlos Williams

So much depends upon                                           Sept 29 2015

a red wheel barrow

glazed with rain

beside the white chickens.

Dust road shimmer, another dry afternoon

Cloudburst enough for runnels

And rotting spilt grain,

A week’s worth of grain

On the ground, near the coop

But not enough for new corn

Or unshrivel beans.

She sends the children,

Barrow tippers of grain, now

mixed with rotgut bottles in the

knobbyshade tree roots,

to a neighbor, and watches

the chickens peck peck peck

at precious scattered gold.

Yellow marks and cigarette ‘O’s

on her arms and ankles

wait for new color.

There was no money to paint the house

but, soon, she would be vivid as sunset.

Goodbye Girl

He stood over the shredder, feeding it, watching it gulp his former life, their life and spit out confetti destined to soak up bird poop and urine in the bottom of a large cage.
It gulped so hard it pulled the papers from his hand, reminding him of the plant in "little Shop of Horrors’, of quicksand, of the days she nursed their younglings, their frantic sucking, the milk spurting everywhere and her becoming thinner and paler as their bellies rounded hard., excess spewing out their little bottoms an inhale later.
He fed more into the shredder.
Her bank card.
Her checkbook.
Her photos.
Her passport.
Her notebooks filled with lies.
Her flashdrives, disks and tapes.
All that contained her, the machinations of her multi phasic mind.
He fed it.
When the hopper was full for the third time, he went out back and dumped the bits and bytes into a hole, shoveled dirt over it and turned the tarp. It was, if not a good feeling, certainly satisfying.
He called the girls to lay violets on the mound and, slowly, slowly they walked back into the house, one by one.

Naegleria Fowleri [Brain Parasite]

"Work gives life meaning, a sense of purpose, makes you feel your day was worth something."

Crashes in my head, tide roiling over the boardwalk, pulling human detritus out to mid-sea where passing cruise ships will wonder just how THAT got out there, turn the panaceas into so much white noise.

Work locks the demons in the closet, skinny fingers claw under the edge, desperate to reach the doorknob so they can come out and guide me to the TECO oven and sing me a lullaby , perchance to dream of happier days.

Secret Life of an American Wife

Secret Life of an American Wife
Surrounded by secrets-What are we hiding, anyway?
I know, I know what lurks in the hearts of all
and it is not evil, not anything that exciting or creative, no
it is fear
it is resignation
it is past hope, devoid of redemption
See! That one over there? 
He lives behind Walmart, in the truck he bought, used, when he finished high school.
Her? She skips her insulin and lunch was dumpster diving.
The greyhair across the room? She drives without insurance and will be relieved when they repossess.
Young man with frayed jeans? He moved back in with his parents and her sister and her kids.
But they all smile and pretend and make like they’re going to work and class and and and
and oh my, yes, education and integrity are so important, of course, yes sir, I will, thank you, and we all want more of this and and and
I know their secrets, how close, shoulders burning, white fingertips clutching at the precipice, they are to falling. I know.
I have secrets of my own.

They Say

They say it’s easy to see, looking backwards
They say every chicken finds it’s own roost
They say if you wait long enough, it’s all good
They say, they say, they say it’s god’s truth

Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover

The say sunshine rises to the one who heard
They say keep working at your post
They say it’s hidden in the word
They day, they say, they say prayer is for the just

Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover

They say it’s a matter of getting the right card
They say change rumbles coast to coast
They say if you believe it’s not hard
They say, they say, they say love God the most

Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover

Well, I say I don’t want to wait no more
I’m sick and tired of passed over
I’m going through that door
No more searching and waiting on four leaf clover

Contract Work

"Maynard stumbled over the slick, lichen cover rock. He was sure he had clambered over the same rock an hour before but who knew in this dense fog; he could barely see his hand in front of his face. If only he hadn't given in to that inquisitive urge to turn of the main highway and satisfy his curiosity. What a stupid decision that had been..."

"What a stupid decision? That's an understatement. Oh fuck, are they paying me enough to read this crap? No, they're not. Didn't even do basic spell/grammar check on this and now I'm supposed to do that and content edit?

"I can't even look at this, it's so full of mistakes. It is hurting my eyes, I want to put needles in them! Look at that screen, red, red, red, underlines, green, tick marks. Where am I supposed to put my edit notes, tell me that one.

"It's as bad as reading the Slantinel! Okay, fine, maybe not that bad. As bad as the New York Times, that once great grey lady who has sunk so far she buys copy from Huffpo/AOL.

"How much time did I budget for this anyway? One hundred twenty-one thousand words, single-spaced, 10.5 font. That comes out to 400 pages at a 12 font? I gotta get new glasses. Oh fuck, this turdlet isn't even a doc. The asswipe sent it as a pdf, now how am I going to work this? Enough. Where's my phone?

"Hey, Rik, I opened that project you subbed to me. Yeah, that one. Rik, did you look at it? No, Rik, not the word count, the content. Did you look at it? Didn't think so. It is so bad it is Braxton-Hicks contender. Fine, Bulwer-Lytton, dark and stormy night, yadda yadda.

"We agreed to what as my percent? Uhh huh. Well, I think we have to rethink this. It's a lot bigger than we were led to believe-and a whole lot uglier. Really.

