Tales of Conformity

 

 

                 Reggie slapped a sticker onto a milk carton. His sticker read, “Milk is lying to you.”  He continued to walk through the bodega, putting his own, homemade stickers on the items he through were pawns in the culture of corporate manipulation. “Bread is plentiful, but you waste it,” said the next sticker he slapped onto a loaf of sourdough. Reggie flipped his dreadlocks off his face. 

                “You man, you there,” yelled a concerned bodega clerk, “I see you. I see that which what it is that you are up to there. Get out. Get out of my store!” 

                Reggie shrugged. He adjusted his raggedy backpack on his shoulder and sauntered towards the door. He pursed his lips slightly as he passed the front counter and the angry bodega clerk, who stood with his hands on his hips like a disapproving parent. 

                “Whatever man, just spreading the truth,” said Reggie as he thumped his chest with his fist and blew a two-finger peace sign kiss at the clerk. He stepped out the door and onto the early Autumn sidewalk. He could hear the clerk inside continuing his cursing tirade but he didn’t have time for that. It was nearly three o’clock and he had to get to the park to meet his friends so they could get high. 

                Weed was problematic for Reggie. He loved weed, getting high and seeing the world through slightly rose-colored glasses, but he couldn’t stand the corporate weed take-over. He was torn by this obvious attack on the counter culture. Weed was counter-culture only if it countered the culture. Now, it was so, everywhere, that it was part of the culture so it wasn’t an act of rebellion anymore. It was just getting high and eating too many Doritos. Which was cool, if Doritos weren’t just the worst corporate snack, he guessed. 

                Reggie started walking towards the park. Oblivious to how he was walking along the sidewalk. He walked at his own pace. Let the suits and skirts and the Man move around him. He was going to walk how he wanted to walk. He didn’t obey traffic lights or those rules or any system of control he felt was counter to his natural state as a free human being. A human – be-ing. 

                He nudged people, people bumped into him. He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t one of the sheep, cow-towing to the rules of society. He was free. He was anarchy. He was his own man, unbound by conformity.  He was hungry. He wished he’d actually bought some of that bread. But bread is murder. Bread is control by warlords and despots over the people; dolling it out to serve their sick desires, sex-trafficking and oppression. And he wouldn’t be a part of that.  Reggie hitched up his loose pants and thought about how he’d needed a belt for a long time but belts were another tool of the fashion industry to contain people.  To control their dreams. 

                Traffic honked at Reggie as he walked casually across the street towards the park. The drivers swore at him that he was going to get killed, run-over, or otherwise murdered doing that. Reggie thumped his chest and blew his two-finger peace sign kiss at them.  

Reggie saw his friends waiting. He hated them. He thought they were all posers and fakers but they had the good weed most of the time. Rich parents or something maybe. Reggie didn’t actually care enough to find out. He barely knew most of their names. Other than Cassandra of course. Because she was like him, only beautiful. To Reggie anyway. She was missing three fingers on her left hand and had a wicked long scar across her face from some kind of fight she was in. Reggie thought that was cool. If he even cared about what was cool. Which he didn’t. 

                “Hey,” sad Caleb as Reggie approached. He brushed his blue and black un-even hair off his forehead.

                 “Yo,” said Reggie. He looked right at Cassandra as he said it.

                 “Yo,” said Cassandra and she nodded in her cute sort of nodding way that you’d only notice if you were stoned but would never see in the real world or if she had a regular corporate job and kids and a house in the suburbs with a jerk white-boy husband who talked about squash and gardening and toast at breakfast.

                 “What up bro,” said Brett. He was sitting on his haunches, holding a smoldering cigarette butt between his green painted fingernails.

                 “What up,” replied Reggie.

                 “You guys want to go see a dead body,” said Caleb, “I know where one is in the park.”

                 Reggie looked away from Cassandra, who had been picking at he dry skin between her thumb and index finger while also absently rubbing her upper thigh. Reggie licked his lips.

                 “Sounds cool. Let’s get high first,” said Reggie.  

