Diminutive Dustbin

•August 11, 2014 • Leave a Comment

As it was in the beginning,

as it will always be.

In the end,

the only thing that changes

is me.

 

No matter the smell,

sound, feeling or grasp,

even if the night

were to never last.

 

After glows,

lights,

laughs, and flax,

the you,

that you know now,

will be gone…

as quick as that.

 

So hold tight

to those you love,

and chide

those you hate.

Because when we

close our eyes,

one last time,

all we are is

earthworm bait.

 

teet teet

•July 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Like a mating call:

The peeps and bleeps

of carrying teets,

and smiles and style

of hand and feet,

when once the world

made simply of sheets

held tight to us amidst

smells of heat, and

when our peds caress

the each, my heart and

head stand tense a peace,

for every time we whoop and jeep

no one hears, not even the sheep.

It’s a Great Time to Continue; Extinguish

•July 21, 2014 • Leave a Comment

The old man held tight to his lapels. He had gotten them at an estate auction after a good friend had died. They had belonged to his friend, and whenever he started down the road to anguish, he held onto them and thought about times when he felt different. He thought of the large fish he and his friend used to catch. The smell of the morning, the leaves wet with dew, the coffee brewing on the stove before he would bungle to his car and make the drive and find his friend and hold his hand and whisper in his ear and pretend they were the only ones in the world and look at each other and smile and, and, and… He would remember how his friend’s fishing hat was always cocked to the left, yet his hair was parted to the right, and his eyebrows were flecked with silver and his ear pierced from a day long gone, and how the fishing tackle smelled like dirty water, and how he bled once trying to remove a hook from a fish’s mouth. He would look into the mirror and and study his own features and examine his moles and imagine his ears without hair and think of his cracked lips and think of his cracked lips. He’d think about how he and his friend could have been brothers, even if distantly similar in looks. His imagination took him to great places, where his friend and he were young and young, and young, and traveled the world by bus by train by boat by life. He could list the great cities they visited and provide facts about each: how many people lived there, their GDP, their average rainfall, when the city came into existence; a dancing girl here, a liqueur store there, a late night that turned into a lighted, alcohol-crippled morning where his friend’s eyes would sit squarely on his and they’d dance until the warmth held them prescient and conscious among the morning stalkers, and they’d smirk and think nothing in the world could ever get between them; the time they spent was more than creating a memory based on friendship, how it was a life they were building in secret. Love, between two men, in those days, was nothing anyone would have accepted. They both acknowledged this and simply fished. Every weekend, for forty years.

His heart swelled and dropped out of his chest the day his friend died. He sat alone in his bedroom and cried for what seemed like ten years. He thought of love and removal and television and Bonnie and Clyde, and listened to oldies and ate bologna and cheese and drank diet soda, and as he gripped his lapels early one weekend morning , gently rubbed them between his forefinger, the revolver in his other hand clicked then banged, and his eyes met the ceiling.

It’s When I Learned to Eat Worms

•July 17, 2014 • Leave a Comment

I used to think,

“hold on tight.”

I was wrong.

Because the ride,

the single most important,

laudably most variable,

visibly most striking,

arguably most difficult,

is nothing to fear.

It’s a fate train

into a dark hole,

with no good deeds

for the dead, and no

bad dream

for the living.

Better to take it

with a loose,

unceased

grip. A gentle,

free hand.

Let it all

flow through,

and only hold tight

when you’re clinging

on for your life.

Gran-pa [Rough; Unfinished]

•July 10, 2014 • Leave a Comment

My grandpa spent his last moments alone, which was nothing different than any other day he was alive. After the neighbor called police because his car hadn’t moved for two weeks, they found him in his computer chair, working on his stocks. His body was a bloated mess that had begun to melt onto the table and floor. A single light burnt in the corner. The toilet hadn’t been flushed in a month. Flies lived on everything. That is my final vision of him. He was a complicated man. Some of my family say I inherited many of his traits.

In 1994 my grandparents got a divorce after 35 years of marriage. Neither of them was happy. They had taken to living in their own worlds in two separate rooms of the house. Never slept together. Hardly spoke unless company was around, otherwise they shared awkward glances and, when my grandpa would leave the room, my grandma would shake her head and call him names. The family always wondered why they stayed together as long as they did. The kids had all left before many of them were even seventeen-years-old, my mother included. They were never happy. Then, they divorced. I was 15. No one was surprised.

