wedged betwixt the majestic moments
involving penn 8 and schoolyard.
there were stormless interludes when the woman
who played host to my parasite
gave me, whether crisp, or thin and wrinkled,
a dollar that smelled like cigaretted hair
and brown paper bags chock pregnant with peanut
shells and unwashed denim knuckles.
a charter to venture off to westy’s to get her a skor bar.
i would buy a cherry cola slice in the glass
bottle that had the styrofoam label
that was so much fun to take off.
the walk back, a simmered saunter.
nobody was around except for that Indian kid
with the dog statues in his front windows.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
that space
when my brother smiles
you’d expect a cuckoo bird
to pop out of that space.
tell you what
time it is. Running away
from tom, jerry goes
into that obligatory hole
of safety and rodent-brained chicanery.
on cloudless days with lips
divorced, the sun’s oomph
finds it way into and on his
mouth muscle warming it
up so that it’s limber
enough to follow his brain’s
whistle instructions
to be performed through
that un-hung piece of drywall
that stolen piano key
that busted chiclet
that missing picket.
his shrill alarm makes me
foot-stab the horizontal pedal. It ends the
reversing. I throw his truck
in park. I watch him
through the rearview mirror.
he opens the tailgate because he’s helping
me. Again. there’s a few things
he'd like to tell me but he just smiles
and laughs with that trademark
incomplete grin
my dad’s fist made famous.
you’d expect a cuckoo bird
to pop out of that space.
tell you what
time it is. Running away
from tom, jerry goes
into that obligatory hole
of safety and rodent-brained chicanery.
on cloudless days with lips
divorced, the sun’s oomph
finds it way into and on his
mouth muscle warming it
up so that it’s limber
enough to follow his brain’s
whistle instructions
to be performed through
that un-hung piece of drywall
that stolen piano key
that busted chiclet
that missing picket.
his shrill alarm makes me
foot-stab the horizontal pedal. It ends the
reversing. I throw his truck
in park. I watch him
through the rearview mirror.
he opens the tailgate because he’s helping
me. Again. there’s a few things
he'd like to tell me but he just smiles
and laughs with that trademark
incomplete grin
my dad’s fist made famous.
Monday, January 09, 2006
friction
it wasn’t enough
that he put down the drink
ceased to behave like a nova monkey
and began to take the necessary steps.
bought you a house
that he could sleep in while he wasn’t
working both jobs that couldn’t work
as a team because of how different they were.
the jobs.
not enough. he
got a second overpriced piece
of paper with some school‘s
name on it while you bore
children up his ass
superdad
tee shirts to class on his frame
alien to all
that chanced him. Became tireless
self don king-er because niche
required filling.
just enough
sand has filled lower half of hour
glass for you to tell him
about sins extramarital maybe
you should go
to your mom’s house for a while
I’ll stay here with the kids.
enough onlookers
could’ve told him it was imminent
it was a newborn growing
teeth it was enamel losing
it’s luster tarnished from the start
like Valdezed sea life it was
bogged down and stuck
never to rise
unlike pungency of intruder’s
friction that singed his cilia
and burned down the progress
he hoped flame retardant.
that he put down the drink
ceased to behave like a nova monkey
and began to take the necessary steps.
bought you a house
that he could sleep in while he wasn’t
working both jobs that couldn’t work
as a team because of how different they were.
the jobs.
not enough. he
got a second overpriced piece
of paper with some school‘s
name on it while you bore
children up his ass
superdad
tee shirts to class on his frame
alien to all
that chanced him. Became tireless
self don king-er because niche
required filling.
just enough
sand has filled lower half of hour
glass for you to tell him
about sins extramarital maybe
you should go
to your mom’s house for a while
I’ll stay here with the kids.
enough onlookers
could’ve told him it was imminent
it was a newborn growing
teeth it was enamel losing
it’s luster tarnished from the start
like Valdezed sea life it was
bogged down and stuck
never to rise
unlike pungency of intruder’s
friction that singed his cilia
and burned down the progress
he hoped flame retardant.
Friday, January 06, 2006
sorry that you dropped
forsaken insulin brought things to a head
I would’ve made nice if I knew you’d be dead
burned and urned.
by the Almighty, four kids feel spurned
shocked now, but wait for the birthdays
the first days of spring, oldest might want to play first base
thirsty daughter won’t have dad taking her to get
chocolate water ice or whatever she likes that’s wet
to quench her thirst, ‘cause your heart burst
middle two scared white like chief race in Benson Hurst
when they found you in the bathroom
you felt sick they said, unaware of soon doom
left from their sight a broken boomerang
failed to return from the head, didn’t hear the clang
pots and pans, bottlerockets’ annual boist’rousness
your number was up. God’s choice must rest.
but man, I’m sorry I was an asshole and never did quit
I postured while drunk too much. I’m sorry. That’s it.
I would’ve made nice if I knew you’d be dead
burned and urned.
by the Almighty, four kids feel spurned
shocked now, but wait for the birthdays
the first days of spring, oldest might want to play first base
thirsty daughter won’t have dad taking her to get
chocolate water ice or whatever she likes that’s wet
to quench her thirst, ‘cause your heart burst
middle two scared white like chief race in Benson Hurst
when they found you in the bathroom
you felt sick they said, unaware of soon doom
left from their sight a broken boomerang
failed to return from the head, didn’t hear the clang
pots and pans, bottlerockets’ annual boist’rousness
your number was up. God’s choice must rest.
but man, I’m sorry I was an asshole and never did quit
I postured while drunk too much. I’m sorry. That’s it.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Resolution
What I was thinking about, when he was talking about being a ghost, was how I could change everything if I could keep this moment together and somehow get the mohawk-man to the police. Visions of sitcom crime-fighters and neighborhood heroism, complete with a key to the city and the gratitude of a shaken but now reassured public. I could take that moment, and turn it all around. (Surely, this was the result of the surge of endorphins or whatever it was that surged around when you had a high-tension situation like chasing a home invader through the streets of your hometown.)
Then everything went black, owing to a surprisingly fast moving IBM Selectric II typewriter hitting me from my quarry's general direction.
And what I remember next is this: When I was a kid, I fell off a rope swing during a snowstorm in the dazzling, dizzying days between school's end and Christmas itself. I was pretty young, though I don't remember my exact age. My parents had separated -- or maybe divorced -- relatively recently, and goofing around on the rope swing in the snow felt lighter than air. It felt like the easiest, most wonderful thing I had done in forever. Everything else had been so hard lately. Christmas was going to be hard. Going to Catholic school with divorced parents was hard. Pretty much anything life could gin up at that point left me exhausted.
I was in the backyard of a kid who wasn't really a friend anymore. The snow and the general breakdown of the rules of neighborhood play -- the normal groupings, the rivalries, the mean blow-offs that defined the carefully nuanced world of pre-teen boys -- put a bunch of us together who were old friends by proximity, but who really meant nothing to each other at the moment. That these boys weren't really friends probably contributed to my lightness; I felt I had nothing to lose.
Twilight was quickly turning to night, my hands were cold, and I have no doubt that the bones in my hand were certain they were gripping the old rope swing as tightly as they could. Once I hit the ground, I recall figuring that it was probably better -- definitely easier -- to just remain where I fell, listening to the sound of these half-stranger former friends run to get their parents, experiencing the exquisite pain of a greenstick fracture of my wrist, lying on my back in a foot of snow, and feeling more land on my face and neck.
Then everything went black, owing to a surprisingly fast moving IBM Selectric II typewriter hitting me from my quarry's general direction.
And what I remember next is this: When I was a kid, I fell off a rope swing during a snowstorm in the dazzling, dizzying days between school's end and Christmas itself. I was pretty young, though I don't remember my exact age. My parents had separated -- or maybe divorced -- relatively recently, and goofing around on the rope swing in the snow felt lighter than air. It felt like the easiest, most wonderful thing I had done in forever. Everything else had been so hard lately. Christmas was going to be hard. Going to Catholic school with divorced parents was hard. Pretty much anything life could gin up at that point left me exhausted.
I was in the backyard of a kid who wasn't really a friend anymore. The snow and the general breakdown of the rules of neighborhood play -- the normal groupings, the rivalries, the mean blow-offs that defined the carefully nuanced world of pre-teen boys -- put a bunch of us together who were old friends by proximity, but who really meant nothing to each other at the moment. That these boys weren't really friends probably contributed to my lightness; I felt I had nothing to lose.
Twilight was quickly turning to night, my hands were cold, and I have no doubt that the bones in my hand were certain they were gripping the old rope swing as tightly as they could. Once I hit the ground, I recall figuring that it was probably better -- definitely easier -- to just remain where I fell, listening to the sound of these half-stranger former friends run to get their parents, experiencing the exquisite pain of a greenstick fracture of my wrist, lying on my back in a foot of snow, and feeling more land on my face and neck.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
The Product of Inspiration
Something did occur when I put the pince-nez on my nose.
And no, it wasn't an infection, though my wife was quick to suggest that outcome when she first set eyes on the victorian spectacles.
I had begun to write, like I knew what I was doing. I spun a tale I thought magnificent. After the half-assed computer I had been using sort of had a melt-down (technology isn't my specialty), I pulled out an IBM Selectric II I had brought from my mom's house after she moved in with my sister. I had reams of slightly yellowed paper from a short-lived experiment with contract work I had done for an office supply company. The pince-nez, the typewriter, the weathered sheets of too-thick paper like mounds of foolscap, they all conspired in my favor. I was writing.
I was maybe even a writer.
The garage and I still stank. I was afraid to stop working because the spell would be broken, the magnificent little muse who had settled in among the squalor would be chased off by deodorants and soap, not to mention the leaf-blowing my wife was agitating for.
