Timing is Something

 

The mechanics of the Universe

often amaze me.

How can one moment cause

so many ripples through time

and set in motion so many

unavoidable consequences?

 

I’m so conscious of time.

How life is a series of moments

interconnected and interlinked

through random happenstance

set off well before I ever even existed.

Each moment of an ancestor’s life leading

to my inevitable existence.

 

Each choice made, each pseudo-choice

made, assuming choice is something we

actually can do rather than simply respond to

the stimuli of the tentacles of some person

now long gone, who started us all towards the “path”

we’re on.

 

A proto-human sparks a flint

shooting a spark into a pile of

sticks and leaves, starting a fire,

creating the modern world in

an incredible journey of coincidence

and luck.

 

Every happy or sad moment in a life

is a product of that spark; every

breath on the breeze is a hurricane of

potential destruction or rebirth,

yet it is all just supposed to add up to

life.  This is life. Moments crammed

together in a relatively short time span.

 

All under the cruel mercy of those who came

before us and likely defined by those yet

born.  We are constantly in a struggle with

time, resisting it, accepting it and dealing

with it on the behalf of others, who make us

wait, or arrive too early or don’t respond.

 

The mechanics of it all,

too present in my mind as I apologize

for the late-night text message having no idea

someone had died and my silly drunken rant was

wildly inappropriate for the time.

 

The universe, in it’s comedic timing,

never ceases to amaze or stun me into

awe.

Pounding Nails in the Mud

 

I was passing the park

on my way to the bar

when I saw the man,

down in the smelly

mud of a park path.

 

It had rained a short time

before, soaking the ground

and turning the ground into

a stinky mush.  The man was

on his hands and knees in the muck.

 

He had a hammer in his hand,

and was raising it up over his

head and was pounding it into

the muddy ground. He was hammering

nails into the mud.

 

“What are you doing,” I asked him.

He didn’t look up from his work.

He didn’t acknowledge me.

He just continued pounding

nails into the mud.

 

He lined up the nail,

like a skilled carpenter would,

and brought the hammer down hard

onto the head of the nail, driving it

easily in to the mire.

 

He had a whole box of nails

next to him, roofing nails it seemed,

and he just went about his work,

calmly confident in his task of

driving nails into the mud.

 

I watched as he moved through

the mud, skillfully arranging the nails

in a straight line, and slamming down

on them with all the might he could

muster. Each nail easily disappearing.

 

On he went, almost whistling while

he slid along from muddy plot to the next,

driving the nails in, accomplishing nothing.

The nails held nothing. They vanished in

the mud with each hammer thud.

 

When the box of nails was empty,

the man, covered in the filth of his

endeavors, looked back to take stock

of his labors, to perhaps marvel at his

ingenuity.

 

All his work was for naught,

he scratched at the mud flies whizzing

around his face and rubbed mud on his chin,

he looked up at me, gesturing back,

with a muddy hand, confused exasperation in his eyes.

 

“All that effort, all that work,” he said,

“And nothing to show for it.”

He dropped the hammer in to the mud.

Got up and started toward the cement path.

“Maybe tomorrow I’ll get it right,” he muttered.  

 

With Such Sad Rage We Cry

 

His outrageous anger.

His profanity laced shouting and

attempts to intimidate those around

him by menacingly getting close to

people’s faces.  His rage, snorting

through his throbbing nostrils,

made me feel very sad for him.

 

His rage also terrified me.

Terrified me because I was reminded

of my own rageful moments,

when I was blinded by red

and any rational thought was

pushed out of my mind by the

fires of anger.

 

I felt sad for myself.

Embarrassed.

I felt sad for the man, screaming from

his misdirected self-loathing.

Embarrassed for him.

His blood boiling anger, familiar,

yet so strangely foreign now.

 

I still get mad, I still get

angry, but I don’t think I’m

wild with rage, spitting and spewing it

on everyone around me.

And if I still do, I am sorry.

I don’t like that one bit.

It makes me ashamed.

 

Watching this man, frothing with

anger over the perceived slights to

his beliefs, scared me.

I felt the jittery, pulse quickening,

adrenaline start flowing, even

though I was not directly involved and

was watching from the safety of a

computer screen.

