Wistful

So, I’ve failed in writing anything today because I am getting over a glut of work. How’s about some old poetry?

Here’s a throw-away I wrote as a letter to my husband. I didn’t even bother to punctuate it.

Long Distance Relationship

Dear mine: I ate
once today, slept three
times, visited my
favorite website (counting
the number of times I hit
F5) one hundred and three
times, second favorite: too
many times to count, I read
three poems, one was good,
I got fifty five pages
through a book I’ve read
before, there are eight
books on my shelf
I have yet to read,
I flipped my light switch
two and a half dozen times,
I visited my restroom
four times: once to shower,
once to grab the floss,
the other times are private
I didn’t count the breaths
or times my upper eyelashes
hit my lower ones, but at their
current averages, I would say
fourteen thousand four hundred
and three thousand five hundred
and fifty six, respectively

I know you like to know how my days go

Melodramatic

Two things:

1. I put off some work that is due this weekend and have fallen way behind. Yet, I still seem to be moving in slow motion.

2. Kim emailed me about whether I prefer R2D2 or C3P0. (The answer is R2D2.) While searching through some documents to find some research I have for an article, I found my poetry portfolio for a class from last year. It had this poem, which seems so appropriate I had to share.

Sorry about the mess

I believed you
ran my
perfect plastic replica
of Han Solo through
through honey
crystal sugar sprinkles
various barbeque
horseradish Worcestershire
and tartar sauces
you set him on
the crusted plate
on High Power
in all of its green
LCD glory
I watched all hope
fade for the rebel
alliance

Now back to work!

Laconic

Feelin’ lyrical today.

Why I can’t be the wife of a man with mob ties in 70s era Vegas

I tried to paint my nail tips red
like Sharon Stone in Casino
when she was in her gold
lycra period.

The acetone in the shot glass
looked a lot like one of those twelve
dollar birthday shots.

I aborted the project; I couldn’t
wipe the polish into crescent moons
like Korean women in a-line dresses.

I couldn’t get all the pigment
from the edge of my nail bed.

I couldn’t find a mark to extort
gambling winnings from.

I couldn’t pull off
a fur wrap.

Sacrifice

I’ve failed and only written half of what I said I would, but some things came up. This wasn’t being very cooperative with me either, so I decided just to post and move on.

Marcia decided to give fate three chances and then take things into her own hands. She wasn’t sure just how she or fate would do it, but she had faith in the both of them that it would get done. The plan was pretty simple, but she spent most of her time on the bus going over it. Every afternoon and every night, one hour to work and one hour back, she would consider what Nicolas would do when she was gone.

Marcia was not one to forget such things, but she could not remember how it had come to her. Every ride on the bus seemed pretty much the same. At the end of the night her hands hurt, and she would just stare down at them. In the light of the street lamps she looked like she had yellow zebra stripes. Sometimes that reminded her about how Nicolas had had jaundice when he was born. He had to stay in the hospital for a few extra days but they made her leave early because the insurance had run out. Thinking about when Nicolas was a baby was probably what made it all form in her mind.

By the time she got home he was always asleep. She would go in and smooth down the hair on the nape of his neck. She would coo in response to the grumble he emitted into the pillow. He would always slap her hand back.

Finally, she thought to ask him what he though about her plan. He slapped her hand away and rolled over toward the wall. “Nicolas,” she said. No response. “How would you feel if I went away?”

He made some noises. “What?” He flipped himself onto his back and put his hand over his eyes. “You’re never here anyways.”

“That’s true,” she said and slipped out into the living room. Nicolas had left his dirty clothes from school on the floor in front of the TV next to a day old bowl of cereal. She laid down on the couch with her comforter. After connecting the dots of the popcorn ceiling for awhile, she reached under the middle cushion. She pulled a Power Rangers folder Nicolas had used in the third grade from below it. She opened it and stared at the letter on the top of the folder’s contents. She fingered the top left edge of it and pulled it up slightly so she could see the signature.

She focused her eyes with some difficulty to read the first sentence of the second paragraph:
YOUR TERM LIFE INSURANCE PLUS POLICY GOES INTO EFFECT ON THE 15TH OF SEPTEMBER OF THIS YEAR AND WILL EXPIRE THREE YEARS HENCE.

She folded back the piece of paper to reference the canceled check behind it. By her best estimate it was September 23rd. That meant that she could give fate about three years. She though that it was a pretty fair deadline. By that time, Nicolas would be 14 years old.

Atrocious

Things are definitely more relaxed today. I’m ahead on my weekly goal after I get today’s work accomplished.

