Re: A Pleasant Afterthought

Counting Time

2010-01-27T07:47:00.000-08:00

Is it all then just a mystical vision?
A self-flattering conceit of impossible-to-understand men?
Sarcastic rebukes, slithering glances, disagreeable questions.
The dead body that moves by the soul of its own propulsion.

Walking along the river banks, letting the life-blood of memory rush by--
Glancing carefully at the time on the yellow digital clock,
Hoping you won't be late for dinner at Jenny's.
Forget the disease; pain will never kill you, although
Love cries tears that wrinkle your silken overcoat.

An Itch on the Back of the Head

2009-11-20T20:09:00.000-08:00

All the leaves are brown --

So said that man whose hat was a

Better way to understand him.

I understood him,

But then I lost him, and forgot all about him.

One day, a letter arrived, dirty, crinkled --

packed with dreams from that man --

smelling of cigar smoke, cheap aftershave, and

a rolled newspaper left on the porch after a boring sunday afternoon.

Here am I, friend – oh but I -

Almost forgot you were a flesh and blood composite, not

A mold of a problem best left unseen.

The Red Cross

2009-10-01T22:01:00.001-07:00

It is a mountain of dried skulls and bones of the forgotten.
A man in a yellow fleece jacket stands watching without
Crying or blinking or breathing, hands jammed in dirty cargo pants.
A sickening sound protruded from the remains of a thousand
Voices, their sounds still prancing off the dark ravine walls.
The figure climbs the bones, splintering and smashing.
Screams release from those killed in random slaughter;
Or rather, in a slaughter completely mindful, firm, decided--
Aimed at promoting a vision of tomorrow free of fear and death
And filled with terror, empty windows and muffled cries.
Rainbows dipped in blood, an enchantment with pain, or the
Glory of the silenced pistol. The man in the yellow fleece gathers
A handful of bones, but then they disintegrate into ashes, and
Slowly drift away. He cries no tears; he hasn't done so since sixth grade.
The sun beat down on the heads of the revolutionaries with the yellow
Bandanas, so certain of the buzzing confusion in their minds;
Obsessed with the goal of a lifetime of significance, drenching their
Hands in the blood of mother-kin, and leaving only the bare minimum of
Human survival.
The man in the yellow fleece has dark brown eyes and a narrow mustache.
A vulture swoops through empty skies, but finds nothing to digest.
Perched on the grave of mass graves is a golden crown;
Its rubies and emeralds shine too brightly, as though its
Sovereign grace could rub away the wounds of a generation.
The only person to visit this mountain since it started is this
Morbid young explorer, a withdrawn observer, patient and unyielding
To the epic reality of a picture torn from its frame, and left
Fluttering in the breeze, empty of sound or color, but only a
Shred of what once was, and will soon be forgotten.
The man in the yellow fleece jacket takes out a camera, and then
Throws it away. This is no way to mourn the forgotten.
Cut the tape, its too long, we need to leave room for that footage--

