Today I'm fashioning you a straight jacket
and tossing you in a padded room.
I'm locking ten padlocks,
and melting down the keys.
I won't make those keys into necklaces, earrings, or bracelets,
I won't wear them to remember you by,
I'll make them into coins,
and spend them,
and spend them fast.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Cat in the Hospital Room
The cat's tail swished to the beat of the heart monitor. It moved like a pendulum on Prozac. Meanwhile the beat on the monitor moved rigidly, like an iceberg melting. Rather than watch the monitor, the cat's gaze focused on the face before him. He perched himself on the man's belly, so he could feel its rise and fall. Each movement of the man seemed more forced with each tick of the clock.
That ticking continued for hours, but few of the hospital staff came in, and if they did, they didn't notice the cat. One nurse even leaned over the cat to replaced one of the IV bags. That feline creature didn't purr. It didn't meow. The cat only swished his tail, idly, as if it waited for something. His ginger fur contrasted sharply with the blue sheets, but the nurses and CNAs acted as if he belonged to the decor. He didn't take notice of the machine, nor the IVs, nor the breathing machine nor the feeding tube.
More hours past, and the belly ceased to rise and fall. The cat stretched, and stood up, before walking toward the patient's chest. He circled, and lied down again, with his head pillowed against the man's heart. From the distance the cat would seem to sleep, but an up-close view would show his open eyes. His ear listened for the familiar beat, which grew softer and slower with each tick of the clock.
No visitors came to see the old man. One nurse remarked that his friends and family had long since moved on. This man had lived in a nearby nursing home for the past few years, and generally kept to himself. He read the local newspaper every day in the morning. After lunch he would play a game of chess without a word. No one at the nursing home remembered what his voice sounded like, for no one had heard him speak since his first day there. When this man fell ill, the nursing home staff only knew because his chess opponent had reported him missing.
The doctor knew his time would be soon, but he could make it sooner if the man were able to ask for it. No one in the nursing home knew if he had a living will. While the man had an address book, it only had one entry, with a first name alone. It read: Mack. One nurse, while going through his effects, found a smudged paw print below the name.
Then the time came for the old man. With a feeble hand he caressed the cat, and the cat purred for the first time that lonely afternoon. His hand scratched Mack behind the ears, and he smiled when Mack purred louder.
"It's time for me to go, isn't it Macky?"
The cat continued to purr, watching the pulse in the man's throat.
"I suppose it is. Take me home, Macky. Please." His voice died away, and the hand sank to his side. Beat by beat his pulse sank into his throat until Mack couldn't see it anymore. The monitor flat-lined, and the man's skin fell still. Waxy coating covered the skin as it lost its warm color.
Mack sniffed, shaking his head to rid his nostrils of the odor. He walked up the body's chest, and grabbed a chain from the neck with his teeth. The chain snapped right off, a marble-sized orb dangling on the end. With a drop and a leap, Mack landed on the window sill without looking back. A second later a doctor came in, and found a room empty save for all the instruments and a body.
That ticking continued for hours, but few of the hospital staff came in, and if they did, they didn't notice the cat. One nurse even leaned over the cat to replaced one of the IV bags. That feline creature didn't purr. It didn't meow. The cat only swished his tail, idly, as if it waited for something. His ginger fur contrasted sharply with the blue sheets, but the nurses and CNAs acted as if he belonged to the decor. He didn't take notice of the machine, nor the IVs, nor the breathing machine nor the feeding tube.
More hours past, and the belly ceased to rise and fall. The cat stretched, and stood up, before walking toward the patient's chest. He circled, and lied down again, with his head pillowed against the man's heart. From the distance the cat would seem to sleep, but an up-close view would show his open eyes. His ear listened for the familiar beat, which grew softer and slower with each tick of the clock.
No visitors came to see the old man. One nurse remarked that his friends and family had long since moved on. This man had lived in a nearby nursing home for the past few years, and generally kept to himself. He read the local newspaper every day in the morning. After lunch he would play a game of chess without a word. No one at the nursing home remembered what his voice sounded like, for no one had heard him speak since his first day there. When this man fell ill, the nursing home staff only knew because his chess opponent had reported him missing.
The doctor knew his time would be soon, but he could make it sooner if the man were able to ask for it. No one in the nursing home knew if he had a living will. While the man had an address book, it only had one entry, with a first name alone. It read: Mack. One nurse, while going through his effects, found a smudged paw print below the name.
Then the time came for the old man. With a feeble hand he caressed the cat, and the cat purred for the first time that lonely afternoon. His hand scratched Mack behind the ears, and he smiled when Mack purred louder.
"It's time for me to go, isn't it Macky?"
The cat continued to purr, watching the pulse in the man's throat.
"I suppose it is. Take me home, Macky. Please." His voice died away, and the hand sank to his side. Beat by beat his pulse sank into his throat until Mack couldn't see it anymore. The monitor flat-lined, and the man's skin fell still. Waxy coating covered the skin as it lost its warm color.
Mack sniffed, shaking his head to rid his nostrils of the odor. He walked up the body's chest, and grabbed a chain from the neck with his teeth. The chain snapped right off, a marble-sized orb dangling on the end. With a drop and a leap, Mack landed on the window sill without looking back. A second later a doctor came in, and found a room empty save for all the instruments and a body.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Inspiration vs. Inception
You know why I'm sad?
I'm sad because I haven't forgotten
how to take the elevator down to level 18,
to face my fear every chance I get,
to talk to her while she sharpens knives.
Meanwhile I have a close friend close by,
to help my shoot
my fear and guilt and shame and anger and regret before
she stabs me in the heart.
My friend, before she leaves,
is there to tell me to go back,
to wake up,
to move on.
I'm sad because I haven't forgotten
how to take the elevator down to level 18,
to face my fear every chance I get,
to talk to her while she sharpens knives.
Meanwhile I have a close friend close by,
to help my shoot
my fear and guilt and shame and anger and regret before
she stabs me in the heart.
My friend, before she leaves,
is there to tell me to go back,
to wake up,
to move on.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Entrance Cue
My muse is like a migraine.
Sometimes he comes with no warning,
pulling my head down like an anvil.
Other times he comes slowly,
until the story is pounding my mind,
waiting for a chance to burst out
like a supernova time bomb.
Sometimes he comes with no warning,
pulling my head down like an anvil.
Other times he comes slowly,
until the story is pounding my mind,
waiting for a chance to burst out
like a supernova time bomb.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Pleasant Company
Lucy set out dishes for teacups and tarts. A paint-stained apron graced her pink dress. She kept spoons separate from forks with butter knives. Checking her princess watch constantly, Lucy minded the minute hand. When it passed from one to two, she would have to go fetch the tea.
The guests! Lucy hurried to let them in. Her feet pattered against the stone patio as she made her way to the door.
"Mr. Bearsworth, I'm so glad you could make it." She carried in a stout, creature who came up to her knee.
"Did your wife make it?" Lucy helped him to his chair. "Splendid!" She followed with helping his wife to the next seat. Mrs. Bearsworth had softer fur and a fairer complexion, along with pearl dangling from her ears.
"Thank you both for coming." Lucy smiled, and her eyes wandered back to her watch. She gasped, and flurried to back door. "I'll be right back. The tea! I hope it's not ruined."
Pots and pans met with the kitchen floor. "Ah, there it is." One oven mitt on each hand, Lucy carefully set the teapot onto a tray and carried both outside.
She paused, the tray quivering in her hand. "Where's Buxley? He said he'd come." The corners of her lips dipped into a frown. Neither of the Bearsworths said much about it. Despite their permanent smiles, Lucy found them rather dull. Sighing, she set the tray on the table.
"I suppose we should begin." Buxley still didn't show. Lucy poured each of them a cup of tea, balancing the steamless teapot in her hands . In fact, the tea looked suspiciously like apple juice, but the Bearsworths wouldn't know differently.
Lucy sat down, putting the oven mitts down. She reached for her tea cup, and daintily sipped from it. The fields behind her house seemed even more empty this afternoon.
"How are the relatives? Oh, wonderful." The longer they chatted, the harder Lucy worked to sound entertained. The Bearsworth's had little to say.
Reaching for a tart, Lucy's elbow knocked one of the mitts to the ground. "Oops. Excuse me." She turned slightly to pick it up, and her head bumped into a large mass. The smell of musky fur enveloped her nose, and the hairs themselves had not been washed in some time. Lucy tilted her head back so she could see the rest. Her eyes looked at his belly, his fur-covered chest, up his neck, to a firm jaw and sharp teeth. Two yellow eyes looked back at her.
"Lucy."
She swallowed, smiling. "Buxley! I was worried you wouldn't make it!"
"You started without me." His claws grasped the back of the empty chair, tilting it back and forth like cardboard. He sat on stone instead. Buxley picked up the entire tea cup between his thumb and forefinger, the claws scratching against the porcelain.
"You were ten minutes late."
"I was?" He glanced at the bulk of his arm, as if he expected to find a timepiece there. "Lost track of time."
The guests! Lucy hurried to let them in. Her feet pattered against the stone patio as she made her way to the door.
"Mr. Bearsworth, I'm so glad you could make it." She carried in a stout, creature who came up to her knee.
"Did your wife make it?" Lucy helped him to his chair. "Splendid!" She followed with helping his wife to the next seat. Mrs. Bearsworth had softer fur and a fairer complexion, along with pearl dangling from her ears.
"Thank you both for coming." Lucy smiled, and her eyes wandered back to her watch. She gasped, and flurried to back door. "I'll be right back. The tea! I hope it's not ruined."
Pots and pans met with the kitchen floor. "Ah, there it is." One oven mitt on each hand, Lucy carefully set the teapot onto a tray and carried both outside.
She paused, the tray quivering in her hand. "Where's Buxley? He said he'd come." The corners of her lips dipped into a frown. Neither of the Bearsworths said much about it. Despite their permanent smiles, Lucy found them rather dull. Sighing, she set the tray on the table.
"I suppose we should begin." Buxley still didn't show. Lucy poured each of them a cup of tea, balancing the steamless teapot in her hands . In fact, the tea looked suspiciously like apple juice, but the Bearsworths wouldn't know differently.
Lucy sat down, putting the oven mitts down. She reached for her tea cup, and daintily sipped from it. The fields behind her house seemed even more empty this afternoon.
"How are the relatives? Oh, wonderful." The longer they chatted, the harder Lucy worked to sound entertained. The Bearsworth's had little to say.
Reaching for a tart, Lucy's elbow knocked one of the mitts to the ground. "Oops. Excuse me." She turned slightly to pick it up, and her head bumped into a large mass. The smell of musky fur enveloped her nose, and the hairs themselves had not been washed in some time. Lucy tilted her head back so she could see the rest. Her eyes looked at his belly, his fur-covered chest, up his neck, to a firm jaw and sharp teeth. Two yellow eyes looked back at her.
"Lucy."
She swallowed, smiling. "Buxley! I was worried you wouldn't make it!"
"You started without me." His claws grasped the back of the empty chair, tilting it back and forth like cardboard. He sat on stone instead. Buxley picked up the entire tea cup between his thumb and forefinger, the claws scratching against the porcelain.
"You were ten minutes late."
"I was?" He glanced at the bulk of his arm, as if he expected to find a timepiece there. "Lost track of time."
Monday, December 6, 2010
Bridges
Between us sits a river,
too deep to walk across,
and too polluted to swim in.
________________________
In the waking world,
the best I've had of you is fleeting glances,
Impressions murky as Willamette water.
Even in dreams,
you've called me by my childhood best friend's name,
and you're as distant as she.
________________________
Only two bridges across the river can we drive on,
neither allow two directions of traffic to see each other.
The only bridge we saw each other on was pedestrian,
with your family witnessing our every glance.
_______________________
Our paths cross often, but never meet,
never join.
too deep to walk across,
and too polluted to swim in.
________________________
In the waking world,
the best I've had of you is fleeting glances,
Impressions murky as Willamette water.
Even in dreams,
you've called me by my childhood best friend's name,
and you're as distant as she.
________________________
Only two bridges across the river can we drive on,
neither allow two directions of traffic to see each other.
The only bridge we saw each other on was pedestrian,
with your family witnessing our every glance.
_______________________
Our paths cross often, but never meet,
never join.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Coffee Shop Jungle.
The clock read 8:35 a.m. A young woman dinged through the front door and marched straight for the counter. Her bleary eyes scanned the menu as she clutched her laptop bag and her purse. She slid her bag haphazardly to the floor. "Small white mocha, add caramel."
Digging into her pocket rather than her purse, the woman pulled out the exact amount of change, in two bills, four quarters, and a myriad of nickels and dimes.
The barista quirked an eyebrow, hesitating before pushing the correct buttons. A pointed look from the young woman made her continue.
"Oh, $3.35 then."
8:36 a.m. Putting one foot in front of the other, the woman moved from the ordering counter to the recieving one. She opened and closed her right-hand fingers and shrugged her shoulder before her head snapped back in the general direction of her laptop case. The woman sighed, dragging her body back to it, picking it up, and bringing it back with her.
8:37 a.m. "Small caramel white mocha." The barista plopped the drink on the counter, dunking a plastic straw inside.
The young woman, carried her drink and her laptop bag, and her purse to a table in the far corner, setting her drink down carefully as her purse and laptop threatened to fall down her arms. Then she picked up her laptop back, set it down on her chair, and pulled out her laptop, set it on the table, and opened it, before turning it on.
8.38 a.m. She siiiipped her drink, and heard the door chime at the same time as her operating system. A young man walked through the door, with a book in one hand and his wallet in the other. Her eyes followed his feet, then her chin, and then her head. The man turned his head and the women's head turned back to her screen like the two chins were attached on a taught string.
Digging into her pocket rather than her purse, the woman pulled out the exact amount of change, in two bills, four quarters, and a myriad of nickels and dimes.
The barista quirked an eyebrow, hesitating before pushing the correct buttons. A pointed look from the young woman made her continue.
"Oh, $3.35 then."
8:36 a.m. Putting one foot in front of the other, the woman moved from the ordering counter to the recieving one. She opened and closed her right-hand fingers and shrugged her shoulder before her head snapped back in the general direction of her laptop case. The woman sighed, dragging her body back to it, picking it up, and bringing it back with her.
8:37 a.m. "Small caramel white mocha." The barista plopped the drink on the counter, dunking a plastic straw inside.
The young woman, carried her drink and her laptop bag, and her purse to a table in the far corner, setting her drink down carefully as her purse and laptop threatened to fall down her arms. Then she picked up her laptop back, set it down on her chair, and pulled out her laptop, set it on the table, and opened it, before turning it on.
8.38 a.m. She siiiipped her drink, and heard the door chime at the same time as her operating system. A young man walked through the door, with a book in one hand and his wallet in the other. Her eyes followed his feet, then her chin, and then her head. The man turned his head and the women's head turned back to her screen like the two chins were attached on a taught string.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wishing well and not so well
Once I wished you were gone,
So I could write.
And now you are gone
And the floors echo
where your feet once fell,
Slow and groaning
"You got your wish.
You got your wish."
So I could write.
And now you are gone
And the floors echo
where your feet once fell,
Slow and groaning
"You got your wish.
You got your wish."
Friday, November 19, 2010
WAHBAM!!
Sara knelt down to find the plastic wrap in the cupboard. Ah! There's the stuff. The poor girl hopped straight up to her feet, and I mean straight-up. She had a sugar high, having devoured handfuls of chocolate almonds. Of course, Sara didn't realize this as she had just seen her new head shot. Rather than looking completely terrified like the first time, she only looked pained. Progress.
Speaking of progress, the cupboard watched, appalled to see her carrot top flying toward its door's corner. It lived a very social, but stable life. Every day plates, cups, and bowls moved in and out of it. The cupboard had only known human hands, several of them. It decided it didn't care for human hair.
If the cupboard didn't like human hair, it would despise Snowflake, a furry beast. Snowflake took a bath as she heard the WHABAM. Not the watery kind, but the licking kind. Her blue eyes traveled from the cupboard to the fridge where Sara took out an ice pack and pressed it to her head. She sat up, on four paws as Sara collapsed into a chair, groaning. Snowflake hopped on her lap and touched her nose to hers making sure it was okay. Dry. Not good.
Speaking of progress, the cupboard watched, appalled to see her carrot top flying toward its door's corner. It lived a very social, but stable life. Every day plates, cups, and bowls moved in and out of it. The cupboard had only known human hands, several of them. It decided it didn't care for human hair.
If the cupboard didn't like human hair, it would despise Snowflake, a furry beast. Snowflake took a bath as she heard the WHABAM. Not the watery kind, but the licking kind. Her blue eyes traveled from the cupboard to the fridge where Sara took out an ice pack and pressed it to her head. She sat up, on four paws as Sara collapsed into a chair, groaning. Snowflake hopped on her lap and touched her nose to hers making sure it was okay. Dry. Not good.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Defining a Man
Why must a man skip the shower,
and then scratch his butt, and belch?
Why must he smile as he kills the moment,
thrashing it with his hairy hands?
Why must he want a body and not a heart?
