For more chickens than I can count, I tried to make sense of things. And stuff too. Like jamming canned, colored dough through a pasta press. Almost everything looks better when flattened and cut with uniform lines. But the two birds in the bush cackled and the one in my hand? Gone. I was grasping nothing. Maybe at straws of such exquisite wavelengths they slipped undetected between my cones and rods. The clocks ticked asynchronously. Microwave trays performed their slouched turns toward Bethlehem. And none of it amounting to a hill of ancient grains. Now, in the ungodly quiet of the midday, you can hear the permafrost cracking. The barely dried-again scabs on your neck begging your chewed nails not to scratch at the polystyrene tickle in your throat.
You are writing behind a screen. Two screens. Some call them eyeballs. Somewhere behind them electrical charges speak in a silent voice that churns thought into word transferred to letter and back to word on paper or screen. Another screen. There is always something going on in the background. Some of it you control, most of it you don’t. And none of it is seen or understood, but we trust that the outcome will mostly speak to others. Does it speak in tongues? Will it slip in through their eyes and proceed through the reverse electrical transformation. Stored. Saved. A memory of what you said/wrote. Some say the world will end in fire. But really it will be noise. The endless cacophony of a billion voices and all those words scrambling to get a foothold over one another, desperate to find a friendly eye or a considerate ear to enter. Desperate to rest.
Justice–a fool’s game,
a veneer of fairness
sprayed over a rough reality.
Survival is the only
Law of Nature, the only
Competition you can trust
We can build a
Better Tomorrow but
we can’t forget the underlying
support structures subsist
of different material,
a darker, unchangeable
Essence that will never conform
to an Ideal anything…
Wasting your breath annoys
fat people and teaches pigs to
sing acapella melodies never
recorded on the face of this yurt.
Go forth and testify.
Breed on white discontents as
you eat drink and be Mary;
Lancelot will remember your deeds,
Christ will dream your past
and cobalt canaries will whistle
sweet unthings down the garbage
shoot of time as clocks unwind
succubi lulled into satiated
still-life poses you yearn to
imitate because art doesn’t need a reason,
it just needs an outlet–
a pressure release to spurt/gush
Its ecstasy into form.
Work-hardened in the fires of American à la carte spirituality, when confronted with ethical dilemmas (and simple consumer purchases), I like to ask myself, “What would Buddha do?” And then I do the opposite of that. When that doesn’t work, I like to ask myself, “What would Jesus do?” And then I always think of the time he went postal on the moneychangers and started flipping tables. Sometimes it’s hard to find tables to flip. I mean, most moneychangers are behind counters that one just can’t walk up to and flip these days. So I pause, to shed 2.7 tears for the table-flipping past-times we no longer have access to and then instead I verbally assault strangers upon the street asking if they’re interested in non-GMO advice. Most aren’t. Their loss. Obviously. Am I right? That’s a rhetorical question, but then, aren’t all questions between writer and readers? Gotcha again, sucker! Two shakes of an infant later and the soma-like effect of snorted dust bunnies kicks in and I’m dreaming of a brighter childhood. As they say in most televised feats of daring: Don’t try this at home.
automatic fired echoes
silence bubbles where
freeze frames split
reality’s horror into
of flight-not-fight hope
where once the twang
of vocal chords unified
a flock now scattered
feathers hovering in
midair spots where whole
beings once stood-smile-
confusion, echoing off
networked nodes pinged
answers tailored to
eyes and ears trained
to see-hear the
bloodying the homeland.
A bullet for every baby.
An invoice for every death.
I sat at the keyboard waiting for something to come out.
Libertines lulled by libations…
It’s not that I couldn’t think of anything to write or didn’t have anything to say. It was more like ten thousand things wanted to come out all at once.
Houston drowning in the background…
Like a herd of wild sentiments. Let one through and you’ve got a stampede on your hands. A few minutes exploding into several lifetimes worth of worry-thought-frustration-anger-diatribe-anxious-impulsive nothings.
Fine people on almost every side…
And then emptiness. A vacuum. So instead of relieving the pressure you work in reverse. Put more stuff in there. Read more. Eat more. Watch more. Listen more.
The Dow high on itself…
See if we can jam this flesh balloon until it bursts and no border exists between here and there, you and me, this and that.
But this too shall pass.
I’ve been an erratic, undisciplined writer most of my life all the while holding the belief that I need some sort of schedule, or that some sort of magical regularity to when and how I write would just magically fall into place… But the thing is, I don’t support myself through writing and so, like any recreational pursuit, no matter how passionate, it easily gets pushed to the side. I also tend to jump in the deep end instead of easing into changes in behavior or starting new activities. About a week ago or so, I decided to try an incredibly practical approach: write for 10 minutes every day. That’s it. Doesn’t matter when. Doesn’t matter what (except e-mails and writing for my day job don’t count). Have I met the goal every day? Nope. I’ve probably skipped 3 or 4 days, but almost every day I have written has been well over 10 minutes. It’s simply the getting started that matters.
One day, I was tired, but decided not to let myself off the hook. Which means sometimes you get crap like this, but it’s sort of like cleaning the cob webs out of your head:
The rigamortis rigamarole—
A dance she asked if I knew.
My lips sneered, my heart cowered,
Something pressed hard
against the inside of my zipper.
A waltzing pshaw why
Gring gring grong
Uhhhhhh I should sleep
Now it’s just obligatory
Letters typed on the screen
Soon to b deleted
Yuh? I mean. Yeah?
Maybe not. Whatever.
I need to wash the tub
And shower. And read.
Or sleep or something.
The cat is a up a tree. He’s been up there for 20+ hours. Cats climb trees. They get stuck in trees. They make their way down eventually. Except he’s up a tree because two dogs I chose to foster tried to kill him. He spent the night nearly as high as possible (a good 10 to 15 feet higher than the telephone poles in the neighborhood). We spent a good part of the evening looking out the window, seeking visual confirmation of his giant kidney-bean silhouette every 20 minutes. The arborist might come out for a $700 “emergency visit” except we’re not really in their service area.
The cat wants to come down. He mews pathetically when he sees us or we call to him. It starts as a MEHRL-MEHRL-MEHRL with a little pause in between each one, but soon sounds like a nonstop, anthropomorphized HEHRLP-HEHRLP-HEHRLP. My son is anxious. My wife is anxious. He lost at least 3 claws fighting off the dogs. He’s damn lucky my wife was there to tackle the 120 lb. shepherd mix that had him around the neck. He looks exhausted. Like all he wants to do is sleep. I tell my son it’s really an engineering problem. We brainstorm: Can we climb the tree? Not really. We could maybe get a third of the way to where he is. Do we have a ladder or anything else that would reach him? No. Could we get a basket or cat carrier to him? On a rope? We could tie a rope to an arrow and shoot it over the nearest branch. Maybe not. With our luck, we’d shoot the cat with the arrow. Instead, we go out every 30 minutes to see if he’s moved. To say things like “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” And the sing-songy version of his name: “James Bonnnnddddd”. He replies HEHRLP-HEHRLP-HEHRLP. There is a tone of plaintive desperation in his cries and they begin to fail, to get a little raspy like his throat is sore or he’s dehydrated.
I first thought he was just being stubborn since I’d seen him come down from a big tree before, but I read online how hard it actually is for a cat to come down and when I climb 10 feet into the tree, I realize how smooth the bark is. I wedge myself between a “V” formed by the main trunk and another branch–one foot pushing on the trunk so my back is pressed against the other branch. My wife gets him to come down 10 feet or so by leading him with a laser pointer. He’s still a good 20 to 30 feet away from me. When’s the last time I climbed a tree? My ankles don’t appreciate these type of angles the way they once did. I attempt to verbally entice and cajole the cat. It is apparent we both want the same thing but the distance between us is too great.