A Summer Fine Day

2009-08-28T16:54:00.000-07:00

Softly he alights on the wide oak branch, balancing carefully.
He peers at the group of chickadees in front of him,
Hopping slowly over to his betters,
Hoping to find a touch of certainty.
Hogwarts spots him, spreads his wing,
Bounces on his spindly legs twice.
"Young one, so good to see a
Bundle of fluff not yet flying."
He stands awkwardly, scratches his chest with his beak.
He notices his plumage lacks the black-white contrast
Of those who are older, wiser, and
Inevitably wanting to teach him,
The not-yet-having-done-anything.
"I just want to fly", he says.
Looks he over the horizon, beyond clouds and wind,
At the great forest, caught in a heavy summer heat.
The green leaves stretch out in every direction,
A maze of interlocking and shifting perplexity.
The Others stand back and stare, smirk quietly,
Enjoying the moment of superiority, of haughty
Glances. Ended only by the guffaw of Hogwarts;
Epic man, his black head plumage almost gray,
Having fathered many chicks, found many nests,
Traveled to the winter resting pond--
Fought bravely the howling jet stream to lead his birds onward.
"You," barks Hogwarts, "Better stay on this branch."
"Its only a thin green strip of wood--but its safe.
"You hop off this ledge--and you'll fall through the floor
"Of this forest--of everything you can see--and never come
"Back again. Bid your cherished dreams, your tastiest maggots,
"Your splendid nest of bent twigs, your fondest thoughts of your mother--
"And even--fly!--hah, you will still probably die."
Young bird that he was, he stopped and stared, up and down Hogwarts.
Then he opened his wings as the Others watched, muttering,
Scared, realizing that it was not what they wanted, rather, to hold him
Still, not letting him flee, keep the alive under the foot of the dead,
The dead in the soul. One hop--and he was off on the thermals--soaring through
A joyful congregation of beeches, hobnobbing with their friends the maples,
Cheering him on--"Fly on! You weren't born to die".
As he turned and watched the Others quickly speed out of sight,
His old world, forever lost and vanishing, he realized that one idea
Could never be let go of: whoever made this; it was not for him.
It could not be owned by any living thing.

Death Talked to Mr. Ackinsaw

2009-07-10T20:10:00.000-07:00

Blood poured on top of empty sweat, dripping.
Man covered in dirty blankets, eyes listening.
Don't know why he hugged the blanket, gripping.
I saw the concerned dark shadow, blankly staring.
Wish I didn't have to see this--trouble forgetting.
Odor of spoiled wild flowers scattered, unsettling.
Their eyes meet, flutter, dart away, threatening.
Mr. Ackinsaw's chest opens as he watches, trembling.
The creature extends a firm hand, welcoming.
Memory of last year's 4th of July flood in, startling.
Vivid images of an open grill with flames, glowing.
The patient opens his mouth, aghast, barely breathing.
Children dance around the bedside, laughing.
A warm breeze peels away the white walls, cleaning.
Sunlight lights up Ackinsaw's wisps of hair, blessing.
A bold sparrow coasts through the air, dancing.
"Away," says that black one--angrily swiping.
"Redemption?" asks Ackinsaw, hesitantly nodding.
"What is surface is only dust", shadow says, unmoving.
In the old man's hand he grasps a butterfly, loving.
Pats he the head of his oldest child, reliving.
Anger pours inside his chest, reviving.
Wrinkles tighten, fists ball up, combating.
"I never sold my self out", declaring.
Pleasantly smiles death, patronizingly stating--
"Neither does anyone own you"--overpowering
His empty sayings of a better life, dying.
So I leave the room, and make sure to close the door--
unbearable weeping.
"... although he dies, yet shall he live."

Brass Plaques (a Pantoum)

2009-04-25T16:35:00.000-07:00

The metro is a train that runs in the eternal night;
Transporting us who go towards its invisible ends.
We faceless body of our own clever invention--
Gaudy suits and ties, clacking heels with black stockings.

Transporting us who go towards its invisible ends--
A snake burrowing underneath a world composed of
Gaudy suits and ties, clacking heels with black stockings.
One trip is five minutes of lost memory, empty silence.

A snake burrowing underneath a world composed of
Memories of a better future free of disease and fear and
One trip is five minutes of lost memory, empty silence.
When I take his business card, I know I won't call him back.

Memories of a better future free of disease and fear and
The inevitability I will eat chicken tenders by myself tonight.
When I take his business card, I know I won't call him back.
Oh disaster, strike us, perhaps! Shatter the illusion!

The inevitability I will eat chicken tenders by myself tonight
Destroys whatever health I gained from jogging this morning.
Oh disaster, strike us, perhaps! Shatter the illusion!
Judge us, and let us see our faults, and our dirty lies.

