RSS

The Nature of American

It was the busy season,

Late June.

At a fireworks store,

Bright, colorful, American,

My work.

People shuffle in and ask for

Something loud.

People shuffle in and say,

We wanna celebrate.

People shuffle in and tell me,

Why I’m from Massachusetts.

Fireworks are illegal there

They don’t care.

People shuffle in and I tell them,

Have fun breaking the laws

Of the country in which

You celebrate.

People shuffle in and tell me,

You look stressed.

I went to buy candles

To sooth me.

I found one labeled

Freedom.

It smelled like cotton.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

Watchin Ball

I sit in front of my moderately sized TV,

Staring at the intricate motions

Of the football players in presnap.

“They are going to run the ball.”

Id say, deciphering the formation,

The motions,

The quarterback’s demeanor.

Then they ran the ball,

And people would stare at me,

As if I had told them the end of a book they were reading.

One team scores,

The wrong team in my opinion,

And the world must be falling.

“Wow, we are going to lose”

I’d say; expressing the anxiety

The gut-wrenching feeling

Of caring far too much.

Again stares befall me

And I knew the words behind them,

“They are still up two scores…”

I knew they wanted to say.

After the game,

I was not happy.

“They won!”

They would scream at me.

But I thought you would understand.

The defense was bad,

You’d see it, I would think.

But you gave me the same response

The one I should expect but don’t

“It was only the first game, we’ll see…”

Luckily this was a textual response

Sparing me from your tone.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

The pick up

Here is where I wait for you,

The smell of evergreen filling my nostrils

Yet toxic fumes are produced

While I stay nestled safely inside

Siting,

Staring

At your front door

From the gray monstrosity on wheels.

My gaze flows

From the empty gray upholstered passenger seat

To the dirt path in front of the stairs

Of which lead my eye down your hilly yard

And to the façade of your green,

Modern,

Home.

Again,

I stare

Waiting for that movement

Barely visibly behind the screen door.

Impatience befalls me

My stare breaks.

I look to my left

At the home of your former lover

Taking note of a car

I have never seen before

Shiny,

Baby blue,

A prius,

An Earthsaver

Getting forty miles to the gallon.

Is it hers?

Trying to save the earth?

Remind me to ask you.

Impatience runs rampant

As if we were back in high school again

And we might be late to school

As we had been so many times.

I proceed into my pocket

Searching for my phone

To call and hurry you along

As I do every time impatience compels.

But there you are,

That slight,

Almost invisible,

Movement behind the screen

Before you appear.

Finally.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

His Farm

Here is a bland field,

And here is where I write.

Along route twenty eight is a farm,

Broken and disheveled,

History saving its fragile frame.

Here is where I write,

Not because it inspires,

Not because it is oh so interesting.

Here is where I write,

Under a cloudy sky,

Draping the abandoned in further misery.

Here is where a great man wrote,

When the abandoned was occupied,

When the field was tended,

When the sun was out,

Robert Frost wrote

Here,

Where I write.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

Blue

A sulking homeless man,

In a city on a bright day;

The wind blowing my face,

Accosting the free branches who sway;

Sitting alone, waiting,

For people who forget you;

Breathing in sea salt,

Or the soft air of a morning dew;

The waves of an ocean,

And the sound of their crash;

The serenity of lying under the stars,

On a field of lush grass;

The face of a little child,

On those commercials we all dread;

Watching the face of man,

We told to lead because of what he said;

Makes you wonder what to do,

In a world ever so blue.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

Lives – Part I

“Death is but a step into the rest of your life with God,” said the priest, dressed gallantly upon the ornate altar overlooking a vast gothic style church with a ceiling that seemed taller than the church actually was. “Do not fear it; embrace it, for soon you will wake to the warm embrace and love of our Lord.”

“Amen,” said the mass.

“Let us bow our heads, now, in solemn prayer for our fallen brother who now rejoices with God,” the priest commanded.

“Let us pray,” said the mass.