Why must a man want a bruised cheek, a broken nose,
and widened eyes?
When he can have the hold that makes him
whole.
and then scratch his butt, and belch?
Why must he smile as he kills the moment,
thrashing it with his hairy hands?
Why must he want a body and not a heart?
Why must a man want a bruised cheek, a broken nose,
and widened eyes?
When he can have the hold that makes him
whole.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Four Corners
The four of them sat in a lopsided square of chairs. The rest of the chairs were stacked in a corner of the classroom, and the tables were pushed to one side. Sally avoided eye contact, frequently fiddling with a corner of her skirt. John tapped a pencil on his knee, looking at the floor, sighing every once in a while. Rose looked at the door, wishing it wasn't locked. Thomas couldn't stop staring at the gun sitting on the nearest table.
"Should we draw straws?" John began, his words slushing through the thick silence like slick boots in a swamp.
"Do we even have any straws?" Sally spat, narrowing her eyes.
Thomas' eyes finally shifted to the circle. "We could flip a coin. Or play rock, paper, scissors."
Rose bit her lip, not removing her eyes from the exit. "I don't think we should decide this by chance." She blurted out the words as she dragged a foot from the back legs of her chair to the front.
"Then how should we decide?" Thomas glanced at her.
"By who's oldest." Rose glanced between them.
"What? No. Then It'll be me." John said with wide eyes.
"You sure?" Sally asked.
"I'm 38. You?"
Sally huffed. "A woman never reveals her age."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "Look, we have to decide tonight. I say we should do it by who has the least to lose."
John cleared his throat. "I have a wife, three kids, a house, and a dog."
"I have a classroom full of children and a very important trip next month." Sally shifted in her chair, crossing one knee over the other and adjusting her skirt.
"I just have my daughter and my credit card debt." Thomas swallowed, running a head through his hair. "We don't even have health insurance." Then Rose realized how worn his overalls looked in the moonlight in the windows.
The three of them glanced at Rose, who had receded farther from the square with each beat. Sally coughed, giving Rose a pointed look. "I have a new job." Rose mumbled, her eyes not rising from the bottom of her sockets.
"Oh, well, we don't have to decide by that." John said.
"Right." Sally replied, chewing her lip.
Thomas just watched Rose, his eyes narrowing. They weren't any closer to deciding, except him. It would be so much easier just to shoot her. She didn't have as much to lose as the rest of them. He could just imagine it.
~~
Picking up the gun, Thomas looked her in the eye. He looked passed the gray in her eyes, to the chilling fear behind her pupils. Thomas would make her feel better. He would wipe away her dread. She wouldn't even feel it. Just click off the safety, pull the trigger, and hold the gun as the blast kicked him back.
What would they find on her when it was said and done? Would they even hesitate, or would they flee out the door? What would be in her wallet? Did she have any family? A brother, or parents who disowned her?
~~
Thomas stood up and picked up the gun. It felt cold in his hands.
"Should we draw straws?" John began, his words slushing through the thick silence like slick boots in a swamp.
"Do we even have any straws?" Sally spat, narrowing her eyes.
Thomas' eyes finally shifted to the circle. "We could flip a coin. Or play rock, paper, scissors."
Rose bit her lip, not removing her eyes from the exit. "I don't think we should decide this by chance." She blurted out the words as she dragged a foot from the back legs of her chair to the front.
"Then how should we decide?" Thomas glanced at her.
"By who's oldest." Rose glanced between them.
"What? No. Then It'll be me." John said with wide eyes.
"You sure?" Sally asked.
"I'm 38. You?"
Sally huffed. "A woman never reveals her age."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "Look, we have to decide tonight. I say we should do it by who has the least to lose."
John cleared his throat. "I have a wife, three kids, a house, and a dog."
"I have a classroom full of children and a very important trip next month." Sally shifted in her chair, crossing one knee over the other and adjusting her skirt.
"I just have my daughter and my credit card debt." Thomas swallowed, running a head through his hair. "We don't even have health insurance." Then Rose realized how worn his overalls looked in the moonlight in the windows.
The three of them glanced at Rose, who had receded farther from the square with each beat. Sally coughed, giving Rose a pointed look. "I have a new job." Rose mumbled, her eyes not rising from the bottom of her sockets.
"Oh, well, we don't have to decide by that." John said.
"Right." Sally replied, chewing her lip.
Thomas just watched Rose, his eyes narrowing. They weren't any closer to deciding, except him. It would be so much easier just to shoot her. She didn't have as much to lose as the rest of them. He could just imagine it.
~~
Picking up the gun, Thomas looked her in the eye. He looked passed the gray in her eyes, to the chilling fear behind her pupils. Thomas would make her feel better. He would wipe away her dread. She wouldn't even feel it. Just click off the safety, pull the trigger, and hold the gun as the blast kicked him back.
What would they find on her when it was said and done? Would they even hesitate, or would they flee out the door? What would be in her wallet? Did she have any family? A brother, or parents who disowned her?
~~
Thomas stood up and picked up the gun. It felt cold in his hands.
Monday, November 8, 2010
A Voter Defined
I am neither red nor blue;
I am varying shades of purple.
I am not a forgetful giant;
I am not an ass.
I don't regurgitate;
I choose.
I am varying shades of purple.
I am not a forgetful giant;
I am not an ass.
I don't regurgitate;
I choose.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Wants and Needs
You wouldn't want me to run for office.
You wouldn't want me to tint the world's colors.
In fact you wouldn't want me to change my bumper stickers,
because you'd have to buy new ones too.
You wouldn't want to leave behind your manufactured notions,
that you got for free in your junk mail folder.
You wouldn't want to know what factory your thoughts came from,
or how they might not feed the single mother out of work,
or put clothes on her growing kids.
No, you wouldn't want to know why your head is filled
with someone else's gray matter,
or what trashcan you tossed yours in years ago.
You wouldn't want me to tint the world's colors.
In fact you wouldn't want me to change my bumper stickers,
because you'd have to buy new ones too.
You wouldn't want to leave behind your manufactured notions,
that you got for free in your junk mail folder.
You wouldn't want to know what factory your thoughts came from,
or how they might not feed the single mother out of work,
or put clothes on her growing kids.
No, you wouldn't want to know why your head is filled
with someone else's gray matter,
or what trashcan you tossed yours in years ago.
Monday, November 1, 2010
In the Know
Oh, I know all about Marty and her ex-boyfriend; I'm one of her friends, y'know.
They were tight, like this. Marty and Rod went everywhere with each other. The two of them were always touching, so much so that Mrs. Ratzlaff said they were an example of magnification...or was it magnetism. I dunno. The only time you saw Marty alone was when she used the restroom, and that was only between lunch and third period. Even then Rod was waiting right next to the door.
Sure, their schedules didn't always match up, but the two of them sure tried. Rod spent a week in the counselor's office trying to get his classes changed, but they told him it was too late. The semester was already halfway done, like doughy cookies. So Rod swore that he would skip that class every time that Marty couldn't skip hers. Their teachers didn't seem to mind; their grades only dropped two letters. After all, the two of them was science at work.
The day after Marty and Rod broke up, half the sophomore class wore black. I mean, geeze, the two of them breaking up was like a natural disaster. It was like a forest fire that destroyed fifty homes. It was like a hurricane that flooded a town, or the earthquake that left a crack down the middle of the football field. Football players on the other team still trip over it every once in a while, and every time Rod sees it happen he flinches a little, like someone punched him in the arm.
They were tight, like this. Marty and Rod went everywhere with each other. The two of them were always touching, so much so that Mrs. Ratzlaff said they were an example of magnification...or was it magnetism. I dunno. The only time you saw Marty alone was when she used the restroom, and that was only between lunch and third period. Even then Rod was waiting right next to the door.
Sure, their schedules didn't always match up, but the two of them sure tried. Rod spent a week in the counselor's office trying to get his classes changed, but they told him it was too late. The semester was already halfway done, like doughy cookies. So Rod swore that he would skip that class every time that Marty couldn't skip hers. Their teachers didn't seem to mind; their grades only dropped two letters. After all, the two of them was science at work.
The day after Marty and Rod broke up, half the sophomore class wore black. I mean, geeze, the two of them breaking up was like a natural disaster. It was like a forest fire that destroyed fifty homes. It was like a hurricane that flooded a town, or the earthquake that left a crack down the middle of the football field. Football players on the other team still trip over it every once in a while, and every time Rod sees it happen he flinches a little, like someone punched him in the arm.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Coffee
Coffee is a lie
Coffee is a lie you tell to your body that you got a full night of sleep
Coffee is a way you fool your mind that you're fully awake
Coffee is the sugar coated white lie.
You know it's not really true, just like white mochas aren't really white,
but brown.
You know the low comes after the high,
that the high will bring you low.
Coffee is the sugar that makes your stomach ache,
and want for more.
Coffee is a lie you tell to your body that you got a full night of sleep
Coffee is a way you fool your mind that you're fully awake
Coffee is the sugar coated white lie.
You know it's not really true, just like white mochas aren't really white,
but brown.
You know the low comes after the high,
that the high will bring you low.
Coffee is the sugar that makes your stomach ache,
and want for more.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
A Marriage to the Rope Maker's Daughter
Her father held her hand very delicately, as if he feared her fingers shattering into a million pieces. She worried that her little hands would press his gnarled fingers too hard and they would dissolve. Even then his hands rattled.
" 'm not 'fraid, sweetie. Neither sh'd ye be." He looked down at her with warm, if not worried eyes.
" 'm not afraid, Daddy. But where 're you goin'?"
Her father sighed, rubbing his leathered face tiredly as he searched the wall behind her for an answer. Finally, he smiled as his eyes found hers. "At dawn 'm gonna marry the rope maker's daughter"
She beamed, nearly jumping from the floor. "I've always want'd a mum." "What she like?"
He chewed his lip a little. "She's quite frightening, just like her father."
"Can I meet her?" She sat up a little, touching his face.
Her father shook his head sadly. "Not yet. I really wish I c'd bring ye to the weddin', but it's too scary fer little girls."
"But Daddy, 'm brave."
"Promise me ye won' go. Promise." His eyes searched hers this time, as if he were looking for an anchor.
_____________________________
Like many promises a little girl makes, she broke this one. She hardly slept that night, pacing around her room, eyeing the fort impatiently. Knowing her father, he would try to have an extravagant wedding. Usually that would mean renting the Governor's courtyard, but some reason her father and the governor didn't get along so well. He would have to have it at the fort, where the whole town could see.
She raced outside as the sun reluctantly rose over the eastern coast. Before that yellow coin finished rising over the water, the girl was hiding in the skirts of some woman in the crowd around the platform. She had a hard time spotting him, but she eventually found her father on top of the platform with a rope around his neck. The girl couldn't find a daughter anywhere on the platform, only the scary man in the black hood, and some sort of judge. Even the words of the man on the far end of the platform were hard to hear over the crowd's murmuring.
Yet the sound of trapdoor falling down cut right through.
" 'm not 'fraid, sweetie. Neither sh'd ye be." He looked down at her with warm, if not worried eyes.
" 'm not afraid, Daddy. But where 're you goin'?"
Her father sighed, rubbing his leathered face tiredly as he searched the wall behind her for an answer. Finally, he smiled as his eyes found hers. "At dawn 'm gonna marry the rope maker's daughter"
She beamed, nearly jumping from the floor. "I've always want'd a mum." "What she like?"
He chewed his lip a little. "She's quite frightening, just like her father."
"Can I meet her?" She sat up a little, touching his face.
Her father shook his head sadly. "Not yet. I really wish I c'd bring ye to the weddin', but it's too scary fer little girls."
"But Daddy, 'm brave."
"Promise me ye won' go. Promise." His eyes searched hers this time, as if he were looking for an anchor.
_____________________________
Like many promises a little girl makes, she broke this one. She hardly slept that night, pacing around her room, eyeing the fort impatiently. Knowing her father, he would try to have an extravagant wedding. Usually that would mean renting the Governor's courtyard, but some reason her father and the governor didn't get along so well. He would have to have it at the fort, where the whole town could see.
She raced outside as the sun reluctantly rose over the eastern coast. Before that yellow coin finished rising over the water, the girl was hiding in the skirts of some woman in the crowd around the platform. She had a hard time spotting him, but she eventually found her father on top of the platform with a rope around his neck. The girl couldn't find a daughter anywhere on the platform, only the scary man in the black hood, and some sort of judge. Even the words of the man on the far end of the platform were hard to hear over the crowd's murmuring.
Yet the sound of trapdoor falling down cut right through.
Monday, October 18, 2010
To Mrs. McGinnis
You look like a sponge squeezed.
That breath you carry around every
other moment probably weighs
a lifetime more than before.
I know if you could,
You would shoot light straight into your father's heart,
or create a sunbeam that would take your children straight to their grandfather.
You might feel like you're fighting a battle
Against a enemy you're not sure of.
Heaven is the highest victory,
a tower higher than the clouds.
I wish I could say you could climb up
such a tall ladder with your armor on,
your shield and sword in hand,
but they'll only weigh you down.
That breath you carry around every
other moment probably weighs
a lifetime more than before.
I know if you could,
You would shoot light straight into your father's heart,
or create a sunbeam that would take your children straight to their grandfather.
You might feel like you're fighting a battle
Against a enemy you're not sure of.
Heaven is the highest victory,
a tower higher than the clouds.
I wish I could say you could climb up
such a tall ladder with your armor on,
your shield and sword in hand,
but they'll only weigh you down.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
A Drive Down Kuebler Boulevard
I see flowers and a cross on the side of the road.
Why isn't there a flower and a cross my mom's hospital room?
Why aren't there flowers streaming
down the halls,
down the walls,
for the people the doctors couldn't save,
who they wouldn't save?
Why isn't there a flower and a cross my mom's hospital room?
Why aren't there flowers streaming
down the halls,
down the walls,
for the people the doctors couldn't save,
who they wouldn't save?
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Love Song to Stumptown at 1 AM
Who would've thought,
that your best words were said when you were half-asleep.
I heard your bridges sigh
as my car's exhaust passed along the edges
Your streets laid bare,
no people to clothe them
Your sky-scraped office lights embraced me,
and kept me warm.
Your streetlights whispered through the glass,
and I could feel your breath through the vents
We spoke different languages,
but I think you said
"I miss you already."
I crept back home,
lost,
and raptured.
that your best words were said when you were half-asleep.
I heard your bridges sigh
as my car's exhaust passed along the edges
Your streets laid bare,
no people to clothe them
Your sky-scraped office lights embraced me,
and kept me warm.
Your streetlights whispered through the glass,
and I could feel your breath through the vents
We spoke different languages,
but I think you said
"I miss you already."
I crept back home,
lost,
and raptured.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Death of the Author
A team of investigators arrived at the scene, Polaroid cameras and airtight evidence baglets in hand. They split up, two men on the left and the woman on the right. One man snapped pictures, leaning closely over the body.
The coroner poked one cold arm. "She's in near-perfect condition."
"Like the court will care about that." The man with the camera rolled his eyes.
"Hey now, she's of some worth." The woman carefully gathered samples with gloves fitted tightly around her hands.
"Ha, they only care what they can get out of her. She's not really even evidence. It's the samples and pictures they want." The camera man leaned over the body's head, snapping close ups of the untouched face.
"What killed her?" The woman paused to glance at the coroner.
"Oh, well, it looks like she served her purpose. The publisher had no further use of her, so they must have poisoned her water supply. But that's just a preliminary guess."
"They do that?" The woman failed to resume, her jaw dropping an inch. "That's...a lot of dead authors."
"Oh, she'll wake up sooner or later. The jury will need a book out of her." The camera man stood up, finished with gathering pictures.
The coroner poked one cold arm. "She's in near-perfect condition."
"Like the court will care about that." The man with the camera rolled his eyes.
"Hey now, she's of some worth." The woman carefully gathered samples with gloves fitted tightly around her hands.
"Ha, they only care what they can get out of her. She's not really even evidence. It's the samples and pictures they want." The camera man leaned over the body's head, snapping close ups of the untouched face.
"What killed her?" The woman paused to glance at the coroner.
"Oh, well, it looks like she served her purpose. The publisher had no further use of her, so they must have poisoned her water supply. But that's just a preliminary guess."
"They do that?" The woman failed to resume, her jaw dropping an inch. "That's...a lot of dead authors."
"Oh, she'll wake up sooner or later. The jury will need a book out of her." The camera man stood up, finished with gathering pictures.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Death
It began as an accident. The Mongol invaders had planned to bring death to the Arabs, but they did not plan to cast it among their own armies. Death came anyway, and took nearly all of them. However, Death did not win that battle.
Instead the army invited Death to join their armory, and they catapulted him from one camp to the other. First, fortresses fell in Deaths wake, their guards succumbing to black sores, pale skin, and fever. Then ships came and carried Death as a stowaway, as some say. Others says the crew tried to take Death prisoner. Either way, Death sailed across the Black Sea and conquered Europe.
First Turkey fell, then Italy, then the Alps, then France, then Germany, and then Brittan. Death planned to push up into Poland and Russia, but he lost steam. Or, as some theorists say, he lost the motivation to continue. Other sources say he retired and abdicated his empire to a worthy opponent.