"No, can't do that, not at this price point. Rik, it wasn't even spell-checked. I am staring at a checkerboard screen of red and black. Or maybe a backgammon screen, I dunno. Cribbage? Very not funny. So it's copy and content work. Fix the basic errors and then cut it down to ninety. That's a 25% cut. Which shouldn't be hard, having read the first paragraph. Easy deleting drivel, but making sense of it, seeing if there is a plot and character development here? I think the difficulty will be not cutting it by 75%.

"Rik, the protagonist is named Maynard. Do I really need to say more?

"Yeah, yeah, I love you, too. You're my hero. I'm your muffalato? In your dreams. Fine, get back to me later, big guy, would you? I've got youporn to watch, at least that doesn't make me ill. OMG, I can't believe it! Rik, Rik, it's the midget hooker! I'll send you the link. You're welcome. Well-cum. That, too.

"All right, I'll close this. There it is already.

"I love the smell of roasting flesh. It so much reminds me of bacon."

"I like this one. Great first line. Thank you, honey. Later."

Beyond the Pale

Outside the circle across the tracks
all the ways that I am wrong
peeking in through breaks in the hedgerow that I cannot cross
salt marked lines stronger that any surveyor post and rope
Back to my corner where I anneal with
Furriers, tanners, blacksmiths, scribes and other dressers of the dead
we all live beyond the pale
just visiting this planet
making little scritches where we can
trying to prove we exist
and that we matter

Brave New World

When I was a child, I wasn't afraid of technology
There were faraways to be discovered
moons to walk on
dimensions accessed only through the wonders of light and sound waves.
Now I stare at the skittering phone, black hole life
It falls to the floor, still vibrating
I match it, quiver for quiver, terrified of the other end

Brave New World II

I don't want to see blank pages anymore
They remind me of my life, too much so
and when they're filled,
well, that's even worse
"What are you saying?"
"Is there anything here?"
"Why this particular word?"
Farcical
Going into the kitchen to slice onions, instead.

A Promise is a Promise is a Promise

A campaign promise
is not a champagne promise
is high gloss lipstick over veneered teeth
is not a testament of intelligence, integrity, talent, education or, most certainly, sobriety
is a curtain over honesty with hypocrisy smirking around the tiebacks
is not a vow of devotion but a paean to opportunism
is drawn and quartered by all comers in a bukake baccanal
is what I won't make you because you deserve better.

Hobgoblins can be a Good Thing

If I could do something every day,
If I could actually stick to it, a la Julia Cameron,
If I did... because, to be honest, I can. I'm quite capable, I've done it.
I've buried myself in it, in the past.
If I did, still, where would I be?

Sounds easy?
Hardest part is what is obvious.
The time.
Finding the time.
Oh, observer says, you've got time, you've got nothing but time!
Looks that way, right? You, there, examining my life, here.
But think.
With all the time in the world, all I have are empty hours and dripping fangs.
It is at the door, gnawing at the baseboard, prying at the hinges, talons tripping lock cylinders.
Time cedes to terror, passes the scepter and disappears into a tornado,
leaving rubble and shards of vision, shovelfuls of debris.
I bend down, pick up a scrap of paper, struggle to read the faded ink, water smears.
Find part of a CD, a fractured keyboard, another scrap.
This one is blank.

I close my eyes, draw the blade along a vein and leave bloody fingerprints where words want to be.

Fifteen minutes of Fame or Maybe Less I Hope

She has this ‘thing' for vegetables. No, she's not a vegetarian or vegan or, god forbid, one of those weirdo raw foodies, smug in their disdain and ecoclaims, driving miles and miles in their itty-bitty hybrids to pick up ugly organic produce.

Segue: I don't care how ecofriendly your car it, driving eighty miles round trip is not green except for the auto industry. You might get 55 mpg, but driving still releases fluorocarbons and rubber particles and emissions, nocturnal and otherwise, and causes wear and tear on the asphalt/concrete/dirt roads way in excess of walking to the corner grocery store. You just doesn't see the bigger picture, but why should you? Your telescopic mirror reflects the narrow sanctimony of your own world, which is fine, just fine, and excuse me for screaming.

Anyway, she has this ‘thing' for vegetables. She likes to find heirloom breeds, what was lost and now is found. They're knobby, colorful, deformed when compared to the usual supermarket beauties, but she arranges them on hand thrown plates or wooden canoes or in blown glass bowls and drizzles them with bottled low fat bleu cheese dressing, pasty, chunky inedible crud that it is, or sprays them with imported first press rapeseed oil. Then, she snaps photos of her ‘art,' like those food porn writers everyone is so fond of, oohing and ahhing over fruit waxed to a tenth of its life, instead of the free website blogger she is in reality, ignored even, no, especially, by her friends and family.

Until she switches from bottled drek to handmade aioli. Aioli, made from garlic mashed with a mortar and pestle, whisked with vinegar, an egg yolk and a pinch of mustard until light yellow and thick, transferred to a blender and the olive oil added one clear, green drip at a time, finished with a dash of sea salt and one single grind of white pepper.

She plates her garden glories and this delicate mayonnaise variant, kicks that food porn up to notches previously unknown and hooks herself a book deal, with the requisite guest appearances on Oprah, FoodTV, followed by interviews in Cuisine and the New York Times Style Section. Carrots; new red potatoes; eggplants Italian, Japanese and white; various gourds and squashes; alliaceae from shallots to leeks to scallions to vidalia; broccoli rabe and all its cruciferous cousins flexing their muscles; mushrooms, bold and dreamy. All these, anthropomorphized into a triple X of desire under the cornstalks.

Man, I hate that bitch.