They all had thoughts of wonderment, joy, and mourning. This was surely the funeral mass of a very good man. One woman thought of him romantically, the night they shared together intimately in each other’s embrace nearly 10 years ago. The man’s younger brother thought of him coming to his aid in high school from a bully, punching him in the face with such justification that applause followed; so it was remembered. The brother’s son thought of learning how to play catch from the deceased. The man’s former neighbor held images of him rescuing her kitten from a house fire she had started toasting bread. The man’s wife of 42 years thought of how her love for him never weakened between their wedding day and their anniversary a mere 2 months prior to his death.

It was standard mourning throughout the grand cathedral; Over-romanticizing the minimal deeds of a man who is gone. Except for one; the dead man’s son of all people thought ill. Not of his deceased father, but of the words of the priest. He cared little of his father’s death. It was expected, inevitable, and prepared for. His grief for his father long ago dissipated into a mere shrug-able occurrence. So much so that laying his father to rest stung him less than the words of the priest.

            Death is but a step into the rest of your life with God. What nonsense is that? This man was what most religious people would call a sinner, but for fairness’ sake he was a realist. The suggestion that there was life after death was an affront to him. It was a piece of fiction being preached as fact just to comfort the weak. It was his opinion that if only the priest had read a biology book in high school he would understand that within 10 seconds of death all brain function ceases. Without brain function, there is no thought or perception. If there is some magical place like heaven, even the dead wouldn’t know it existed.

“Amen,” signaled the priest, ending all prayers for the dead man. “Will the pallbearers please come up to the altar?”
Upon queue, 6 men arose from their seats, including our realist. The 6 included the younger brother who kissed his daughter before getting up with his son, the deceased’s best friend who kissed his wife’s teary cheek, the son of the dead man’s sister who shot his mother a teenage look of, “Why do I have to do this?”, a former co-worker who waved goodbye to his family, and the realist son who sat alone in the back corner of the church. They proceeded to the altar, and doing their duty solemnly.

“Why don’t we just put this thing on wheels?” whispered the teenage pallbearer under his breath. They all looked disgusted at him, except for the realist who offered a sly smirk. My dad too heavy for ya kid?

They delivered the coffin to the hearse and heaved it in rather unceremoniously with a rocking count of “1… 2…. HEAVE!” For in truth, the realist’s father was quite heavy.

“Hey Danny, come ride with me to the cemetery, kid.”

“Sure, Uncle Pete. Let me go ask my mo…”

“Fuck her,” said realist Pete, getting the smile on his nephew’s face he had hoped for. That smile that suggested “YEA! FUCK HER!” in oh so many words.

Pete led his nephew down the dirty street of downtown Brooklyn. The gorgeous church was a bright spot upon an otherwise blighted neighborhood who was home to more homeless than actual residents. Pete had parked his blue 72 Mustang about a quarter of a mile down the road. “Hop in kid.”

Danny took the queue and rushed in with a look of astonishment; he had no idea his uncle drove such a bad ass car. If he knew his uncle any better, he would know it was really an ass hole car. They chatted at the beginning of the ride, catching up. Pete was surprised to discover Danny was 14 now as opposed to 12.

“Shit kid, 14?” said Pete. “You smoke pot yet?”

“Po-t-t-t?” stuttered Danny. “N-n-n-o sir, I don’t.”

“Well then, it’s about time you gave it a shot,” Pete said as he pulled out a baggy from his pocket. “Here kid, papers are inside. Take your shot at rolling a joint.”

Danny took the baggy with shaking hands, fumbling with the paper and the substance itself. To his credit, despite his inexperience and nervous shaking, he rolled, at the very least, a smoke-able joint. He immediately handed it to Pete. “H-h-h-e-r-r-r-e,” he practically yelped at Pete.

“Not bad kid,” said Pete as he began to light it. “Now listen, what did you think about that bull shit the priest spat at us towards the end there?” Pete asked, handing Danny the joint.

“I-t-t was bull shit,” Danny said, almost as if it was his own thought. He took a hit of mary-j and passed it back.

