Dead Battery

During the 2,761 seconds it took me to walk from the middle of the parking lot starting at 4:17:29 pm until I arrived at the front door of my home at 5:03:30 pm, I passed 794 individuals riding in 538 automobiles, 128 traffic lights working in concert at 8 separate intersections, 37 boxcars on a passing train, 12 fast-food restaurants, 4 dogs leashed in backyards, 3 telecommunication towers, and 2 degrees Fahrenheit stayed the temperature. I was the only 1.

Hey Neighbor

So I was holding a glass in my hand, right? Yeah, a drinking glass, and the next thing I know there’s nothing to hold, there’s nothing in my hand, but I didn’t get that rush, you know? That flash of trepidation you get when something slips out of your grasp, you know what I mean right? Yeah, that split second of fear when something that is firmly and safely in your hand suddenly is not—suddenly it's away from you and it's an object, fragile and free-falling, accelerating at a rate of 9.8 m/s² towards a hard and indifferent surface and all you can manage to do at that point - once the physics have taken over - is freeze like some stupid deer caught in the headlights until the half-second crash course with the floor is over with, right?—No, I didn’t get that feeling at all, I just noticed the glass wasn’t in my hand anymore. So when I realized it was gone I looked to see where it went. The first direction I looked was down—pretty clever, right? Yeah, I went to college, but when I look down I don’t see it. What I see looks nothing like my glass. Not even close. So expecting to see my glass but instead seeing what I do, my mind just draws a blank. I have no idea what I’m looking at. If I had said out loud what was going through my mind at the time I would have said something like, “What am I looking at?” Real creative, right? But that’s just how much I didn’t know what it was. So I’m standing there looking at something I can't for the life of me comprehend and my poor stumped brain is whirling away, rifling through the filing cabinet trying to find a match to what it is it sees, and then it finally puts the pieces together. It’s the pieces. I am looking at pieces of my glass. Shards of what was my glass. Then good old brain finds even more pieces to add to the picture. I was drinking water see? But good old brain knew that what lay mixing with the pieces of glass wasn't matching up with it's notion of what spilt water looks like, right? Even on the floral tile my brain saw that there was too much color on the scene. Way, way much too much color. Now at this point you don’t need to be some sort of mathematician to put two and two together and figure out what had happened and even though at the time my brain was finally grasping the gravity of my situation and what I had done, I still can’t explain why—Why on earth did I squeeze that glass so hard? Why on earth did I not feel a thing? Why, when my brain finally realized what had happened, did I just stand there dribbling much too much color all over my socks and the floral tile? Anyways, can I borrow your broom for a sec? I need to sweep up the glass.

Harmony

I am alone in a room playing harmonics on a cello and I never want to leave. With calculating fingers and a delicate touch I mute the fundamental tones, pulling forth impossible hums and rings. What starts in my hand I give to the bow and what the bow has been shown it blesses the string and what the string has been blessed with it breathes into the air and what the air is alive with it invigorates the walls and the walls tremble and shake and emit their bliss and it bursts back to me and I let the accord sing it’s graceful song and I savor it’s elegant life until it’s poise is refined back into an invisible point and when the sound does finally vanish from my ears I share my hand again and again because as long as I am in this room everything is in harmony. As long as I am in this room everything I give will be given back. And it will be beautiful, and it will be beautiful.

Shift Sandwich

The worst sandwich is the shift sandwich.

It’s when you work a closing shift and then open the next morning.

Way too much stale bread and not enough good stuff in the middle.


Edit: Today I learned from the Target sales floor team that a "shift sandwich" is called "clopening": verb: 1 - the term for a turn around shift in a non-nine-to-five job. 2 - working the closing shift in the evening and then the opening shift the following morning.


I'm glad there is an established term for this. And thanks sales floor team for the sympathy and encouragement today. I'm tired.

This Is Just To Lay

William Carlos Williams was an American poet. One of his most famous poems is "This Is Just To Say". You can find it here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535
The poem is 28 words long and there exists about 2,800 published essays analyzing them. This is my version of "This Is Just To Say".

This Is Just To Lay

I have thrown out

the eggs

that were in

the nestbox

and which you

were probably

saving for Friday.

Forgive me

they were outrageous

so blue

and so covered in poop.

46 More To Go

50 poems in one month. That’s the goal.

They can’t all be good. Or even poem like.

Wait:

I’ll start staggering

    the lines and

format it so

  there are only

          a few words

          per line.

  Now

     

                    it’s

  

                             a poem.

Sure.

Paid By The Hour

My life is paid by the hour.

The grocery store was $7.75.

Clerical work was $10.60.

Now my sales position the most—$13.85 with benefits.

But no one could pay me enough

to be without you.

Because together

time cannot find us.

Together we are free.