 

I felt scared for the people he was

shouting at, I felt bad that he was once

a child, giggling at the antics of some

silly thing, with all the potential of the

joyful world at his fingertips. Only now,

he was reduced to a quivering rage man,

panting with fury.

 

“How awful,” I said.

 “How sad this makes me,” I said.

 

How lost he had become,

shouting in the faces of other

human beings to scare and intimidate,

so lonely he must be in the solitude

of his anger, how sad I am for him.

 

How sad I am for all those

lost in their rage.

How sad I am for those times I

was lost.

 

Rage is not an answer,

but a symptom of something far

worse.

A stubborn unwillingness to bend,

to see something from another perspective,

to try and understand that for all of

human history the only thing we have is

each other.

 

And to vilify each other,

to belittle each other,

to needle and poke each other,

to yell and curse at each other,

tears down the world

so many died to build.

                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Artist:

Francis Bacon

 (British, 1909–1992)

Title:

Portrait - Man screaming

 , 1952–1952

Medium:

Oil on Canvas

Sounds of Summer

 

The hot breeze, tussling our hair

as it blows through the yard,

carrying the groaning of air conditioners

and the growling of lawn maintenance

on its back, sounding like an army on the march,

smelling of cut grass, exhaust, asphalt and tar.

 

The sounds of Summer

are different for everyone.

Some hear the tall summer

grasses rustling in the rural

breezes of an idyllic countryside,

while others hear the waves of

a man made, land-locked lake lapping

the pillars of a sun-bleached pier.

I’m only mildly familiar with those sounds.

 

The Summer sound I hear most,

is traffic.

An urban noise, people in a rush

to get from one side of the city

to the other. Engines whining and

roaring, horns blaring and music

thumping from car windows,

echoing off the scorching brick and cement

of city sidewalks.

 

I know somewhere children run,

screaming with glee as they engage

in pitched squirt gun battles, drenched

in Summer fun and cooling water,

yet I can barely hear them over the

pool filters humming noisily and

backyard speakers blaring unfamiliar

and ethnic music.

 

The joyful Summer sounds seem

muted by the noise of mechanization,

of destination over the journey, the buzzing,

beeping, and cacophony of the next thing,

the next moments moment.

The white noise of Summer.

 

 

Mind Making

 

“I don’t know what that is.

I’ve never seen it before.

I’m not sure of its purpose.

I don’t know if I should be afraid,” I said.

 

“Here it is.

It’s all new.

Nothing to fear.

Just something current,” she said.

 

“It looks sharp and rough,” I said.

 

“It’s smooth and clean,” she said.

 

“It looks like it’ll hurt,

It looks like it’s mean.

I think it’s a killer.

I think it’s bad,” I said.

 

“No, no, no, it’s none of that.

It’s good I swear.

Nice and neat.

A treat for sure,” she said.

 

“But the teeth,” I said.

 

“Just a happy smile,” she said.

 

It darkly sparkled in the middle.

Between she and me.

 

“It’s just new is all,” she said again.

 

“I don’t trust it.

I don’t like it.

I don’t want it.

I think you’re lying,” I said.

 

“Fine.

Don’t want it.

I’ll take it somewhere else.

I’ll just take it to someone brave,” she said.

 

“Now hold on a sec,” I said.

 

 

 

 

Haunted Mango Trees and The Electric Jesus

                                                                                                  
 

“Haunted Mango Trees and The Electric Jesus,” said Jerry as he flipped through the new release records at the record shop. 

                Carmen looked up from her inventory sheet and brushed her blue bangs out of her eyes. She sighed from some unstated and undefined exasperation. 

                “Yesh, they’re supposed to be like, good or something. They played on some late-night talk show or something. I mean I wouldn’t know since I don’t watch that stuff, but I guess there was like a lot of buzz about them so we ordered their album so we’ll just have to see like, if they even sell or like, what they’re all about or whatever,” said Carmen. 

                Jerry nodded and looked at the back cover of the brightly illustrated album. Haunted Mango Tree and The Electric Jesus had 12 songs listed on the back of their album. The song titles seemed centered around either lost love, drinking about lost love, or happy to have lost love but found drugs. Jerry read some out loud to Carmen, who was chewing on the end of her pencil. 

                “Snow without you; Rain in your hair; Bottle of Passions; Drunken Larva Love; Sex in Cuba; - Sheesh, what is this band all about really,” said Jerry. 