Destroys whatever health I gained from jogging this morning--
But then again, there is no love which could hurt my self-esteem.
Judge us, and let us see our faults, and our dirty lies.
Next time I step on that metro car, and must stare at the wall--

But then again, there is no love which could hurt my self-esteem,
And I sat in a hearing today in which my tie matched so well.
Next time I step on that metro car, and must stare at the wall,
I'm bringing earphones and a store of songs I could never sing.

And I sat in a hearing today in which my tie matched so well,
We faceless body of our own clever invention--
I'm bringing earphones and a store of songs I could never sing;
The metro is a train that runs in the eternal night.

A Line in the Sand

2009-02-02T06:56:00.000-08:00

The hills surrounding Jerusalem are exquisitely carved, like giant brown sculptures, enticing the eye of the observer. They flank an often clear blue sky, with little on its clear beauty, and a sun that beats down mercilessly in the summer. Palestine is, after all, a Mediterranean country, and not too dissimilar from the far-away Italian and Greek shores. For those who have to travel through these hills often, and who have been traveling for far too long, they only seem to stretch on in monotonous patterns. The heavenly city can be a city of dirt and grime for those who go there for commerce, not to worship.
Alphaeus, of Jericho, was but one of the hundreds of travelers along the two-tracked road winding its way through the Palestinian hills. Many of them were pilgrims, coming to offer sacrifices in Herod's temple, but Alphaeus was a date farmer, a hardy occupation and one that required long journeys when the harvest ended. Today was as rotten a day as ever--Friday--to be walking market, in Alphaeus' opinion. He kicked small clumps of dirt along the road as he slowly plodded on. His dark brown robe, which had a sizeable ring of sweat around his neck and running down his back, swayed back and forth in a regular rhythm, keeping pace with his aching movements. His donkey carried four sacks of cured dates, from his own palm trees at his house near Jericho, and he hoped--oh did he ever hope--that he could fetch a better price than last year. The half-shekel for a sack of dates he earned last year was a pittance in a home with four children and a hard-working wife.
Granted, Alphaeus thought, living off his olive groves, vegetable garden and date palms secured each year the food for the table--it was rare that his family ever went hungry. His land had been his father's, Ben Ached, who had given it to him, the firstborn, at his marriage to Lena, his second cousin on his mother's side. His brothers, of which there had been three, had to move off the land to seek their fortunes in other trades, and all of them were now living respectably, if not with great abundance. A blessing, Ached thought, if only he could make it work so that he had enough pure hard shekel to add something of worth to his residence. So, for the tenth time that morning, he rehearsed again in his mind exactly how he would go about ensuring the highest price for his dates. He hoped for three-quarters a shekel per bag: such a gain would enable him to walk home with a new shawl for his wife, or a new iron handle for his plow, or even a small bag of sweets from the famous Jerusalem bakeries. Just one blissful day--one glorious day of plenty--was all he wanted. He would have to take two more trips besides Jerusalem to other town seeking to sell his dates, but Jerusalem always promised the highest prices since there were so many who came here, faithful Jews, seeking to worship God.
The problem, of course, was the traders. Mean, grubby men, who held spots in the central market that had been handed down to them from their fathers, they controlled trade with the farmers who came from outside the town. Alphaeus and his friends always complained over their selfishness and miserly prices, but there was little that could be done about the matter as any of them who dared sell their goods directly to passerby in Jerusalem was likely to be reported to the guards. With a small percentage from the traders, the guards were more than willing to make sure that only the Jerusalem traders sold dates at inflated prices to the spiritually enthused pilgrims.
Alphaeus spat on the dirt. It made a small wet mark, and was quickly gone as he plodded unsteadily on.
"Ech, Alphaeus, who will you go see first at market?"
It was Ben Hadad, a neighbor of Alphaeus, though not quite a friend. He was heavy-set, with grizzled black hair kept very short on his head. Ben Hadad was known for having a temper that could blaze easily and for little reason. He was both an asset and a curse in dealing with the merchants in Jerusalem. He could bully and get better prices than most, but he could also get himself and his compatriots in trouble with the guards. Alphaeus had spent a whole day in stocks once because Ben Hadad had called one date trader's mother a Roman dog.
Alphaeus thought for a moment. The gentle breeze that was coming on as the afternoon was wore to a close ran through his matted hair. Alphaeus was sure that in only a mile he would be able to see the top of the heavenly city in the distance, floating above the hills.
"Ya'achel ben Rabin."
Ben Hadad looked at him with a smile curling his bear-like face. "Ya'achel? The man who always forgets your name and pretends like he knows you?"
Alphaeus turned and smiled, briefly.
"Ah Ben Hadad... I don't need him to know my name. I need him to buy my dates. He can call me the son of a Greek prostitute for all I care..."
Ben Hadad roared in laughter. It did not take very much to make him laugh.
He put his hand on Alphaeus' shoulder--a meat-like blob of fingers whose weight Alphaeus could feel distinctly.
"Ben Hadad... you must remember that he owes me. If he remembers. I lied to the guards when they wanted to know who had been buying spears and shields."
Ben Hadad became very serious and stared straight ahead.
"He says He is a Zionist," Hadad muttered gruffly. "But he could care less for us... the real Jews... who have to spend the day before the Sabbath walking to on our own feet to sell him our wares that he pays less than he gives the Romans for taxes."
Alphaeus looked at Ben Hadad.
"Honestly, Hadad, he could be the rear end of a camel and I wouldn't care at all. I just want him to buy my dates and give me enough shekel to last to the next feast."
This time, Ben Hadad didn't laugh, but stared down at his own feet. Up ahead, the walls of Jerusalem were just coming into focus, the fortress on a hill.