Purple Carrots

Purple carotene sticks with cosmic skin as thin as the hands that harvested them bunched and waiting in winter-wet wicker baskets, then off in canvas bags, under kitchen faucets, and washed roughly. Naked and orange, dirt and purple down the drain. But the farmer can not slip her secret so easily—the dirt is pressed deep into the ridges of soil stained fingers, the purple spread in patches across her long, bruised body.

The Sick Games We Play

Today I almost topped my high score. But every time I got close I ran out of life. Self-loathing is a hard game to beat. What else is there to play?

Sleep

When the earth’s eye shuts into darkness I fight to keep mine open.

Every night I hang around

like some schlup

standing on the side of the tracks

while the rest of the world – riding coach – sleeps soundly in their seats.

From the platform I watch them take-off

and stare idly at my un-punched ticket

trying not to think about

what it all means

to let oneself

be carried

away.

But I can’t help it.

They must be going places.

:

Of all the punctuation marks the colon is the best. It is the most hopeful. It says to you, “Wait—wait, we are not done yet: we can still build upon the past”

Let It Snow

I wanted to stay with her too but Mama said I should head off to bed since I had to go to work in the morning. Mama stayed with her the whole night though she didn’t deliver until morning. She waited to give birth with the sun. Mama and I don’t normally help with the lambing, but then again we’ve never done it in the wintertime before. Not since I've been born at least. We’d never had to. But this way Mama said we’d have lambs ready by Easter and then again in the fall. Normally I wouldn’t mind. Winter’s not too busy after all and I like to help with the lambing, but ever since summer I been working a job off the farm too. It makes for less time to help around here. So this morning while I been in the house bringing oatmeal to a boil, Mama and Louisey been out in the shed bringing baby lambs into the world.

When I finished breakfast I put on my coat and headed out to the shed. Mama wasn’t with her though. She was sitting on a stool, face in her hands.

“Mama?”

She looked up and forced a smile. “Hey Sug!”

“What’s wrong Mama?”

“Poor Louisey, she had dystocia. Real bad. By the time I could deliver they were stillborn.”

“Oh Mama, I’m sorry!”

“Two precious little lambs.”

“Oh Mama,” I kneeled down and wrapped my arms around her. “I’m sorry Mama. Where's Louisey?”

“The dystocia, it was real bad.”

“Oh, Mama!” I squeezed her tighter. “Why didn’t you call me to help?”

“Wasn’t nothing another set of hands could do anything about.” Her smile was brave, “You better go to work.”

            I crawled into our truck and rolled out onto the road. I followed it over the river, through the woods, and started my ascent up out of the valley. I breached the crest towards the county road when the truck stuttered and stalled. I turned the key. Not a sound. I tried again. The engine didn’t turn. It was still. I sunk a little further into my seat. There was a gas station up on the county road but it wasn’t for another couple miles. If I stayed with our truck on the back roads it could be hours before someone came along. Maybe longer. I zipped up my coat, knotted my scarf, and headed towards the county road on foot. I knew what this meant for Mama and I. Where else would I be able to work? I walked to the gas station in shame. What will we do now?

The lights are turned way down low, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

*          *          *

            “Hello, Allison? It’s Sophie.”

            “Sophie, where are you?”

            “Allison, I’m so, so sorry. I know my shift started over an hour ago but our truck stalled and I couldn’t get it to start again.”

            “Where are you calling from?”

            “I’m using the pay phone at the gas station.”

            “Your truck’s at the gas station?”

            “Erm, no. A few miles from the gas station.”

            “Oh, Sophie dear! You walked for over an hour in this weather!”

            “I’m so sorry Allison, It just died!”

            “Sophie, don’t you worry about that. These things happen. I’m going to send Danny over and he can pick you up. Are you okay?”

            “Yes, I’m fine.”

            “Just sit tight, Soph. Danny will be right over.” She hung the receiver on the hook.

“God bless you Allison.”

            I was so relieved to see Danny. I could tell he was happy to be running this special errand for me too. I ran out to his truck and popped up into the front seat.

            “Sophie!”

            “Danny!”

            “I hear you went for a morning stroll.”

            “Oh, Danny.”

            “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t kid. Are you okay?”

            “I dunno," I slipped him another smile, "I guess I’m okay now.”

            He beamed back. “What are we gunna do about that ‘ol truck of yours?”

            “Gosh, we woulda been better off if Dad just left us one of his horses instead of that rusted clunker!”

            “Yee-Haw!”

            After work Danny drove me back to our truck.

            “Alright, try starting it now.” The flywheel engaged, the crankshaft rotated, the engine turned over, rolled, groaned, and coughed to life. “Don’t be afraid to push heavy on the gas when you’re coming up on the clutch. It’ll help keep it from stalling.”

            “Thanks Danny! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “If you ever have any trouble again, give me a call. Anytime.”