                “I love Sex in Cuba,” said Carmen, still chewing on the pencil.
                “The song,” asked Jerry.
                “Nope,” said Carmen. 

                Carmen winked at Jerry and she put the pencil down and folded the inventory sheet in half and jammed it into a drawer of the store counter. She flicked her hair off her forehead with a quick snap of her head and then spread her arms wide and rested against the long blue record store counter top. It was covered in band stickers and posters and quirky nostalgia crap from too many time periods to name. She picked at the edge of a Black Flag sticker near the counter’s edge near the register. 

                Jerry was still sorting the new releases and putting them in their respective displays. He looked up as Carmen sighed again. 

                “Do you think anyone will come into the store today,” asked Carmen.               

                Jerry tugged at the bottom his tee-shirt hem, pulling it down over his ever-growing belly. All his band shirts were getting small, or he was getting too big for them.    

                “I certainly hope so. We could use it,” Jerry answered. 

                Jerry returned to sorting the new albums from the shipping box they came in. There was a mix of all new releases, from new rock, to old jazz, to alternative hypno-funk. Most of which Jerry was not familiar with. He knew his time in music was passed. He hadn’t been to a show in years and had no real desire to do so any longer. He looked up at the wall clock over the door. 

                “Should we put on that record,” asked Carmen. 

                She sneaked from around the counter and was pointing at the Haunted Mango Trees and The Electric Jesus album.

                “Sure,” said Jerry, mildly reluctant since he wasn’t really all that interested, “might as well see what it is all about.” 
                “Yesh,” said Carmen with a half-hearted fist pump. 

                She plucked the album from the display and twirled around toward the record player behind the counter. Her punk rock schoolgirl skirt fluttered around her as she did her playful twirl. Jerry looked but knew it wasn’t for him. He was more surprised by her veiled enthusiasm for this new band. 

                She turned the record player on and carefully removed the record from its sleeve. She was young but treated records with the reverence Jerry appreciated. It was why he hired her. She delicately put the record on the turntable, switched it on and gently placed the needle. 

                A heavy bass line from a bass guitar rumbled from the store’s speakers and Jerry nearly covered his ears. It was almost too loud. He stopped himself though because he didn’t want to look like a dork in front of Carmen. She closed her heavily eye lined eyes and was already bobbing her head.  Jerry smiled. 

                The bell over the front door jingled and a young man in a pork-pie hat and a purple scarf walked in to the store. 

            “Is this Haunted Mango Trees and The Electric Jesus,” he asked, pushing his glasses up.

“Yesh,” said Carmen, still bobbing her head.

“Awesome. I heard that this was coming out today,” said the young man.

 

Jerry smiled and nodded politely. He liked having customers, but preferred they didn’t linger.
He much preferred that if they did linger, that they bought something first. Then they could stay all day for all he cared.  This guy, was just standing there. 

                The bell jingled again as a young woman pulling her mother along entered the store. The young man moved. 

                “See mom, I told you it was HMTTEJ!” said the young woman.
                “HMTTEJ,” asked the bewildered mom.
                “Haunted Mango Trees and The Electric Jesus, gawd Mom!”
                “Okay honey, whatever you say,” said mom as she cringed at the loudness. 

                Carmen was still bobbing her head. The young man was unfurling his scarf. The young woman ran over to the display to hold a copy of the record in her hands. Jerry moved out of the way and went over to the counter. Sensing a sale. He moved behind Carmen, who playfully nudged him in the hip with her butt as she danced in place.  Jerry made an “oooof” sound as she did it. He immediately turned red with embarrassment.  He wiped his face with his hand and stood behind the counter.
Ready.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Econo Jam Records // Courtesy Photo - https://dothebay.com/p/east-bay-best-record-stores

Harder To Write Than I Thought

 

As it is Pride month,

I thought we should

spend this Minute with

Michael discussing

Destructive Pride.

 

Typically, Pride is the

ego manifest in the

justified adoration of

a well-done deed or task.

An off-shoot of being

proud, as it were.   

 

Destructive Pride is unearned,

a narcissistic tendency

to self-aggrandize in

spite of evidence

contrary to any accomplishment.

 

Destructive Pride is often

obstinate in the face of

new information.

It will not bend, waiver or

re-evaluate.

 

Destructive Pride will echo

its moral superiority over

any affront or perceived

slight, unflinching in its

stubborn self-imposed superiority.

 

Destructive and Stupid Pride,

go hand in hand, repeating in unison,

“That’ll never happen to me. I am far

too good, too important, to special

to ever be crushed by an avalanche!”

Just as the snow starts its destructive

flow down the mountain.

 

“It’s just snow.

Weak and melty,” says Destructive Pride.

 

Even in the face of Death, Destructive Pride

will not abandon their unfounded,

ungrounded beliefs of their own self-importance.

It will manipulate, cajole and harass until

everyone believes things the way they do.

Regardless of facts, science, reason or accountability.

Killing everyone.

Pride, destructive pride, does indeed

cometh before the fall.

Yet, in these modern times, I never

see the fall any more.

 

Destructive Pride just keeps going,

on and on, denying anything ever

happened, repeating its own mantra

of infallibility and doubling-down on

charisma over substance.

 

Sadly, I can hope it will

indeed destroy itself while clinging to

some antiquated notion of

superiority based on nothing

but air. Fingernails broken

on the ledge of some nonsense.

 

Pride is earned.

Deserved Pride is modest,

humble, and meek.

It is open to the new;

the evolution of experience

over the dogma of the past.

 

Earned Pride is tearful and

covered in the scars of self

sacrifice. It is quiet.

Only beatified by those who

struggled along.

 

Has it been a minute yet?

 

  

For Pulitzer Consideration

 

Last night before bed,

I scratched out a little

note for myself;

“Remember to write about

that time you didn’t win

the Pulitzer.”

 

I found the note this morning,

I have no idea what it was

about, why I wrote it down,

what the impetus was for

writing it, etc.

It’s a mystery.

 

Is that what I have been doing

for these past ten, nearly 11 years

with this blog? These poems and stories?

Angling for a Pulitzer?

Have I written anything even

Pulitzer worthy?

 

I doubt it considering the thing

I was supposed to write about

was how I didn’t win one.

And I guess I still haven’t…,

unless this poem finally

breaks through that ceiling.

 

Which I doubt.

Because this poem is about nothing and

something that didn’t happen,

and is unlikely to.

Which is most poetry, I think?

Right?

 

Unicorns and buried treasure,

a love life, all fictions, wrapped

in colorful verbiage for mass

consumption.

A whole lot of nothing neatly

displayed and lovingly curated.

 

- For Pulitzer consideration.

Old Soapbox

 

This soapbox is flimsy,

the wood is a little weak,

but I shall do my best to

stand on it, even if there

is a little wobble.

 

It’s June and that means

it’s Pride Month, and Juneteenth,

it’s also National Ice Tea Month

for some reason.

Iced Tea is okay, I guess.

 

Each of those June recognition's

seems to involve our attempts

to heal the wounds of our hate filled pasts.

I’m not sure about the Iced Tea thing

but somebody probably hates it.

 

It is important to me,

in these highly electric times,

we focus on the things that make us the same,

rather than the things that appear different,

but I’m ill prepared to do so.

 

On this rickety soapbox,

which I’ve pulled out so many times

to stand on, and shout from and decry the

various injustices I have been forced to

witness from my safe, straight, white, male perspective.

 

It’s easy for me to say and do practically

whatever I want. It’s unlikely this soapbox

will be kicked out from underneath me by anyone,

other than some other straight, white male with

anger and rationality issues. That’s who I’m actually most

worried about being perched up here.

 

It is easy to hate. It takes guts to love.

It is easy to judge people if they are a little

different. It’s difficult to accept them as they are.

I have dealt with these demons in my past, and

learned to overcome. And continue to learn.

 

It is my hope that I can retire this

rickety soapbox someday.

When the world embraces our

similarities rather than superficial

differences.

 

That we can engage each other

with loving civility and compassion

rather than mistrust and ignorance.

But I worry that I’ll be standing

here again soon enough.

 

Trying to balance without breaking through,

the wood and the lies, the rot and the chaos,

the rusty nails and the eroded values of a

equal and just society.

 

I’ll end with someone else’s

words as I try to balance

on this precarious soapbox,

“The price of hating other human beings

 is loving oneself less.” ― Eldridge Cleaver