Instead the army invited Death to join their armory, and they catapulted him from one camp to the other. First, fortresses fell in Deaths wake, their guards succumbing to black sores, pale skin, and fever. Then ships came and carried Death as a stowaway, as some say. Others says the crew tried to take Death prisoner. Either way, Death sailed across the Black Sea and conquered Europe.
First Turkey fell, then Italy, then the Alps, then France, then Germany, and then Brittan. Death planned to push up into Poland and Russia, but he lost steam. Or, as some theorists say, he lost the motivation to continue. Other sources say he retired and abdicated his empire to a worthy opponent.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Louise Cornwall
Inspired by Spoon River Anthology
I lived on the outskirts of town,
Between the quarry and the river.
I lived in a one bedroom house,
Once I moved to Spoon River.
My bedroom had a twin bed.
My kitchen table had one placemat.
I lived in Spoon River twenty years,
Alone.
I worked on my garden,
With a ring on my left hand,
Playing along with the rumors
That I was the cause of my his absence.
I wasn’t.
She was.
I lived on the outskirts of town,
Between the quarry and the river.
I lived in a one bedroom house,
Once I moved to Spoon River.
My bedroom had a twin bed.
My kitchen table had one placemat.
I lived in Spoon River twenty years,
Alone.
I worked on my garden,
With a ring on my left hand,
Playing along with the rumors
That I was the cause of my his absence.
I wasn’t.
She was.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Story to End All Stories
We started up Humbug Crick early that day, our rigs and crummies growling before we were halfway up Butte Road. It was an old logging road; Ben never been on it before, and neither had Johnny. That didn't stop us, as we climbed out with our saws and our axes hanging from our shoulders. Our crew piled out behind, ripping and roaring to drown out the sounds of the woods. Johnny heard a hum, or maybe a buzz that seemed to come from the sun itself.
We worked all morning, only breaking for lunch by the rig. Pulling out our coffee, we heard the drone crescendo until it got in the way of our conversation. Chuck stood up first, and left his lunch behind. No flies went after it. Walking a little up a ways, Chuck stopped in front of a large rock.
"Hey guys! It's louder over 'ere!"
Eventually the rest of us made our way over there. Ben was the first to climb the rock to find whatever made that crazy noise. When he saw it he nearly fell off the back of the rock.
"What is it?" Johnny asked, scratching his arm.
Chuck stood up a little straighter and climbed down the other side. "I'm gonna find out."
The rest of us waited until we heard a loud squeal and the sound of human bones being sawed in half. We didn't wait to find out what did ended Chuck Reister. Ben thinks its a bear. Johnny thinks a cougar. Dan thought it was an alien, but no one listens to him anyway.
We worked all morning, only breaking for lunch by the rig. Pulling out our coffee, we heard the drone crescendo until it got in the way of our conversation. Chuck stood up first, and left his lunch behind. No flies went after it. Walking a little up a ways, Chuck stopped in front of a large rock.
"Hey guys! It's louder over 'ere!"
Eventually the rest of us made our way over there. Ben was the first to climb the rock to find whatever made that crazy noise. When he saw it he nearly fell off the back of the rock.
"What is it?" Johnny asked, scratching his arm.
Chuck stood up a little straighter and climbed down the other side. "I'm gonna find out."
The rest of us waited until we heard a loud squeal and the sound of human bones being sawed in half. We didn't wait to find out what did ended Chuck Reister. Ben thinks its a bear. Johnny thinks a cougar. Dan thought it was an alien, but no one listens to him anyway.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tiramisu
Pick me up
with sticky fingers,
with clouds on the tip of your tongue,
the sting of coffee in your nose,
and chocolate in your eyes.
with sticky fingers,
with clouds on the tip of your tongue,
the sting of coffee in your nose,
and chocolate in your eyes.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Snapshot
Aunt Flo never married, though she kept a house of two cats. In a drawer of hers she has a snapshot, the only one that's never been put in a scrapbook, photo album, or picture frame. It's black and white, if not a bit grainy, and careful fingerprints grace its corners.
A man in an army uniform, with his hat off, sits at a coffee shop somewhere in Europe, toying with his lighter and ignoring his coffee. No one joins him at the table, and in fact only a few human shapes are visible in the background. It's dim, in the morning, between the time residents go to work and the time they return for lunch and tea.
On the back Flo wrote a date, and possibly a name, but she later scratched it out without saying why.
A man in an army uniform, with his hat off, sits at a coffee shop somewhere in Europe, toying with his lighter and ignoring his coffee. No one joins him at the table, and in fact only a few human shapes are visible in the background. It's dim, in the morning, between the time residents go to work and the time they return for lunch and tea.
On the back Flo wrote a date, and possibly a name, but she later scratched it out without saying why.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Burden of Truth
He carried his burden on his back.
She carried it over her body.
Every bruise begged for candy,
every word called for geese.
Each misplaced fold told a story,
the day her man lost his job.
Each wrinkle of hers whispered
of the times he'd been rejected.
"Sorry, hon' I've been havin' a hard time"
She ate his apologies for dessert.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Shanty
The schooner turned coastal barge underneath a blanket of sand until one February. For over a century the ship hid, safe from the worms, fed by salt and water, until a storm found its sanctuary. Storm by storm they pelted the shield, shifting the sand until the poor shipwreck lay exposed. Soon the iron bars bubbled with rust and worms threatened to eat every piece of Douglas Fir until nothing remained. No man alive could save the ship in time, so they left it alone. Two deceased experts, however, readily took on the job of saving the C.A. Smith.
"Really Sean, you sh'd know better 'an to drink on yer watch." The first caressed the wood gently, almost reverently. The barge would never carry wood again, but it might serve for a decent ghost ship.
"Aw, Rich, how was I s'pposed to know that a storm w's comin'? I only had a little." Sean crawled up the dune, surveying the work ahead of them.
"You were drunk off yer arse, and you know it." Rich leaned close to the ship, as if to kiss it, and blew a small layer of sand away.
"I was sad. M'girl lef' me! Wot was I s'pposed to do? Sail sober?" Sean picked up a shovel he'd stolen from a dairy farmer. Hopefully the farmer wouldn't miss it.
"You sailed against the wind, you buggerin' bastard. If it weren't for you, we would have made it past the jetty! But noooooooooo."
"I said I was sorry."
______________
The next morning the BLM showed up to look at the shipwreck again, but they only found the hole, quickly filling with sand, that once held the keel close. With no other answer but a couple of stolen shovels, the BLM blamed it on the storm, at least in their reports.
"Really Sean, you sh'd know better 'an to drink on yer watch." The first caressed the wood gently, almost reverently. The barge would never carry wood again, but it might serve for a decent ghost ship.
"Aw, Rich, how was I s'pposed to know that a storm w's comin'? I only had a little." Sean crawled up the dune, surveying the work ahead of them.
"You were drunk off yer arse, and you know it." Rich leaned close to the ship, as if to kiss it, and blew a small layer of sand away.
"I was sad. M'girl lef' me! Wot was I s'pposed to do? Sail sober?" Sean picked up a shovel he'd stolen from a dairy farmer. Hopefully the farmer wouldn't miss it.
"You sailed against the wind, you buggerin' bastard. If it weren't for you, we would have made it past the jetty! But noooooooooo."
"I said I was sorry."
______________
The next morning the BLM showed up to look at the shipwreck again, but they only found the hole, quickly filling with sand, that once held the keel close. With no other answer but a couple of stolen shovels, the BLM blamed it on the storm, at least in their reports.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Summer Night
You pulled me close
as the sun sank into orange sherbert.
Your lips met mine,
and my arms were too heavy to hold me.
My spirit floated with the clouds,
and drifted back down in sunlit rays
to pick you up and carry you with me.
as the sun sank into orange sherbert.
Your lips met mine,
and my arms were too heavy to hold me.
My spirit floated with the clouds,
and drifted back down in sunlit rays
to pick you up and carry you with me.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Post Card
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
I hope you are doing well. I've been really busy with my new friends. They took me to Silver Falls last week, and yesterday they took me up to the Governor's office while he was away. My friends said that Mr. Governor would be honored if I sat in his office chair. And so I did! My friends took pictures, and they helped me paper clip it to the back of this letter.
I miss you a lot, and I promise to come home someday, but I wanna see more of the world before I stand in your front lawn and watch cars go by.
Love,
Your Garden Gnome Ithamar
I hope you are doing well. I've been really busy with my new friends. They took me to Silver Falls last week, and yesterday they took me up to the Governor's office while he was away. My friends said that Mr. Governor would be honored if I sat in his office chair. And so I did! My friends took pictures, and they helped me paper clip it to the back of this letter.
I miss you a lot, and I promise to come home someday, but I wanna see more of the world before I stand in your front lawn and watch cars go by.
Love,
Your Garden Gnome Ithamar
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Line between Sunshine and Moonshine
Your voice changes as the chords get wet,
like milk to sour cream.
The volume turns up on your inner stereo,
as if every word is worth blurting out.
Your words flip like your moods,
like the second hand on a broken clock
You are heavier than lead in the paperweight you ignore.
like milk to sour cream.
The volume turns up on your inner stereo,
as if every word is worth blurting out.
Your words flip like your moods,
like the second hand on a broken clock
You are heavier than lead in the paperweight you ignore.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Soverign Flies: A Manifesto
We will bzz through your ears and before your eyes. We will haunt your kitchens and race across your light fixtures. We will bzz past your notebook computers and over your morning coffee. We will not leave. We will never die as long as there's food to eat. When you think we are gone, we will return.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Waiting
She waits for him,
wearing a gold dress that's long since faded to pale.
Someday, she hopes
he will abandon his lily pad
for his crown,
and his fur for his own skin.
That he'll trade his pumpkin
for a carriage,
and his ass for a horse.
But the spell hasn't broken,
and she's still left with straw
instead of gold.
wearing a gold dress that's long since faded to pale.
Someday, she hopes
he will abandon his lily pad
for his crown,
and his fur for his own skin.
That he'll trade his pumpkin
for a carriage,
and his ass for a horse.
But the spell hasn't broken,
and she's still left with straw
instead of gold.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Teddy goes to the doctor
The operating room was nestled in a corner of a bedroom. Teddy was brought in by the only operating staff, the surgeon. This surgeon doubled as a chauffeur, a coach, a nurse, a chef, a chaperon, and of course, a surgeon. She laid Teddy on the tiny operating table, next to a sewing machine. Pulling out her implements, a pair of sewing scissors, a needle, and a spool of green thread, the surgeon got to work.
It was a routine surgery, but it still required utmost patience in preparation. The surgeon wired the thread through the needle in the sewing machine, and inserted the spool at the top. She checked to make sure the machine was plugged in, and switched on the built-in light. Pressing her foot on the peddle, she moved Teddy's broken arm underneath the needle.
The machine growled to life, and the needle went up and down and up and down until Teddy had sixteen stitches. Fortunately, Teddy wouldn't need any physical therapy, but his best friend Kyle would have to be careful with his right arm. It wouldn't take much to ruin the sixteen stitches in green fur.
It was a routine surgery, but it still required utmost patience in preparation. The surgeon wired the thread through the needle in the sewing machine, and inserted the spool at the top. She checked to make sure the machine was plugged in, and switched on the built-in light. Pressing her foot on the peddle, she moved Teddy's broken arm underneath the needle.
The machine growled to life, and the needle went up and down and up and down until Teddy had sixteen stitches. Fortunately, Teddy wouldn't need any physical therapy, but his best friend Kyle would have to be careful with his right arm. It wouldn't take much to ruin the sixteen stitches in green fur.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Keepsake
I let your body go months ago,
and I let your soul fly to heaven like a dove,
but do you mind if I
carry a piece of your spirit around with me?
I'll keep it in my left pocket,
and take it out when I need your backbone,
I need your smile,
need your laughter.
and I let your soul fly to heaven like a dove,
but do you mind if I
carry a piece of your spirit around with me?
I'll keep it in my left pocket,
and take it out when I need your backbone,
I need your smile,
need your laughter.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Food for Thought
What do they keep in those back rooms downtown? Those rooms always seem bigger than necessary, and mostly empty. Perhaps the owners of the coffee shop live there, but they insist on hiding the furniture upstairs. Or maybe, at night, they drag in the comfy couches from the shop decor, and sleep on them (as well as the lamps.) That's why they serve coffee you know. It takes nearly all night for them to move the furniture; they hardly get any sleep.
I found a bike in one, with empty stalls. The stalls may or may not have had curtains. What does a coffee shop need dressing rooms for? If you whisper the password with your order, will they give you a costume to try on? Is it frappuchino? No place seems to serve them, and Starbucks doesn't have back rooms.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Lit
Strike, strike, strike
the match,
strike it hard,
light a blaze,
a supernova,
watch it shine,
glimmer and kill,
and watch it create
stars.
the match,
strike it hard,
light a blaze,
a supernova,
watch it shine,
glimmer and kill,
and watch it create
stars.
Friday, July 30, 2010
A Green Flash
No one in my family has ever met Dad's father. Jade only has one picture of him, weathered, worn, and in black and white. It's a picture of when she first met him, in Burbank, California. They both worked at an aircraft factory in WWII. She was a Rosie the Riveter of sorts, and he was an aircraft engineer. Some sort of chronic illness, Grandma Jade would say, the government wouldn't dare put him in combat. He flew into her life like a storm at sea, and left just as quick. But he knew her long enough to father my dad.
Jade took his last name, as a sort of token, and took to wearing a ring he gave her on her left hand. She would never say if he married her, and we never found any wedding photos. Grandma didn't seem to mind, as she never sought out anyone else.
Grandma Jade never strayed too far from the coast. Sure, we could coax her away, closer to family, for a few years, but within a decade she'd be back by the ocean. She could get by in any coastal town, but she preferred ports, no matter what size. Jade even moved from Santa Monica, saying it was too expensive, but she just moved up the coast town by town, until she found Coos Bay. Less crowded, she said.
She'd spend nearly day at the beach, or on the docks. We knew not to check her house when we came to visit. Instead we combed the coastline until we found her.Every so often we'd see her gaze at the waves longingly, as if she was looking for someone. Our visits usually ended up being sandy picnics, crabbing, fishing, but Jade never took us shopping at the tourist traps. "I'd never find anything worth paying for." She would say when asked.
Over the years the family visited less and less, until Grandma got sick in the spring. At first, we took turns, dropping by each weekend to check up on her, or if we could, we'd take days off work and school. Then summer hit, and Grandma Jade still hadn't healed. Even then she refused to go to the hospital. So I packed a suitcase and moved to her place for however long it took.
We spent nearly all our time at the beach, only going home at night. No matter how late it was, we could always find our way home. Long after everyone had turned off their lights and went to bed, her house always had one light on. I knew she had a window facing the water in her bedroom. The candle that sat on her window sill never went out. Fishermen would always joke that they could see the light from the ocean.
Then she got too sick to go outside. I did everything I could, from opening the windows to let the draft in, to bringing her seashells I found every morning at the shore. Grandma Jade would smile at me tiredly, then toy with the seashell as if she wanted something else.
It took three days of her favorite meal (salmon on mash potatoes) to get the truth out of her.
"I don't think I'm going to make it, hon' " Jade glanced up at me, as young as ever.
I helped her bring another bite to her lips."Oh, don't say that Grandma. You'll be fine. You're a toughie."
"I'm sorry hon.'" She chewed it thoughtfully, then glanced up at me, her eyes sparkling like streams in the sunlight. "You want to know a secret?"
"Sure." Wondering what on earth Grandma Jade had left to tell.
"Set that fork down and open that drawer next to you. Yeah, that one. The picture should be underneath all those scarves."
I pulled it and held up for both our eyes. It was the picture of Grandpa Jones, the only picture she had.
"Did you know Grandpa knew more than just planes?"
I set her plate aside. She never never had an appetite when she had a story to tell.
"He also liked ships. Big ones. Historic ones."
"You mean, sailing?"
Jade smiled, seeming younger already. "Yeah. He loved to go and rescue men lost at sea." She sighed wistfully.
"Like the coast guard?"
She frowned slightly, as if I was missing something important. "Sort of, except none of them ever wanted to come back. So they would join his crew."
"Wait, he was a captain?"
Jade smiled again, proud. "One of the best. No one could ever catch him."
"But he left you years ago, right? Soon after the war?"
She spoke softer, squeezing my hand weakly. "He came back once every ten years."
My eyes widened farther than the portholes in her kitchen. "Wait...Grandpa Jones is--"
Jade whispered fiercely, grinning. "Davy Jones." She thumbed my hand. "Just between us though, alright?"
I nodded. "So...you're going to meet him."
"Oh, I suppose I'll go and join his crew." She uttered softly.
"And you're not coming back." I swallowed.
"Just promise you'll bury me at sea."
"Of course, Grandma, of course."
Jade took his last name, as a sort of token, and took to wearing a ring he gave her on her left hand. She would never say if he married her, and we never found any wedding photos. Grandma didn't seem to mind, as she never sought out anyone else.