                 “Cool. Cool,” said Brett as he took off his own back pack. He unzipped the back pocket and produced a large sandwich bag of weed. “My dad got his Medicinal this week, so, it’s like, the good shit.”

                 “Cool. Cool,” said Caleb.

                 Cassandra nodded again in that cool nodding way that she did that Reggie couldn’t imagine anyone ever noticing about her. Ever. She could live for a hundred years, thought Reggie, and no one would ever see that.  She had grey eyes, but wore very dark eye make-up, so Reggie could always see her eyes roll with the clear sarcasm that often spewed.

                 Brett packed a bowl and lit it. Taking a long pull, holding it, then exhaling a plume of fine white smoke. He started coughing.  Reggie took the bowl from him and passed it to Cassandra.

                “You go,” he said to her.

                 She vaguely acknowledged him and weakly took the bowl and lighter from Reggie’s hand. Their fingers touch for a second.

                 “I love you,” said Reggie.

                 “I know,” said Cassandra as she put the bowl to her lips and lit the weed. She took a long hit while she locked eyes with Reggie. She held in the smoke for a long time, exhaling next to nothing. She passed the bowl back to Reggie with her two good fingers.

                 “I don’t believe in love,” said Cassandra, “Love is crutch. Now, where’s this dead body?”

                 Reggie took a hit from the bowl. He knew where the body was already.

 

 

 

A Comfy Sofa

 

Comfort.

Has been on my mind.

We’re seemingly very

comfortable,

these days.

 

Nestled in our

bubbles of complacency,

mediocrity, solitude

and safety.

Protected.

 

When our comfort

is disrupted, then is

when, things begin to

change.

Change because they have to.

 

Our comfort makes us,

soft, mushy in the middle,

disinterested in anything that

might nudge us from the

well-worn, threadbare, spot on the sofa.

 

I mean, I like my sofa.

But it’s actually not all that

comfortable.

It’s a little stiff, but

otherwise, manageable.

 

It’s discomfort we need

in large and pointy ways that

encourages us to actually

change. To change the machinery,

the mechanics, the motivators.

 

Comfort is the enemy of

advancement.

Mediocrity is the adversary

of change.

So be it, is the rival of; do it.

 

To Change we need adversity.

To Change we need the desire

to take this comfort and turn it

on its head and ask, “is this the Way?”

Is it?

 

Change;

is a mountain climb,

a trip to the stars,

an uncomfortable viewing of a sex scene

in a movie with your parents in the same room.

 

It’s uncomfortable,

so we don’t seem to do it.

It’s hard.

So we don’t want to bear it.

We quit before we start.

 

Swaddled in our comfort,

ease, and genuine ennui

of the plight of those,

who really are

uncomfortable. And yearning for Change.

 

 

Listening

 

Listen with an open

heart as well as open ears,

as I try and tell you how I feel,

or rather how you make

me feel, when you don’t listen.

 

When talking to you is

like playing lawn darts,

with those big, metal

killer darts.

 

Some darts land

gently in the grass and

the target circle; some puncture a

kids head and they go screaming

about the yard as blood sprays all over the

clean linen hanging from the

clothes line, the fence, etc.

 

So, getting you to hear me

is sometimes, hit or miss.

And the misses.

Boy the misses!

A calamitous injury affair,

with shrapnel and extended

hospital visits.

 

So all I ask;

is that you listen,

not judge immediately,

only listen,

digest,

hear,

and think,

before lunging with

words of your own,

attempting to best me

to the quick.  

 

Listen,

with open ears,

and open heart,

and please put away the

metal lawn darts.

 

Oh, you probably didn’t hear me.

 

 

Alien Language

 

                “Jesus, Frank,” said Palmer as he ducked under the two by four Frank was swinging over his shoulder. “You almost took my damn head off.”

                 “OMG, sorry right. I’m just all kinds of crazy today I guess,” said Frank as he made a cross-eyed expression and stuck his tongue out in the corner of his mouth.