I wrote thirty pages one day. The story revolved around the possibility that Stevie Ray Vaughan had faked his death in a helicopter accident, and was now living a suburban life outside of Los Angeles. The intriguing bit was that unlike with Elvis or whoever, nobody had ever entertained the possibility that SRV wasn't dead; it was such an unlikely scenario that a bunch of people in the entertainment business knew it was a hoax and nobody wanted to bother Stevie anyhow.
The story was really moving along.
One completely insane fan had pursued the theory after a chance encounter with SRV at gas station in Alameda, and had set in motion a complicated plot involving cultists, real estate investors and the mob. Things were building to a climax I couldn't quite completely envision but I figured my muse would deliver.
I was completely mistaken.
It all came crashing to a halt on a Thursday afternoon. It was misting outside and I had a thorough aversion to the rain. Still, I believed I could slip into the trance and bang out a few more pages before heading in for some soup. But the seat I had sat in for weeks had somehow grown hard and uncomfortable overnight. The shed's cozy humidity had become a bone-chilling miasma, and I could barely function in the room.
I knew right away it was all gone, that I was finished, that the entire thing had been a fluke. I put out onto the street, wandering aimlessly. I was adrift.
Our street wound around to a little sort of loop of houses isolated from the things around them. The loop probably existed before the confluence of two highways boxed it off and made it seem like a city planning snafu. It was here I ended up, counting perfectly-spaced gaps in the sidewalk, and noticing old cars and blight that I thought might be worthy of a photograph someday.
Then I saw the man with the mohawk.
It wasn't a mohawk like a punk-rocker might have wore. It was a mohawk like the last of the Mohicans would sport. It was nearly as wide as his whole head, and beneath it were two narrow bands of scruffly shaved skin and two ears sticking out.
Our neighborhood and others in the region had been terrorized, using the word that the local newspaper used, by a person who was breaking into unoccupied houses, eating food and taking a few light, moderately expensive items. In one house, he ate half a cake, cutting it neatly and placing it on a plate, apparently while watching television, based on where the crumbs were found. In another house, he had taken a Bose wave radio and eight of fifty-seven cds. He appeared to enjoy Broadway musicals.
All of his crimes were ones of opportunity. The houses were empty and usually a back door or large window was left unlocked. The size and nature of the missing objects pointed to an individual working alone and possibly on foot, since he hadn't taken television sets, desktop computers, KitchenAid mixers or other heavy high-value items. One police detective noted that nothing was taken twice, meaning he only stole one computer (a laptop) and then one stereo (the Bose) and then a sampling of music selections, and then a cheap hand-mixer. "It's like he doesn't know where the Target is," the detective joked.
Nobody had spotted the man in the act, but a handful of shutins and swing-shift types had mentioned seeing an otherwise unmemorable man with an unusual haircut. One said it was an immense pompadour, long on top and very short on the sides. Another said it looked like a mohawk.
I had reached the back of the loop of houses. The constant windy sound of cars on the interstate behind the sound-absorbing wall was almost like the ocean. I was looking down and began to turn around when I thought I saw something dropping out of the corner of my eye. When I looked back, nothing seemed strange. I was looking at the space between two houses, and could see a shed behind one of the two. I must have imagined movement, or spotted a cat or a squirrel on its daily patrol.
Then, as I looked, a man leaned out of the window of one house. He didn't look my way, concerning himself with looking below the window, about a five foot drop. His head ducked back inside the window and then his feet came out, and his torso, and I heard a thumping sound over the car-surf whooshing noise, and the man fell from view. He had a mohawk.
Looking back, I guess it was pretty clear throughout this period in my life that I was depressed and maybe a little manic. I had never really analyzed the situation before, but I had the mood swings, the periods of soaring emotional highs (like the writing spasm that had just crashed to a close), and the moments of deep despair. People say that these can be controlled with medication, of course, but that other factors, such as adrenal surges and personal tragedies could also affect the emotional status. I had read an article about an athlete who fell into a depression whenever he wasn't in the height of his competitive season, apparently because the adrenaline surge served as a medical check on his natural up and down shift.
I stood on the sidewalk for maybe ten seconds after spotting the man leave the window. What I had seen before, I concluded, was his latest acquisition. He dropped or lowered it out and then jumped after it. There was no-one else around, and destiny, I thought in the final seconds of my reverie, had placed me here on this curb to witness his crime.
I dropped into a crouch. Everything was moving slowly and I felt like Spider-Man. Staying low and keeping an eye on where he fell, I moved along the grass just off the sidewalk to make less sound. I got to the house nearest his latest target and pushed my back against the front wall, lower than the windowline, edging toward the gap between the two homes.
I reached the corner and stole a peek at the mohawk-man. He was lying on the ground but wasn't unconscience or anything. He had hurt himself, maybe bumped his head coming through the window. He was blinking his eyes and then touched his forehead tenderly.
I jumped him.
It doesn't make any sense. This person is a criminal, obviously, and prepared for something like this to happen eventually. Maybe I thought his compromised position gave me an edge. I was obviously not thinking straight myself. We struggled for a few second and he reached for the small duffle bag next to him. I tried to kick his arm as he reached and ended up overextending myself and losing my balance, coming up short. He reached the bag and swung it toward me landing a blow in the general area of my shoulder, neck and head.
I fell over and he took off. I felt stupid, but at the same time figured I had started this so I might as well keep going. I was still feeling a rush, and he wasn't running that fast. But he was running toward my house.
For some reason, I shouted as I ran after him. What I said sounded strange to my ears even as I ran. I said "Now hold on a minute" and "Hey hold up now" and other random, Andy Griffin-like things. I don't know why. The mohawk man didn't say anything.
But he was definitely running right toward my house. Then he ran around the far side along the drive way and I thought that I might have him. I took the deceptively quicker route to the back yard and thought I heard the shed door slam. I grabbed a snow shovel, which is not a good weapon, if you're interested. I kicked the door open and the mohawk man was standing there in the middle of my shed. He looked tired. I am certain I did, too.
He looked around and lunged for the spool I previously had been sitting on, nearly knocking over the IBM Selectric II. I shouted to watch the typewriter and he tossed the spool at me. I swatted at it with the snow shovel and hit him in the process (swinging a snow shovel inside a shed leaves little untouched). He went down and sprawled across the typewriter, the pile of typed pages and the mound of blank paper. I jumped on his back and tried to put him in some kind of a headlock. I was basically completely insane at this point, protecting my masterpiece like a mother hen.
Then he said, "Is this your house?"
"What?"
He stopped struggling. "Is this your house?"
I thought for a second about what the impact of telling him the truth would be. Probably erroneously, I concluded that it would be okay. "Yeah, this is my house."
"You writing the book about Stevie Ray Vaughan?"
"Wait a second. You read my book?"
"I break into houses."
"But you broke into my shed and read my book?"
He had apparently snuck into the shed one night while I was inside the house watching tv. He thought the book was going well, and wanted to know how I would end it. I was still sitting on his back at this point.
I didn't know what to do. Nobody had been permitted to read the book (not as if there was some huge interest from anyone in my house), because I probably didn't want to know what anybody thought. I got off his back and tried to sound gruff. "Get up."
"I think it's a good start. I thought about writing crime fiction, and even considered writing about my work. Being a non-violent offender, seeing the lives of these people in your neighborhood from the inside for a couple hours a day, I've become more thoughtful about my career choice." He stood up and I meaningfully brandished the snow shovel in a way I thought menacing.
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. Afterwards, I would note that he had confessed to me.
"More than half the time, I don't even take anything. It's like when you're in someone's house, and you use the bathroom. You don't even know why, but you wonder what's in their medicine cabinet, or what shampoo they use, or if they have migraines, or hair loss, or whatever. That impulse is there, even if you don't realize it. What I'm doing isn't much more than that."
"You're breaking into people's houses," I said, thinking this maybe needed to get mentioned.
"It's hardly breaking in if the door or window is open. Besides, I was tired of that same live I was living. I was worked in a loading dock, dividing up and passing time box by box. Nobody cares about the guy in the loading dock. I realized I didn't care about me either. One day I was walking around my neighborhood and noticed a sliding glass door open. In I went, and I ate an apple, and left. Nobody noticed, and I started to feel like a ghost, like I was half invisible. I never went back to the loading dock, and I don't even think anybody thought to ask where I was."
Maybe this was designed just to elicit sympathy from me. It wasn't really that sad of a story, unless you happened to have a loading dock -- or local outlet of a gigantic coffee conglomerate -- of your own. Whichever. What it made me start thinking about was that I could change it all, right now, if I took the steps to get a few things back into synch. This wasn't any way to live, and I probably had enough excuses to keep trying like this for years, but it wasn't going to make any difference. If it wasn't the coffeeshop, or this idiotic backyard writer's workshop bullshit it would be something else. Who is convinced by this?
Then he hit me with the typewriter.
And no, it wasn't an infection, though my wife was quick to suggest that outcome when she first set eyes on the victorian spectacles.
I had begun to write, like I knew what I was doing. I spun a tale I thought magnificent. After the half-assed computer I had been using sort of had a melt-down (technology isn't my specialty), I pulled out an IBM Selectric II I had brought from my mom's house after she moved in with my sister. I had reams of slightly yellowed paper from a short-lived experiment with contract work I had done for an office supply company. The pince-nez, the typewriter, the weathered sheets of too-thick paper like mounds of foolscap, they all conspired in my favor. I was writing.
I was maybe even a writer.
The garage and I still stank. I was afraid to stop working because the spell would be broken, the magnificent little muse who had settled in among the squalor would be chased off by deodorants and soap, not to mention the leaf-blowing my wife was agitating for.
I wrote thirty pages one day. The story revolved around the possibility that Stevie Ray Vaughan had faked his death in a helicopter accident, and was now living a suburban life outside of Los Angeles. The intriguing bit was that unlike with Elvis or whoever, nobody had ever entertained the possibility that SRV wasn't dead; it was such an unlikely scenario that a bunch of people in the entertainment business knew it was a hoax and nobody wanted to bother Stevie anyhow.