Grandma Jade never strayed too far from the coast. Sure, we could coax her away, closer to family, for a few years, but within a decade she'd be back by the ocean. She could get by in any coastal town, but she preferred ports, no matter what size. Jade even moved from Santa Monica, saying it was too expensive, but she just moved up the coast town by town, until she found Coos Bay. Less crowded, she said.
She'd spend nearly day at the beach, or on the docks. We knew not to check her house when we came to visit. Instead we combed the coastline until we found her.Every so often we'd see her gaze at the waves longingly, as if she was looking for someone. Our visits usually ended up being sandy picnics, crabbing, fishing, but Jade never took us shopping at the tourist traps. "I'd never find anything worth paying for." She would say when asked.
Over the years the family visited less and less, until Grandma got sick in the spring. At first, we took turns, dropping by each weekend to check up on her, or if we could, we'd take days off work and school. Then summer hit, and Grandma Jade still hadn't healed. Even then she refused to go to the hospital. So I packed a suitcase and moved to her place for however long it took.
We spent nearly all our time at the beach, only going home at night. No matter how late it was, we could always find our way home. Long after everyone had turned off their lights and went to bed, her house always had one light on. I knew she had a window facing the water in her bedroom. The candle that sat on her window sill never went out. Fishermen would always joke that they could see the light from the ocean.
Then she got too sick to go outside. I did everything I could, from opening the windows to let the draft in, to bringing her seashells I found every morning at the shore. Grandma Jade would smile at me tiredly, then toy with the seashell as if she wanted something else.
It took three days of her favorite meal (salmon on mash potatoes) to get the truth out of her.
"I don't think I'm going to make it, hon' " Jade glanced up at me, as young as ever.
I helped her bring another bite to her lips."Oh, don't say that Grandma. You'll be fine. You're a toughie."
"I'm sorry hon.'" She chewed it thoughtfully, then glanced up at me, her eyes sparkling like streams in the sunlight. "You want to know a secret?"
"Sure." Wondering what on earth Grandma Jade had left to tell.
"Set that fork down and open that drawer next to you. Yeah, that one. The picture should be underneath all those scarves."
I pulled it and held up for both our eyes. It was the picture of Grandpa Jones, the only picture she had.
"Did you know Grandpa knew more than just planes?"
I set her plate aside. She never never had an appetite when she had a story to tell.
"He also liked ships. Big ones. Historic ones."
"You mean, sailing?"
Jade smiled, seeming younger already. "Yeah. He loved to go and rescue men lost at sea." She sighed wistfully.
"Like the coast guard?"
She frowned slightly, as if I was missing something important. "Sort of, except none of them ever wanted to come back. So they would join his crew."
"Wait, he was a captain?"
Jade smiled again, proud. "One of the best. No one could ever catch him."
"But he left you years ago, right? Soon after the war?"
She spoke softer, squeezing my hand weakly. "He came back once every ten years."
My eyes widened farther than the portholes in her kitchen. "Wait...Grandpa Jones is--"
Jade whispered fiercely, grinning. "Davy Jones." She thumbed my hand. "Just between us though, alright?"
I nodded. "So...you're going to meet him."
"Oh, I suppose I'll go and join his crew." She uttered softly.
"And you're not coming back." I swallowed.
"Just promise you'll bury me at sea."
"Of course, Grandma, of course."
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Cassandra
There is an entire world between
knowing how to save her life,
and saving her life.
In that world there stands
white-washed doctors,
and mud-slung legislators,
and a computer god,
who judges without mercy.
Here, common sense is worth less
than two pennies,
but her minutes are worth more than gold.
I could buy diamonds with her lucid thoughts,
and rubies with her smiles.
knowing how to save her life,
and saving her life.
In that world there stands
white-washed doctors,
and mud-slung legislators,
and a computer god,
who judges without mercy.
Here, common sense is worth less
than two pennies,
but her minutes are worth more than gold.
I could buy diamonds with her lucid thoughts,
and rubies with her smiles.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Journal of a Band Geek: Day 2 Knowing the Drill
Today in band camp I met the returning band members. Some I recognized from middle school, but here they act different. Remember that suck-up oboe player who was awkward around everyone? Now she plays saxophone and is the star sophomore section leader. I've already heard rumors that she's in line to be drum major next year. Two years after that and she'll be on a full-ride at some prestigious university, majoring in music education. Gag me with a spoon!
Of course we never talk. I can't march backwards to save my life, let alone memorize a bunch of random coordinates on drill sheets. (What do I look like, a TomTom?) This sets me at the bottom of the totem pole. The only other people in band who get less respect are the other flute players in my section, and of course, the guys in color guard.
Nobody's real sure about the color guard guys. Most years, there's never more than two. Any guy who joins color guard instantaneously loses his man card. What straight guy would dance with purple flags with girly choreography in those gay costumes? At least, we all hope they're gay. It would just be...gag worthy on those practices in the hot sun, with girls more than comfortable cooling off in as little coverage as they're allowed.
Of course we never talk. I can't march backwards to save my life, let alone memorize a bunch of random coordinates on drill sheets. (What do I look like, a TomTom?) This sets me at the bottom of the totem pole. The only other people in band who get less respect are the other flute players in my section, and of course, the guys in color guard.
Nobody's real sure about the color guard guys. Most years, there's never more than two. Any guy who joins color guard instantaneously loses his man card. What straight guy would dance with purple flags with girly choreography in those gay costumes? At least, we all hope they're gay. It would just be...gag worthy on those practices in the hot sun, with girls more than comfortable cooling off in as little coverage as they're allowed.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Closed Door
I beat and pound and beat and pound
on that door, that ash oak door.
Just as I turn my heel to leave it closed,
the door yawns open, and pulls my head back,
as if it hooked my ear on a string, a silk string.
Inside the light is bright, but clouded,
and up above I see a ladder with angels,
but instead of the heavens,
I see the wrong wife,
frowning with guilt in her eyes.
on that door, that ash oak door.
Just as I turn my heel to leave it closed,
the door yawns open, and pulls my head back,
as if it hooked my ear on a string, a silk string.
Inside the light is bright, but clouded,
and up above I see a ladder with angels,
but instead of the heavens,
I see the wrong wife,
frowning with guilt in her eyes.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Table Talk
In the end, she wasn't sure if her feet left the rooftop, or if she slipped. Rachel thought she might have flashbacks or see her life flash before her eyes, but she only thought about how quickly the pavement flew into her face. In the second before she lost consciousness, Rachel felt her legs buckle and shatter beneath the weight of her fall. She thought she felt her face hit the pavement.
Next thing she knew, Rachel was standing up and walking. She swallowed, wondering why she didn't feel any pain, in fact, she didn't feel anything at all. Rachel had to look down to see that her feet touched the marble floor as they walked. Her heart would have skipped a beat, except she had noticed that it had stopped beating.
The hall yawned before her eyes, deep, with every surface covered in gray marble. It had no windows, no lamps, no fires, and no sunlight, but she could see down it just fine. At the end of the hall sat black iron doors, and the moment Rachel would have reached to push them open, they opened themselves. Beyond the doors a cavernous room loomed before her, making Rachel stop so abruptly, she rocked back on her heels.
A table stood in the center of the room, gray marble like everything else. One black iron chair stood on each side, one empty, and one occupied. Rachel recognized that occupant immediately, and her skin covered itself with goosebumps. He beckoned her with a wave of his long black sleeve to the empty chair. Glancing back at the iron doors, she saw them close with a hollow echo. The chair seemed to be her only option. She sat down, looking at the table instead of trying to meet his eyes.
In the middle of the small table sat a game of chess, with each piece in its starting position. One half had carved marble, sleek and simple. The other half had iron, intricate and rich. Underneath them, rested the chessboard, made of shimmering glass.
"Care for a game?" He whispered, his voice hoarse, but clear.
"I guess." Rachel answered, not really seeing any other option. She moved the pawn closest to her right.
He slid a knight to face her pawn. "Who are you?"
"Rachel Stevens." She studied the board, already having a bad feeling about her odds. How did it go? Win the game and get a second chance at life? Or would she only have a chance at a better afterlife? Who the heck knew all this stuff and bothered to tell the living? Rachel focused on the opposite side of her board, deciding to move one of her knights closer to the center. "I'm dead, aren't I?"
"Yes. Did you want to be?" He moved the same knight closer to hers.
She swallowed, moving her pawn again. "Yes."
He moved the knight away, and Rachel caught a glance of the bones beneath the sleeve. They matched the marble well. "Why?"
Rachel wondered how many times he'd heard this before. "I couldn't face my life anymore." She slid her rook right behind her pawn. It thudded lightly against the glass, hissing as she let go.
"Why did that make you kill yourself?" He slid a pawn right behind his knight.
She wished she had an idea of what he planned next. He seemed the type that could plan an infinite amount of moves ahead of time. After all, he seemed to have all the time in the world. "I was afraid." Rachel answered softly, moving her knight next to his.
His queen knocked out her pawn. "What a waste."
"You don't understand." She swallowed, moving her knight and taking out one of his pawns. "Check."
The room seemed to get warmer. He sat silently for a long time. "I wish you understood. Suicide is one of the most selfish and cruel acts one can commit, Rachel." He moved his king out of harm's way.
"I had to. I had no choice." She moved her knight again, taking out his rook.
"You always had a choice." He slid his bishop until it stood a square away from his knight. "You always did. Until now."
None of her options now seemed good. Rachel swallowed, moving her pawn forward. "Then why did you offer me a game?"
He moved his queen back. "I have my reasons."
"That's not answering my question." She slid another pawn forward, trying to free up her more powerful pieces.
"I don't have to answer your questions." He slid a pawn as well.
Rachel saw her chance, taking out his knight. "What if I win?"
"What if you do?" He mused, sliding a pawn behind his queen.
"I want answers." She moved her knight back, taking out another pawn. So far, she had more pieces than he did. Rachel wondering how long that would last.
Apparently not long. He immediately took out her knight with another pawn."That's all?"
"How much can I ask for?" She slid out a bishop, suddenly finding the need to end this quick.
"Indeed." He also moved a bishop.
"What are my options?" She moved her bishop again, as far as she could. "Check."
"You should have researched that before you killed yourself." He moved his king out of her path.
"Well, I'm asking now." She moved her bishop again, chasing him.
"I don't have to tell you." His king took out her bishop.
They were even, with four pieces each. Rachel moved her queen. "What if I asked nicely?"
He moved his. "Probably not."
She moved her remaining knight. "Have you ever told anyone?"
"Most of them already seem to know by this point." He moved his king away.
"I don't." She took out his queen, breathing a sigh of relief.
He moved a pawn, and the shadows beneath his hood seemed to darken. "That's unfortunate. To not know your stakes."
Rachel took out another pawn with her knight. "I guess. I can't change that now."
He moved one two spaces forward. "I suppose." Death sounded bored.
She took out a rook. "You don't know?"
"You're full of questions. No sob story?" He moved a knight in front of his king.
"You've probably already heard it." She moved her queen forward. If Rachel was lucky, she might have a chance now.
"Perhaps not." He moved his remaining bishop.
Rachel moved her queen to his end of the board. "I lost my job."
He moved his bishop directly in front of her king. "That sounds like a poor reason for suicide."
She took it out. "It was a really nice job. I had no savings."
He moved another pawn. "Nothing else?"
"I had no boyfriend. My family were already struggling to pay their own bills." She moved her queen. "Check."
He took out her queen. "So you made them pay for your funeral?"
"I had life insurance." She moved her rook. "Check."
He moved his king forward, bringing her rook within range. "How much?"
Rachel took out his knight. "Not enough." She sighed.
His bishop took out her knight. "Unfortunate."
"Yeah." She moved a pawn forward, running out of options fast. Rachel only had five pieces left.
He moved a pawn in line with his king. "So you're costing them a funeral and a loved one."
"What else was I supposed to do?" She moved her knight.
He moved a pawn, and gained back his queen. "See a therapist. Seek faith. Seek love."
"None of those seemed appetizing." She moved her knight again. "Check."
He took out her night with his bishop. "Better than death."
"Yeah." She sighed, moving a bishop. He was going to win.
"Always." He moved his queen in line with her king. "Check."
She moved her king out of the way. "You think so?"
"Always." He moved his queen with ease. "Check."
She moved her king back. "What if a person's life was hell?"
He pursued. "You know nothing of hell."
"You know nothing of living." She moved her king back.
"Don't I? I end lives every day." He took out one of two remaining pawns. Not that Rachel could have moved them anyway.
She moved her king closer to his. It was the only piece she could still move. "And what do they tell you?"
His followed. "They beg, usually."
She moved her king. "Creative."
"They're desperate." He took out her last pawn.
"They're dying." She moved her king back.
"They don't want to. " His king followed. "Check."
"I do." She moved her king back.
"Unfortunate." His bishop moved in line with her king. "Check."
Rachel moved it forward. "So what? Just another soul right?"
"Every soul has value." He moved his queen in front of hers. "Check mate."
Next thing she knew, Rachel was standing up and walking. She swallowed, wondering why she didn't feel any pain, in fact, she didn't feel anything at all. Rachel had to look down to see that her feet touched the marble floor as they walked. Her heart would have skipped a beat, except she had noticed that it had stopped beating.
The hall yawned before her eyes, deep, with every surface covered in gray marble. It had no windows, no lamps, no fires, and no sunlight, but she could see down it just fine. At the end of the hall sat black iron doors, and the moment Rachel would have reached to push them open, they opened themselves. Beyond the doors a cavernous room loomed before her, making Rachel stop so abruptly, she rocked back on her heels.
A table stood in the center of the room, gray marble like everything else. One black iron chair stood on each side, one empty, and one occupied. Rachel recognized that occupant immediately, and her skin covered itself with goosebumps. He beckoned her with a wave of his long black sleeve to the empty chair. Glancing back at the iron doors, she saw them close with a hollow echo. The chair seemed to be her only option. She sat down, looking at the table instead of trying to meet his eyes.
In the middle of the small table sat a game of chess, with each piece in its starting position. One half had carved marble, sleek and simple. The other half had iron, intricate and rich. Underneath them, rested the chessboard, made of shimmering glass.
"Care for a game?" He whispered, his voice hoarse, but clear.
"I guess." Rachel answered, not really seeing any other option. She moved the pawn closest to her right.
He slid a knight to face her pawn. "Who are you?"
"Rachel Stevens." She studied the board, already having a bad feeling about her odds. How did it go? Win the game and get a second chance at life? Or would she only have a chance at a better afterlife? Who the heck knew all this stuff and bothered to tell the living? Rachel focused on the opposite side of her board, deciding to move one of her knights closer to the center. "I'm dead, aren't I?"
"Yes. Did you want to be?" He moved the same knight closer to hers.
She swallowed, moving her pawn again. "Yes."
He moved the knight away, and Rachel caught a glance of the bones beneath the sleeve. They matched the marble well. "Why?"
Rachel wondered how many times he'd heard this before. "I couldn't face my life anymore." She slid her rook right behind her pawn. It thudded lightly against the glass, hissing as she let go.
"Why did that make you kill yourself?" He slid a pawn right behind his knight.
She wished she had an idea of what he planned next. He seemed the type that could plan an infinite amount of moves ahead of time. After all, he seemed to have all the time in the world. "I was afraid." Rachel answered softly, moving her knight next to his.
His queen knocked out her pawn. "What a waste."
"You don't understand." She swallowed, moving her knight and taking out one of his pawns. "Check."
The room seemed to get warmer. He sat silently for a long time. "I wish you understood. Suicide is one of the most selfish and cruel acts one can commit, Rachel." He moved his king out of harm's way.
"I had to. I had no choice." She moved her knight again, taking out his rook.
"You always had a choice." He slid his bishop until it stood a square away from his knight. "You always did. Until now."
None of her options now seemed good. Rachel swallowed, moving her pawn forward. "Then why did you offer me a game?"
He moved his queen back. "I have my reasons."
"That's not answering my question." She slid another pawn forward, trying to free up her more powerful pieces.
"I don't have to answer your questions." He slid a pawn as well.
Rachel saw her chance, taking out his knight. "What if I win?"
"What if you do?" He mused, sliding a pawn behind his queen.
"I want answers." She moved her knight back, taking out another pawn. So far, she had more pieces than he did. Rachel wondering how long that would last.
Apparently not long. He immediately took out her knight with another pawn."That's all?"
"How much can I ask for?" She slid out a bishop, suddenly finding the need to end this quick.
"Indeed." He also moved a bishop.
"What are my options?" She moved her bishop again, as far as she could. "Check."
"You should have researched that before you killed yourself." He moved his king out of her path.
"Well, I'm asking now." She moved her bishop again, chasing him.
"I don't have to tell you." His king took out her bishop.
They were even, with four pieces each. Rachel moved her queen. "What if I asked nicely?"
He moved his. "Probably not."
She moved her remaining knight. "Have you ever told anyone?"
"Most of them already seem to know by this point." He moved his king away.
"I don't." She took out his queen, breathing a sigh of relief.