                 “Um, what,” asked Palmer.

                 “Oh, It’s just like, so crazy for me right now. Like, I’m having a total crisis over my cat’s funeral arrangements, even though my cat is like, so far from ever even dying but I like, want to be prepared for the eventuality of it you know. So, I can’t like, decide if Mister Snicker’s should have a little Kitty coffin or like, get cremated or if maybe I should like, get him stuffed or whatever but I think that might be a little creepy, like, in the corner of my room and I KNOW Brad would just be furious with it,” said Frank.

                 “What…what the hell are you talking about Frank,” asked Palmer. Palmer took his hard hat off and rubbed his forehead.

                 “My cat. Mister Snicker. I know I’ve told you about him before silly,” said Frank.

                 “What... what the hell is going on with you,” asked Palmer. “Yesterday you were talking about UFO’s and how aliens are real and they’ve visited you and took you up to their ship and today you’re talking about cat funeral arrangements?”

                 “Oh come on, I’ve talked about Mister Snicker a bunch of times don’t even lie,” said Frank.

                 “You don’t have a cat Frank,” said Palmer.

                 “What are you talking about Palmer, always loved that name by the way, what…, I totally have a cat,” said Frank.

                 “No, you don’t. And who the hell is Brad,” asked Palmer.

                 “Brad? Oh, he’s my little, you know, friend, I guess. I’m not really sure what we are right now, but I think we’re just trying to stay away from labels, because everyone is so into labels right now. We just want to you know, just hang out in our matching kimono’s, drink tea and just, you know be there for each other, like anyone else would, right,” said Frank.

                 “Frank. You were at the gun range two days ago yelling at the guy behind the counter that you’d tear that earring right out of his ear if he looked at you again,” said Palmer.

                 Frank turned his head to the side and stepped up onto the stack of lumber he and Palmer were unloading.  “That’s not true. I didn’t do that. I’d never do that to another human being. Why would you say that, Palmer? Besides, I’m sure he said something rude to me,” asked Frank.

                 “Dude. You totally yelled at him for like, twenty minutes. You even keyed his car in the parking lot.  It was the most homophobic rant I’ve heard this century,” said Palmer, “I was totally embarrassed to even be there with you. I was dreading even having to work with you again.”

                 “What? No. That’s impossible. I would never do that. I don’t think you’re thinking about the right person at all. Are you okay Palmer?” Frank put his wrist on his hip and looked at Palmer.

                 “I’m the one who’s fine,” said Palmer, “you’re the one doing this, insensitive and frankly offensive over the top gay character for some reason, acting like a total weirdo. I mean, twenty minutes ago you told the foreman that you did his mom last night!”

                 “Yeah, I didn’t do that,” said Frank, as he winked and bit his bottom lip.

                 “And stop with the winking! What the hell is going on,” yelled Palmer.

                 “Oh, be quiet. Hush. You’re the one acting like anything I’m doing is at all weird. If anything, I should be offended by how you’re reacting to who I truly am,” said Frank.

                 “Who you are? Who you are!?! I just saw you grab your dick and spit after Shelly the coffee truck girl turned you down for a date, again, no more than ½ an hour ago. If anyone isn’t acting like themselves it’s you,” said Palmer.   

                 “It was all a charade Palmer. A huge silly bad boy façade hiding who I really was inside. It just felt right to finally be who I am,” said Frank.

                 “It was the Aliens. It was those god damn aliens that did this to you. You were right when you were talking about how weird you felt after seeing those UFO’s,” said Palmer.

                 “Okay, now who is being offensive and insensitive mister,” said Frank, “It wasn’t aliens or anything. This is who I really am. I thought if anyone would understand it would be you.”

                 “Me,” asked Palmer.

                 “Well sure, you’re my best friend,” said Frank.

                 “I didn’t know you thought of us as best friends. I mean I mostly can’t stand being around you because of your frankly, scary conservative beliefs and how you behave when we go out to the bar after work or how you always try to hit on my wife,” said Palmer, “So this, is quite a shock to me.”