            “Okay! Thanks again!” I shifted into gear.

            “Wait!”

            Danny jumped down from his truck, motioning for me to roll down my window. I craned the side of my head out the window to hear over the rumbling engines. He bounded over and kissed me on the cheek.

            After chores I helped Mama put Louisey’s body with her lambs in the compost windrow. We covered their bodies with sawdust and snow and walked back to the house.

“I started some stew in the crock-pot during breakfast Mama. It should be nice and melded by now.”

“Thanks Sug.”

I paused and turned to face her. “I’m sorry about Louisey, I—”

She stopped me with her hand on my shoulder. “All that hope and anticipation that builds in us with their growing bellies—it’s so hard when we lose the first one. But it’s alright Sug. These things happen. Tulip, Emma-Lee, and Georgette will have their turn. Then Valentine, Miss Havisham, and Wanda-Jack soon after. Can you imagine by Easter? We'll have so many sweet little lambs bounding about! Oooh, that stew smells so good!”

But as long as you love me so, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

Some nights I still can’t sleep

after waking in the middle

from dreams of being there

everything still the way it was.

                          To lay here

                          recollecting the past

                          remembering

                          the way it was is gone:

                                                                 an impossible pill to swallow

                                                                 another early start to the day

What A Peculiar Thing

Having walked the earth devoid and empty for so long he now finds himself in the peculiar position of fearing for his life. How different it was: that freshly filled-up feeling of life. He had been a wrung-out sponge for so long. Then all of a sudden life flowed by. It rushed through him and as simply as it came he soaked it up. Oversaturated with life he stumbled and tripped and now he was about to spill it all out again.

So here he is: a set of bare living arms standing with springy living legs upon the shoulder of a frozen dead road, dandruff falling from the sky, and he’s so close to the seething, steaming, giant mound of meat and muscle that he can feel the heat of its fury radiating from its big angry body. He has stumbled into this fight. Life made him do it. He is squared up against a giant of a man but he feels so much life swirling through him he can sweep away mountains. And that right there is the type of feeling that can turn a newly living man back into a dead one.

“I’ma fucking kill you!”

“I've been waiting so long for this!”

“I’ll fucking kill you!” The beasts words are nothing to him. He waits for his foe to give him a reason. He is alive and he wants more reasons to live. “I’ma fucking kill you!”

"I'm ready! I'm ready!"

“I’ma fucking kill you!”

'Make the move already' He thinks, 'I'm ready for anything now.' A regrettable thought. A flick of the giants wrist. A glint of light. The shine of the knife pierces through him, illuminating another unfamiliar feeling, for fear only comes when something’s worth losing, and before tonight he held nothing to lose. Now he is afraid of being spilt. As reckless as picking this fight was he was looking forward to the beating: the beating that comes with a purposeful pounding heart—not the stabbing that ends one.

“It seems you fail to grasp the notion of a fist fight.”

“I’ma fucking kill you!” This time he knows the brute means it. He knows he is about to be spilled onto the frozen blacktop.

What a peculiar thing, to be alive.

It Only Happens When You Don't Want It Too

“Excuse me,” She looked down at her list, gesturing with her fingers. “I’m looking for two things. Do you think you could help me find them?”

“Of course, what are you looking for?”

“First thing on the list: I’m looking for candles with light bulbs. Large ones.”

“Oh, you mean artificial candles?”

“Yeah, the light bulb kind that use electricity or batteries.”

“Well, normally we carry them in aisle B8, and you can find the small ones there – the ones the size of tea lights – but we just had a guest looking for them earlier this morning and it turns out we don't have any of the bigger ones left in stock."

“Oh, wow! You don’t even have them in stock anymore!”

“No, but we should have more available later this week.”

“Oh? Oh! You still carry them, you’re just out!”

“Yes, we should have more later this week.”

“Okay, well that’s good to know. Secondly,” she announced holding her list resolutely, “I am looking for sand, you know, to put a Christmas tree in, to keep it up.” Not the strangest inquiry of the day, but certainly pushing the bounds of normal.

“Sand?” I repeated.

“Yes, sand, for Christmas trees.” Yes, certainly pushing the bounds of normal.

“Hmmm, I don’t think I’ve run across sand before, let me ask a team member.” I pulled out my walkie. “Hey sales team, does anyone know if we carry saaan-duh?”

“ERRR, ARE YOU LOOKING FOR SAAAND? NO, WE DON’T HAVE SAND, THEY MAY HAVE TO TRY A HARDWARE STORE LIKE ACE OR MENARDS FOR THAT—PSCHTK”

“Sorry Ma’am, we don’t have sand.”

A look of genuine surprise, “But they were right there in your ad.”

They? “Ah! Stands! I thought you said saaand!” I whirled around and pointed to the Christmas tree stands. “Our Christmas tree stands are right over there!”