He moved a pawn, and the shadows beneath his hood seemed to darken. "That's unfortunate. To not know your stakes."
Rachel took out another pawn with her knight. "I guess. I can't change that now."
He moved one two spaces forward. "I suppose." Death sounded bored.
She took out a rook. "You don't know?"
"You're full of questions. No sob story?" He moved a knight in front of his king.
"You've probably already heard it." She moved her queen forward. If Rachel was lucky, she might have a chance now.
"Perhaps not." He moved his remaining bishop.
Rachel moved her queen to his end of the board. "I lost my job."
He moved his bishop directly in front of her king. "That sounds like a poor reason for suicide."
She took it out. "It was a really nice job. I had no savings."
He moved another pawn. "Nothing else?"
"I had no boyfriend. My family were already struggling to pay their own bills." She moved her queen. "Check."
He took out her queen. "So you made them pay for your funeral?"
"I had life insurance." She moved her rook. "Check."
He moved his king forward, bringing her rook within range. "How much?"
Rachel took out his knight. "Not enough." She sighed.
His bishop took out her knight. "Unfortunate."
"Yeah." She moved a pawn forward, running out of options fast. Rachel only had five pieces left.
He moved a pawn in line with his king. "So you're costing them a funeral and a loved one."
"What else was I supposed to do?" She moved her knight.
He moved a pawn, and gained back his queen. "See a therapist. Seek faith. Seek love."
"None of those seemed appetizing." She moved her knight again. "Check."
He took out her night with his bishop. "Better than death."
"Yeah." She sighed, moving a bishop. He was going to win.
"Always." He moved his queen in line with her king. "Check."
She moved her king out of the way. "You think so?"
"Always." He moved his queen with ease. "Check."
She moved her king back. "What if a person's life was hell?"
He pursued. "You know nothing of hell."
"You know nothing of living." She moved her king back.
"Don't I? I end lives every day." He took out one of two remaining pawns. Not that Rachel could have moved them anyway.
She moved her king closer to his. It was the only piece she could still move. "And what do they tell you?"
His followed. "They beg, usually."
She moved her king. "Creative."
"They're desperate." He took out her last pawn.
"They're dying." She moved her king back.
"They don't want to. " His king followed. "Check."
"I do." She moved her king back.
"Unfortunate." His bishop moved in line with her king. "Check."
Rachel moved it forward. "So what? Just another soul right?"
"Every soul has value." He moved his queen in front of hers. "Check mate."
Friday, July 16, 2010
Remember Me: By Lenore A. Pittock
When you look at me
all you see is a
slow, suffering, gray, stooped-shouldered
woman who can barely walk,
is short of breath,
and moves every step slowly one at a time.
_________
Remember who I was before,
laughing, running,
butterfly-chasing child who
danced in the sunshine for the pure joy of it,
through the daises,
measured each step for strength,
and found each day unable to contain
the energy that splashed.
_________
Now you see me no more
but remember me. I am once again
picking flowers,
laughing, running, chasing
butterflies, unable to contain
the pure joy and energy splashing
through me as I dance
in eternity's life with my
creator and savior of my life.
all you see is a
slow, suffering, gray, stooped-shouldered
woman who can barely walk,
is short of breath,
and moves every step slowly one at a time.
_________
Remember who I was before,
laughing, running,
butterfly-chasing child who
danced in the sunshine for the pure joy of it,
through the daises,
measured each step for strength,
and found each day unable to contain
the energy that splashed.
_________
Now you see me no more
but remember me. I am once again
picking flowers,
laughing, running, chasing
butterflies, unable to contain
the pure joy and energy splashing
through me as I dance
in eternity's life with my
creator and savior of my life.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Journal of a Band Geek Day I: 'Fun'deblock
Okay, maybe 'fun' isn't the right word. My legs are still sore and my skin is still burnt redder than a lobster. Actually, it's not that bad, not as bad as Mike's. He actually has blisters, yes, you heard me, blisters, on his shoulders. He put on sunscreen too. Unfortunately, they don't make sunscreen strong enough for people like us. No sunscreen is made strong enough for long practices in the sun. I think the shiny (so far) instruments make it worse. They're like the reflectors valley girls used to tan, before they all got skin cancer.
Anyway, we started out by learning how to turn. Toe-heel-toe-heel. It actually seems pretty simple, simple enough to get your hopes up. Then they get everyone one in your section in a line, and they march, yes, march to mark off the distance between each freshman. Then they teach you how to march to the beat, and no matter how many times you try, you can't seem to get it right. Unless of course, your one of the lucky kids that went to the other middle school. There they at least teach you how to march in a parade. By the end of a hot-stinky-two-mile-long death march, you'd definitely know how to step on beat.
I'd whine more, but I have to get up bright and freakin' early for my second day of band camp. Someone please shoot me.
Anyway, we started out by learning how to turn. Toe-heel-toe-heel. It actually seems pretty simple, simple enough to get your hopes up. Then they get everyone one in your section in a line, and they march, yes, march to mark off the distance between each freshman. Then they teach you how to march to the beat, and no matter how many times you try, you can't seem to get it right. Unless of course, your one of the lucky kids that went to the other middle school. There they at least teach you how to march in a parade. By the end of a hot-stinky-two-mile-long death march, you'd definitely know how to step on beat.
I'd whine more, but I have to get up bright and freakin' early for my second day of band camp. Someone please shoot me.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Food for Thought
I see the two-sided gleam in her eyes,
as she shovels my every word into her mouth,
and spits it back out with little of her own.
Every so often her husband,
(I'm not sure which trinket belongs to who,
they've been hanging off each other all evening)
tugs her closer to clear up something she said,
as if he's polishing her thoughts.
I've seen little of her mental coffers,
but I've seen even less of his.
as she shovels my every word into her mouth,
and spits it back out with little of her own.
Every so often her husband,
(I'm not sure which trinket belongs to who,
they've been hanging off each other all evening)
tugs her closer to clear up something she said,
as if he's polishing her thoughts.
I've seen little of her mental coffers,
but I've seen even less of his.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Unstable
Lucy stared at the barrel of the gun while I watched. Her eyes widened in horror and mine did too. Move, I screamed at her, but she didn't seem to hear me. Both her and I stood frozen, as Brian shouted mutely. His hand shook even as he held the gun, frantic. I couldn't remember what had led to this. Brian and I had always been best friends, never more than that. Occasionally I'd give him money when he needed help paying his rent, or buying his groceries.
Then I lost my job. Brian kept coming over for money, which I didn't have. I told him.
"You don't understand. I need that money." He told me on the third day of no money.
"I told you I don't have any. I have bills to pay too, you know." Lucy told him.
"Please, Lucy. I don't want to do this."
I noticed for the first time that his eyes were bloodshot, and retreating into his skull. Dark circles hung from his eyes, as if he hadn't slept since the last time I gave him any money. "Do what?" Honestly, I didn't want to hear his answer. I knew it wouldn't be good.
His hand reached behind his back, and I heard the friction the fabric made as a heavy object was pulled out of the back of his pants. The sun caught the steel barrel and flashed right into my eyes. I blinked. Then I opened my eyes and saw into the depths of the gun. Somewhere in that inky black rested a bullet just waiting for a quick escape. "I really don't want to do this."
Lucy searched his eyes frantically, searching for a bit of Brian that had waned over the past few months. I thought he had started to resemble more and more the mug shots on tv rather than her best friend. "Then why are you holding the gun?" She asked him.
"I have to get the money, Lucy." He told me, his eyes wavering.
"I told you I don't have it. I don't have a job either. Though, unlike you, I'm actually looking for one." I knew better to question the lifestyle of a guy with a gun in his hand.
Brian swallowed, and Lucy mirrored him. A lone bead of sweat slid down his right temple. "I'm sorry." The safety clicked off.
"My answer's still no." I saw his life before my eyes, everything from getting sick from his sixth birthday cake to the day when Lucy first saw circles under his eyes.
His slick finger had trouble gripping the trigger. Finally, Brian found the hold he wanted, and he pulled the trigger back.
Then I lost my job. Brian kept coming over for money, which I didn't have. I told him.
"You don't understand. I need that money." He told me on the third day of no money.
"I told you I don't have any. I have bills to pay too, you know." Lucy told him.
"Please, Lucy. I don't want to do this."
I noticed for the first time that his eyes were bloodshot, and retreating into his skull. Dark circles hung from his eyes, as if he hadn't slept since the last time I gave him any money. "Do what?" Honestly, I didn't want to hear his answer. I knew it wouldn't be good.
His hand reached behind his back, and I heard the friction the fabric made as a heavy object was pulled out of the back of his pants. The sun caught the steel barrel and flashed right into my eyes. I blinked. Then I opened my eyes and saw into the depths of the gun. Somewhere in that inky black rested a bullet just waiting for a quick escape. "I really don't want to do this."
Lucy searched his eyes frantically, searching for a bit of Brian that had waned over the past few months. I thought he had started to resemble more and more the mug shots on tv rather than her best friend. "Then why are you holding the gun?" She asked him.
"I have to get the money, Lucy." He told me, his eyes wavering.
"I told you I don't have it. I don't have a job either. Though, unlike you, I'm actually looking for one." I knew better to question the lifestyle of a guy with a gun in his hand.
Brian swallowed, and Lucy mirrored him. A lone bead of sweat slid down his right temple. "I'm sorry." The safety clicked off.
"My answer's still no." I saw his life before my eyes, everything from getting sick from his sixth birthday cake to the day when Lucy first saw circles under his eyes.
His slick finger had trouble gripping the trigger. Finally, Brian found the hold he wanted, and he pulled the trigger back.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Mr. Anonymous's Wonderful Franchise
May I borrow your face?
May I wear it over mine like a mask?
May I masquerade with your wardrobe,
and shake hands with your favorite clients?
May I borrow a piece of your voice,
and store it in a bottle,
and drink it in,
and vomit out your words like they were mine to begin with?
May I?
Could I?
Can I?
Will I?
May I wear it over mine like a mask?
May I masquerade with your wardrobe,
and shake hands with your favorite clients?
May I borrow a piece of your voice,
and store it in a bottle,
and drink it in,
and vomit out your words like they were mine to begin with?
May I?
Could I?
Can I?
Will I?
Sunday, July 4, 2010
There's a reason we only do this once a year
Note: All words enscribed therein I heard during a fireworks show in Mt. Angel, Oregon.
"INCOMING!"
"Where's all the spermy ones?"
"I love the spermy ones!"
"It's not over til the 5th."
"It just hit my eye!"
"One hit my cheek. Ew."
"Don't open your mouth."
"INCOMING!"
"Where's all the spermy ones?"
"I love the spermy ones!"
"It's not over til the 5th."
"It just hit my eye!"
"One hit my cheek. Ew."
"Don't open your mouth."
Friday, July 2, 2010
Ghosts
The hospital had one,
except it was the sort of ghost
that only followed my shadow
everywhere my feet fled.
to hotel at the beach, warmly lit--
and an Italian nursing home.
_______________
My mother's room had a different ghost,
one that clung to the chambers of my heart,
after creeping in through my nose and eyes.
It plagued my sight after I left the room,
filling it with mist, making my chest throb.
__________________
Twenty ghosts haunted the signatures
in her yearbook,
each curve connecting each letter
was a ley line into her world,
a world I wondered if I knew.
except it was the sort of ghost
that only followed my shadow
everywhere my feet fled.
to hotel at the beach, warmly lit--
and an Italian nursing home.
_______________
My mother's room had a different ghost,
one that clung to the chambers of my heart,
after creeping in through my nose and eyes.
It plagued my sight after I left the room,
filling it with mist, making my chest throb.
__________________
Twenty ghosts haunted the signatures
in her yearbook,
each curve connecting each letter
was a ley line into her world,
a world I wondered if I knew.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Eye witness report
Susan Wheeler died on the 21st of June. The warm breeze gave her away to the first passerby, a seventeen year-old man (or a boy, if one talked to his mother) named Brad Pinkerton. He passed her body, not yet cooled (as if anything could cool on the sidewalks of Pasadena), and he was reported saying "She smelled like last weeks garbage."
The autopsy report confirmed that the body was only a few hours old. Both parents confirmed that the nineteen year old had gone missing earlier that day, just after lunch, when the sun cooked eggs on the concrete. Later they identified Wheeler's dark tresses and the mole on her left cheek. Her parents couldn't recognize much else.
Police investigated the case, calling the case a homicide. Five years later and no murderer had been found. Every third Friday a twenty-four year old woman visits the lawn, though the police have long since removed the yellow tape. She runs her hand along the blazing concrete and smirks, before she walks off, the sun catching the wave in her dark curls.
The autopsy report confirmed that the body was only a few hours old. Both parents confirmed that the nineteen year old had gone missing earlier that day, just after lunch, when the sun cooked eggs on the concrete. Later they identified Wheeler's dark tresses and the mole on her left cheek. Her parents couldn't recognize much else.
Police investigated the case, calling the case a homicide. Five years later and no murderer had been found. Every third Friday a twenty-four year old woman visits the lawn, though the police have long since removed the yellow tape. She runs her hand along the blazing concrete and smirks, before she walks off, the sun catching the wave in her dark curls.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Lifting Weights
What doesn't kill us now, will eventually.
Birthday cards and Mother's Day cards
feel ten pounds heavier when she's sick,
twenty when she's no longer around to keep them.
Her signature stamped on each one,
blares like neon gas
when her hands no longer sign them.
Prying open each door will leave us
with dead arms and blind eyes.
Birthday cards and Mother's Day cards
feel ten pounds heavier when she's sick,
twenty when she's no longer around to keep them.
Her signature stamped on each one,
blares like neon gas
when her hands no longer sign them.
Prying open each door will leave us
with dead arms and blind eyes.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Hey you, move.
Get out of my way. In fact, you should get out my way quick. I really can't stand you.
I can't stand your blue eyes, blue as the water in the pool you lifeguard every day. I especially can't stand the shape of your legs, but I'd hate them even if you let yourself go. So don't.
I want you to quit. I want you to leave without giving your notice. You're possibly the worst person I've ever worked with. But if you do quit, I'm afraid I'll have to make you quit your next job so our boss could hire you back. I'd miss you.
Seriously though, move. I've have work to do.
I can't stand your blue eyes, blue as the water in the pool you lifeguard every day. I especially can't stand the shape of your legs, but I'd hate them even if you let yourself go. So don't.
I want you to quit. I want you to leave without giving your notice. You're possibly the worst person I've ever worked with. But if you do quit, I'm afraid I'll have to make you quit your next job so our boss could hire you back. I'd miss you.
Seriously though, move. I've have work to do.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Sunday Best
In Italy, in San Lorezno,
I found three options for Sunday devotion.
__________________
Some went to Sancto Laurentio
in their Sunday finest,
entering the wine colored doors
in orderly fashion
to quietly take their wafers and wine sips.
___________________
Others went to Bar Martins,
dressed to meet their finest friends.
They slipped under the roof
with laughter on their faces
and songs on their chests,
to drink anything and throw darts.
__________________
I sat on a bench near the fountain,
a scarf around my neck,
a Bible and notebook on my lap,
listening to living water and chewing words.
I found three options for Sunday devotion.
__________________
Some went to Sancto Laurentio
in their Sunday finest,
entering the wine colored doors
in orderly fashion
to quietly take their wafers and wine sips.
___________________
Others went to Bar Martins,
dressed to meet their finest friends.
They slipped under the roof
with laughter on their faces
and songs on their chests,
to drink anything and throw darts.
__________________
I sat on a bench near the fountain,
a scarf around my neck,
a Bible and notebook on my lap,
listening to living water and chewing words.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Reluctant I
Everyone loves a good coffee shop. Finding a good one might be more of a problem. There's Starbucks, who a loyal Dutch Bros fan wouldn't be caught dead in. There's Dutch Bros, who the typical Starbucks follower fails to know the existence of. Then, there's the local coffee shops, the holes in the walls, the stand alones, and the caffinated pubs. Those are the best to go. The Bean is my usual haunt.
A different world sits inside, an alternate stage with unusual characters. Not a single hero shows up here. Every patron has a skeleton in their car, some with cat bones, others with an ex-friend's remains. Others have their hopes and dreams grounded up into pale powder, others have burned their bone bridges into ash and keep them in jars. Sitting on a stool means more than sitting down. It means leaving your weight and saying to yourself "I belong." Most likely the scenery will believe you.
The coffee? It's magic. Each puff of steam is made of dying clouds and the sugar comes from stardust. When the barista hands the cup to the guy at the other end of the counter, its like she's giving him a kiss. The kiss isn't a casual Nice-To-See-You, it's a fierce You-Belong-To-Me kiss. She lets go of the cup fast, so only a regular will recognize the spark. In fact, the barista does it to every customer, as long as they're male. Girls get a knowing I-See-That-Once-Over-You-Gave-Him smile, but the barista refuses to compete with them. She saves her kisses for the hand-off. Guys are fair game after that.