My grandpa bought a house across town for a sub-standard rate so that he could live his life as he always wanted: alone and miserly. My grandma was finally free to smoke, drink her diet soda, and have her dogs. They were both free. Then something strange happened. After being married for that many years and hating each other daily, my grandpa would still call my grandma, and would even ride his bike to her house twice a week without warning or announcement. Upon visiting my grandma with my mother, she would discuss his intentions. But they were never what we thought they’d be, and only pointed to one thing: he was lonely. It didn’t seem possible. He didn’t need anyone but his God. His body was nothing but a vessel for the lord. He would have never told us that he was lonely. But his actions told us. For the first time he seemed human. He had no idea.

The Thanksgiving after they divorced my mother and I went down to my grandma’s house. My grandpa was there visiting. We all sat in the kitchen around the table and idly chatted. Soon, my grandpa started talking about the Lord. A common occurrence when the mood struck. My grandma rolled her eyes and said, “Ossie! No one wants to hear about that!” My grandpa rebuffed her, looked at us and started to tell my mother and I that if we didn’t accept Jesus Christ that we’d burn for eternity. My mom exhaled deeply and shook her head. I stared at him. No one but him was religious in my entire family. I had never really been around anyone who spoke fire and brimstone, so accusations about my eternal soul were both foreign and unwanted. But at the same time I was entertained.

“How do you know that?” I asked him.

“I know because Jesus Christ is our Lord and savior! I don’t need no other proof!” His Kentucky bleeding through his sermon.

“I don’t understand how you can say that. I’m not going to hell, even if there was one.”

“You WILL go to HELL, because YOU don’t ACCEPT JESUS CHRIST! THAT MAKES YOU A SINNER and SINNERS BURN FOR ETERNITY!” he yelled, now standing and pointing. I stared. “Get out of my house!” he yelled at me.

“This isn’t your house anymore,” my grandma said quickly. He stood breathing heavy, his mouth open, his eyes wide, and he just dropped his hands to his side and walked out of the house. We three glanced at each other and around the room. Nothing seemed different after he left. He didn’t live there anymore anyway. We sat down at the table and began smiling. Smiles that were both pain and humor.

I got up to look out the window for his bike, it was gone, which meant he was too. We all chuckled at how odd that situation was. My mother, who was a victim of my grandpa’s violence ( read as “discipline”) when she was young, scoffed outwardly, and called him a fucking asshole. “He’d sooner smack you in the face than look at ya,” she’d say about him when she was young and they all ate dinner together. “You’d better answer him right or he’d slap the shit out of ya.” So in a sense,that day, we won. His fire left with him, and we were left to enjoy the holiday together. My uncle and aunt showed up and no one said a word.

“How Do I Look?”

•June 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Beautiful. Like you always do.

 

(Que melodramatic music.)

 

Your clothes don’t make me think of you.

Your heart does. 

Your face does.

Your smile does.

Your brain does. 

 

You are beautiful.

 

(Press pause… Just for now.)

 

The Incalculably Odd Events of Gregor Matthaeus and Reginald (paragraph 1 as a poem)

•June 18, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Gregor Matthaeus sat on the Davenport

in what was once his parent’s living room,

dressed as if he were Edward VIII

right down to the bowler hat, and wingtip shoes.

He clutched in his left hand his most prized possession:

a black and silver umbrella,

or as he had learned  from his dearest

and oldest friend, Reginald

it could also be called

a brolly,

a parapluie,

a rainshade,

a sunshade,

a gamp,

an umbrolly,

or,

his personal favorite,

bumbershoot…

Davenport, he chuckled…

what a silly,

stupid word.

It’s a couch, he thought.

He was correct. It was a silly and stupid word,

and because there existed a much better word,

in his opinion,

he had difficulty accepting that “davenport” was in fact correct.

But because of his English ancestry,

his partial English upbringing,

and the fact that his parents never

let go of England,

even though Gregor and his house lived in America,

it was, and will

forever be a Davenport.

 
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