The story was really moving along.
One completely insane fan had pursued the theory after a chance encounter with SRV at gas station in Alameda, and had set in motion a complicated plot involving cultists, real estate investors and the mob. Things were building to a climax I couldn't quite completely envision but I figured my muse would deliver.
I was completely mistaken.
It all came crashing to a halt on a Thursday afternoon. It was misting outside and I had a thorough aversion to the rain. Still, I believed I could slip into the trance and bang out a few more pages before heading in for some soup. But the seat I had sat in for weeks had somehow grown hard and uncomfortable overnight. The shed's cozy humidity had become a bone-chilling miasma, and I could barely function in the room.
I knew right away it was all gone, that I was finished, that the entire thing had been a fluke. I put out onto the street, wandering aimlessly. I was adrift.
Our street wound around to a little sort of loop of houses isolated from the things around them. The loop probably existed before the confluence of two highways boxed it off and made it seem like a city planning snafu. It was here I ended up, counting perfectly-spaced gaps in the sidewalk, and noticing old cars and blight that I thought might be worthy of a photograph someday.
Then I saw the man with the mohawk.
It wasn't a mohawk like a punk-rocker might have wore. It was a mohawk like the last of the Mohicans would sport. It was nearly as wide as his whole head, and beneath it were two narrow bands of scruffly shaved skin and two ears sticking out.
Our neighborhood and others in the region had been terrorized, using the word that the local newspaper used, by a person who was breaking into unoccupied houses, eating food and taking a few light, moderately expensive items. In one house, he ate half a cake, cutting it neatly and placing it on a plate, apparently while watching television, based on where the crumbs were found. In another house, he had taken a Bose wave radio and eight of fifty-seven cds. He appeared to enjoy Broadway musicals.
All of his crimes were ones of opportunity. The houses were empty and usually a back door or large window was left unlocked. The size and nature of the missing objects pointed to an individual working alone and possibly on foot, since he hadn't taken television sets, desktop computers, KitchenAid mixers or other heavy high-value items. One police detective noted that nothing was taken twice, meaning he only stole one computer (a laptop) and then one stereo (the Bose) and then a sampling of music selections, and then a cheap hand-mixer. "It's like he doesn't know where the Target is," the detective joked.
Nobody had spotted the man in the act, but a handful of shutins and swing-shift types had mentioned seeing an otherwise unmemorable man with an unusual haircut. One said it was an immense pompadour, long on top and very short on the sides. Another said it looked like a mohawk.
I had reached the back of the loop of houses. The constant windy sound of cars on the interstate behind the sound-absorbing wall was almost like the ocean. I was looking down and began to turn around when I thought I saw something dropping out of the corner of my eye. When I looked back, nothing seemed strange. I was looking at the space between two houses, and could see a shed behind one of the two. I must have imagined movement, or spotted a cat or a squirrel on its daily patrol.
Then, as I looked, a man leaned out of the window of one house. He didn't look my way, concerning himself with looking below the window, about a five foot drop. His head ducked back inside the window and then his feet came out, and his torso, and I heard a thumping sound over the car-surf whooshing noise, and the man fell from view. He had a mohawk.
Looking back, I guess it was pretty clear throughout this period in my life that I was depressed and maybe a little manic. I had never really analyzed the situation before, but I had the mood swings, the periods of soaring emotional highs (like the writing spasm that had just crashed to a close), and the moments of deep despair. People say that these can be controlled with medication, of course, but that other factors, such as adrenal surges and personal tragedies could also affect the emotional status. I had read an article about an athlete who fell into a depression whenever he wasn't in the height of his competitive season, apparently because the adrenaline surge served as a medical check on his natural up and down shift.
I stood on the sidewalk for maybe ten seconds after spotting the man leave the window. What I had seen before, I concluded, was his latest acquisition. He dropped or lowered it out and then jumped after it. There was no-one else around, and destiny, I thought in the final seconds of my reverie, had placed me here on this curb to witness his crime.
I dropped into a crouch. Everything was moving slowly and I felt like Spider-Man. Staying low and keeping an eye on where he fell, I moved along the grass just off the sidewalk to make less sound. I got to the house nearest his latest target and pushed my back against the front wall, lower than the windowline, edging toward the gap between the two homes.
I reached the corner and stole a peek at the mohawk-man. He was lying on the ground but wasn't unconscience or anything. He had hurt himself, maybe bumped his head coming through the window. He was blinking his eyes and then touched his forehead tenderly.
I jumped him.
It doesn't make any sense. This person is a criminal, obviously, and prepared for something like this to happen eventually. Maybe I thought his compromised position gave me an edge. I was obviously not thinking straight myself. We struggled for a few second and he reached for the small duffle bag next to him. I tried to kick his arm as he reached and ended up overextending myself and losing my balance, coming up short. He reached the bag and swung it toward me landing a blow in the general area of my shoulder, neck and head.
I fell over and he took off. I felt stupid, but at the same time figured I had started this so I might as well keep going. I was still feeling a rush, and he wasn't running that fast. But he was running toward my house.
For some reason, I shouted as I ran after him. What I said sounded strange to my ears even as I ran. I said "Now hold on a minute" and "Hey hold up now" and other random, Andy Griffin-like things. I don't know why. The mohawk man didn't say anything.
But he was definitely running right toward my house. Then he ran around the far side along the drive way and I thought that I might have him. I took the deceptively quicker route to the back yard and thought I heard the shed door slam. I grabbed a snow shovel, which is not a good weapon, if you're interested. I kicked the door open and the mohawk man was standing there in the middle of my shed. He looked tired. I am certain I did, too.
He looked around and lunged for the spool I previously had been sitting on, nearly knocking over the IBM Selectric II. I shouted to watch the typewriter and he tossed the spool at me. I swatted at it with the snow shovel and hit him in the process (swinging a snow shovel inside a shed leaves little untouched). He went down and sprawled across the typewriter, the pile of typed pages and the mound of blank paper. I jumped on his back and tried to put him in some kind of a headlock. I was basically completely insane at this point, protecting my masterpiece like a mother hen.
Then he said, "Is this your house?"
"What?"
He stopped struggling. "Is this your house?"
I thought for a second about what the impact of telling him the truth would be. Probably erroneously, I concluded that it would be okay. "Yeah, this is my house."
"You writing the book about Stevie Ray Vaughan?"
"Wait a second. You read my book?"
"I break into houses."
"But you broke into my shed and read my book?"
He had apparently snuck into the shed one night while I was inside the house watching tv. He thought the book was going well, and wanted to know how I would end it. I was still sitting on his back at this point.
I didn't know what to do. Nobody had been permitted to read the book (not as if there was some huge interest from anyone in my house), because I probably didn't want to know what anybody thought. I got off his back and tried to sound gruff. "Get up."
"I think it's a good start. I thought about writing crime fiction, and even considered writing about my work. Being a non-violent offender, seeing the lives of these people in your neighborhood from the inside for a couple hours a day, I've become more thoughtful about my career choice." He stood up and I meaningfully brandished the snow shovel in a way I thought menacing.
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. Afterwards, I would note that he had confessed to me.
"More than half the time, I don't even take anything. It's like when you're in someone's house, and you use the bathroom. You don't even know why, but you wonder what's in their medicine cabinet, or what shampoo they use, or if they have migraines, or hair loss, or whatever. That impulse is there, even if you don't realize it. What I'm doing isn't much more than that."
"You're breaking into people's houses," I said, thinking this maybe needed to get mentioned.
"It's hardly breaking in if the door or window is open. Besides, I was tired of that same live I was living. I was worked in a loading dock, dividing up and passing time box by box. Nobody cares about the guy in the loading dock. I realized I didn't care about me either. One day I was walking around my neighborhood and noticed a sliding glass door open. In I went, and I ate an apple, and left. Nobody noticed, and I started to feel like a ghost, like I was half invisible. I never went back to the loading dock, and I don't even think anybody thought to ask where I was."
Maybe this was designed just to elicit sympathy from me. It wasn't really that sad of a story, unless you happened to have a loading dock -- or local outlet of a gigantic coffee conglomerate -- of your own. Whichever. What it made me start thinking about was that I could change it all, right now, if I took the steps to get a few things back into synch. This wasn't any way to live, and I probably had enough excuses to keep trying like this for years, but it wasn't going to make any difference. If it wasn't the coffeeshop, or this idiotic backyard writer's workshop bullshit it would be something else. Who is convinced by this?
Then he hit me with the typewriter.
doldrum haiku
I
joyous holidays
annual beacon of joy
fleeting and migrant
II
striped turf in Philly
peppered with mistakes and hurt
tear salt saturates
III
midnight green now blue
high expectations cut down
eagles nurse deep wounds
IV
friend lost a brother
hard to accept raven’s news
he mourns like before
V
circuitous wheel
continues with birth of girl
Maryland daughter
VI
tea kettle whistles
reminds me to be grateful
rain blitzkriegs windows
VII
February late
the purple promise of spring
crocus I adore
joyous holidays
annual beacon of joy
fleeting and migrant
II
striped turf in Philly
peppered with mistakes and hurt
tear salt saturates
III
midnight green now blue
high expectations cut down
eagles nurse deep wounds
IV
friend lost a brother
hard to accept raven’s news
he mourns like before
V
circuitous wheel
continues with birth of girl
Maryland daughter
VI
tea kettle whistles
reminds me to be grateful
rain blitzkriegs windows
VII
February late
the purple promise of spring
crocus I adore
Monday, January 02, 2006
Strum and Strut
I got plumage, man.
Just how life can spawn
from a hot trashcan I manage to wake
After beers and jeers
New year’s
feathers never been better
come down and peruse
there’s a reason
I love a parade!
Still gets blurted
Furtive glances don’t get
Glanced.
Any chance you’ll come
Down?
You frown
with hangover malaise
phase one of the reconstruct
of your life begins today.
I know. At least one day
of procrastination
carried over from that bastard
2005.
Exhaust it with me and my downy mates.
Your house is warm,
but we strum and strut
with a radiance that only
Apollo can bestow.
You know
it’s been a while
since your senses
have been barraged with
a melodious one-two.
Three or four spots
have just opened up
on the sidewalk,
there’s plenty of__________space.
As we grace
Broad with tonal fury
appeasing the Petrified Penn
on asphalt grids
of his design.
Divine on his throne--
The Hall of the City
giving thanks to Thee
Quaker and Maker Of All
that you see.
Free of charge
we laud the new face
of Janus and the city
that thrives in your heart
apart from all others.
Brothers share your
flasked malt
and revel in the shadow
of the Clothespin.
It’s not cold.
You got your whiskey
and I got plumage, man.
Just how life can spawn
from a hot trashcan I manage to wake
After beers and jeers
New year’s
feathers never been better
come down and peruse
there’s a reason
I love a parade!
Still gets blurted
Furtive glances don’t get
Glanced.
Any chance you’ll come
Down?
You frown
with hangover malaise
phase one of the reconstruct
of your life begins today.
I know. At least one day
of procrastination
carried over from that bastard
2005.
Exhaust it with me and my downy mates.
Your house is warm,
but we strum and strut
with a radiance that only
Apollo can bestow.
You know
it’s been a while
since your senses
have been barraged with
a melodious one-two.
Three or four spots
have just opened up
on the sidewalk,
there’s plenty of__________space.
As we grace
Broad with tonal fury
appeasing the Petrified Penn
on asphalt grids
of his design.
Divine on his throne--
The Hall of the City
giving thanks to Thee
Quaker and Maker Of All
that you see.
Free of charge
we laud the new face
of Janus and the city
that thrives in your heart
apart from all others.
Brothers share your
flasked malt
and revel in the shadow
of the Clothespin.
It’s not cold.
You got your whiskey
and I got plumage, man.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
To Be Told
He knew me bloody
A babe from the womb helpless
Put down the Cutty
Grabbed ma’am, completely selfless
Drove out here kissed his daughter
Held me like Styrofoam brittle
Gave her the blanket he bought her
Dropped back (home) like Y.A. Tittle
Overseas mp, gloves of gold
Shipped Hitler’s hounds to and fro
Made it possible for last poem to be told
Sidearm fired. stormtroop blood salted sea below
Too many sweaty sleeps
Grabbed the bottle tried to forget
Remains how last rock on jetty creeps
Above salinity once high tide has set
Born August 1917 two monthses
Before October revolution of red
Lingers still. long past CCCP dunces
That believed greed wouldn’t poison like lead
Hard and bent like hammer and sickle
Sergeant of vigor reduced to Hee-Haw reruns
Well-traveled. Soul calloused like Tamanend’s thick heel
Cirrhosis and electro-shock therapy weigh tons
Two girl children. One gone
The other, my mother still around managing
Prostate checkups, pacemakers that stole his brawn
Oldwife co-loiters in life’s halls. pill brandishing
Man-machine antiquated like Chevy’s in Cuba
Broken and battered just lying whilst heaving
Skeeving kin because smell from him, dead fish in Aruba
Endurance and fast-twitch muscles gone, dignity not leaving
Dignified pride like a monstrous citadel
Staving off my attempts to sugar talk him into the shower
I don’t want to tell him he stinks, hygiene pitiful
Around geriatric nuisances I shimmy. still that infant in the womb I cower
A babe from the womb helpless
Put down the Cutty
Grabbed ma’am, completely selfless
Drove out here kissed his daughter
Held me like Styrofoam brittle
Gave her the blanket he bought her
Dropped back (home) like Y.A. Tittle
Overseas mp, gloves of gold
Shipped Hitler’s hounds to and fro
Made it possible for last poem to be told
Sidearm fired. stormtroop blood salted sea below
Too many sweaty sleeps
Grabbed the bottle tried to forget
Remains how last rock on jetty creeps
Above salinity once high tide has set
Born August 1917 two monthses
Before October revolution of red
Lingers still. long past CCCP dunces
That believed greed wouldn’t poison like lead
Hard and bent like hammer and sickle
Sergeant of vigor reduced to Hee-Haw reruns
Well-traveled. Soul calloused like Tamanend’s thick heel
Cirrhosis and electro-shock therapy weigh tons
Two girl children. One gone
The other, my mother still around managing
Prostate checkups, pacemakers that stole his brawn
Oldwife co-loiters in life’s halls. pill brandishing
Man-machine antiquated like Chevy’s in Cuba
Broken and battered just lying whilst heaving
Skeeving kin because smell from him, dead fish in Aruba
Endurance and fast-twitch muscles gone, dignity not leaving
Dignified pride like a monstrous citadel
Staving off my attempts to sugar talk him into the shower
I don’t want to tell him he stinks, hygiene pitiful
Around geriatric nuisances I shimmy. still that infant in the womb I cower
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Benettonenbaum
The fiery orator would’ve been in his grave, rotisserie.
Appalled at the state of the free world. My house specifically.
Hairs on neck erect,
needles on your average Black Forest Tannenbaum Christmas Tree.
Speaking of the devil, the plaster innards of my domicile were ablaze,
Friendly fir peppered with lights of various hues,
No popped corn lassoed ‘round,
Just ornamental intrinsic from days of yore clutching limbs like blue jays.
Even El Duce’s animated addresses proclaiming racial purity,
Never talked about mick, a spik, camel-jockey, and kyke,
United like wasps. Buzzed.
Sharing the joy of the grape, toasting the Axis Powers’ fade into obscurity.
Appalled at the state of the free world. My house specifically.
Hairs on neck erect,
needles on your average Black Forest Tannenbaum Christmas Tree.
Speaking of the devil, the plaster innards of my domicile were ablaze,
Friendly fir peppered with lights of various hues,
No popped corn lassoed ‘round,
Just ornamental intrinsic from days of yore clutching limbs like blue jays.
Even El Duce’s animated addresses proclaiming racial purity,
Never talked about mick, a spik, camel-jockey, and kyke,
United like wasps. Buzzed.
Sharing the joy of the grape, toasting the Axis Powers’ fade into obscurity.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Honey, It's True
Flat and circular. One side wet, the other dry.
Host placed on a tongue by the only priest in Dubai.
Windows on U-boat stalking destroyers on the zigzag,
Could also fit the description laid out in the first line. You dig?
Dag.
A favorite word for kids not brave enough to say damn,
Ever cautious that pop was around the corner with hands of ham,
Cracking the first underage mouth that uttered words profane,
So it was in the first days of television ads for Rogaine.
That was big news. For yous. New hair hopes weren’t so grim,
Back when Polynesian sibling singing act got it all over him,
Honey it’s true. Reuters is reporting some ill shit all the time,
Brokaw’s talking about how chicken sickens, human cloning’s here, but still a crime.
Nanotechnology, robot vacuum cleaners, SARS and AIDS got married,
Had a little virus baby, they gave birth to it in some poor bastard that carried,
Diseases started by some brainiac-fuck, control-freak. White coat, white sleeves.
No foresight as to what kind of tracks treading into virgin snow might leave.
I grieve to think about what life’s gonna offer when I’m long in the tooth,
Perhaps one of Ponce De Leon’s descendants will find that fountain of youth,
Unlikely. Me and everyone I know will be old, popping pills trying not to die.
Dropped train token in a puddle; one side wet, the other dry.
Host placed on a tongue by the only priest in Dubai.
Windows on U-boat stalking destroyers on the zigzag,
Could also fit the description laid out in the first line. You dig?
Dag.
A favorite word for kids not brave enough to say damn,
Ever cautious that pop was around the corner with hands of ham,
Cracking the first underage mouth that uttered words profane,
So it was in the first days of television ads for Rogaine.
That was big news. For yous. New hair hopes weren’t so grim,
Back when Polynesian sibling singing act got it all over him,
Honey it’s true. Reuters is reporting some ill shit all the time,
Brokaw’s talking about how chicken sickens, human cloning’s here, but still a crime.
Nanotechnology, robot vacuum cleaners, SARS and AIDS got married,
Had a little virus baby, they gave birth to it in some poor bastard that carried,
Diseases started by some brainiac-fuck, control-freak. White coat, white sleeves.
No foresight as to what kind of tracks treading into virgin snow might leave.
I grieve to think about what life’s gonna offer when I’m long in the tooth,
Perhaps one of Ponce De Leon’s descendants will find that fountain of youth,
Unlikely. Me and everyone I know will be old, popping pills trying not to die.
Dropped train token in a puddle; one side wet, the other dry.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
A.Y.R.T.E.?
Certainly I’m ready to eat,
What kind of question was that my sweet?
Anything you concoct will be quite suitable,
I just pushed back my filthy white cuticles.
No place at the supping table for dirty mitts,
I just counted out $7.50, or thirty bits,
Where that money’s been, only the chief of the cosmos is privy,
No talk of Him now, my appetite’s open like glasnost in skivvies,
And so is my tooth garage, which will soon be crammed with vehicles
Of caloric gloriousness way better than any Warsaw Falcon pickles.
Cured cukes won’t satiate the beast that lay within,
Nothing can preserve this hunger, not even lecithin,
Because you see, when I arise and make haste toward the kitchen,
I’ll make gluttony chic like only Abercrombie and Fitch can,
But there’ll be no half-naked party boys wearing boxers showing off obliques,
Just a man, his wife and a bunch of food that’s gone like Quebec Nordiques.
What kind of question was that my sweet?
Anything you concoct will be quite suitable,
I just pushed back my filthy white cuticles.
No place at the supping table for dirty mitts,
I just counted out $7.50, or thirty bits,
Where that money’s been, only the chief of the cosmos is privy,
No talk of Him now, my appetite’s open like glasnost in skivvies,
And so is my tooth garage, which will soon be crammed with vehicles
Of caloric gloriousness way better than any Warsaw Falcon pickles.
Cured cukes won’t satiate the beast that lay within,
Nothing can preserve this hunger, not even lecithin,
Because you see, when I arise and make haste toward the kitchen,
I’ll make gluttony chic like only Abercrombie and Fitch can,
But there’ll be no half-naked party boys wearing boxers showing off obliques,
Just a man, his wife and a bunch of food that’s gone like Quebec Nordiques.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Quartet.
I’d like to teach the world to sing,
In perfect harmony, a song that will bring,
A tear to the eye, a choke to the throat,
Drown you deep in a sorrowful moat.
It’s a ditty about four kids in a crew,
Included each other in everything they’d do.
Dodge was the oldest and wasn’t allowed,
Out of his yard like a pit bull that growled.
Until one day his mom said it’s cool,
He didn’t have to come home right after school.
He ran like the wind and scored with the girls,
Too much southern comfort made him hurl.
On hillside’s steps he’d make out with some broad
He told her he loved her, so on his neck she gnawed,
Hickies were abundant and so were the fights,
He’d have with anybody that disrespected his rights.
And so it went, this life that he lead,
Until one night some guy from Jersey damaged his head,
Hit him with a cop barricade, drunk after the Eagles,
Strangers forever, now sudden enemies like foxes and beagles.
A month long coma, coupled with a stroke,
Now makes Dodge a slightly different looking bloke.
A sag to his face, but he still has that smile,
I haven’t seen or talked to him in a while.
A husband with kids, domesticated life,
Has a celebrated past like the drum and fife.
Another was a kid, who grew up on Smick,
Used to have a flattop maintained with wax stick.
He was the youngest and the newest recruit,
Moved down from Pennsdale, dishonest to boot.
He told some tales, of this he never grew out,
He’d tell us about the brand new bike his grandma threw out.
And the wiffle balls and countless ice cream sandwiches,
If he ate pizza for dinner he’d tell you he had manwiches.
Lying just to lie, we never understood it.
The fish tales couldn’t get any worse, really, could it?
Yeah it did, as he got older the treachery intensified,
Spewing mistruths about money and funds that were diversified,
His Pinocchio promises even got a guy locked up,
Writing bad checks. Finally, I think a girl was knocked up.
We always told him people liked him regardless,
He didn’t have to fabricate, Why did he lie? Take a hard guess,
His dad was a bum, nothing to be proud of there,
Mom dated a black dude— that he didn’t wish to share.
Always trying to hide a secret, of which he was ashamed,
The Lyingest Liar there ever was. His claim to fame.
It’s a shame, ‘cause to me he was a little brother,
Always laughing, ripping on people one after the other.
This was who he was, truly a funny dude,
Cracking up at something he found funny made laughs run like crude.
I’m sure he’s still like that to a certain degree,
Last I heard he’s a guy with a family.
Devoid of an epiphany.
Now Timmy, he’d give it to you straight,
If he thought you were fat, he’d ask your weight.
Almost as fast as Dodge, but no honeys to speak of,
His love life was grounded, perhaps like a weak dove.
But he did get a girl or two or three,
Used to rummage The Turtle for softballs, sell them back to the bar league for a fee.
Enjoyed running into the night like a mischievous mustang,
Threw smoke bombs and crab apples. Windows bust. Bang!
One day he just moved, out to the state of Buckeye.
His pop got a new job. His mantra was fuck! why?
Ten hours in a car his family traversed to relocate,
Cincinnati was the pot Timmy stewed in, main ingredient was hate.
He couldn’t stand it, everyone was a dork,
He felt he didn’t belong, he might as well have been Mork.
But we kept in touch, Philly he missed,
That’s what he wrote in his letters to me. Pissed.
We’d see him twice a year. In the summer and Christmas,
Of course, you know we got into some mischief,
Clipping colored lights and throwing anything throwable,
We laughed liked zooted hyenas. The quintessence of mobile.
But this couldn’t last forever; he had to go back,
The thought of returning to Cinci stained his mood black.
He’d leave. Soon things would return to normal,
Until I got a call at school, my mom was real formal,
Timmy crashed his car and ended his life,
He hit another car, in it a guy and his wife.
But they walked away, Timmy stayed right there,
Dead like a lion before having a chance to grow his mare.
And then there’s me, the completion of the quartet,
Gettin' all glassy-eyed over a perfect childhood
infants with Alzheimer’s couldn’t forget.
In perfect harmony, a song that will bring,
A tear to the eye, a choke to the throat,
Drown you deep in a sorrowful moat.
It’s a ditty about four kids in a crew,
Included each other in everything they’d do.
Dodge was the oldest and wasn’t allowed,
Out of his yard like a pit bull that growled.
Until one day his mom said it’s cool,
He didn’t have to come home right after school.
He ran like the wind and scored with the girls,
Too much southern comfort made him hurl.
On hillside’s steps he’d make out with some broad
He told her he loved her, so on his neck she gnawed,
Hickies were abundant and so were the fights,
He’d have with anybody that disrespected his rights.
And so it went, this life that he lead,
Until one night some guy from Jersey damaged his head,
Hit him with a cop barricade, drunk after the Eagles,
Strangers forever, now sudden enemies like foxes and beagles.
A month long coma, coupled with a stroke,
Now makes Dodge a slightly different looking bloke.
A sag to his face, but he still has that smile,
I haven’t seen or talked to him in a while.
A husband with kids, domesticated life,
Has a celebrated past like the drum and fife.
Another was a kid, who grew up on Smick,
Used to have a flattop maintained with wax stick.
He was the youngest and the newest recruit,
Moved down from Pennsdale, dishonest to boot.
He told some tales, of this he never grew out,
He’d tell us about the brand new bike his grandma threw out.
And the wiffle balls and countless ice cream sandwiches,
If he ate pizza for dinner he’d tell you he had manwiches.
Lying just to lie, we never understood it.
The fish tales couldn’t get any worse, really, could it?
Yeah it did, as he got older the treachery intensified,
Spewing mistruths about money and funds that were diversified,
His Pinocchio promises even got a guy locked up,
Writing bad checks. Finally, I think a girl was knocked up.
We always told him people liked him regardless,
He didn’t have to fabricate, Why did he lie? Take a hard guess,
His dad was a bum, nothing to be proud of there,
Mom dated a black dude— that he didn’t wish to share.
Always trying to hide a secret, of which he was ashamed,
The Lyingest Liar there ever was. His claim to fame.
It’s a shame, ‘cause to me he was a little brother,
Always laughing, ripping on people one after the other.
This was who he was, truly a funny dude,
Cracking up at something he found funny made laughs run like crude.
I’m sure he’s still like that to a certain degree,
Last I heard he’s a guy with a family.
Devoid of an epiphany.
Now Timmy, he’d give it to you straight,
If he thought you were fat, he’d ask your weight.
Almost as fast as Dodge, but no honeys to speak of,
His love life was grounded, perhaps like a weak dove.
But he did get a girl or two or three,
Used to rummage The Turtle for softballs, sell them back to the bar league for a fee.
Enjoyed running into the night like a mischievous mustang,
Threw smoke bombs and crab apples. Windows bust. Bang!
One day he just moved, out to the state of Buckeye.
His pop got a new job. His mantra was fuck! why?
Ten hours in a car his family traversed to relocate,
Cincinnati was the pot Timmy stewed in, main ingredient was hate.
He couldn’t stand it, everyone was a dork,
He felt he didn’t belong, he might as well have been Mork.
But we kept in touch, Philly he missed,
That’s what he wrote in his letters to me. Pissed.
We’d see him twice a year. In the summer and Christmas,
Of course, you know we got into some mischief,
Clipping colored lights and throwing anything throwable,
We laughed liked zooted hyenas. The quintessence of mobile.
But this couldn’t last forever; he had to go back,
The thought of returning to Cinci stained his mood black.
He’d leave. Soon things would return to normal,
Until I got a call at school, my mom was real formal,
Timmy crashed his car and ended his life,
He hit another car, in it a guy and his wife.
But they walked away, Timmy stayed right there,
Dead like a lion before having a chance to grow his mare.
And then there’s me, the completion of the quartet,
Gettin' all glassy-eyed over a perfect childhood
infants with Alzheimer’s couldn’t forget.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Murmur-Free
It’s a perfect fit. Like a left handed Koran scriber,
You and me. It’s a must now. It was a must then,
Bits of Smurfette’s tit, swiftly drifting down the Tiber,
Azrael got to the blue blonde. Gargamel’s an Etruscan,
Whether it’s miniscule mushroom huts, Romulus and aqueducts,
I’d elect you over Hanna-Barbera Saturdays wearing a toga,
Even plunking quarters, ducking ghosts, increasing Pacman’s luck.
It’s like I’m the Pro-Bowl and you’re home, ‘cause your Al Noga.
In other words, you’re the best and child hood nor Herodutus can claim it,
My blood spewer, tonight, beats murmur-free, wild with love
No stool, whip, or mustached man can tame it.
You and me. It’s a must now. It was a must then,
Bits of Smurfette’s tit, swiftly drifting down the Tiber,
Azrael got to the blue blonde. Gargamel’s an Etruscan,
Whether it’s miniscule mushroom huts, Romulus and aqueducts,
I’d elect you over Hanna-Barbera Saturdays wearing a toga,
Even plunking quarters, ducking ghosts, increasing Pacman’s luck.
It’s like I’m the Pro-Bowl and you’re home, ‘cause your Al Noga.
In other words, you’re the best and child hood nor Herodutus can claim it,
My blood spewer, tonight, beats murmur-free, wild with love
No stool, whip, or mustached man can tame it.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Polish Poconos
It’s not Broad and Erie; not Seventeenth and Shunk,
It’s better than your car and anything you got in the trunk.
Take a pile of trash; you take a pile of junk,
Put it all up on a hill and you call it Manayunk...
Old head limericks, complete with big, sweaty High Life quarts,
Little kids with dirt rings, broken Chic-O sticks in their knifed shorts.
Trash-truck juice stained streets, nostrils filled with summer,
Dad’s whistling from the door; game over. bummer.
Massive games of build-up, after the sun has run amuck,
Celestial satellite illuminates white parts of telephone-wire Chucks.
Out with the old, in with the new street type ritual,
Get laughed at big time, if your shirt didn’t fit you well.
If you asked me then, it was the center of the galaxy,
There’s other neighborhoods in Philly? Really? You speak fallacy.
Jallousy windows and ribbed green awnings were our favorite marks,
Throwing Grade A’s, Getting chased by a big Mercury, muffler dragging some sparks.
Manayunk, The Polish Poconos. What’s better? You tell me.
Especially when the objects of boyhood desires, on their feet, wore jellies.
Accompanied by stirrups, Aquanet, and Blow-Pops--a little boy’s confusion.
Kiss them? No. Throw rock at them. Trip on slate sidewalk. Knee contusion.
Now as a grown man, I’m still a little bewildered,
Not what to do with a cute girl; but I’m wondering, is it still her?
There’s still no parking and your sloped face remains the same; there’s no doubt,
But what the hell are these boutiques, Jettas, and sorority girls with big dogs all about?
It’s like it never happened, this childhood that I speak of,
What happens to a neighborhood gentrified?, I never got to get a peek of,
My little kid chasing his sister up Ripka Street, ignoring my dinner calls,
300,000 dollar row homes is what happened, that’s why I live in East Falls.
It’s better than your car and anything you got in the trunk.
Take a pile of trash; you take a pile of junk,
Put it all up on a hill and you call it Manayunk...
Old head limericks, complete with big, sweaty High Life quarts,
Little kids with dirt rings, broken Chic-O sticks in their knifed shorts.
Trash-truck juice stained streets, nostrils filled with summer,
Dad’s whistling from the door; game over. bummer.
Massive games of build-up, after the sun has run amuck,
Celestial satellite illuminates white parts of telephone-wire Chucks.
Out with the old, in with the new street type ritual,
Get laughed at big time, if your shirt didn’t fit you well.
If you asked me then, it was the center of the galaxy,
There’s other neighborhoods in Philly? Really? You speak fallacy.
Jallousy windows and ribbed green awnings were our favorite marks,
Throwing Grade A’s, Getting chased by a big Mercury, muffler dragging some sparks.
Manayunk, The Polish Poconos. What’s better? You tell me.
Especially when the objects of boyhood desires, on their feet, wore jellies.
Accompanied by stirrups, Aquanet, and Blow-Pops--a little boy’s confusion.
Kiss them? No. Throw rock at them. Trip on slate sidewalk. Knee contusion.
Now as a grown man, I’m still a little bewildered,
Not what to do with a cute girl; but I’m wondering, is it still her?
There’s still no parking and your sloped face remains the same; there’s no doubt,
But what the hell are these boutiques, Jettas, and sorority girls with big dogs all about?
It’s like it never happened, this childhood that I speak of,
What happens to a neighborhood gentrified?, I never got to get a peek of,
My little kid chasing his sister up Ripka Street, ignoring my dinner calls,
300,000 dollar row homes is what happened, that’s why I live in East Falls.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Coffee and Ointments
Parking in a spot not too far from the house, I’m beat.
No kids on the corner, it’s dark, so I’m incogneet.
Oh, would it be nice if time and money weren’t my opponents.
Pop would say, it sucks to be poor and white, don’t it?
He knows all too well about 16 hour days of duties unsavory,
Do what you gotta do, familial bravery.
As I sit in the idling car, ready to shut it off and get out,
I have thoughts that I’ve been spread too thin like wet grout.
When I was a little boy with more bone than muscle,
I played stickball all day, wishing I was Chuck Hustle.
Or maybe Mike Schmidt with the shimmy than home run,
But so far, life’s been short and prudish like a gnome nun.
Not saying woe is me; life hasn’t been all that bad,
But there’s vacuous voids, or shit that I wish I had.
Like making money everyday while feeling utter enjoyment,
Instead of working shit jobs, driving in a car full of coffee and ointments.
Neosporin and other stuff for people suffering from adult acne,
I can’t get rid of the facial Vesuvii, I’ve had them since I was a latchkey.
In other words, I’m tired and I want to be shot with a musket,
Thank God my little wife’s inside making instant mashed and chicken cutlets.
No kids on the corner, it’s dark, so I’m incogneet.
Oh, would it be nice if time and money weren’t my opponents.
Pop would say, it sucks to be poor and white, don’t it?
He knows all too well about 16 hour days of duties unsavory,
Do what you gotta do, familial bravery.
As I sit in the idling car, ready to shut it off and get out,
I have thoughts that I’ve been spread too thin like wet grout.
When I was a little boy with more bone than muscle,
I played stickball all day, wishing I was Chuck Hustle.
Or maybe Mike Schmidt with the shimmy than home run,
But so far, life’s been short and prudish like a gnome nun.
Not saying woe is me; life hasn’t been all that bad,
But there’s vacuous voids, or shit that I wish I had.
Like making money everyday while feeling utter enjoyment,
Instead of working shit jobs, driving in a car full of coffee and ointments.
Neosporin and other stuff for people suffering from adult acne,
I can’t get rid of the facial Vesuvii, I’ve had them since I was a latchkey.
In other words, I’m tired and I want to be shot with a musket,
Thank God my little wife’s inside making instant mashed and chicken cutlets.
Friday, November 11, 2005
P__c_-N_z
My work had largely ground to a halt. I woke up some mornings uncomfortably sprawled over the giant cable spindles, odd-sized orange crates and double-rolled hobo blankets that formed the bulk of furniture in my shed-office. I would work some hours, as if in a fugue, but would review the words I'd written and find they were all complete garbage. I was unmoored. Also, I smelled a little funky.
Most nights I was sleeping in the house, and showering the next morning, but the number of hours spent in the poorly ventilated and badly decaying shed were starting to show in terms of odd smells permeating my hair and skin. I don't remember what exactly had happened, but one morning, I heard my neighbor mowing grass and I realized it must have been Saturday. I decided to walk the earth. Or at least walk the neighborhood.
Rondo, my neighbor with the lawnmower appeared to sleep approximately never. He wasn't like regular party-neighbors, overgrown frat boys and the like. He was of an undetermined age, and probably from some country in South America. He had large earlobes like an Inca, and was drunk between 50 and 75 percent of his waking hours. Sometimes his truck didn't work, so he would ride a bicycle. All the folks on our street lived in fear of the truck permanently ending its run on earth, because it was bound, therefore, to join the decaying Soviet-era Lada and similarly non-functional eggplant-colored Opel that marked the beginning of Rondo's large lot.
Rondo mowed the grass on Saturdays, quite early. He never 'won' the battle with the grass, and routinely was the subject of complaints from the townspeople. It is possible that this is because he mowed the grass still drunk from the previous evening's revelry. He told everyone he was an artist, architect of sculptor. Most people thought he painted houses for friends.
I wandered out past Rondo's wild patch of earth and saw him pushing the mower over a barren patch of dirt under heavy tree-cover. The mower was either missing a wheel or had the four wheels adjusted to different heights. I could see how his mowing was largely ineffective.
The walks had become more routine, but as the neighborhood had gentrified, there were less folks there Monday through Friday than on a Saturday morning like this one. I strolled down the street parallel to our own and thought about how smart it would have been to bring a dog on such a nice walk. I spotted a yard sale and decided to peruse the goods. There was very little chance I had any money to buy spend on my person, but I determined that there was equally little chance of finding something I really needed.
Then I saw the pince-nez.
They were in a leather pouch maybe three inches across and barely an inch tall. The inside was lined with delicate velvet. The tiny metal horseshoe that connected the lenses was gently used but silvery with a patina that made it beautiful. I may have even said it aloud, but I surely thought: "I must have this." I went to the person who seemed in charge of the yard sale to determine their price. My pockets were empty, I knew, but I felt as if these pince-nez had found me for a reason. I would possess them.
A clump of bills in my pocket formed my offer: "Seven dollars."
"Fine." The ornery homeowner turned his back on me and I dropped the leather pouch into my shirt pocket.
Returning to the shed at a half-run, I'm sure I looked like I had to use the men's room. I sat behind my word processor and with a flourish attempted to perch the pince-nez on my nose. In my head, a envisioned the great writers of a bygone era, sitting behind Underwood typewriters in tweed suits banging out exposes and muckraking novels with a pince-nez sharpening their focus. Upton Sinclair, I.F. Stone, F. Scott Fitzgerald, all surely used the pince-nez as an inspiration at one time or another.
The lenses were filthy. After some elbow grease, I made them usable. Perched on the end of my nose, with my head further than normal from the screen, I began to type. This would be my turning point. I would remember the pince-nez moment.
Most nights I was sleeping in the house, and showering the next morning, but the number of hours spent in the poorly ventilated and badly decaying shed were starting to show in terms of odd smells permeating my hair and skin. I don't remember what exactly had happened, but one morning, I heard my neighbor mowing grass and I realized it must have been Saturday. I decided to walk the earth. Or at least walk the neighborhood.
Rondo, my neighbor with the lawnmower appeared to sleep approximately never. He wasn't like regular party-neighbors, overgrown frat boys and the like. He was of an undetermined age, and probably from some country in South America. He had large earlobes like an Inca, and was drunk between 50 and 75 percent of his waking hours. Sometimes his truck didn't work, so he would ride a bicycle. All the folks on our street lived in fear of the truck permanently ending its run on earth, because it was bound, therefore, to join the decaying Soviet-era Lada and similarly non-functional eggplant-colored Opel that marked the beginning of Rondo's large lot.
Rondo mowed the grass on Saturdays, quite early. He never 'won' the battle with the grass, and routinely was the subject of complaints from the townspeople. It is possible that this is because he mowed the grass still drunk from the previous evening's revelry. He told everyone he was an artist, architect of sculptor. Most people thought he painted houses for friends.
I wandered out past Rondo's wild patch of earth and saw him pushing the mower over a barren patch of dirt under heavy tree-cover. The mower was either missing a wheel or had the four wheels adjusted to different heights. I could see how his mowing was largely ineffective.
The walks had become more routine, but as the neighborhood had gentrified, there were less folks there Monday through Friday than on a Saturday morning like this one. I strolled down the street parallel to our own and thought about how smart it would have been to bring a dog on such a nice walk. I spotted a yard sale and decided to peruse the goods. There was very little chance I had any money to buy spend on my person, but I determined that there was equally little chance of finding something I really needed.
Then I saw the pince-nez.
They were in a leather pouch maybe three inches across and barely an inch tall. The inside was lined with delicate velvet. The tiny metal horseshoe that connected the lenses was gently used but silvery with a patina that made it beautiful. I may have even said it aloud, but I surely thought: "I must have this." I went to the person who seemed in charge of the yard sale to determine their price. My pockets were empty, I knew, but I felt as if these pince-nez had found me for a reason. I would possess them.
A clump of bills in my pocket formed my offer: "Seven dollars."
"Fine." The ornery homeowner turned his back on me and I dropped the leather pouch into my shirt pocket.
Returning to the shed at a half-run, I'm sure I looked like I had to use the men's room. I sat behind my word processor and with a flourish attempted to perch the pince-nez on my nose. In my head, a envisioned the great writers of a bygone era, sitting behind Underwood typewriters in tweed suits banging out exposes and muckraking novels with a pince-nez sharpening their focus. Upton Sinclair, I.F. Stone, F. Scott Fitzgerald, all surely used the pince-nez as an inspiration at one time or another.
The lenses were filthy. After some elbow grease, I made them usable. Perched on the end of my nose, with my head further than normal from the screen, I began to type. This would be my turning point. I would remember the pince-nez moment.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Genius at Work
My wife was more than skeptical of the shut-in plan. I insisted that my universe of distractions was making it impossible for me to write like I used to, and that this was the only way to recapture the magic. Both of us left untouched the possibility that my heavy smoking and drinking also figured into the equation. I could still drink with the best of them, but I felt strangely unmoored drinking in our suburban house while folding laundry or whatever. And I had quit smoking because we both agreed that dying of lung cancer would put a crimp in our plans to live together happily for the rest of our lives.
Realistically, I think maybe I wanted to put a lot of effort into this shut-in and write in the 'office' venture because I wanted to know once and for all if I could make this life happen. Somewhere in my head, I knew if I could get away with this, the experiment would end with me knowing definitely if I was a barista or a writer. I never highlighted this a motive for the plan. All I said was that I had too many distractions.
It's possible that my wife also secretly believed that I was going a little nuts. She has a real job, she goes places and types emails and has conference calls with Germany (so efficient), and in contrast, I'm just about fringe material. I had a string of interesting but unfulfilling jobs with non-profit organizations, all revolving around parlaying a meager talent with computers and a powerful ability to bullshit older ex-hippies. It wasn't a career, that's for sure.
I was basically on day two of the shut-in thing, though I was counting it as the first day, because I was all wopperjarred off getting the spit-flying call from the coffeeshop the day before. I thought things were pretty clear when I walked out with three hours left in the shift, after discussing my leave of absence, that I wasn't coming back. This was not the case. Things got ugly, certain statements were made, and a fourth stint at the Gigantic Coffeeshop Chain is probably not in the cards.
There I am sitting on a huge spool that once held shielding for underground cable with a keyboard on my lap and eleven words on the screen when my sister walks into the office-shed. She is already talking, and I am looking to see who is coming in with her, but it turns out she had just started talking to me early. It is 9:48 am.
"...and I just don't think it's going to work," my sister is saying. With these nine words, I'm prepared to conclude that my wife has summoned my sister to talk some sense into me, which would be rich. Though my wife is surely through talking about this, her efforts to decode whatever it is that is happening in the shed have only begun.
"I've got to figure out if I can do this, Lis."
"What? What is it that you're figuring out? People don't hide in sheds when they're figuring things out. They go to therapy, or they talk to their preacher, or their friends or whatever. Or they just accept what's happening and, you know, go to work."
My sister had never been happy at a job in her entire adult life. She worked at a bank once and liked it when they made her sit in the little tiny box (a shed, if you think about it) and process transactions for people too lazy to get out of their cars to conduct their banking business.
I rested the keyboard on a shiny box that probably held something organic and frozen once because the shine came from an impressive amount of wax treatment on the cardboard. I hadn't been writing very much, and, truth be told, at the moment my sister came in, I was wondering how people typed long messages on Blackberries because the keys were smaller than baby teeth and my thumbs would have pressed a half-dozen keys at a time.
"When I was in college, I couldn't keep it in, Lis. I was writing two columns, two reviews and two editorials a week, and probably throwing two more stories worth of work into the paper as completely re-written work by idiots. I used to be a writer. I want to be one again."
Lisa didn't see the agony of this former glory. She was terribly practical. "Then get a job as a writer." She was already leaving. I could see her heart wasn't really in this discussion. She wasn't really a tenacious opponent in arguments of this type, which is something that comes with middle childhood.
I had stood up to turn a record over (the shed-office was also the home of the LP collection and the turntable). She assumed I was rising to hug her goodbye. I complied. As she left, I heard her issue a fairly standard Lisa-dismissal to my wife, the kind we all heard about whatever parent or other sibling was under discussion. It was 10:09 am. Don Cherry and Gato Barbieri started talking on the back half of "Complete Communion." I sat on the big spool and typed the words "Blackberry teeth."
Realistically, I think maybe I wanted to put a lot of effort into this shut-in and write in the 'office' venture because I wanted to know once and for all if I could make this life happen. Somewhere in my head, I knew if I could get away with this, the experiment would end with me knowing definitely if I was a barista or a writer. I never highlighted this a motive for the plan. All I said was that I had too many distractions.
It's possible that my wife also secretly believed that I was going a little nuts. She has a real job, she goes places and types emails and has conference calls with Germany (so efficient), and in contrast, I'm just about fringe material. I had a string of interesting but unfulfilling jobs with non-profit organizations, all revolving around parlaying a meager talent with computers and a powerful ability to bullshit older ex-hippies. It wasn't a career, that's for sure.
I was basically on day two of the shut-in thing, though I was counting it as the first day, because I was all wopperjarred off getting the spit-flying call from the coffeeshop the day before. I thought things were pretty clear when I walked out with three hours left in the shift, after discussing my leave of absence, that I wasn't coming back. This was not the case. Things got ugly, certain statements were made, and a fourth stint at the Gigantic Coffeeshop Chain is probably not in the cards.
There I am sitting on a huge spool that once held shielding for underground cable with a keyboard on my lap and eleven words on the screen when my sister walks into the office-shed. She is already talking, and I am looking to see who is coming in with her, but it turns out she had just started talking to me early. It is 9:48 am.
"...and I just don't think it's going to work," my sister is saying. With these nine words, I'm prepared to conclude that my wife has summoned my sister to talk some sense into me, which would be rich. Though my wife is surely through talking about this, her efforts to decode whatever it is that is happening in the shed have only begun.
"I've got to figure out if I can do this, Lis."
"What? What is it that you're figuring out? People don't hide in sheds when they're figuring things out. They go to therapy, or they talk to their preacher, or their friends or whatever. Or they just accept what's happening and, you know, go to work."
My sister had never been happy at a job in her entire adult life. She worked at a bank once and liked it when they made her sit in the little tiny box (a shed, if you think about it) and process transactions for people too lazy to get out of their cars to conduct their banking business.
I rested the keyboard on a shiny box that probably held something organic and frozen once because the shine came from an impressive amount of wax treatment on the cardboard. I hadn't been writing very much, and, truth be told, at the moment my sister came in, I was wondering how people typed long messages on Blackberries because the keys were smaller than baby teeth and my thumbs would have pressed a half-dozen keys at a time.
"When I was in college, I couldn't keep it in, Lis. I was writing two columns, two reviews and two editorials a week, and probably throwing two more stories worth of work into the paper as completely re-written work by idiots. I used to be a writer. I want to be one again."
Lisa didn't see the agony of this former glory. She was terribly practical. "Then get a job as a writer." She was already leaving. I could see her heart wasn't really in this discussion. She wasn't really a tenacious opponent in arguments of this type, which is something that comes with middle childhood.
I had stood up to turn a record over (the shed-office was also the home of the LP collection and the turntable). She assumed I was rising to hug her goodbye. I complied. As she left, I heard her issue a fairly standard Lisa-dismissal to my wife, the kind we all heard about whatever parent or other sibling was under discussion. It was 10:09 am. Don Cherry and Gato Barbieri started talking on the back half of "Complete Communion." I sat on the big spool and typed the words "Blackberry teeth."
A Plan Is Afoot
I got it in my mind that I was suffering from a surfeit of distractions, and I decided to try an experiment. I would take a leave of absence from the coffeeshop, I announced to no-one in particular, and spend as many hours as humanly possible in my 'office.' (I'm forced to put 'office' in quotes because it was essentially what you might call a shed, or more charitably a garage, if your car was about twice as wide as a standard entry-level gas lawn mower. It had electric power for the word processor and various pieces of nearly-useless trash arrayed around which could be fashioned into a desk, chair, guest seating, drink table, night stand and what have you. There was a smell like a mulch pile passing the critical point at which 'mulching' is code-language for rotting. This is probably because that exact biochemical event was happening on the other side of a less-than-airtight wall behind the shed-office.)