The guy on the end? He comes in every other day, after his last writing class. His mustache twitches as he plops down on the stool, and a wry grin forms not on his lips, but in his eyes. After giving the barista a nod for his order, he flips open his journal, and writes. He etches careful letters across the page and he frowns deliberately every time. Most guys order a deep, black, coffee, but he only orders a white-hot chocolate. It sits idle, longing on the counter for his touch, but he ignores it for at least three pages. Then he takes a sip and the room sighs with relief, though it knows he'll always come around eventually.
He never turns to look across the counter. The journal is his lover, his attention, his aim, his all.
A different world sits inside, an alternate stage with unusual characters. Not a single hero shows up here. Every patron has a skeleton in their car, some with cat bones, others with an ex-friend's remains. Others have their hopes and dreams grounded up into pale powder, others have burned their bone bridges into ash and keep them in jars. Sitting on a stool means more than sitting down. It means leaving your weight and saying to yourself "I belong." Most likely the scenery will believe you.
The coffee? It's magic. Each puff of steam is made of dying clouds and the sugar comes from stardust. When the barista hands the cup to the guy at the other end of the counter, its like she's giving him a kiss. The kiss isn't a casual Nice-To-See-You, it's a fierce You-Belong-To-Me kiss. She lets go of the cup fast, so only a regular will recognize the spark. In fact, the barista does it to every customer, as long as they're male. Girls get a knowing I-See-That-Once-Over-You-Gave-Him smile, but the barista refuses to compete with them. She saves her kisses for the hand-off. Guys are fair game after that.
The guy on the end? He comes in every other day, after his last writing class. His mustache twitches as he plops down on the stool, and a wry grin forms not on his lips, but in his eyes. After giving the barista a nod for his order, he flips open his journal, and writes. He etches careful letters across the page and he frowns deliberately every time. Most guys order a deep, black, coffee, but he only orders a white-hot chocolate. It sits idle, longing on the counter for his touch, but he ignores it for at least three pages. Then he takes a sip and the room sighs with relief, though it knows he'll always come around eventually.
He never turns to look across the counter. The journal is his lover, his attention, his aim, his all.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Pandora's Box
Every memory of the hospital
I locked inside,
with the lost cds,
the forgotten Christmas,
and the Easter she slept through.
_______________
Each 21 days Death pulls out a key
and unchains the chest.
He allows three tears
to escape. The key slips
into his hollow cape.
______________
In the cavity of his chest
he holds our ache,
But he also holds our cure.
I locked inside,
with the lost cds,
the forgotten Christmas,
and the Easter she slept through.
_______________
Each 21 days Death pulls out a key
and unchains the chest.
He allows three tears
to escape. The key slips
into his hollow cape.
______________
In the cavity of his chest
he holds our ache,
But he also holds our cure.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Grave Diggers
Each of the four buttons beeped as he punched in his code. The machine spit out a receipt with a squeak. It read Employee #5, clocked in 5:00 p.m. He stuffed the receipt in his apron, and adjusted his blue baseball cap as he headed to the sink. Squeezing some soap onto his hands he scrubbed for ten seconds, and then washed for them for ten. Within another half a minute he stood behind the fountain machines, clipboard in hand.
“Susie! You’re doing outside trashes.” “Carl! You have drains.” “Mike! You have windows.” “Louise, you have menu houses.” In a more mumbled voice, Bill glanced down and read. “And I have everything else.”
As the proud team-leader he was, Bill headed over to the drive-thru window, drawing the envy of all his fellow employees. He put on his headset with a flourish. Bill snapped to attention when he heard a faint beep, followed by the rumble of a customer’s engine. “Welcome to Burger Princess!”
“Uh yes. I’d like the Happy Cow Shake with a Fat-Cow Burger.
“Would you like some mad potato fries with that sir?”
“Uh…sure.”
Bill grinned. Only one more suggested sale and he would break his personal record. He already left his fellow employees in the dust weeks ago. Soon enough that manager would notice him. Soon enough he’d have his promotion to manager-in-training. No one would laugh at him then. Deftly he punched in each piece of the order, then read it off. “One Happy Cow Shake, one Fat-Cow Burger, and one Mad Potato fry. Would you like to super-size that order?"
“Sure….” The customer paused.
Sweat trickled down Bill’s jaw. “Sir?”
The customer replied, “I think I forgot my wallet. Sorry. I’ll be back later.” He drove off.
Unfortunately, the customer also forgot to come back.
When Bill went on his break, he went to the lockers with his head hanging. He towed each foot to one of the empty folding chairs, and collapsed in it. Bill ignored the looks of the other employee on break. Pulling off his baseball cap, he stared at the logo. Could Bill possibly move on? Would he have to quit this lousy job and get one that actually paid his rent? What would his father think? The very father who owned the franchise wouldn’t necessarily get angry over this…but he would be severely disappointed.
“Susie! You’re doing outside trashes.” “Carl! You have drains.” “Mike! You have windows.” “Louise, you have menu houses.” In a more mumbled voice, Bill glanced down and read. “And I have everything else.”
As the proud team-leader he was, Bill headed over to the drive-thru window, drawing the envy of all his fellow employees. He put on his headset with a flourish. Bill snapped to attention when he heard a faint beep, followed by the rumble of a customer’s engine. “Welcome to Burger Princess!”
“Uh yes. I’d like the Happy Cow Shake with a Fat-Cow Burger.
“Would you like some mad potato fries with that sir?”
“Uh…sure.”
Bill grinned. Only one more suggested sale and he would break his personal record. He already left his fellow employees in the dust weeks ago. Soon enough that manager would notice him. Soon enough he’d have his promotion to manager-in-training. No one would laugh at him then. Deftly he punched in each piece of the order, then read it off. “One Happy Cow Shake, one Fat-Cow Burger, and one Mad Potato fry. Would you like to super-size that order?"
“Sure….” The customer paused.
Sweat trickled down Bill’s jaw. “Sir?”
The customer replied, “I think I forgot my wallet. Sorry. I’ll be back later.” He drove off.
Unfortunately, the customer also forgot to come back.
When Bill went on his break, he went to the lockers with his head hanging. He towed each foot to one of the empty folding chairs, and collapsed in it. Bill ignored the looks of the other employee on break. Pulling off his baseball cap, he stared at the logo. Could Bill possibly move on? Would he have to quit this lousy job and get one that actually paid his rent? What would his father think? The very father who owned the franchise wouldn’t necessarily get angry over this…but he would be severely disappointed.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
I suck at building bridges, but I'm oh so good at burning them
Years ago we could walk across the planks together.
Now rotten wood threatens to send me falling below.
Perhaps I lost you first,
several steps back,
and it's your voice I hear
calling me from below.
I'd reach out,
reach down,
reach up, even,
if I knew how.
It's nothing personal.
Now rotten wood threatens to send me falling below.
Perhaps I lost you first,
several steps back,
and it's your voice I hear
calling me from below.
I'd reach out,
reach down,
reach up, even,
if I knew how.
It's nothing personal.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Family Consciousness
“Any idea why we’re having this dinner?” Tom complained as he sat down. The plastic red-checkered table cloth beamed up at him. He glanced back at it with disgust.
“No. Not even sure why we had to have it here of all places.” Susan sighed tiredly fiddling with her menu. Smokin’ Hogs Diner filled the top half of the menu cover in gaudy patriotic colors. None of the menu items had low fat or reduced cholesterol. She couldn’t even tell if they were organic.
"They’re even fifteen minutes late.” Tom glanced at his watch, holding the menu at arm’s length. His cuff-linked sleeves peeked out from the satin suit coat. He took a moment to adjust the folds of his collar.
“You look over-dressed.” She said with a snicker.
“What about you? The bus boy seems interested in that necklace of yours.”
“He’s probably just staring at my chest.” Susan rolled her eyes. Her eyebrows shot toward the ceiling when she heard a conversation drawing closer behind her.
“Oh look honey! There they are!” A sweet, melancholy voice chimed. Flowery sleeves of a blouse materialized into the candle light a moment later.
Both Tom and Susan fought the urge to sag in disappointment. “Hello mom.”
“What about me?” A lower voice came from the shadows.
“Hello dad.”
Their parents sat down and opened their menus, humming tunes discordant with one another. Each gave their orders to the waitress.
“I’ll have the shrimp—“ Their father began.
“You sure honey? The shrimp will give you—“ Their mother interrupted.
“Ahem! I’ll have the shrimp gumbo, with or without gas.”
Both Tom and Susan gave their orders without event. The waiter evaporated into the shadows, carrying the menus with him.
Their mother was the first to speak. “So…you’re probably wondering why we’re eating together again."
Her grown children nodded. She glanced at the man she married with somewhat sad eyes.
He spoke up next. “We’re getting a divorce.”
“Finally.”
Saturday, June 12, 2010
But my visions are in verse
I opened my eyes to my dining room.
My laptop, painted in cherry, sat on a crisp tablecloth.
No trash had found the table yet.
_________
She stood at the crossroads of
the sunny kitchen,
the cloudy family room,
and the crimson dining room.
_____________
I backed away from my dead mother
who stared at me,
breathing with her eyes wide open.
_____________
"Oh honey."
Her arms drooped slightly
while halos found her chocolate curls,
clinging to her head.
____________
Slowly, as all people do in dreams,
I walked.
____________
Then I ran.
____________
I wrapped my arms around her,
and clung to her silk and pearl nightgown.
______________
Her arms wrapped around me,
warm and dry for the first time
in five months.
___________
We wept,
and our smiles shook.
My laptop, painted in cherry, sat on a crisp tablecloth.
No trash had found the table yet.
_________
She stood at the crossroads of
the sunny kitchen,
the cloudy family room,
and the crimson dining room.
_____________
I backed away from my dead mother
who stared at me,
breathing with her eyes wide open.
_____________
"Oh honey."
Her arms drooped slightly
while halos found her chocolate curls,
clinging to her head.
____________
Slowly, as all people do in dreams,
I walked.
____________
Then I ran.
____________
I wrapped my arms around her,
and clung to her silk and pearl nightgown.
______________
Her arms wrapped around me,
warm and dry for the first time
in five months.
___________
We wept,
and our smiles shook.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
My life is lived in prose
I tossed and turned that night. Even jet lag failed to introduce me to my pillow. My bones, tissues, and skin shook under my quilt. Cold tears slipped down my cheeks and passed my chin where they dipped down my neck and pooled on my chest.
Never again haunted me. As I lay there I buried my head underneath the fabric, refusing to face the Mother's Day ahead.
I couldn't meet the way her skin sagged after her soul and spirit left her tattered bones, her infected tissues, her swollen fat, and her leaking skin. I couldn't forget the color of it: washed out green, tallow, ashen, and limp. I couldn't forget my father back home, alone with a cat who hated him.
My eyes closed to forget.
Never again haunted me. As I lay there I buried my head underneath the fabric, refusing to face the Mother's Day ahead.
I couldn't meet the way her skin sagged after her soul and spirit left her tattered bones, her infected tissues, her swollen fat, and her leaking skin. I couldn't forget the color of it: washed out green, tallow, ashen, and limp. I couldn't forget my father back home, alone with a cat who hated him.
My eyes closed to forget.
Monday, June 7, 2010
At Clockworks
I wondered where home was for them.
Did the tattoos come off when the sun came up?
Did they draw them on with body markers,
and wash them off with soap?
Did they live at home with mother,
or under the bridges like trolls?
Like the rest of us
they slipped and fell on their words,
and picked themselves back up again.
I could see the quaking in their eyes
that shone through
the fishnets,
the torn clothes,
the tattoos,
and the piercings.
I recognized the cry
in their voices as my own.
Did the tattoos come off when the sun came up?
Did they draw them on with body markers,
and wash them off with soap?
Did they live at home with mother,
or under the bridges like trolls?
Like the rest of us
they slipped and fell on their words,
and picked themselves back up again.
I could see the quaking in their eyes
that shone through
the fishnets,
the torn clothes,
the tattoos,
and the piercings.
I recognized the cry
in their voices as my own.
Friday, June 4, 2010
A Salem Resident's Reaction to Sunlight
The two of them stared directly overhead, with the backs of their heads tipped back. One had blonde hair that shined brilliantly as the wind tickled its ends. His friend had crew-cut hair as brown as the mud beneath their shoes.
"Whoa, what's that in the sky?" The blonde asked the other, his mouth stretching as if he planned to drink the light in.
"I can't see; it's burning my eyes!" The brunette winced, ducking his head as he blinked repeatedly.
"But, man, does it feel good on my skin." Stretching out his arms, closing the blonde his eyes with a sigh.
The brunette turned and looked at him. "Dude, are you high?"
"But look at all that blue stuff around it. It's so cool!" He didn't seem to notice.
"Hey...where's the rain?" A third voice chimed in as she trotted over to meet them. Her eyes rose in the same direction from beneath red bangs. "What's that yellow thing in the sky?"
"Whoa, what's that in the sky?" The blonde asked the other, his mouth stretching as if he planned to drink the light in.
"I can't see; it's burning my eyes!" The brunette winced, ducking his head as he blinked repeatedly.
"But, man, does it feel good on my skin." Stretching out his arms, closing the blonde his eyes with a sigh.
The brunette turned and looked at him. "Dude, are you high?"
"But look at all that blue stuff around it. It's so cool!" He didn't seem to notice.
"Hey...where's the rain?" A third voice chimed in as she trotted over to meet them. Her eyes rose in the same direction from beneath red bangs. "What's that yellow thing in the sky?"
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Stage Fright
I step onto the platform,
and the nerves hit me
like a bucket of water.
The room once smaller than a classroom
now looms over me like a cavernous cathedral.
I don't recognize the voice that
spills back at me through the monitor
and the words I'm reading off the page
look more Greek than English.
I say thank yous more
than I ever have in my life.
When I finish I vibrate
like a cellphone,
but my body shakes not
when the message arrives,
but when my message has sent.
and the nerves hit me
like a bucket of water.
The room once smaller than a classroom
now looms over me like a cavernous cathedral.
I don't recognize the voice that
spills back at me through the monitor
and the words I'm reading off the page
look more Greek than English.
I say thank yous more
than I ever have in my life.
When I finish I vibrate
like a cellphone,
but my body shakes not
when the message arrives,
but when my message has sent.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wants
Maggie entered the store first, heading to the front counter. She glanced up at the town’s only television screen, watching the woman walk across the stage in sparkling champagne dress. In all honesty, she thought the dress absolutely hideous, but she still wanted one like it. No man, even Pete Marks himself, could ignore her then. It would still be a minute or two until the lady on television started to pull numbered balls out of the spinning machine, but Maggie could wait.
“Has he come by yet?” Maggie asked Bill, who manned the counter.
He leaned on the counter, making a tally of recent sales on a yellow legal pad. “Oh, him? Not yet. He will probably be here soon, to see the lottery numbers same as you.”
Maggie leaned against the counter, peering over the slate-colored register to steal a glance at the legal pad. “I don’t see the point; no one ‘round here has ever won anything.”
Bill pointed a finger, to the ceiling, or to Heaven, Maggie couldn’t be sure. “Not true. Your paps won three dollars in a scratch the day you were born. He always—“
“Called it his lucky day, I know.” She sighed bored, letting her eyes pace from the television screen to the door. “I mean, no one has won the jackpot in this town.”
The store owner shrugged, stretching the shoulders of his green apron slightly. “Just means we’re that much more likely this time, eh? Between you and Pete, we could buy this town, and lunch!”
“Like I’d share anything with him.” She wanted to.
Ding! Pete slipped in past the glass door, with his hands in his pockets. He glanced at Maggie’s eyes before glancing at the screen. “Did they start yet?” Joining the others, he leaned with his chin in his hand as he braced his elbow on the counter.
“Nice to see you too.” Maggie frowned.
“Shh.”
The glittering woman pulled out the first ball of six, gave it a passing glance, and then read the number for her audience. “23.”
Maggie searched her pockets, trying to locate her ticket.
“14!” The lady squealed.
Both pockets in her jacket turned up empty. Maggie tried her jeans pockets. Still nothing.
“5!”
“Missing something?” Bill asked politely.
“Yeah, my ticket.”
“84!”
“Crap.”
“Is this it?” Pete stood up from the floor, where he had knelt to pick up a dropped, pink slip of paper.
“20!”
“I think so.” She leaned toward him to see if she recognized the numbers.
Pete’s mouth hung open, rounder than the zero in the last number. He didn’t hand over the ticket. Instead his head jerked toward the screen, eyes getting wider as he read each number in the sequence.
“Pete!”
“Be quiet for once.” He muttered, holding the slip of paper tightly, switching hands when Maggie tried to grab it.
“50!”
“Come one Pete, she’s done reading it, let Maggie see the ticket.”
Pete shook his head, but Bill was too quick and tore off the top half. Bill whistled.
“Hey! Give it back!” Pete called out.
“No, give it here!”
“Why should I? I sold it here, in my store.”
"I paid for it!" Maggie retorted, lunging again.
George, a regular fisherman came in to buy some bait. The wind followed him in. Three sets of eyes widened as they followed the path of the ticket fragments out the door.
"Hi George! Excuse me." Pete shoved past him as he ran outside.
"Hey George. See you around." Maggie followed on Pete's heels.