A Postmodern Buzz

2008-12-29T09:34:00.000-08:00

You pursued your self, and then found it.
You gave yourself another name, and then abhorred it.
You treasured the golden chalice of eternal wisdom, and then discovered it tasted bland.
You roasted a delicious turkey and gorged on its flesh - and became promptly sick.
You banged your head against the wall...
all day...
hoping that it would open into a meadow of heavenly bliss,
but found in the end it was actually, quite certainly, indefatigably and undoubtedly,
made of solid cement.
And if the blood flows down over your crushed forehead,
And if the electronic music's beat is now rattling your ears,
And if all of your fairy identity is growing stale --
Please remember, your life will reach its apex on the afternoon of the 31st,
and God was wondering if you could cc Him on the email.

Puppets

2008-10-23T20:03:00.000-07:00

Half an hour before five o'clock is when the heavy, saturated air of the after-lunch has receded and everyone in the office is jealously waiting for the day to finally be over. I stared blankly at old-fashioned clock on the far wall that looked exactly like the one in my high school. The time was moving so slowly I was convinced I could taste it.
I slowly idled my small chair around to the inside of my cubicle. A picture of myself and Ronald Reagan hung on the right side. I was wearing a goofy looking campaign T-shirt emblazoned with "Reagan '84", and the octogenarian president smiled confidently, although I thought somewhat blankly. The picture was a memento of what I had once thought of doing, once thought valuable and noteworthy. After a few years working on the Hill and for various campaign offices, I had taken what I thought would be a lucrative job and a stepping stone to a long political career. I now worked at the lobby of a powerful cell phone company, preparing reports on the usage minutes of different subsections of the American population, which were used by someone to talk to some politician about some arcane regulation.
The trouble was, I thought as I stared at my Reagan picture, was that I was actually good at this job. I had enough of a stats background from college to qualify, and I was fairly efficient at compiling the data into a readable form, simplifying and dumbing it down for my bosses, whose sole specialty was in persuading people to grant them favors that cost other people money. My latest report, "Trends in Minute Usage among 18-25 African Americans", lay on my desk. I still needed to edit it, and then submit it to my boss. But so close to five o'clock, it was inhumane to begin to work again.
I turned around and looked at the cubicle behind mine and to the right. Amanda was another analyst working in the lobby who was a decidedly attractive brunette. She had a penchant for black---black skirts, suits, and slacks---which made her seem mysterious, inviting. She was a Ivy League grad, yet was in the same position I was, and hoping for the same break I was. We were not in the same party, but when you spend your day fiddling with Excel, political affiliation does not seem to carry the same weight.
I noticed that she was staring intently at her computer, apparently not influenced by the relaxed atmosphere I felt. Feeling impulsive, and somewhat flirtatious, I reached into my cubicle, grabbed a small rubber eraser in the form of the Republican elephant, and tossed it right near her head. The eraser hit her desk and made her almost jump out of her seat. I chuckled, glad that my trick had worked.
Then she turned around -- and my grin stopped. She was almost in tears, and looked confused. She stared at me for a few seconds, made to turn back to her computer, but then decided to remain where she was and leaned her head down. She was wearing a black button-up sweater that was open, revealing a white shirt underneath. I saw that her mascara was dissolving slightly, but she then put her hand over her eyes, and leaned forward. I could hear what I thought were half-sobs.
She then looked up at me.
Wiping her eyes, she said in a broken voice, "I'm sorry, David, I'm sorry, I just learned from my... mom that my brother was injured in a terrorist bombing in Iraq." She took another break, staring down at the floor. She took a deep breath and continued.
"He might not be able to regain the use of his legs."
A feeling of immeasurable weight came over me. I felt guilty at having been so light-hearted earlier, and even worse that I was thinking of flirting. My face burned, as though I was ashamed, and I felt like this display of emotion was inappropriate for the setting.
I stared at her for a bit, watched her sniveling, and realized I needed to say something.
"I am... sorry, Amanda," I said, doing my best to sound caring. I was never very good at sending that impression to people.
"So... is he coming back here soon?"
"I think, uh, next week. My mom's coming out too."
"OK."
Silence followed, which made me feel like I needed to say something, again.
"But he's OK..."
"Yeah, he's, he's fine."
I stared down at my hands, leaning forward in my chair. "Amanda..." my voice trailed off.
She looked up at me, expectant.
"Eh.... you shouldn't be here right now. You should go home."
Amanda nodded, but did not move.
"This isn't... how its supposed to be."
Amanda looked up again, questioning.
I stood up, put my hands on my hips. I wanted to follow that up with something profound, something that would impress her, help her to understand, enlighten her.
Instead, I said, "Let me get that eraser back I threw at you. I'm sorry about that, I had no idea you were-"
"Oh yeah, sure, uh, where is it?" Amanda turned around and stared at the ground. She spotted the elephant, and gave it to me. Her face was blank, I thought, sort of like Reagan's in the picture.
I made eye contact with her for a second. Her expression was poignant, expressing something I wanted to say. But I did not say anything.
After a few moments, she got up, grabbed her purse, and walked out of her cubicle.
"See you... later." She said, paused, before turning away.
"Bye."

Thunderstruck

2008-10-08T17:41:00.000-07:00

Never was a man so small, so broken
Gone, replaced, diseased, torn down, without hope.
Pants from a secondhand merchant, no coat,
Just one mangy measly sweater, colored
Gray. "Need help?" she said, the pretty woman,
Who was painted white and red and feminine.
"Yes," he replied, with fear, and spite, without
A thought of losing face, of losing what
Amounted to the dignity of men
Who straddle life with mismatched socks and slacks.
"A burger, ma'am, a buck, or two, no more--
A smart answer, a quick reply, "Sure thing".
Awkwardly his pale lips part, he lets a smile
Penetrate the barrier within that
Covers his white-knuckled hands, which clutch his last
Remaining thought - a book of dreams almost forgot --
A copy of Dickens, Copperfield, last page missing.