“That’s what I am saying!” Pete exclaimed jovially, oblivious to his nephew’s blind recount of Pete’s own words. “What a fucking pissant, that priest! Life with God my ass. Let me tell ya somethin kid, once your dead… NOTHING! Absolutely,” Pete paused to take another hit, “positively,” and another, “NOTHING! Don’t kid yourself, I don’t want my nephew running around like a blind little choir boy sucking his priests cock because he believed him when he said it’d get him into heaven.” Pete became almost oblivious to his nephew’s presence at that point, taking yet another puff before continuing to rant. It became more and more obscure, vulgar, and angry. Danny was as close to the passenger side window as he could’ve gotten. He didn’t speak a word until he realized they weren’t heading the right way to the cemetery.

“U-h-h, Uncle Pete?” Danny interrupted.

“What?!” Pete admonished, annoyed he was pulled from what he envisioned as an insightful diatribe.

“W-w-e aren’t going the right way.”

“Oh kid, why the fuck would we go to the funeral? He’s dead, we get it.” Pete said to an increasingly distressed nephew. “We are goin to a titty bar! Don’t worry, I know a guy to get ya in.” Pete told his nephew, mistaking the meaning of Danny’s distressed look while tossing the burnt out roach out the window. Now we can call him a sinner.

They arrived in short order after that. Like Pete said, it was no problem gaining admittance for his nephew who, upon entering, felt an odd mixture of elation, nervousness, discomfort, and horniness. Danny walked straight away to where one woman was dancing.

“Have an eye for the good ones, don’t ya?” Pete said to his nephew, then looking up at the stripper said, “Here hunny, make it good.” Pete proceeded to stuff a $20 bill into the woman’s thong.

Pete ordered the two of them drinks and continued to rant about how final death truly was. The more he drank the more outlandish and loud his speech became. The people all around them began to take note as Pete’s words began to slur and make less sense.

“Ya see boy – hiq – God’s fat cock just wants to fuck you over – hiq – ya know what I’m sayin?!” Pete said, just before receiving a not so gentle tap on the shoulder.

“Sir, you are leaving,” said the about 6’8”, 270 lbs bouncer staring furiously into Pete’s glazed and enlarged pupils.

“You don’t want to die – hiq – do you?” Pete asked the bouncer. He did not fully understand the situation and persisted upon continuing the hyperbole of his brand of realism.

            The bouncer delivered a devastatingly powered right hook upon the side of Pete’s face. The force of it was so great, that it whipped Pete’s hand around with violent velocity. It was so violent in fact, that the whole bar could hear the crack of Pete’s neck as he fell to the floor quite lifeless. 10 seconds later his brain activity ceased.

***

“Hunny, are you all right?” asked the voice of a very worried and tired wife.

Paul awoke in dramatic fashion, shooting up into a sitting position out of a deep sleep. He sat there and pondered, breathing heavily. It must have been a bad dream, for it seemed to him that his brain activity had been stopped until just this moment. He gave his distressed wife this explanation.

“All right then,” said his wife in response. “Try to get some sleep dear, the cock will crow soon.” She turned over and fell back into sleep.

Paul continued to sit there, perturbed by something. He shook it off and heeded the advice of his loving wife.

 

To be continued.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 5, 2011 in Fiction

 

Who will go to my Funeral?

Sometimes I wonder who will go to my funeral. Who will be sad and mourn over my passing, and who will shrug in indifference. To whom have I reached in a way that, in death, I will live on through something I did that inspired someone, anyone, to be better? To whom have a vexed in a way that, at my funeral, they attend only for confirmation of my untimely demise?

It’s a thought I would imagine everyone has from time to time. Then again, the things I imagine have never been deemed typical in any regard. My mind is filled with thoughts running rampant, wild. The things I dream up are completely nonsensical, and yet I dream them over and over. My subconscious can, apparently, sort it all out well enough to play it back a second and third time. Consciously, though, I can never quite seem to piece it together. Its impossible to recall what comes next in such a dream when what comes next is simply, impossible.

However, this all brings me back to my original thought, which was originally a conscious one. Who will attend my funeral? I had a dream about it once, one a little more logical in sequence than the usual. I dreamed I had been killed by a man, and I use that term lightly, who continuously works his way back into my life. Not directly into my life, but indirectly, through a friend who I care a great deal for. He killed me with his car, in my driveway, whilst on drugs. What drug I do not know, nor did I ever. In reality, I do know he has had his trouble with illegal substances, but I have never bothered to pertain the details. I never liked him anyways.