I go back inside. I go back outside. I repeat this once every 20 to 30 minutes for the next couple of hours. I really don’t know the extent of his injuries. The longer he’s up there, the more tired he’s going to get, the more likely he’ll fall… My son is pacing. It’s a cat in a tree. Right? Happens every day probably. Except it feels like an emergency. It feels like we let this family member down. Like we promised to care for him and then let some house guests strangle him. What if I could get to him? How would I get him down? Would he let me pick him up? Would I be able to do this with only one hand? That cat weighs close to 20 lbs. If I could sling a duffel bag over my shoulder and get him into that…
Something in my head says “Enough. You did this. You fix it. Go get the cat.” I put on a long sleeve shirt and gloves. I grab a large duffel bag. The extension ladder is placed against my neighbor’s tree, which sticks out diagonally over a hill. The ladder rests parallel to the main diagonal branch which is about a foot wide. The rungs rest on the middle of the branch with just enough room for me to step on either side of the branch–this also means the branch is a pivot point for the ladder. Note to self: Keep weight even. Must emerge from this without hurting myself or cat. How many situations have I been in where I think this same ridiculous thought?: My wife is going to kill me if I kill myself. Too many. The higher up the ladder I go, the more wobbly it becomes. The cat is still about 15 feet away. There’s no way for me to climb that gap. But he senses a rescue is in order. He starts with HEHRLP-HEHRLP-HEHRLP more urgently. He tentatively tries to move toward me. The first five feet are easy because there’s another branch bifurcation where he can rest. “Good kitty. Good kitty.” Positive reinforcement one octave higher than my normal speaking voice. He tries the next descent but it’s a steep 5 ft. section before another bifurcation. I open the duffle bag wide and point to it–try to make it look like a big landing area. Time has ceased to exist. It feels like one of those dramatic animal rescues on television where the dog is seconds away from slipping off the rocky ledge and being carried away by roiling river waters. Except it’s just a suburban weekday and death is unlikely. Serious injury is, however, highly likely at this point. “You can do it.” I say. “Come on.” He had nestled into the crook and was panting, but stands up again. He tentatively places a paw or two, but they slip. He has to just go for it. He slides a bit and then somehow makes it to the next crook.
We’re just 5 ft. apart. There’s only one more rung for me to step up. This will net me one more foot. Both straps for the duffel are over my right shoulder–I slide one down to the elbow of my right arm and open the bag as wide as I can. I point to it. “Yes you can.” I say. He mews. His eyes are huge and they burrow into mine and it’s like we’re connected mentally. I can hear his thoughts directly in my head and he’s saying: “This? This is your fucking plan?!!” There’s a smaller branch somewhat behind me over my left shoulder. I reach back and grab this with my left hand, I step to the last rung, squeezing the tree branch with the insides of each foot. James Bond is yelling at me. We’re so close. What if he jumps on my head or claws my face. I’m envisioning us falling out of the tree together but I banish the image before we can hit the ground. There’s still about two feet between us with me reaching as far as I can. I remind myself to breathe. Everything in life is easier when you breathe. (Go ahead. Take a deep breath before you find out if anybody survives this ridiculous ordeal.) I reach for the cat with my right hand. He stretches his head toward my hand. We’re still about 6 inches apart. He has to start to descend and I have to grab him as he does. The bag is wide open against the tree. “Come on. I gotcha. I gotcha.” He looks me in the eye one last time and starts to slip/fall toward me. I grab him by the scruff of the neck with my right hand and lower him into the duffel bag off that same elbow. Gravity is my biggest friend as his weight pulls the bag low and closed. Please just let him stay in the bag. I hoist the strap up over my shoulder and squeeze the top shut with my hand.
We descend very slowly. I carry him into the house where we rejoice in his return and he emerges from the bag tired and confused, but just as relieved as the rest of us. I did not know any of us cared this much about the cat. We sometimes called him “Steve the Asshole” due to his aggression. But he’s treated like a missing child finally found. Like one of the family finally come home.
The Pilgrims came in waves. Were these the same three ships I saw on Christmas Day in the morning? I know how you do the who do that you do when you do… Really, you make me want to ________. No. You don’t. But that’s okay. ‘Cause I did my best. And my best wasn’t good enough. Sometimes its feels like we’re islands in the stream. But we rely on each other. Am I right? Right-right, bloody-well right. I want to be just another brick in the wall as long as that wall stands between u.s. and Mexico. This is cheeseburgers-in-paradise-next-level shit right here. Right now. There is no other place I’d rather be. I’d offer to make a little birdhouse in your soul, but I know you’d think it just another dirty deed done dirt cheap. It’s true, you don’t bring me flowers anymore, which is pretty much why I dubbed thee unforgiven. 9-1-1 may not be a joke in your town, but you’ve still got to get up and get-get down every day. Alas, we could have rediscovered the wonders of nature rolling in the rushes had not the river dried up last season leaving my empire of dirt. As they sing every time it’s re-aired: So long. Farewell. Auf wiedersehen. Good night.
At first, I was all ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ, but then she said no and I was like ◔̯◔. A little later it seemed like I could just get away with a ♥‿♥. Boy was I wrong. Now it’s back to ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ. I told my sister about it and all she had to say was ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. I don’t think I can take much more of this. (ಥ﹏ಥ)