Walt on the TV was trying to say something,
something about the needs of the world
and I was not getting it.
Though he was shouting it out
with full fervor
I could not take it in.
I think it was about living life
at a hundred and eight percent
or fulfilling dreams
or electric sheep or something like that
but maybe the volume wasn’t high enough
and I just couldn’t get the message properly.
I hope the show comes on again
so Walt could transmit properly later.
They can’t all be the best.They can’t all be original.
They can’t all be number one.
Some have to follow
have to flatter through theft,
don’t they?
These practices are natural
this competition is part of the human spirit,
right?
Right?
The picnic was not quite so delightful as promised
with the unexpected showers
the poisonous spiders
and the empire of squirrels
whose domain felt surprisingly threatened on this unprepared day.
I’m sure the clouds will dissipate
anytime now
but the territory won
by the invading rodents
may not be reacquired
for years to come.
It may take many months to understand
how to withstand their acorn barrage alone.
I do not look forward
to forecasting the coming of spring.
I have never wondered
why nobody has asked me
why I don’t do cover poems.
Perhaps it is time for me to address this question anyhow.
I am not familiar with much poetry.
I could learn other people’s words.
There might be value in studying some poets.
I’m not sure that reciting other people’s work
would be the way to go, though.
Maybe just reading some classics
now and then.
I could start with Mother Goose…
Walking down Broadway
a guy goes out of his way to elbow me.
I stop in the street
stare at him as he passes.
“What?” He says.
“Excuse you.” I say.
“What.” He repeats, looking me in the eye.
“You just shoved me.”
“So? What you gonna do about it?”
“What am I gonna do about it?” I splutter. I’ve got no response. “I don’t know. Why would you do that?”
“The fuck you say?” He reaches in his coat with menace. “What you care what I do?”
He makes a good point. I have no idea what might be in the inside of his coat
– I don’t want to find out.
“Never mind,” I say, shrugging and turning away.
“Thought so,” he replies with disdain.
I go my way, hoping to forget the incident entirely.
I called the city because the tree
outside my front door needed help.
It was half torn
out of its spot,
I assumed, by a backing truck.
The help the city provided
was removing the tree
which was not what I had in mind.
Now I have no tree outside my front door.
It’s an industrial neighborhood,
the only green I can see within several blocks
Is weeds between cracked cement.
I have thought about calling to request
a replacement tree
but I shudder to think
how that request can be misunderstood.
On bad days,
the sound system was released from under its covers
the record was unsheathed
put on the turntable
the lights were put on dim,
and Momma would dance to “I Will Survive.”
This was for low days
when depression had set in.
There might have been problems with men
or work
or friends
that I would know nothing about
but the solution would be
a shot of Gloria Gaynor
– sometimes a triple.
I could understand the song
to a degree
about a woman done wrong
by a man
who wouldn’t love her right
and I felt helpless to support my mother.
I could only be there
to offer silent testimony
to Momma’s tribulations.
The dancing seemed to help.
She appeared better
after several repetitions.
I later would hear a male version
by Cake
that I could call my own.
I like Cake.
I was a headache
a problem waiting to be solved
somebody’s issue
a pulsing, painful reminder of a bad time.
I was a sharp, annoying spike in the skull.
I was no fun
– though I hoped to be otherwise.
I was not looked forward to
I had to be removed
I needed to be executed
and everybody knew it.
I wonder if I’ve changed since then
– if anyone sees me differently.
I wonder if there’s a way to get that information
without again proving to be such a headache.
Apparently, it was August in Arizona,
when the snows came on down
and Santa was seen as silhouette
on silent nights.
It was a weird weekend.
Nobody was sure what was going on.
The rest of the Southwest
was not experiencing inclimate weather
– and it was not a dry cold.
It was a slushy snow
that was great for packing and building.
Soon enough, Frosty came out to play,
though he made no mention
of returning on Christmas Day.
He didn’t want to suggest that lightning
would strike twice in this part of the world.
As mentioned, it didn’t last more
than a weekend.
Things started to thaw out
and the seasons realigned
and this Phoenix fantasy fizzled.
Pretty cool for the instants it lasted, though.
He liked her.
He liked her enough to want to ask her out
but not enough to risk being rejected by her.
He just didn’t think he could risk being rejected
by someone like her.
He didn’t think it would work with his reputation.
Not that he thought it was likely
that he’d be rebuffed,
but if there was a chance…
better to be lonely
than to risk that particular humiliation.
So he cursed the darkness alone
as she went out and about
with a dozen other suitors
who didn’t mind the risk
and saw nothing questionable
with someone like her
in the first place.
jonberger 