Office Heaven

2008-09-24T17:43:00.000-07:00

Joe Burns rubbed his eyes with his small, grubby hands, pausing for just a moment. He then looked down at this insignificant, eight-and-one-half by eleven piece of paper that would spell his effective doom as a career corporate executive. The fine print made it sound like he was buying a car; it was filled with legal platitudes describing the obligation of the Company for a limited time and with limited means to provide with him with a modest income. It was like standing on a chopping block, preparing to lay his head on its bloody surface, and let the guillotine fall. It was the demise of the man Joe Burns, of everything he had been since his ancient college days.
"OK, well..." Joe intoned, not wanting to look up at me. The dark-green gold tipped fountain pen lay limp in his hand, unwilling to sign the deed and end his corporate existence. A few seconds passed.
"Why..." he asked, hesitantly.
He looked up at me, with a tinge of desperation in his face. Joe maintained a jolly demeanor while he was in the office; it was one trait that helped him to rise to his position and earn himself a reputation as a legendary manager. But now he looked at me sadly, intently, unable to express the words that wanted to come out.
"We could have found some way to compromise." Joe's tone was assertive, even paternal, as though he uttering a common fact that had simply been overlooked.
Now it was my turn to sigh. Joe had managed himself well during this crisis; even when the board recommended he resign, and gave me the task of informing him of their decision, he had accepted the news with a solid measure of professional reserve. It was clear now that the decades of accumulated manners was finally wearing off, and frankly, I did not want to be in the room to see it happen. The whole business was distasteful, and I was sorry to have had to have anything to do with it.
"Joe, you know Fred, Craig, Ed, and everyone else on the board did what they had to do, and before that, they did everything they could do." I put my hands on his desk, facing him, to emphasize the point. "Its time to sign and get this over with."
Joe sat in the chair and twiddled the pen in his hands. He was wearing a dark olive green shirt with a dark forest green tie, and his sports jacket was slung over the back of his chair. His hair was balding; sparse hair surrounded his balding spot. His office smelled of stale cigarette smoke, a sin he indulged in because he was high enough to get around company policy. I had never much liked being in here, and was relieved, in part, that Joe would soon be leaving this office, whether or not I would be the one to fill it.
Suddenly Joe pounded the desk with his meaty fists.
"The hell you can tell me what to do!" he barked, menacingly. I backed up, unsure what to do.
Joe got out of his chair so fast it nearly fell over. His parted hair bounced from the quick movement.
"The hell you know what it means what I've done here!" he retorted again, his voice commanding, though not yelling. I backed up a few inches, and quickly looked over that the door, which was unfortunately closed.
"Joe, I..." My face was blushing, I could feel it. I had no training, no professional frame of reference to deal with this situation.
Joe stared, his beady brown eyes fixing me with a menacing look. I looked at him for a few seconds, and then looked away. This office suddenly seemed suffocatingly small. Finally, I made up my mind. If I did not say something, I was going to have to consider bolting for the door, because this could easily get out of hand.
"Just let go, Joe, just let go." I tried to take control of the situation. I edged closer to the desk, and gingerly put my hands on his shoulders, and stared him straight in the face.
Joe was a bit put off by my gesture, as I normally maintained a reserve around people, especially concerning physical touch. He did not quite know how to react, and stared at me incredulously, his eyes now wide.
Slightly emboldened, I repeated my mantra.
"Just let go, Joe, just let go."
Then I said something that for a thousand years I wish I had not.
"She's not worth it to you, Joe, that woman, let her go, Martha will take you back."

The doctor was quite comforting later that evening, assuring me that all I had was a black eye and a few contortions on my face, and that surgery was not needed, as had been feared. All the blood had scared the paramedics, who thought that my jaw had been broken. The pain was now thankfully numbed by the ice pack that I pressed to my face, and with a few aspirin I should be able to sleep the night away.