So I was dead, in the dream of course. Run down in my parents driveway. My dear friend was with this man, she had brought him over. Now, in reality, I vividly remember saying I never wanted to see this man to my dear friend. So in the dream, dead me, watching the living react, was furious. Against my wishes this man was in my presence, and to top it all off… he killed me!

Fuming doesn’t suffice, I was livid amongst other such words that incite that raw emotion of anger. Although, I saw it come to life as I watched the living. For you see, there were other dear friends present as I became road kill. My best friend, well, he wasn’t none to pleased himself. If I recall correctly, he socked this man in the mouth, screamed at my dear friend who brought this man along to leave immediately, and he did it all through tears. Now, in reality, I have never seen my best friend cry. So I imagined, in the dream, that it looked something like when he pretended to cry to the movie, “The Notebook”. It was a terrible acting job in reality, and it was again in the dream, but its all I had to go by. Sure it looked insincere, but dead me, in the dream watching the living, sure knew that my best friend truly cared.

My dream skipped to my funeral after that. I swear, one of the reasons dreams are impossible to remember is because of all the skipping around that goes on. Its like reading a comic book, panel by panel. There is an action going on in each panel playing off the previous one. However, there is always some action missed. They are just a serious of pictures after all, telling a story a little bit at a time. So, you have to wonder, what happens between the panels?

What happened from the time of my death leading up to my funeral? How were my parents told? Was this man arrested? Had my dear friend talked to my best friend or any of the others since? How quickly were my services arranged? Questions, but alas, the panels move on, leaving them unanswered.

At my funeral, I only imagined four people initially. The same ones that were present for my death. The man that killed me showed up with my dear friend, answering one of the questions left between the panels. Was this man arrested? The answer was no it seemed. One of my four closest friends was appalled that my dear friend would bring this man, this man that killed me, to my funeral. Rightly so, I didn’t even want this man at my house even before he had killed me!

There was a scuffle in my dream. The three male friends out of the four closest friends wailed on the man who had killed me. Suffice it to say, dead me, watching the living, was pleased at how much they cared. These friends rarely resort to violence. It was nice to see my death as one of the rare catalysts that creates the reaction of violence.

That was the end, though. I woke up. Isn’t that just how it always seems to go? Just as things truly begin, and you see things that truly incite some emotion, it ends. Of course, typically, these are the rules to sex dreams, but it can be applied to any other dream as well I suppose.

As interesting it was to witness how those I feel closest with reacted to my demise, I am still left wondering who would come to my funeral. Let’s face it, we all know that those closest to us will attend, to talk about it is just uninteresting. The people you expected to show up came, hallelujah! No, what really engrosses me is those outliers. Those people that hang out on the fringes of your life. The ones you just met and the ones you met years ago but haven’t seen in as much time. Those acquaintances you see at work or at school. Those friends you see but only every once in awhile. The people you never go out of your way to talk to. Those people who only knew you through someone else.

And then there are those who are from the opposite spectrum. Those people you never liked, but still tolerated throughout your life for one reason or another. The vice versa of the former, as yet unbeknownst to you and eternally so at the point of death. The ones who you feud with constantly. Those who would do you harm if someone else hadn’t beaten them to it. Those fascinating few who share a hatred with you, both would rather  not see the other, but they somehow manage to stay in your life.

It is these people that I wonder about. These unpredictable many. For you see, it is only the few that you know will mourn your death. Only few can you confidently predict for said reaction. While a great many outliers you can assume would mourn you, still you can not be sure. Some people may just surprise you. It happens in life, is it odd to think it would happen in death? Those precious few will be there, but they account for only a small fraction of the people you have come across in your lifetime. How will the majority sway?

There is so much said about what happens to you after death, but no one ever stops to think about what happens in the realm of the living while your walking through the gates of heaven or frolicking in a sea of 72 virgins.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on May 9, 2011 in Flash, Non-Fiction

 
 
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

%d bloggers like this: