So This is the New Year

And as we waited to get rid of this failure and nonsense, they played songs sixty seconds at a time. No one got comfortable, no on danced. We entered the year with question marks and quarrels, ultra lights and light beers. And as young men shouted to us walking as the women took the car, we thought about how strange it was that everything should feel the same.

Me, Bird

When I make this face I turn into a bird. I did it once at 7 AM and it stuck forever. My arms become wings and my feet become bird feet. I fly away with the sun. I never melt, I never go home. I turn. Ack into myself when I make this face, and then the night goes on. Again I might be a bird, I might be something else. I don't know when I'll be me.

Big City Shut it Down

This is a big city, you'll never find her.

What do you know?

I know this is a big city, and you're inching your way toward stalker.

Shut it.

Made for TV movie.

Stop.

Time not served.

That's not even a thing.

You'll make it a thing. They'll write books about you. Songs about you.

Shut it.

TV movies, Jack, TV movies. Name your washed-up actor. Hope you've had good haircuts.

They never show the whole story.

People don't want whole stories. They want interesting stories. They want blood. What do you want?

I don't know.

Yes, you do.

Shut it.

Shut it.

Shut it.

Down.

Yes.

Broke

I dropped the bottle and it broke and I was disappointed. Whenever a bottle or glass breaks I want it to be because I smashed it on the ground or chucked it at the wall, not because it slipped through my fingers. But I never smash a bottle and I never chuck a glass, and so I am always disappointed.

I unspooled paper towels onto my hand and finished off the roll. Transferring the wad to underneath my foot, I glided out in circles over my kitchen floor. Give me my Olympic gold.

I want my anger to mean something. I want it to sink in. If I'm going to a dark place let me do it my way, let me bring a little light, a little pain, and a little broken glass.

When We Stopped Being Happy

When we stopped being happy things were great. The weight was lifted off our shoulders, not to mention the other parts of our bodies. We didn't have to worry about pleasing each other or anybody else, but if we did that was fine. Bedtimes and rise-and-shines shifted as they did. We weren't angry at things anymore. We ate when we were hungry, and we drank to wash things down. We didn't force the happiness, and it didn't always come. But when it did it was good and true and right. A little goes a long way.

Summer

Summer is my full moon. After the thaw, as the days get longer and the skirts get shorter, I transform into a seething, drooling, hairy fool.

Hypnotized by the swinging pendulum of a ponytail, its rhythm chanting back in my direction, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope...

I should have stayed behind.

A Mask for Winter

It rained that day. The snow melted and padded the land for the rain. Slush and grime. And then cold, a damned sudden drop. Thick and cold and frozen. And then snow, a layer light and beautiful, a winter mask.

They couldn't see, they didn't know. They felt as though this day had come before. And indeed it had, and it would again. Were they prepared? No. What did they learn? Nothing. The glass and metal twisted and broke, the clothes were black. Tears froze midstream down each cheek. Flowers, and flowers, and flowers. The same thing.

No More Christmas

No more cookies, no more socks, no more bows on every box. No more paper trails and chunks, no more morning Christmas funks. No more chimney, no more sweep, no more sleepy souls to keep. No more merry, no more light. No more "It will be all right" to tell my children as they go. And no more anything but no.

Miss Direction

He asked for another and I said nothing, just poured. He said to join him, I did. He asked me what my name was, I told him what I always say. He stuck around and stuck around and I cleaned twice as slow. He fell down and I picked him back up, we'd do it all again. His laugh was thick, it had to be. He asked me to point him home, I sent him on his way, never knowing where, but he keeps coming back.

Blood and Snow

They waited for the snow to come, but it was only rain. It was warm and then it turned, it froze and the world was slick. They skidded and swerved and were bested by embankments. Innocents died, tears were cried, obituaries flowed like blood. And the blood was as thick as snow.

7/10

A poor showing, poor showing, a very poor showing indeed. Only seven out of ten films guessed based on one letter of font alone. Should have been at least a nine and I was expecting ten. What good is a mind if it cannot capture these things? I remember what you ate fifteen years ago, I remember some brother's car. I remember the look on the woman's face who made my pasta back at school, and the olive oil and garlic she'd add in copious amounts. But I guess letters escape me, or escape me all but average. I should be happy with seven out of ten. If you could go through life doing seven out of ten things rights they'd hail you a god. You'd find yourself with T-shirts, hats, and frisbees, golden idols, sacrifices. Average, when you think on it, is really quite incredibly remarkable.