Temptation

2008-09-18T18:07:00.000-07:00

The useful thing about being a bachelor is that you can feed yourself anything, and feel quite content no matter what it is. Jealousy and dissatisfaction requires at least two people.
George sat on the dark metal park bench, the same park bench he sat on every Thursday instead of staying inside 1204 N. Queens. It was a small park wedged in the middle of 7th Avenue, just large enough to create a laid back atmosphere, a small bubble of leaves, sighing trees and green grass. A few ragged homeless men had their park benches always staked out, covered in newspapers, but George's bench was never taken. He had been sitting in it for most of the summer, and now it was turning into fall. It faced out to the street, and allowed George the privilege of munching on a ham and cheese sandwich (occasionally corn beef, and occasionally turkey and swiss) while watching New Yorkers pursuing their daily business.
This, to George, was like watching a living mirror. He also wore a suit, he also impatiently checked his watch stepping out of the subway every morning. He also pretended to stare resolutely ahead while wondering if anyone was watching him, and anxious to know what they thought. What amazed George more than anything was how each of these businesspeople who walked by, as educated, smart and talented as he was, would be almost without a doubt lonely and need of others. The men with their silver attache cases and Armani suits--if they were anything like George--as weak as little children on the inside.
Ham and cheese has a taste that reminded him of sitting in his kitchen as a young boy, drinking coolade as he had just come out from the hot, sweaty sun. His brother would swing his legs as he sat across from him. They had finished an intense game of baseball, so intense that they had almost gotten into a fight with the neighbor boys at the end, and had only been prevented from coming to blows by his mother's call for lunch.
George's mind snapped back to reality. He realized that right now, today, he was quite nostalgic. He didn't want to be trapped in that cycle again, it could last for days.
A woman, mid-twenties, in a black suit and white shirt, walked down the street. She was tall, had long, flowing black hair and wore significant heels. Like most women George had met in New York who wore suits, her jaw was set firmly and her jet black eyes were determinedly fixed ahead at the upcoming intersection. It was a small wonder to George that he rarely found anything in common with them, and George pondered what kind of man could actually handle a woman like that.
George wiped his forehead on his sleeve. It was five to one, almost time to go in.
And time to stop the reverie. George got up, dusted off the crumbs, took one look around the wistful trees, and said softly, "Two years - not bad. Not bad, really."

Swimming Upriver

2008-09-05T15:28:00.000-07:00

Walking outside my small crummy white house, I
Turn and walk up the road, sloshing through concrete.

I swim in a pool of blue water delimited by high
Glass walls. Endlessly around, through the plants and peat,

Within the enclosure, with bubbles all around, my suit
Gets wet. Others swim by, the grocer, the accountant,

The pop star, the unemployed factory worker, all moot;
As far as forward movement -- always hesitant.

Its easy to swim in circles, its easy to grab the wriggling legs that scoot
In front of you, afraid of being forced to recant

The orthodoxy you were born in,
The orthodoxy of the horn-rimmed glasses and the pointed nose.

A Death-Defying Leap of Intellectual Commitment

2008-08-28T20:50:00.000-07:00

beat beat beat beat stomp beat beat
The car slows to a crawl, barely brushing up
To the sidewalk's curb. Out climbs a
Fairly unenthusiastic young man
beat beat stomp beat beat stomp beat
Who is part of a revival of politicians --
Epic, worldwide, magnificent, slightly arrogant.
Veiled references to the failure of society emanate
From his K-mart collar shirt, unbuttoned to reveal
beat stomp beat beat stomp beat stomp
Just enough to suggest he's single.
beat beat beat stomp beat beat beat stomp.
At least everyone has work on Monday morning -
Something we can all agree on.

And it wasn't at all for nothing

2008-07-23T17:19:00.000-07:00

that you came by last night," I said, carefully shutting the door. I turned and stared at the shivering and teary-eyed Martha Burns.

"Oh, I wasn't..." she looked down at the floor, not bothering to finish her sentence. She then lifted up a crumpled Kleenex and blew her nose loudly. She pondered for a moment and then looked straight at me with an earnest look in her eyes.

"My husband is a wonderful man; I've been with him for forty years. I know you're just beginning that journey yourself, and I don't want to scare you, Roger, at all." She had moved across the room and was now standing with her back to me, staring at a picture of a vase of yellow and red roses in the middle of the wall.