“Oh I see them now! You thought I was looking for sand?” she smiled as she patted me on the side of the shoulder, “That’s so cute!”

“ERRR, DID YOU SAY SAAAND, OR DID YOU MEAN CHRISTMAS TREE S-TANDS?—PSCHTK” I turned off my walkie.

I don’t get it. This is quickly and horribly becoming a recurring trend. That’s the third time today a guest has called me cute. I haven’t even taken lunch! People always have a way of ruining a bad thing. The first time it happened in the candles aisle – B8 – the same place the light bulb kind that use electricity or batteries are. I was cutting open boxes to stock shelves. I cut into the corner of a box and it spewed glitter like a slit unicorn’s throat. The dazzling red unicorn blood spilled onto my front and sprinkled down my legs. I had cut into a box of “seasonal glitter candles/red”. I would then go on to slaughter a box of “seasonal glitter candles/gold” and then “seasonal glitter candles/silver”. By the time the spewing, sparkling, holiday flame sticks were stood up on their shelves like fabulous gravestones, I was a shimmering showcase of mono-equestricide (that's Latin for unicorn murder apparently). Eagerly pushing my cart of glitter-stained boxes back to the compactor – to dispose of the evidence – I was stopped by a guest. But when she started to ask me her question she became dumbstruck, evidently caught-up in my murderous malaise. That or momentary blindness. Her wide eyes looked me up and down.

A Glitter Candle Horse

“Glitter candles,” I said, “A lot of glitter candles.”

“That’s adorable!” She glowed. My walk back to the compactor was less than iridescent.

The last time it happened I was in the toys department. I can't even begin to comprehend the exchange. I was facing the merchandise and making things look neat. The aisles were crowded as it was the second day of our 2-day Black Friday Sale. People were squeezed in tightly. The woman was standing next to me, almost touching me. She was with a friend who was on my other side, right next to me too. The woman was fondling some item. Reserving her gaze for the toy she dictated her speech at me.

“It looks like you’re keeping busy today.” It wasn’t quite a question.

“Oh yes, very busy!”

            She smiled, “And you probably had to work late last night, huh?"
            "Uh, yeah I guess so."

"And then get up early and work this morning, huh?”

“Um.”

"Poor thing."

"Um."

“Huh, that’s cute.” Her friend laughed a little, or maybe giggled. She put the item down, walked over to her friend, and they strode away.

I don’t get it. Why do people always end up lifting your goddamn spirits? Can’t they see? Is my pale, rugged and bearded face not weary and haggard? I'm not trying to look gruff or mean, but I'm certainly no fair-haired boy. It’s not fair: These days I’ve been trying so hard to feel ugly. What is it they see? Or do they see right through me?

"Light bulbs are in A39, unless you want them on candles, then B8. Yes, you're welcome."

Footprints

Shhhhhh

It's okay

It was all right

Look. Look out over there. Do you see that? Would you call it beautiful? We have come such a long way haven’t we? And for as far as we have come no one would know, for not even our footprints remain. By now they have all washed-out with rain and grown-in with grass. But do we need footprints to remember, to know? I remember the pieces: the steps that were toughest, the steps that were lightest, and some steps that fell in between. No, I do not remember them all, but enough to know: together they brought us here. Do you remember?

Shhhhhh

It’s okay

It’s all right

No, I can not see what lay ahead of us either, but was there ever a time that we could? And look how far we have come! Yes, on our way we may stumble upon what remains of the footprints of others, but does it matter? Can we ever know them like we remember ours? It's okay, there is so much more to go, we can rest a while longer. There is so much more left to go. It's all right. Shhhhhh, rest now. Let go of my hand now.

Shhhhhh

It's okay

It will be all right

Either Way, I'm Gunna Fuck Something Up Tonight

I spare you the finger and flip open my laptop

Scream at the screen, saving your ears

And punch the keys instead of your big fat mouth

So if it comes out a mess and a wreck and a rustled-up piece of shit

At least it was the poem and not you

And Tomorrow We Get To Do It All Over Again

My buzz is starting to go. I have one more cold beer in the fridge but I’ll let it chill. I've got two good poems in the books tonight (now three?) so I’ll retire while I’m ahead. I have to work tomorrow anyways. For five and a half hours I’ll make thirty-five dollars. That’s what I’m going to sleep for. That’s what I’m committing myself to tomorrow. Maybe I should commit something else.

After The Party

last night’s trophies effetely on display
recording humanities triumphs
only until recycling day:

the memories were never encased

“C’mon baby, I’ve got gusto!”

She restrained.

“Catch my fervor!”

She pulled from the bottle.

“Embrace the night!”

She grimaced.

“Don’t make that face!”

She smiled.

“That’s it baby, let’s get reckless!”

Another pull. Another smile.

“Yeaah!”

To think: another night almost wasted.