You

Tennyson said “If I had a flower for each time I thought of you…I would walk through my garden forever” I sit here staring at my computer screen and I wonder if you are thinking of me at the same time as I fondly move my curser over your name.

What would happen then?

Would a star fall out of the sky to tell me so? Would the hair on my arm awake in agreement? Would my gut gently nudge me to gather my attention? Or would you just pop out like a Jack in the box and call my name?

Yes…

Farewell

I found a loose slab of stone outside the department store.

I tossed it aside and began to dig; the earth was

soft and caved in easy, soon I was in to my

waist. Size 34;

A crowd gathered but stepped back

before my screaming lungs and

canon ball like shots of mud.

and by the time the cops came, I was in below

my head,

Frightening crawlers, eels, and finding bits of golden

inlaid skull,

and they asked me, are you looking for oil, treasure,

gold, the end of China? Are you looking for love, God

a lost key chain? And shoppers dropped keys and peered

into my darkness, and a psychiatrist came

and a

high school teacher and a size zero movie star in a bikini and

a Russian spy and a Jihadi bomber and a Chinese soldier,

and a drama critic and my accountant, a leather jacket clad old boyfriend,

and they all asked  me,

what are you looking for?

and soon it began to rain…submarines changed course,

Bukowski rolled in his sleep, and my hole filled

with water; I came out black as the night, shooting stars

and epitaphs, my pockets full of beautiful worms,

and they took me in, gently nudging me toward a shower

and a nice cell, rent-free, and

I hear people picketing in my cause,

I have signed contracts to sell my words

I have signed contracts to appear on stage

I have vowed to vote for a better government

I have enough money to last me several years at the best hotels.

But as soon as I get out of here,

I am going to find me another loose slab of stone and begin to dig

dig, dig and this time I am not coming back….rain, shine or leather jackets.

Yet, they keep asking, why did you do it?

I pour me another bourbon and smile. 

Constantly, slightly drunk

Sometimes I want to scream, so I try. I open my mouth; clench my eyes shut and I try to throw that scream, that blood curdling, and gut-wrenching scream. Instead, all I can make is a noise, not loud, not a whimper but a pitiful sound. A sound that mocks my effort at bashful screaming. Next, I decide perhaps if I were to break something, do what most people do when they are angry or sad or helpless. I pick up my globe like metal ashtray and point it to the mirror and I think all right, this is it. I am going to take this ashtry and swing it to the mirror and watch my reflection shatter to pieces. That should explain how I feel. I will leave a physical evidence of my mental condition, accompanied with a noise, visual to see after, if am lucky I might accidently snip a finger or bruise. Something that I can nurture and make better, in that process my mind too will perhaps heal. I see myself thinking this through too much and then the mess, who will clean up the mess? Shattered pieces of glass, do I wear a glove to pick the larger pieces before I sweep the smaller one’s out. How will I explain it to the people I live with, it can’t be an accident, I wouldn’t want them worrying about me, or say “do you need to be so dramatic?” or “Have you lost your mind?”  That must be it, I must’ve lost my mind to think a scream or general disruptive behavior is cure to how I feel. I see a trickle of water streaming down my eyes now, this can’t be, and do I let it stream down or wipe it? Do I find a way to stop this; perhaps if I stand under the shower, it would all mingle in, water to water and not much of a mess to deal with. Its sorted now, I’ll take a deep breath, empty out my ashtray and take a shower.  All of this should be normal. People take deep breaths all the time, ashtrays are cleaned and showers stream down your skin.

Confession

and some people are a grand waste of your time
and some people not worth the words
there is a reason they leave so early
a reason why you never bump into them
a reason why you should never make that attempt
a reason why they pass you by the other door
a reason why you will never notice them at an arm's distance
a reason why you will forget all of the above and chase an object of desire
a reason why the world is full of beautiful things
a reason why its only fair to be distracted.

Mediocre

Here you are
not too many hangovers
not too many fights with women
not too many flat tires
never, no never a thought of suicide

not more than two job changes
never a chipped tooth, three decades and
not more than three tooth aches
never missed a meal
never in jail, never in love

five pairs of shoes
trousers and shirts stacked together
oh to live your closeted life on the edge
car loans, insurance policies
passion reserved for weekends
your technology on auto update

so easily amused, its a miracle
our madhouses are rarely on display.

Betrayal

Today I saw a woman flirting with a man, a man who is not her husband. I say to myself: She ought not have improper relationships with this man, this is absolutely incorrect, JUST NOT RIGHT. I say this woman should not be seeing this man in an inappropriate way when her husband is picking raw from ripe tomatoes in the back aisle.  But I do tend to confuse an old reality with a new one. This woman is close to being 80 years old, her husband instead of picking tomatoes is pushing daisies. Yet, How can there be improper relations with a woman of 80? My confusion must be this: though her body is old, her capacity for betrayal is still young and fresh. 

Five Senses

My dearest one every once in awhile you ask me 

Why do we have to go to the art gallery?

why do we have to go see a play every other weekend?

why do we have to go a concert?

why go to the restaurant and try new cuisines?

   I could tell you, "I just feel like it" and leave it at that and you would resent me label me extravagant and never understand my curiosity or intent. 

    My darling child, just like I have you too will learn over the years to treat your five senses with respect and consideration. you will take your eyes to the museum, your nose to a flower show, your hands to the fabric store for the velvet and silk; you will surprise your ears with a concert , and excite your mouth with a restaurant meal. You will also meet people who make their senses work hard for them day after day: Read me this newspaper! Pay attention, nose, in case the food is burning! Ears!- get together now and listen for a knock on the door! their senses have jobs to do and they do them, mostly-the ears of the deaf won't, and eyes of the blind won't . soon you will see their senses get tired. Sometimes long before the end they will say, "I am quitting, I am getting out of this NOW"! those persons are less prepared to meet the world, they will stay at home more, waiting for that knock which they might miss, letting milk spill over, the eyes and hands sore from scrubing clean a kitchen. My love, when one day if it all quits on them, they are really alone...in the dark, in silence, numb hands, nothing in the mouth, nothing in the nostrils and you will hear them ask themselves this "Did I treat them wrong?" "Didn't I show them a good time?" and no, you don't want to be that person. Go ahead, drive three hours to watch that play, camp overnight for those concert tickets, spend a tad extra on fine wine, do whatever you can and show them a good time.