Her words puzzled me, but also produced compassion. This was completely unnecessary, I thought, and I felt sympathy for her, although I had no idea how to express it from one professional to another. I took a sip from my gin and tonic, not quite sure how to proceed. She had rudely interrupted my evening reverie of liquor and German philosophy just a few minutes ago, barging in through my unfortunately open door.

She put her hands on her hips. She was wearing a black saffron dress with a red trim that would ordinarily have made her look dashing, but in this context more like a morose widow. "I know you know James, and you think you know him well. So you're probably shocked at what happened, and I can't blame you."

At the end of the sentence her voice became tense with emotion, and one hand came up to cover her mouth with her tissue.

I stood, swirling the liquid in my glass, and finally made up my mind to say something.

"Martha, yes, I know James, and I understand that these sort of things happen from time to time when men are under stress and have great responsibilities." I was trying to find the most polite way to put this. "Its effects on your marriage I won't try to imagine, but as for his reputation at the company, I can assure you, we understand that this one slip up doesn't have to be the end of his career."

At this Martha turned around having finally given up on the picture of roses.

Her hands clutched the crumpled tissue in front of her face as though she were praying to me.

"That's just it..." she began, and her voice became a wimper. "Its not... the first."

At this my eyebrows went up, although I managed not to give away any other sign of surprise. I coughed and looked down at my drink. Martha moved closer, hands still clutched, beseeching me.

"James always liked the girl next door, and I never quite knew what to do about it." Her words were coming out faster now, her voice stronger and clearer. "But... well... you understand... a woman in my position must learn to live with what is possible, what is realistic."

My face began to blush slightly; I felt this information was far beyond my need of information given my position as a young employee of this woman's husband. Thankfully, she continued without waiting for me to say something.

"I couldn't leave him, and I hope you understand that its really been alright. We've worked things out. It seems bad on the outside; I know it does." She turned and walked to the kitchen, pacing around the table slowly and distractedly.

I decided that I needed to do something to alleviate Martha's conscience, which for some odd reason had brought her to my door.

"Martha..." I said, focusing on my words, which mattered ever so much at this moment. "Just don't give up. It'll all be good in the morning. I won't mention a thing to anyone, not a soul, promise. Just take care of yourself..."

She looked back at the picture of the yellow roses, wistfully, but no longer teary eyed. Then she looked back at me for a long, steady moment.

A combination of forms

2008-06-26T16:28:00.000-07:00

Wrestling with the dashboard of my car, I sometimes win. And sometimes I give up, and let go of the steering wheel, at least mentally, and hope that the cell phone rings. But even if that doesn't work, I am certainly aware of the fact that I am moving forward.

Because any idiot knows that's a given.

The engine whines, humms, screeches a bit off, but keeps going. The trees pass by in a shower of green that is bright in the evening light. Up and down, over and out, my stomach slightly jiggles from the turns and curves of this ancient road now covered in asphalt.

Wrestling with the bed sheet cover is even harder. Its a metal blanket that won't come off even though I am entirely convinced in my own mind that it is the morning. The steel trap is also only in my mind, a brain that grows soft and dull from the hours of monotony of every day. The tan walls are hollow, the taste of toothpaste a welcome respite, but not entirely satisfying.

This is how the world ends --
The world doesn't have to end.
The paint on my walls, a dark tan,
Is not necessarily the way the painter designed it to
present itself.
And if I prize my own convoluted, diverted and at times preposterous ideas --
at least have the courage to submit that I
shouldn't look at myself with
less than a solid dose of the water of exacting precision, namely,
the fear of God.

Resistance becomes only the latest option, prized
mostly because of its shiny candy-coated wrapper.
Its as much a sell out to deck yourself with the marginal charms of a One
bracelet as it is to wear the choking dark tie of a man-who-drives-to-work.
Get on, get going, you weren't saved to languish, melt and then die in a dark hole at the pit you dug inside
your unfortunately malnourished soul.