Bill merely tipped his hat as he brushed passed him and followed in their wake.
George stared at the now empty doorway. Then he glanced at the counter, also empty. His head tipped up, to each of the ceiling's four corners, empty again. He hummed a little tune to himself as he crept toward the counter. Swinging to his right, George made sure the entire store stood empty. As he swung to his left, he dipped down beneath the counter. Pulling out his favorite brand of bait, George whistled as he left the store. Surely Bill wouldn't miss one jar, right?
“Has he come by yet?” Maggie asked Bill, who manned the counter.
He leaned on the counter, making a tally of recent sales on a yellow legal pad. “Oh, him? Not yet. He will probably be here soon, to see the lottery numbers same as you.”
Maggie leaned against the counter, peering over the slate-colored register to steal a glance at the legal pad. “I don’t see the point; no one ‘round here has ever won anything.”
Bill pointed a finger, to the ceiling, or to Heaven, Maggie couldn’t be sure. “Not true. Your paps won three dollars in a scratch the day you were born. He always—“
“Called it his lucky day, I know.” She sighed bored, letting her eyes pace from the television screen to the door. “I mean, no one has won the jackpot in this town.”
The store owner shrugged, stretching the shoulders of his green apron slightly. “Just means we’re that much more likely this time, eh? Between you and Pete, we could buy this town, and lunch!”
“Like I’d share anything with him.” She wanted to.
Ding! Pete slipped in past the glass door, with his hands in his pockets. He glanced at Maggie’s eyes before glancing at the screen. “Did they start yet?” Joining the others, he leaned with his chin in his hand as he braced his elbow on the counter.
“Nice to see you too.” Maggie frowned.
“Shh.”
The glittering woman pulled out the first ball of six, gave it a passing glance, and then read the number for her audience. “23.”
Maggie searched her pockets, trying to locate her ticket.
“14!” The lady squealed.
Both pockets in her jacket turned up empty. Maggie tried her jeans pockets. Still nothing.
“5!”
“Missing something?” Bill asked politely.
“Yeah, my ticket.”
“84!”
“Crap.”
“Is this it?” Pete stood up from the floor, where he had knelt to pick up a dropped, pink slip of paper.
“20!”
“I think so.” She leaned toward him to see if she recognized the numbers.
Pete’s mouth hung open, rounder than the zero in the last number. He didn’t hand over the ticket. Instead his head jerked toward the screen, eyes getting wider as he read each number in the sequence.
“Pete!”
“Be quiet for once.” He muttered, holding the slip of paper tightly, switching hands when Maggie tried to grab it.
“50!”
“Come one Pete, she’s done reading it, let Maggie see the ticket.”
Pete shook his head, but Bill was too quick and tore off the top half. Bill whistled.
“Hey! Give it back!” Pete called out.
“No, give it here!”
“Why should I? I sold it here, in my store.”
"I paid for it!" Maggie retorted, lunging again.
George, a regular fisherman came in to buy some bait. The wind followed him in. Three sets of eyes widened as they followed the path of the ticket fragments out the door.
"Hi George! Excuse me." Pete shoved past him as he ran outside.
"Hey George. See you around." Maggie followed on Pete's heels.
Bill merely tipped his hat as he brushed passed him and followed in their wake.
George stared at the now empty doorway. Then he glanced at the counter, also empty. His head tipped up, to each of the ceiling's four corners, empty again. He hummed a little tune to himself as he crept toward the counter. Swinging to his right, George made sure the entire store stood empty. As he swung to his left, he dipped down beneath the counter. Pulling out his favorite brand of bait, George whistled as he left the store. Surely Bill wouldn't miss one jar, right?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Child in a Blender
Rebecca and Heidi
each like their hair long,
one ginger, the other cinnamon.
Both like sports fields
and shopping malls.
__________
Diana likes her hair short,
but she likes her hours long,
spent in a cubicle or an office.
She also likes a distance of 26.6 miles.
________
Jim learns to like his hair gray, then white.
He finds his home behind the microphone,
on a church stage,
or in a box at a basketball game.
_________
Dad likes his hair clipped twice a month
and he loves a couch in front of a tv.
Mom liked her hair the way we liked it,
and she loved places to put her feet up.
_________
I like my hair red and long
as the sun is warm,
as I follow its rays across the sky.
each like their hair long,
one ginger, the other cinnamon.
Both like sports fields
and shopping malls.
__________
Diana likes her hair short,
but she likes her hours long,
spent in a cubicle or an office.
She also likes a distance of 26.6 miles.
________
Jim learns to like his hair gray, then white.
He finds his home behind the microphone,
on a church stage,
or in a box at a basketball game.
_________
Dad likes his hair clipped twice a month
and he loves a couch in front of a tv.
Mom liked her hair the way we liked it,
and she loved places to put her feet up.
_________
I like my hair red and long
as the sun is warm,
as I follow its rays across the sky.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Leaving out the will
He came down the aisle and stopped at the appropriate row. Pausing, the man took his pillow and stashed it up above in the nearest compartment and closed the hatch securely. Then he sat down, taking deep breaths as he flipped through the Skymall magazine, his eyes only glancing at each ad for two seconds. Setting the catalog aside, he ran his hand through his hair, impatiently waiting for the plan to take off.
Other passengers milled about and took their own seats. He wondered if anyone would be sitting between him and the window. In the worst possible scenario he imagined, he’d get stuck between two large chatty passengers who wouldn’t allow him a moment to think. As he waited, he stared at the images in the sky mall magazine until the colors congealed like those in an old man’s tattoo.
He’d been training for this day for a couple years.
“Excuse me sir.” She stood less than a foot away, wearing a blouse and a loose skirt. “I have the window seat.”
Nodding, he set his neglected magazine aside and stood up to allow her through. He dropped into his seat faster than a two-ton bomb and she floated down to hers a second later.
“I’m Callie.” She volunteered, watching him as he picked up the catalog again.
He nodded in reply, before glancing back through his catalog. Her persistent gaze attempted to burn holes in the paper.
“And what’s yours?”
After a little hesitation, he replied “Ali.”
“Oo, like the boxer?” She leaned forward over the empty seat between them.
“Yeah, like the boxer.” He smiled at the right corner of his mouth.
The flight attendants went through the demonstration, holding up oxygen masks for all the passengers to see. Ali looked around him to see if anyone paid attention; nobody seemed to. He wondered if masks were all that useful in certain situations. Certainly they wouldn’t work if the passengers had died on impact, definitely not if they burned alive. If the plane sank in the water, the masks would only serve to keep passengers alive for so long.
Soon enough the plane interrupted Ali’s thought process with the pull of takeoff. He stared at the no-smoking light as he counted the hours and minutes. Ali only had to wait two hours and—
“I’m from San Diego. You?”
He held back a sigh, and instead he smirked. “Where do you think?”
Callie pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes as she ran through her bank of information. (Near as Ali could tell, she hadn’t deposited much in her account.) “You have an accent, that’s for sure.”
“So do you. It’s just different.” He laughed, managing to keep the nerves out of his voice.
“Mm, yeah, I guess so. Mm…..Dubai?”
Ali’s eye twitched. “You’re too kind.” He hated that dump of a city.
“One of those Stan countries?”
“Close enough. Saudi Arabia, actually.”
“Oh, neat!” She continued to chatter away, but Ali heard little of what Callie said.
He dug into his backpack, feeling each and every package he had inside. As required by airport security, each and every bottle had less than three ounces of liquid inside. They didn’t seem to care how many bottles he packed with him, however, and so he packed as many as he could in the quart-sized Ziploc back. Ali rehearsed in his mind the exact sequence and recipe that required such ingredients. Like his fellow trainees, he knew he’d have a hard time finding them in a supermarket. If Ali messed up the order he might destroy his foot, or burn a whole through the bottom of his backpack; he wanted to avoid both scenarios.
Callie still hadn’t stopped talking. “Me and my brother used to play soccer all the time before he died. He always dreamed of playing in the World Cup.”
“Really? So did my brother. But he decided to help my dad with his souvenir stand instead.”
“What souvenirs did you sell?”
“T-shirts, key chains, and postcards. And local candy.” Ali checked his watch, swallowing hard. He needed to focus. He needed to stop talking to a San Diego girl named Callie. He needed to act, but she was nice to talk to. He couldn’t silence her just yet.
Friday, April 30, 2010
To be buried in a sea of tears
Note: Yes, I know this contains references to a certain filmed owned by a mouse with big, round ears. Tell him he can consider it free advertising, like he needs any. The film you ask? Pirates of the Caribbean, of course.
All your life you did as
your pain, your family, your friends
commanded you, the sickness too.
Death regularly visited
your bedside like an unrepentant
suitor, but you turned him away
with your pistol.
He left in a longboat,
but he always turned his head back
with a smirk. He knew.
One day he'd come back for the heart you took
and kept safe inside your chest.
He knew you'd rather stab the heart than give it back;
he knew you needed it more, but he wanted the heart.
That day he sent a monster to do his bidding,
a poison that slowly killed you from the inside out,
until it oozed out your pores and swelled
the whites in your eyes.
Then you knew.
You knew it was time to evacuate your torn and battered ship,
and say your goodbyes.
I watched you face that beastie with tears in both our eyes,
but you laid there proud and courageous as you always had,
this time with a sword in hand instead of a pistol.
Others have left this world not knowing the face of Death,
because they were too afraid to turn their head,
but you did.
I still miss you, and I think I will until
I board the Flying Dutchman myself,
but know this,
know this:
I would sail past the end of the earth and end of the seas,
if I could bring you back.
I know it would be for naught,
for I know you've found your peace.
All your life you did as
your pain, your family, your friends
commanded you, the sickness too.
Death regularly visited
your bedside like an unrepentant
suitor, but you turned him away
with your pistol.
He left in a longboat,
but he always turned his head back
with a smirk. He knew.
One day he'd come back for the heart you took
and kept safe inside your chest.
He knew you'd rather stab the heart than give it back;
he knew you needed it more, but he wanted the heart.
That day he sent a monster to do his bidding,
a poison that slowly killed you from the inside out,
until it oozed out your pores and swelled
the whites in your eyes.
Then you knew.
You knew it was time to evacuate your torn and battered ship,
and say your goodbyes.
I watched you face that beastie with tears in both our eyes,
but you laid there proud and courageous as you always had,
this time with a sword in hand instead of a pistol.
Others have left this world not knowing the face of Death,
because they were too afraid to turn their head,
but you did.
I still miss you, and I think I will until
I board the Flying Dutchman myself,
but know this,
know this:
I would sail past the end of the earth and end of the seas,
if I could bring you back.
I know it would be for naught,
for I know you've found your peace.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Loss
I used to wonder what it would be like to lose her,
now I know.
It's like all the tissue in my chest
has been surgically removed,
all that's left is air.
It's like she'll come home and fix dinner
any day now,
and we're making funeral arrangements for someone else's mother.
It's like the past 21 years together have happened in an
moment too small to hold how much I'll miss her,
how much I miss her now.
now I know.
It's like all the tissue in my chest
has been surgically removed,
all that's left is air.
It's like she'll come home and fix dinner
any day now,
and we're making funeral arrangements for someone else's mother.
It's like the past 21 years together have happened in an
moment too small to hold how much I'll miss her,
how much I miss her now.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Sunday
I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise.
But paradise seems so far away from the lowest parts of Earth.
Here the air is dizzying,
hard to breathe.
Her breath barely fogs the mask on her face,
and her eyes fight to stay open.
Sunday's comin',
but I don't know when.
But paradise seems so far away from the lowest parts of Earth.
Here the air is dizzying,
hard to breathe.
Her breath barely fogs the mask on her face,
and her eyes fight to stay open.
Sunday's comin',
but I don't know when.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Overcommitted.
My soul is like salt water taffy,
stretched in two directions,
sweet,
but ridden with salt.
Sweetens your tongue,
then makes it bitter.
Surely, the taffy will
snap soon.
But what will be left in the middle?
stretched in two directions,
sweet,
but ridden with salt.
Sweetens your tongue,
then makes it bitter.
Surely, the taffy will
snap soon.
But what will be left in the middle?
Friday, March 19, 2010
Things You Don't Say to an Officer
He had an apologetic tone to his voice as he leaned toward the driver's side window.
(I didn't afford him the dignity of the view in my eyes.
I hid them behind my sunglasses:
my only weapons stashed in that car.)
"I believe you officer when
you say tailgating is the number one cause
of accidents in this area,
but trains and driving too
slowly are the number one causes of being
late to class."
The green in the grass laughed.
(I didn't afford him the dignity of the view in my eyes.
I hid them behind my sunglasses:
my only weapons stashed in that car.)
"I believe you officer when
you say tailgating is the number one cause
of accidents in this area,
but trains and driving too
slowly are the number one causes of being
late to class."
The green in the grass laughed.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Bouquet
He stands out of place, in a tailored suit outdoors. Instead of overloaded shopping bags, he carries a bouquet. His patent black-leather shoes clap against the concrete sidewalk as he paces past after each outlet store. Their headless manikins fail to catch his attention with their brand name clothes. The sales signs also fail in their pursuit of his cash.
He runs his hand through his hair, smoothing the hopelessly wayward strands of hair back into place. His watch beeps, making him jump. Then his head picks up and his gaze drifts among the faces in the walking crowds. None of their faces hold him for long. He hasn't found her yet.
He runs his hand through his hair, smoothing the hopelessly wayward strands of hair back into place. His watch beeps, making him jump. Then his head picks up and his gaze drifts among the faces in the walking crowds. None of their faces hold him for long. He hasn't found her yet.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
There's a Reason Short People Jump Up and Down at Concerts....
Note: Words in quotes are said either by the members of Flatfoot 56, Project 86, or the fans at a recent concert in Portland, OR. Words in italics are my thoughts. Fifty percent of them should be read with sarcasm.
One of these days I'm gonna raise a kid just like this guy did, and take her to Project 86 concerts. She's guaranteed to have amazing taste in music and serious angst by age six. No worries though, I'll frolic with her to Flatfoot 56 to balance everything out.
"If you don't leave here with bruises, bloodied bodies, and a piece of your skull on the concert floor, something's wrong."
Circle pit!?
"Put your arm around the person next to you, and girls, if a guy tries to cop a feel, deck him in the face."
Not only does he play bagpipes, but he gets bonus points for wearing a kilt.
"Ninth reason why we love our fans: some of them love songs off our first album even though we never play them."
Oo...fog machines.
"We love you!" "Run!"
Somebody should name their band To Be Announced, or TBA for short. Really.
"We regularly post on Facebook and other evil social-networking sites."
Is that flowers he has tattooed on his arm? Does that say: 'I'm sensitive'? Must be, I think he's married.
"Hopah!"
One of these days I'm gonna raise a kid just like this guy did, and take her to Project 86 concerts. She's guaranteed to have amazing taste in music and serious angst by age six. No worries though, I'll frolic with her to Flatfoot 56 to balance everything out.
"If you don't leave here with bruises, bloodied bodies, and a piece of your skull on the concert floor, something's wrong."
Circle pit!?
"Put your arm around the person next to you, and girls, if a guy tries to cop a feel, deck him in the face."
Not only does he play bagpipes, but he gets bonus points for wearing a kilt.
"Ninth reason why we love our fans: some of them love songs off our first album even though we never play them."
Oo...fog machines.
"We love you!" "Run!"
Somebody should name their band To Be Announced, or TBA for short. Really.
"We regularly post on Facebook and other evil social-networking sites."
Is that flowers he has tattooed on his arm? Does that say: 'I'm sensitive'? Must be, I think he's married.
"Hopah!"
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Shaun White & Pneumonia
We waited for the phone to ring.
They waited him to fly down,
then out, then up, then upside down.
I could say his hair caught my eye,
you could say I needed a distraction.
Across a few walls, my mom fought to breathe
Across a few latitudes, he fought gravity.
He won a gold medal in a few minutes
Mom opened her eyes in a few days.
They waited him to fly down,
then out, then up, then upside down.
I could say his hair caught my eye,
you could say I needed a distraction.
Across a few walls, my mom fought to breathe
Across a few latitudes, he fought gravity.
He won a gold medal in a few minutes
Mom opened her eyes in a few days.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Candy, Hearts, Roses and All That
Within a week of asking her out,
He spoke to me twice as much.
Then he sent a note with chocolate,
Saying he's fallen for another girl.
I’ll write back, with a bottle of vanilla extract,
And say:
I am not your back up,
Your trump card,
Or Your booby prize.
Best of luck to your relationship,
You'll be needing luck when she dumps you
for the next one.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
She Fought with Death Last Night
Death still hasn't learned his lesson.
This is the second time this year,
he's tried to fight me.
Sometimes he comes armed with a scythe
sometimes with a breathing machine,
and feeding tubes,
but I know I scared him away;
I know he's a coward.
He never allows his opponent to live long
enough to defeat him.
This is the second time this year,
he's tried to fight me.
Sometimes he comes armed with a scythe
sometimes with a breathing machine,
and feeding tubes,
but I know I scared him away;
I know he's a coward.
He never allows his opponent to live long
enough to defeat him.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Crap, Chicken Little was Right
The sky is falling!