I’d have to say my second love is grain alcohol and my first love is Rhonda. I love you Rhonda. It feels nice to say it. I’ve wanted too. I’ve taken to punishing her lately by withholding myself. I forget about what I want, the sweet stuff, to ignore her. She deserves it.

I told her I didn’t like her hanging out with other people. I told her that. “It makes things complicated,” I said. She nodded. I must have said it a thousand times in the beginning. Those times when we looked like a couple of newlyweds. She’d drape her bare legs over mine and we’d do the crossword together. I’d misspell something and she’d laugh. Then I’d say, “Hey, don’t you wish it could be just us forever?” She’d nod.

When I moved here, I didn’t want to find any companions. It was a ploy for solitude. But we met anyway. I should’ve known then that she was looking for someone to latch on to. She wouldn’t stop topping off my water glass and asking me what I was reading. Why did I take that girl in the stained apron home? I remember, I tried to blow her off and she said, “I don’t know anyone here. I though we could be friends.”

And now she’s out again. Having a drink with the old man who hangs out behind the restaurant smoking and the defunct Mormon missionary.

Routine

My friends and I make up stories about people. I think I always take them too far.

Tom wakes up with his hand on his cheek. The pressure of the headboard on the top of his skull keeps the nice dreamy sleep daze there longer than if he used a pillow. Tom hates pillows.

When Tom pulls himself into the shower at 6:51 each morning, he takes a comb in with him. After washing his body and face, he begins. One lather with a mixture of Head and Shoulders Smooth and Silky even though he doesn’t have any dandruff problems. He combs the shampoo out and applies Pert Plus 2 in 1 Fresh! He lets the lather sit on his scalp to feel the menthol tingle. He stands with the outsides of his feet touching the walls of the bathtub and hums while the minty sensation travels down his neck. The water hisses and losses some of its warmth. When he is ready (there is no accounting for home long he will be mesmerized by the cool sensation) he will slowly turn and fully rinse the product from his hair, careful not to get it in his eyes.

Then the conditioning starts. He has his own mix for a starter formula. He keeps it in a mason jar in his shower caddy. He doesn’t tell anyone what’s in it. Not that there’s anyone to tell. It smells like lemons. Conditioner is applied in a ¼ inch layer and left sitting for 7 minutes and 30 seconds timed with the help of a waterproof digital clock stuck to the shower wall with suction cups. While he is waiting, Tom does bicep curls with full back-up shampoo bottles. He’s not sure it has produced any results.

Tom combs out the excess conditioner and rinses his head under the now cool water. The condensation has almost left the mirror by the time he exits the shower. He stands naked in front the sink and slowly draws another comb, labeled “DRY” in permanent marker, across the short nap of his hair. He ruffles his hair with a towel and draws the comb over his scalp from back to front again. He continues this pattern until he feels dry. Now it’s time for leave in conditioner, but not too much today. He’s going to see Judith at the Super Cuts on 38th for a trim of his Ivy League. She hates when it’s got too much in it.

Lynn, who works at the Super Cuts in the North Dale strip mall by the good Arby’s, likes the leave-in. Tom often thinks about the time she said it smelled like cucumbers.

Unceremonious

Today I saw a one legged grackle. No, I’m not joking, one-legged. I was sitting outside at a restaurant, minding my own business, and it flew in and sat on the chair beside me. Sat like a guest–a friend I’d met recently, but we both knew we would hit it off and become old friends. The bird and I should have just exchanged phone numbers so we could start writing each other long emails about funny things we heard that day, the indiosyncricies of our coworkers, and how tired we are. It sat there quietly chirping at me, as if I had something it wanted. I didn’t, I thought. I shrugged at it. It responded by shifting its weight on its one leg and cocking its head. I wish I had something other than soda. I would give it all my food, if I had any. Would it be silly to go and buy it some food? Would that be ridiculous? Somehow, I’m not concerned with him flying away if I did so. He would wait, my polite friend. I guess he asked, so he must wait. He took me up on an offer to buy him a brownie. It would be rude to hope away on his one leg.

While I was thinking this over, he continued to rock slightly on his sigular leg. It looked strong. I see (and note the odd shape of) the stump of his other limb. I wondered if any vets I called would volunteer to come out and net my friend, gently, and take him in. You know, to a soft bed, plenty of food, and perhaps they are creating titanium prosthetics for birds now. The war has turned it to a booming industry, I bet they have the resources, if I were to help with some funding, I could have my friend hoping around table legs and punting feet like a downhill skier. I bet.