Driverby

He looked at me like I was crazy. Probably thought he was the only one who did that. Oh no, gentle driverby, we all scream out into the void. We are all lost. Honing our howls for the hounds of hell.

O! darkness!

O! tragedy!

O! life!

Ointments

You have tall socks and you're playing games on my device and your fingers are smudgy with butter. Head to toe in lotions and oils and balms and salves. It's the winter, everyone's dry, drier still for all your ointment confiscation.

Get them safely across the pond. Figure out the pattern. Start all over when too many have died. The crisscrossed paths shining forth from the overhead light jump out like some modern painting I hate. Maybe now I know why. I'm just cross myself. It's dry, I itch, and I always scratch too much.

Chosen People

I woke up at seven because God hates me. That's not true, we're the chosen people. Or, at least, we were.

I gave you one hour and then I couldn't help it. I was restless and my restlessness needs someplace to go. You were mad, it was clear, even mad at me in your sleep. I'd put my arm around you and you'd throw it off. Subconscious tells all.

You asked me how I slept, how I felt, if I was feeling better. You got me a glass of water, just got it felt the dryness in the room and acted accordingly. And when I said you were mad at me in your sleep you said, What the hell do I know?

When a Shadow Moves

When the balloon becomes a man and you put it in the hall. When settling becomes chewing and you're suddenly surrounded. When a shadow moves when it should not. Find me under the covers, find me alone, waiting for daylight and hoping it all goes away. Problems, no matter how small, if ignored, disappear. Or something very near it.

I Waited Up for You

One o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock came, but you never did. I sank deeper into the sofa groove and thought so much my brain hurt. When the line was finally crossed, from today on to tomorrow, I knew I had lost you. And, still, with the oncoming call of birds and workers, there was something that gave me hope. Maybe it was the sun, shining through the window, sending me to sleep, where I could dream about better things.

All the Nuts Are Gone

One two three four as I sit here it's just sugar all the nuts are gone one two three four crunchy crack against my teeth and upper gums and stay there for a night or two and one two three four her hand in my pocket reaching for something no pocket can hold one two three four and it's so cold but things are sweet even if it's just a sweetness.

Suggestions

Killing people, or the man who killed himself on that show. Remember the astronaut scene I did? It takes place at a sideboard and there's bread and cheese and it's such a luxury to get to snack like that. You don't know Gail, but if you did you'd understand this story. And I was like, aw, what a nice image. Or the holiday train.

The 4:15

I'd stick a penny on the tracks and wait for the 4:15. It never came. I wanted it flattened, wanted to hear the billowing smoke of progress. The great iron horse, taking my money and making it souvenir. Memories of cactus and wild Indian, none of them real. I'd put my head to the ground and only get dirty. From far away I'd want to hear those trudging footsteps, the gears and hooves, the timeless elegance of tasteful violence. But I'd put the penny in my pocket again, and try another day.

Hood

How did I ever make it? How did I ever make it without a hood?

Such fake fur and other fake fur. Nestling my baby head like a baby's head. I am back in the cocoon of a coat, which is like a jacket, only bigger and thicker, too.

A hood keeps the cold out, keeps the wind at bay, keeps the bay in view. And, view, yes, only what I want is in it. What is right in front of me, where I turn my torso. O! to be struck down stylishly by some modern midsize SUV of the day! What a way to go.

It forces me to talk louder. It also means I can't hear you. I'd say that's a win-win.

I have never been so warm and fashionable at the same time! I can die happy, and loved, and like everybody else.

Tricky Arrow

Someone has flown beneath the tricky arrow. Someone has tried their venomous argument. Someone hides in the gigantic shadow of those who came before. Someone is happy to stay there.

Someone has a poorly pricked authority. Someone is brave against the ugliest expectation. Someone declares, repeatedly, that nobody dies without stolen coverage. Someone questions, someone counters, someone dies.

Surpassed

You've surpassed me, old stranger. You've found your own way. You've cried bad tears I tried to hold you from, you said to let you so I did. Kidnapping and apprehension, things taken for granted. I've left you and I am not coming back. That is what I say when someone gets ahead.

Rainy Claim

I absorb a rotted blue storm, the bright battle of a rainy claim. One identity slams into another, a crazy participation where no one gets out dry. We are a nasty concoction, nestled in the environment like so many leaves being grabbed at by false hands.

Granola

After I finish my cereal I finish my coffee, and after that I finish my phone call and I hang up. She was saying something about simplifying or condensing or consolidating, and to tell you the truth I couldn't make out a lot of it for all the granola clusters. I got the general gist and said some pleasantries and got off. I was going to see her soon anyway.