Taking a leave of absence from a gigantic chain coffeeshop was easier than I thought. Getting fired, was what you might call it. Ten years ago when I worked for this same gigantic chain coffeeshop, they didn't feel so gigantic. They seemed to care about me, and we were always talking about 'having fun' and eating muffins and danish after fraudulently reporting that they'd fallen on the floor or spoiled in some other way. This was when there were only a handful of outposts of this gigantic chain in my particular neck of the woods. This most recent go-round at gigantic coffeeshop chain (GCC) was my third, and if I wasn't management material by this time, I was destined to be a bench-warmer forever. So I told my manager I needed time off and he handed me the restroom key, which is attached to a comically large (but no less frequently stolen) defunct home espresso machine. People attempt to steal this prop twice weekly. I asked why he gave me the restroom key.
"You've got to clean the mens room. That hobo showered up in there again this morning."
"I want to talk about my leave of absence."
"Good one funny guy. Restroom stinks, get on it."
That was pretty much it. I took the enormous key fob and the key and went into the restroom. The hobo hadn't showered in there as much as it appeared he had essentially exploded. There was hobo-related paraphrenalia everywhere. This included nineteen gold-toe socks laid out on a long piece of unbroken craft-colored paper towels. They were drying. After a few seconds of staring at the socks, I noticed that one of the stalls was occupied.
"Roy?" Roy was the fourth street person who had adopted this location as his home-away-from-home. Homeless people trace a lazy arc from recently on the street to hard-core hobos which frequently tracks closely with a declining mental capacity. The last three hobos had become more and more deranged until we had to ban them. Roy was early in the cycle, which was reflected in his commitment to keeping his nineteen socks clean.
"Hey, my man, you have the time?" Roy was shoeless but fully clothed, sitting like a buddha on the toilet, which didn't have a lid. It appeared he had somehow made the toilet into a chair be adding something rigid over the top of the bowl, and a surprisingly dainty cushion.
"It's like 10:45, Roy. We talked about getting out before the rush ended and all those old biddies come in for the cappucino hour, guy. Come on."
"Socks are drying, my man," Roy's stories were likable enough, though they had become a little repetitive. He said, 'my man' a lot, and left the impression that he hadn't exactly been living the high life before his recent turn to the streets.
"Well hey, let's get everything but the socks packed up and give the bathroom back to the paying customers, okay?" I was a little irked mostly that my request for a leave of absence had been essentially ignored. I'm not 19 years old or anything. This manager is like twenty-two months older than me, and boring as shit to boot. But perhaps my annoyance telegraphed over to my encounter with Roy, the toilet-dwelling hobo. I don't really recall.
In any case, he got weird at this moment, perhaps forecasting a steeper than expected decline into madness, which would be a sad thing. His face went expressionless and he said, like he was on a sitcom full of twenty-somethings, "You've changed, my man. You've changed."
I didn't know what to say, so I muttered something like, "Allright," and left the restroom. I recall that Django Reinhardt was playing on the carefully programmed ambient music which was conveniently packaged and available for purchase next to the register. The track was "How High The Moon" and it was scratchy. I took my apron off and handed it to my colleague working the register. She said, "What the fuck," and I left without saying goodbye.
Taking a leave of absence from a gigantic chain coffeeshop was easier than I thought. Getting fired, was what you might call it. Ten years ago when I worked for this same gigantic chain coffeeshop, they didn't feel so gigantic. They seemed to care about me, and we were always talking about 'having fun' and eating muffins and danish after fraudulently reporting that they'd fallen on the floor or spoiled in some other way. This was when there were only a handful of outposts of this gigantic chain in my particular neck of the woods. This most recent go-round at gigantic coffeeshop chain (GCC) was my third, and if I wasn't management material by this time, I was destined to be a bench-warmer forever. So I told my manager I needed time off and he handed me the restroom key, which is attached to a comically large (but no less frequently stolen) defunct home espresso machine. People attempt to steal this prop twice weekly. I asked why he gave me the restroom key.
"You've got to clean the mens room. That hobo showered up in there again this morning."
"I want to talk about my leave of absence."
"Good one funny guy. Restroom stinks, get on it."
That was pretty much it. I took the enormous key fob and the key and went into the restroom. The hobo hadn't showered in there as much as it appeared he had essentially exploded. There was hobo-related paraphrenalia everywhere. This included nineteen gold-toe socks laid out on a long piece of unbroken craft-colored paper towels. They were drying. After a few seconds of staring at the socks, I noticed that one of the stalls was occupied.
"Roy?" Roy was the fourth street person who had adopted this location as his home-away-from-home. Homeless people trace a lazy arc from recently on the street to hard-core hobos which frequently tracks closely with a declining mental capacity. The last three hobos had become more and more deranged until we had to ban them. Roy was early in the cycle, which was reflected in his commitment to keeping his nineteen socks clean.
"Hey, my man, you have the time?" Roy was shoeless but fully clothed, sitting like a buddha on the toilet, which didn't have a lid. It appeared he had somehow made the toilet into a chair be adding something rigid over the top of the bowl, and a surprisingly dainty cushion.
"It's like 10:45, Roy. We talked about getting out before the rush ended and all those old biddies come in for the cappucino hour, guy. Come on."
"Socks are drying, my man," Roy's stories were likable enough, though they had become a little repetitive. He said, 'my man' a lot, and left the impression that he hadn't exactly been living the high life before his recent turn to the streets.
"Well hey, let's get everything but the socks packed up and give the bathroom back to the paying customers, okay?" I was a little irked mostly that my request for a leave of absence had been essentially ignored. I'm not 19 years old or anything. This manager is like twenty-two months older than me, and boring as shit to boot. But perhaps my annoyance telegraphed over to my encounter with Roy, the toilet-dwelling hobo. I don't really recall.
In any case, he got weird at this moment, perhaps forecasting a steeper than expected decline into madness, which would be a sad thing. His face went expressionless and he said, like he was on a sitcom full of twenty-somethings, "You've changed, my man. You've changed."
I didn't know what to say, so I muttered something like, "Allright," and left the restroom. I recall that Django Reinhardt was playing on the carefully programmed ambient music which was conveniently packaged and available for purchase next to the register. The track was "How High The Moon" and it was scratchy. I took my apron off and handed it to my colleague working the register. She said, "What the fuck," and I left without saying goodbye.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Trust
It's hard when you're juggling about eleven-hundred little life items and something throws number 1101 right into the air above your left shoulder. I know. I'm not some magic man doing more than any human can, but I'm pulling a lot of weight for my class, regular-dude. I got the finances and a lot of the kid management, and all the trash handling, all the trips to the basement I hate more than anything on earth, all the non-flower-related yard work, all the car maintenance and recordkeeping, stuff like that. I keep the balls in the air, but don't fuck with me right?
I'm sitting at the desk in our house and I'm doing something I don't know what, because it's night, and the dryer's running and the kid's asleep. I haven't gone anywhere, and I don't care to, but sometimes I should. The way you should go visit your mom, the way you should get that degree, the way you should call your long-distance good friend. So I went out to some schmoozy shindig and come back later.
And I get the trust question. Because it's been about ten years, but I used to sneak cigarettes in the past. And cigarettes are my great vice.
Seriously, a decade in this thing, kids and a house and all that, and we're getting the raised eyebrows of a whiff of smoke? For real?
And it's got me thinking, because I trust her completely. All that she does, and all the places she goes, in a world she denies but I know is filled with chauvanists who sleep with their co-workers on their long trips together, and I don't blink an eye about her faith, her fidelity, her character. She is impervious, in my mind, whether it's true or not (and I believe it's true).
But I get the eyebrows. And I haven't smoked a cigarette, tonight or any night. I haven't smoked a cigarette in years and years and years. We almost broke up over a cigar once about nine years ago, for christ's sake, would I really be screwing with this arrangement at this point?
So what's with the looks? I don't know. I guess it's all about trust, and that's what I'm wondering about. That's all. I know she trusts me, because we're dependent on each other, we're connected, and every interaction is a reinforcement of that trust. People shouldn't start families and become this entangled if they don't have the trust. So I know she's got the trust. But I'm wondering to myself. How much?
I'm sitting at the desk in our house and I'm doing something I don't know what, because it's night, and the dryer's running and the kid's asleep. I haven't gone anywhere, and I don't care to, but sometimes I should. The way you should go visit your mom, the way you should get that degree, the way you should call your long-distance good friend. So I went out to some schmoozy shindig and come back later.
And I get the trust question. Because it's been about ten years, but I used to sneak cigarettes in the past. And cigarettes are my great vice.
Seriously, a decade in this thing, kids and a house and all that, and we're getting the raised eyebrows of a whiff of smoke? For real?
And it's got me thinking, because I trust her completely. All that she does, and all the places she goes, in a world she denies but I know is filled with chauvanists who sleep with their co-workers on their long trips together, and I don't blink an eye about her faith, her fidelity, her character. She is impervious, in my mind, whether it's true or not (and I believe it's true).
But I get the eyebrows. And I haven't smoked a cigarette, tonight or any night. I haven't smoked a cigarette in years and years and years. We almost broke up over a cigar once about nine years ago, for christ's sake, would I really be screwing with this arrangement at this point?
So what's with the looks? I don't know. I guess it's all about trust, and that's what I'm wondering about. That's all. I know she trusts me, because we're dependent on each other, we're connected, and every interaction is a reinforcement of that trust. People shouldn't start families and become this entangled if they don't have the trust. So I know she's got the trust. But I'm wondering to myself. How much?
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