Or actually, the sky fell.
Yesterday it fell through my ceiling,
Landing square on my slug bug.
Ice from an airplane experts said.
I say the sky's playing games with me,
And he never said no tag-backs.
Or actually, the sky fell.
Yesterday it fell through my ceiling,
Landing square on my slug bug.
Ice from an airplane experts said.
I say the sky's playing games with me,
And he never said no tag-backs.
Friday, January 29, 2010
In the Belly of the Beast
Like all hospital waiting rooms, the staff had it painted a soft yellow, a comforting color for visitors inside. Cushy couches lined every wall, and divided the room in half, in case the visitors decided to war over their divided territory. Even at eight o’ clock at night a few visitors chattered away, not allowing the 2 ft lampshades a bit of rest. The lampshades continued to dampen the light, despite the fact that it hurt their eyes, eyes that peaked out from every tiny hole in the lampshades’ fabric. A child’s toy sat in boredom on one couch-side table; no child had played with it in months. Wisely the hospital had barred young visitors from this wing of the hospital, knowing how little children like to carry diseases in their cotton-lined pockets.
Any visitor sitting on the couches long enough would notice how strange the designer’s tastes were. White contact lens shaped lamps hanged from the ceiling, with black pupils at the bottom watching the visitor’s every move. Wooden shelves too narrow to hold books branched out from the far wall. Perhaps the decorator intended them to be windows, only to realize this wall only opened to the inside of the building, not the outside.
A desk and a door kept guard over the intensive care unit, scrutinizing each and every visitor that came their way. A slight groan in their wooden bodies indicated a yes, while two said no. When a visitor didn’t past the unspoken test, the door would fail to open when a visitor pulled on his handle. By the time the visitor arrived with hospital help, the door would have already sent messages through the floor tiles to all the other doors to keep alert. So far no incidents had occurred to warrant summoning floor-wet signs in the closet, but the waiting door room and desk dutifully kept on watching. Two days before they had celebrated their two month anniversary, though no other piece of furniture could figure out what they had done two months earlier to warrant such an occasion.
A separate room had a television, a vending machine, and several more tables. The room was deceptively dark, because no one ever turned the lights on. Unsuspecting visitors would suppose the room to be quiet, when in fact the television seemed permanently set between two channels: one with 24 hour news casts in English, and the other with telenovas in Español. Two person tables kept each other company, still trying to both learn English and Spanish. (Both tables had been made in China, and they only understood Mandarin.) Newspapers kept the tables warm, and entertained visitors with the news when they dared. Meanwhile the individually wrapped junk food in the vending machine watched the visitors nervously. They always hated whenever one visitor decided to purchase one of them, but no more than they hated being twisted by the coils and cruelly dropped to the dispenser without a thought. The junk food packages didn’t dare contemplate what awaited them on the other side of the glass.
Any visitor sitting on the couches long enough would notice how strange the designer’s tastes were. White contact lens shaped lamps hanged from the ceiling, with black pupils at the bottom watching the visitor’s every move. Wooden shelves too narrow to hold books branched out from the far wall. Perhaps the decorator intended them to be windows, only to realize this wall only opened to the inside of the building, not the outside.
A desk and a door kept guard over the intensive care unit, scrutinizing each and every visitor that came their way. A slight groan in their wooden bodies indicated a yes, while two said no. When a visitor didn’t past the unspoken test, the door would fail to open when a visitor pulled on his handle. By the time the visitor arrived with hospital help, the door would have already sent messages through the floor tiles to all the other doors to keep alert. So far no incidents had occurred to warrant summoning floor-wet signs in the closet, but the waiting door room and desk dutifully kept on watching. Two days before they had celebrated their two month anniversary, though no other piece of furniture could figure out what they had done two months earlier to warrant such an occasion.
A separate room had a television, a vending machine, and several more tables. The room was deceptively dark, because no one ever turned the lights on. Unsuspecting visitors would suppose the room to be quiet, when in fact the television seemed permanently set between two channels: one with 24 hour news casts in English, and the other with telenovas in Español. Two person tables kept each other company, still trying to both learn English and Spanish. (Both tables had been made in China, and they only understood Mandarin.) Newspapers kept the tables warm, and entertained visitors with the news when they dared. Meanwhile the individually wrapped junk food in the vending machine watched the visitors nervously. They always hated whenever one visitor decided to purchase one of them, but no more than they hated being twisted by the coils and cruelly dropped to the dispenser without a thought. The junk food packages didn’t dare contemplate what awaited them on the other side of the glass.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
A Matter of Taste
Some spouses squabble over life-insurance, others cash and jewels. Oddly, we had those all worked out. We had more dire issues to deal with in our marriage. I had to take drastic measures; I didn't have time to see a marriage counselor.
I tried running upstairs to quell my rage. Over and over again I washed my hands, trying to think about happier things: pink roses on our first date, warmth in our first kiss. Still, all I could think about was how he had insulted my taste.
And so I went down to the kitchen where he washed the dishes, the very fine china he had insisted eating fast food with. I grabbed one of the steak knives he had just washed, turned it in my hand, and watched him die. He shouldn't have insulted my taste in tacos.
I tried running upstairs to quell my rage. Over and over again I washed my hands, trying to think about happier things: pink roses on our first date, warmth in our first kiss. Still, all I could think about was how he had insulted my taste.
And so I went down to the kitchen where he washed the dishes, the very fine china he had insisted eating fast food with. I grabbed one of the steak knives he had just washed, turned it in my hand, and watched him die. He shouldn't have insulted my taste in tacos.
Friday, January 22, 2010
A Gift for Mum
I would drive as far as my gas tank would take me,
and then I would run the rest of the way,
until I reached the shores of Victoria.
I would gather each plant, each flower,
each piece of the Old World,
each rock, each government building,
each lamp, each iron-wrought lamp,
each cup of tea, each cube of sugar,
each drop of cream, each foreign accent,
each wink, each photo, each sigh,
every bewildered stare,
and gather them up in a bag,
just to see her smile again.
and then I would run the rest of the way,
until I reached the shores of Victoria.
I would gather each plant, each flower,
each piece of the Old World,
each rock, each government building,
each lamp, each iron-wrought lamp,
each cup of tea, each cube of sugar,
each drop of cream, each foreign accent,
each wink, each photo, each sigh,
every bewildered stare,
and gather them up in a bag,
just to see her smile again.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Jewish Customs
"I'm sorry Mr. Death, but Penny Jacobs isn't in that room anymore." Her eyes, brimming with innocence, stared back at his empty ones.
"Then who is?" Mr. Death sighed, smoothing his pale hair back. He could feel in his hands where this headed.
The nurse glanced at the open binder on her desk. "Pam Jacobs. Completely different person Penny's family says."
Mr. Death, or Al, as he preferred to be called, rubbed his face wearily. (Angel O. Death tended to give people the wrong impression.) "You're absolutely sure?"
The nurse twirled a blonde curl in her hand. "Absolutely."
"Alright." She half expected him to sigh in defeat, but he almost looked relieved. "You said there was somebody I should see in room 50?"
She flipped through her notebook, sliding her finger down to the appropriate name. "Yep, that's the one."
"Thank you." As Al left, the nurse swore she saw his shadow linger longer than the others.
Waiting until Angel O. Death vanished around the corner, the nurse headed to "Pam" Jacobs room. The nurse sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and whispered "I can't believe I'm saying this, but your husband was right.'
"Then who is?" Mr. Death sighed, smoothing his pale hair back. He could feel in his hands where this headed.
The nurse glanced at the open binder on her desk. "Pam Jacobs. Completely different person Penny's family says."
Mr. Death, or Al, as he preferred to be called, rubbed his face wearily. (Angel O. Death tended to give people the wrong impression.) "You're absolutely sure?"
The nurse twirled a blonde curl in her hand. "Absolutely."
"Alright." She half expected him to sigh in defeat, but he almost looked relieved. "You said there was somebody I should see in room 50?"
She flipped through her notebook, sliding her finger down to the appropriate name. "Yep, that's the one."
"Thank you." As Al left, the nurse swore she saw his shadow linger longer than the others.
Waiting until Angel O. Death vanished around the corner, the nurse headed to "Pam" Jacobs room. The nurse sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and whispered "I can't believe I'm saying this, but your husband was right.'
Monday, January 11, 2010
Through Rose-Stained Glass Chapter 1 Scene III
The phone rang again. Patterson did his best to ignore it, preferring to listen to the whir of his fan. It did next to nothing about the heat, but the fan did have its useful purposes.
He could hear his secretary shuffling around her desk. She only did that when she felt anxious. Let her be anxious, Patterson thought idly. What else did he pay her for anyway, than to worry about things for him?
At last, Kelsey couldn't stand it any more. She phoned his line, and Patterson could see her gripping the phone through the frosted glass. Patterson quirked his head to the side, watching her silhouette. It's not like he had any other sort of entertainment here. He wondered if the lighting would allow her to see him through the glass. Maybe someday he would have to have her schedule an installation of some one-way mirrors. Then Patterson wouldn't feel boredom as constantly as he did now.
Her silhouette grew shrank in size as she approached the door, finally knocking on the frosted glass rather lightly. Patterson let her stew a bit longer before he called out with a sigh "What is it, Kelsey?"
"You have a phone call, sir."
"From who?"
She glanced at him, then glanced at the phone, and sighed. "Maybe you should just talk to him."
Patterson blinked, picking up his phone. "Hello?"
The voice on the other line took a moment to respond. For a moment Patterson considered pulling his anti-telemarketer tricks, but in the end he decided to entertain the offer. Unfortunately, the person on the other line didn't have the offer he expected, in fact, this person didn't even work as a telemarketer.
"Detective Patterson?" The voice asked quietly; he sounded both elderly and mild. He seemed the kind of person opposite the type that Patterson usually dealt with.
"What do you want?" Patterson asked tiredly.
"Sorry to bother you, but I'm Pastor Gabe..."
Pastor Gabe? Patterson hadn't heard from one of those in a while. What did he do this time? Did he forget to pay his taxes? Did he take the tag off his mattress? "I'm afraid I can't help you..." His hand reached to hang up the call but the pastor's voice interrupted him.
"But, Detective Patterson, I could use your help."
"Look, I'm not sure how much help I can be to you."
The pastor continued undaunted. "We're starting a prison ministry next week and--"
Patterson failed to hear the rest of the man's request. The words 'prison' and 'ministry' headed towards one another too quickly, collided in in his mind and refused to mingle peacefully. Finally, after using the patterns in the window as inkblots, Patterson resumed conversation. "Uh, sure I guess."
Pastor Gabe sounded surprised, and relieved. "Great! See you Tuesday at three."
"Wait...what? Where?"
The pastor responded with a bit of a sigh in his voice. "Columbia River Correctional Facility, in the lobby. See you then." He hung up.
Patterson stared at the receiver in his hands, and asked to no one in particular "What the hell have I got myself into this time?"
He could hear his secretary shuffling around her desk. She only did that when she felt anxious. Let her be anxious, Patterson thought idly. What else did he pay her for anyway, than to worry about things for him?
At last, Kelsey couldn't stand it any more. She phoned his line, and Patterson could see her gripping the phone through the frosted glass. Patterson quirked his head to the side, watching her silhouette. It's not like he had any other sort of entertainment here. He wondered if the lighting would allow her to see him through the glass. Maybe someday he would have to have her schedule an installation of some one-way mirrors. Then Patterson wouldn't feel boredom as constantly as he did now.
Her silhouette grew shrank in size as she approached the door, finally knocking on the frosted glass rather lightly. Patterson let her stew a bit longer before he called out with a sigh "What is it, Kelsey?"
"You have a phone call, sir."
"From who?"
She glanced at him, then glanced at the phone, and sighed. "Maybe you should just talk to him."
Patterson blinked, picking up his phone. "Hello?"
The voice on the other line took a moment to respond. For a moment Patterson considered pulling his anti-telemarketer tricks, but in the end he decided to entertain the offer. Unfortunately, the person on the other line didn't have the offer he expected, in fact, this person didn't even work as a telemarketer.
"Detective Patterson?" The voice asked quietly; he sounded both elderly and mild. He seemed the kind of person opposite the type that Patterson usually dealt with.
"What do you want?" Patterson asked tiredly.
"Sorry to bother you, but I'm Pastor Gabe..."
Pastor Gabe? Patterson hadn't heard from one of those in a while. What did he do this time? Did he forget to pay his taxes? Did he take the tag off his mattress? "I'm afraid I can't help you..." His hand reached to hang up the call but the pastor's voice interrupted him.
"But, Detective Patterson, I could use your help."
"Look, I'm not sure how much help I can be to you."
The pastor continued undaunted. "We're starting a prison ministry next week and--"
Patterson failed to hear the rest of the man's request. The words 'prison' and 'ministry' headed towards one another too quickly, collided in in his mind and refused to mingle peacefully. Finally, after using the patterns in the window as inkblots, Patterson resumed conversation. "Uh, sure I guess."
Pastor Gabe sounded surprised, and relieved. "Great! See you Tuesday at three."
"Wait...what? Where?"
The pastor responded with a bit of a sigh in his voice. "Columbia River Correctional Facility, in the lobby. See you then." He hung up.
Patterson stared at the receiver in his hands, and asked to no one in particular "What the hell have I got myself into this time?"
Sunday, January 10, 2010
I hate making phone calls
Every ring resounds like a drum roll,
as the receiver rubs against my cheek like a noose.
When the drum roll stops,
I hope to hear, not a present voice,
but a past voice, one that's been recorded
between 5 and 20 seconds,
with a brief message with an even briefer excuse,
asking for my name and phone number.
I hope you don't actually answer with a hello,
with suppressed surprise.
In fact I hope this number has been mysteriously disconnected,
saving me from a potential conversation.
as the receiver rubs against my cheek like a noose.
When the drum roll stops,
I hope to hear, not a present voice,
but a past voice, one that's been recorded
between 5 and 20 seconds,
with a brief message with an even briefer excuse,
asking for my name and phone number.
I hope you don't actually answer with a hello,
with suppressed surprise.
In fact I hope this number has been mysteriously disconnected,
saving me from a potential conversation.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Wedding Invitation
Dear Friends and Family,
We'd like to invite you to our wedding, but first we'd like to invite you to help pay for it. We don't want your money, but we'd like your pop cans. You see, we'd like to turn in about 400,000 pop cans by July so we can pay for the ceremony. Hopefully we'll see you on the 31st!
The future Geyers.
http://weddingcans.com./
PS: It's green!
We'd like to invite you to our wedding, but first we'd like to invite you to help pay for it. We don't want your money, but we'd like your pop cans. You see, we'd like to turn in about 400,000 pop cans by July so we can pay for the ceremony. Hopefully we'll see you on the 31st!
The future Geyers.
http://weddingcans.com./
PS: It's green!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Is this what Penelope felt like?
Though she's not my husband, nor even my lover,
she's an heir to a special part of my heart.
I know she's alive,
but the distance that separates us is an ocean,
and it takes far too long to sail home.
My suitors are not but worries, anxieties, fears
that visit me every morning and every evening.
I know the moment she comes home they'll flee
like dust in the four winds.
I fear she faces many trials and monsters harm in women's clothing,
and that she will come home one day,
but I want her home today.
she's an heir to a special part of my heart.
I know she's alive,
but the distance that separates us is an ocean,
and it takes far too long to sail home.
My suitors are not but worries, anxieties, fears
that visit me every morning and every evening.
I know the moment she comes home they'll flee
like dust in the four winds.
I fear she faces many trials and monsters harm in women's clothing,
and that she will come home one day,
but I want her home today.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Showdown at the Sunshine Expresso
The gun cocked as he raised it toward her. "Give me your money." His eyes stared at her own eyes firmly, holding an empty sack in his hands.
The room stood empty, everyone else had fled the moment the gun came out. Unfortunately, the barista had to earn her wages, and so she stayed. "No." She drummed one set of fingers on the counter, while she hid the other set from view.
"Don't make me shoot." His eyes narrowed, as sweat began to trickle down his left temple.
"Don't make me." Her hidden hand pulled out her own gun, which she used to mirror his actions.
His gun thudded to the floor as his feet swept through the door as fast as they could take him.
She set down the gun and picked up the phone, dialing the police. With a unshaken voice she told the dispatcher the details of her latest adventure. "You might want to arrest this guy before I have to use my Christmas present on him. I'd hate to have to waste this ammo."
The room stood empty, everyone else had fled the moment the gun came out. Unfortunately, the barista had to earn her wages, and so she stayed. "No." She drummed one set of fingers on the counter, while she hid the other set from view.
"Don't make me shoot." His eyes narrowed, as sweat began to trickle down his left temple.
"Don't make me." Her hidden hand pulled out her own gun, which she used to mirror his actions.
His gun thudded to the floor as his feet swept through the door as fast as they could take him.
She set down the gun and picked up the phone, dialing the police. With a unshaken voice she told the dispatcher the details of her latest adventure. "You might want to arrest this guy before I have to use my Christmas present on him. I'd hate to have to waste this ammo."
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