In the office all eyes turned, murmurs had murmurs. I got called into her office before I could get another cup of coffee. She asked me what I was doing there. I said working. She asked if she hadn't made herself clear on the phone. I said of course, consolidation was in order... It had never occurred to me that granola covered up my doom. I packed my things and left.

Out of Place

I go in and look around and it's these groups of kids, siting and talking and being young. And I'm not old but out of place and I feel eyes on me though no one's looking. I sit next to some asshole eating biscuits, another stifling laughter from his book. There is a reason they call it a cattle call and it extends beyond sheer numbers.

Looking at my numbers, my sides, I remember less and less what brought me there. Fear? Fame? Fortune? I hear runs in the hallway, people moving their fingers to an invisible beat, belting beyond the door. Everyone who goes in gets asked for something else. Will I break the chain?

I go outside and there's a pack, smoking. I have nothing to do, I'll be damned if I'm leaving. One of them asks if I want one, and damned if I don't take one off the son of a bitch and smoke it good and deep. These nerves are mine.

Something Too Human

Molly and her goddamn daschund walk into my flat. That little thing scuffs up my hardwood every time and she knows it but she pretends. "He's so small," she says. I start planning air fresheners.

She's come for her bike and I don't know how she'll get it back. The dog—whatever his name is, something too human—has those teeny tiny little legs and I feel like any gear would kill him. "I was hoping you would walk it back with us." She could've told me that on the phone.

I don't like bikes and I don't like outside and I don't like her and I don't like how slow we're walking to her place. This pup has absolute power over her and everyone it passes. Short hair, short legs, short temper, one out of three ain't bad.

"Want to come in for a bit?" she asks, and I say no. I have to be getting back. She asks for what, for who, for why. And I say I have to be getting back. And I look inside and her floors are scuffed up something awful.

Morning Person

Ha ha, of course! Why wouldn't I love getting cold air on my face and cigarette smoke in my eyes while you talk incessantly about television shows at six in the morning? What do you think I am, volatile?

But what I'd really like to do is have you ask me—repeatedly, if at all possible—if I'm okay. And for you to ignore whatever answer I give you and keep treating me as though I should be acting the same way as you. Boy, what a swell wake-up call!

Ooh, ooh! On second thought, could you please put your artificial banana oatmeal directly under my nose instead of a full foot away from it? That would be ideal.

Actually, just drop me off at this corner here. Or just slow down and I'll open the car and roll out and hopefully die. Thanks!

Jungle of the Heart

Somewhere deep in the jungle of the heart lies a house inside a man, empty and alone. It is filled with papers and filings, boxes and cabinets with little black check marks and tiny red dots. It is brimming with aloofness and severity, a ticking time bomb waiting for the perfect spark. A man caving in on himself, bringing the house down brick by brick. A landscape changing to a wasteland, a heart to an open wound. And the foul stench of narrow possibilities rising like a withered phoenix, called on its way back to some distant hell. Somewhere, deep, in the jungle of the heart.

Greatest Fears

- spiders

- swallowing a spider

- inaction/apathy/general sloth-like behavior

- Google-searching something grisly and then going to prison for that grisly thing through a set of horrific coincidences

- getting out the peanut butter only to discover the jar is basically empty

- dying (most forms)

- falling down while carrying a huge tray of important food for high-place people (may or may not include stairs)

- handing over a broken and battered world to my children, so irreparably damaged that the only words I will be able to say are with my eyes, something to the tune of, "I know. I tried. I'm sorry."

- spider webs

There, Outside

I come home with groceries. My hands are full. Darren, there, outside, watering the azaleas. He looks at me and smiles. What's for dinner? You'll have to wait and see. He laughs. Waiting, seeing, you might say that sums us up.

I go inside. Kitchen light is on. A note on the cutting board counter: I love you. I peel it off and take it out. What's this for? It's for you. Why not tell me outside? I didn't want to forget.

I get dinner ready. Stuffed pork chops, green salad, crusty bread to sop up all the good stuff. He comes in later, after the gardening and the bathroom and the crossword. What's the occasion? I love you. Is that all? I didn't want to forget.

After dinner we read, we sip tea, the college game is on mute. In the background, the soft and soapy working of the dishwasher. It gets dark outside. Kitchen light is on.

Stuck

Imagine, if you will, being stuck in time. A shadowy figure floating in a sea of shadowy figures. Everything moving and standing still at once, everything lost between question and answer. Is it possible to be lost in a place like that? If everyone is equal is there anyone at all? A broken clock is wrong an infinite number of times a day, that's what they don't tell you.