                 “Jeannie is a doll and I lover her. I don’t want her, I want her to be my friend too,” said Frank.

                 Palmer scratched his scruffy, stubbly chin. He looked at Frank, now sitting cross legged on top of the pile of lumber. Palmer stood there. Frozen in the moment. Completely unsure of what to do.

                 “C’mon silly. This wood isn’t going to unload itself,” said Frank with a sly snicker.

                 Palmer stepped forward and helped Frank lift up a long board from the pile.

                 “You sure it wasn’t aliens,” asked Palmer.

                 “Yes. It was the aliens,” said Frank, “Sheesh.”

                 “And the other stuff you rant about all the time, the pro-life stuff and right-wing political stuff about tearing down the government, that’s just not who you really are? You don’t really believe that,” asked Palmer.

                 “Oh no, I still believe abortion of any kind is murder and those people who perform that sort if indecency should be, like, burned in the town square and have their families thrown into prison. And I do think the last election was like totally stolen from us and White American Red-Blooded Men are clearly the master race, silly,” said Frank.

                 Palmer stopped in his tracks. “What? How can you believe in that stuff still and be, you know, gay?”

                 “I’m gay Palmer, not an idiot. Open your eyes to the living conspiracy that is life in these United States. Pedophiles are eating babies in basements Palmer. Open your eyes,” said Frank.  

                 “I don’t think I can be your friend Frank,” said Palmer.

                 “Because I’m gay,” said Frank as he stopped walking and dropped the board from his shoulder.

                 “No,” Palmer paused, “I can’t be friends with someone who believes in aliens.”

 

  

Fishing Expedition

 

The words were soggy,

flimsy, warped and stretched

to a degree I had not expected.

Soaked in gurgling emotion,

in rivers of tears and oceans

of regret.

 

Some days, the words I

want to use to examine life or

solicit emotion seem like they are

under the water, deep beneath

the surface, fathoms below,

Leagues beneath.

Maybe 20,000 of them.

 

Pulling the words up from the

bottom of the Sea,

cleaning the brine and

barnacles off,

shooing the critters that

have made the nooks their homes.

 

Avoiding the claws and pincers of

the ornerier animals,

as I try, delicately practiced,

to make the words shimmer and

shine with hopes and dreams.

imagination, philosophy and art.

 

But now, it seems, I’m sitting,

in a small boat, feeling a little

sea-sick, as the waves roll beneath

me, line in the water, net at the ready,

to find me those good words.

The keepers.

 

The little ones, I should throw

back; but there’s no limit on this

body of water on how much I can

remove, so I’ll keep ‘em.

In a bucket.

Between my shoes.  

Sloshing.

 

 

In Space

 

In outer Space,

no one hears you

skin your knee.

As you move through

the airlock towards

the spacesuits.

 

The alarms blaring;

someone yelling in

Russian, the claxon

ringing in your ears as

you try to remember your

training.

 

You remember the lift-off,

so easy and care-free,

“Par for the course” you said,

with a slight smugness curled

upon your confident smile

as you settled into orbit.

 

The weightless floating scurry

through the space station,

reminding you of your wedding

day and the weightlessness you felt

as you prepared to change

everything about your life.

 

You remember your wedding,

the long walk down the aisle,

your betrothed looking as incredible

as the day you met, filled with

audacious ambition for the future

and your lives together.

 

You notice the small scrape

on your knee as you step into

the spacesuit. It’s bleeding a little,

sort of, you don’t remember hitting

it on anything.

Will you ever remember, if you make it.

 

You slip the space suit on,

as Gregor checks the pressure,

he’s not going to make it.

It’s his fault you’re exploding.

You don’t hate him though.

Your training won’t let you.

 

Smoke is floating through the cabin.

Gregor’s eyes water as he

opens the airlock and you step through,

his tears floating up in the zero gravity,

you hold your hand against the window,

he meets your hand as you watch him disappear.