Auld Lang Syne

A year, like any other, but unlike

so many before.

This one came in, stumbled at

the threshold, spilled its wine on

the white carpet and didn’t

apologize. It was lost from there.

Like a lot of drunks, 2016 didn’t

intend to do it. It was just an accident.

A mistake. It started off with the highest

ideals only to fall into a house of ill repute,

with cocaine crusted around his bloodied nostrils.

It just happened.

So what if 2016 was a serial killer bent

on eliminating the worlds beloved

celebrities, musicians and idealists,

it also took care of a lot of bad people

no one will mourn. Who will remember

2016 did that? “Nobody,” snorts 2016.

2016 wanted to go to the classy bar,

the one downtown, where the tablecloths

are white, the drinks are fancy and the people

are beautiful. But the bouncers wouldn’t let

2016 in. They’d had quite enough of 2015’s

shenanigans and knew better.

2016 didn’t take it well, it went

on a bender of epic proportions. Drinking

and drugging its way from home to home,

heart to heart, and funeral parlor to funeral

parlor.  Shushing people like Dudley Moore

in Arthur and tripping over imagined bumps.

The world just watched as 2016 bumped into

furniture, street lamps, movie stars, gorillas,

politicians, cops, robbers, the guilty, and the

innocent alike. The world just did what enablers

do; they looked the other way and hoped 2016

would just figure it out on its own.  

So here we sit, 2016 and me, at the

end of a dusty bar, dust motes drifting

through the morning sunlight, swirling

around our breakfast beers, the jukebox

is stuck on “American Pie” by Don McLean,

and 2016 doesn’t feel well.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” said 2016.

“You probably should,” I said.

“I mean, what happened? Where did it go

so wrong? Was it me? Was it them,” asked 2016.

“I really don’t know. I was too busy watching you

moon astronauts and eliminate critical thinking,” I said.

“Right, right, that was pretty funny,” said 2016.

2016 got up from its leathery stool and stretched.

“Maybe I’ll just go to the crapper,” said 2016.

“Yeah, maybe you should,” I said.

“Tell 2017 not to take my seat,” said 2016 as it stumbled

toward the restroom.

“Sure. I’ll do that,” I mumbled.

I looked down toward the opposite end of the bar,

a young 2017 was playing with a thin drink straw in

a fancy cocktail, with fruit and a little parasol.

2017 was eyeing us with lust.  

“Not yet baby,” I said, “Not yet.”

2017 pouted and turned away.

I heard a flush from the restroom and 2016

walked back into the bar room

with its pants around its ankles.

“One more round barkeep,” 2016 shouted.

The bartender frowned but got the drinks.

“I broke your toilet too, by the way,” said 2016.

The Adventures of Christmas Man

“What’s that? Up in the sky?”

“Is it a man? Is it a giant bird?”

“Is it glowing? Is it all lit up?’

“Is it wearing underwear over

its clothes?”

The crowd mumbled and

shuffled in the cold December

night as they gazed skyward at

the curious red object streaking

through the winter air.

“Is that…? Christmas Man?!”

“It is! It’s Christmas Man!”

“Hooray, here to save us all!”

“He’ll save us, I’m sure of it!”

“Oh, lucky day!”

Christmas Man defender of

cheer and goodwill toward man,

a man of Yule and merry tidings,

a superhero born to bring hope,

and a Union chimney sweeper.

“I hope he can help me carry my

heavy shopping bags to my car!”

“I hope he salts this slippery sidewalk!”

“I hope he keeps my crazy Uncle quiet

during Christmas dinner!”

Christmas Man waved to the crowds

as he zoomed overhead. He had a mission

this night. A mission of mercy for the

needy. A mission to save Christmas from

sadness.

“Hey! Christmas Man! Where are you

going!?”

“Yeah, hey buddy, what the heck!”

“Salt this slippery sidewalk!”

“Where’s he going? What a Jerk!”

Christmas Man flew over the city,

he flew over the country, his red cape

trimmed in white fur, flapping behind

him in his speedy flight. He waved when he

could to the people below.

“Up yours Christmas Man!”

“Get bent Christmas Man!”

“Salt this sidewalk!”

“Get lost Christmas Man!”

“You’re a flash in the pan!”

Christmas Man had no time

for their jibes. Yet he did wipe

a small tear from the corner of

his eye. It might have been from

the cold wind in his face.

“Christmas Man, what a joke.”

“He only comes one time a year.”

“I fell on this slippery sidewalk!”

“I’ve never actually met him.”

“Yeah, he’s never done anything for me.”

The crowds on the city streets dispersed,

the country folks went back inside the

businesses on Main Street. They griped

and grumbled and fixed their collars against

the cold.

Christmas Man arrived at a small

village where a water borne

sickness had ravaged the villagers.

He offered to set up a Christmas tree,

with lights and bells.

“No thank you Christmas Man,” said the Doctor,

“but maybe you can hold that child there and

provide her some comfort in her last minutes.”

Christmas Man looked at the small girl, weak from

sickness, taking slow sluggish breaths.

“How about I sing a little Oh, Little Town

of Bethlehem,” asked Christmas Man.

“Um, sure Christmas Man, just stay out

of the way,” said the exhausted Doctor.

“Great! I’m sure that’ll help,” said Christmas Man.

The Doctor rolled his eyes as Christmas Man

began to sing. The child turned away.

The doctor moved on to the next sick child as

Christmas Man sang with his eyes closed, willing

the Spirit of good tidings to manifest.

“What is that madman doing?”

“I think he’s singing.”

“Why doesn’t he help clean the water?”

“I don’t think that’s what he does.”

“Who does then?”

Christmas Man finished his song.

A few villagers still able to move applauded

politely. Christmas Man gave them a quick

salute and turned to the center of the village,

“Merry Christmas to All,” he said with a wave.

Christmas Man shot up into the sky leaving

a trail of Christmas lights and the smell of

hot Gingerbread in his wake.

“Son of a biscuit,” said the Doctor.

“Is it really Christmas,” asked a sick villager.

“It is. It really is, somewhere” said the Doctor.

Somewhere there were sleigh bells jingling,

and church bells were ringing, and a distant

chorus sang carols on the night breeze.

“It is Christmas,” said the Doctor.  

My Bit of Mourning

The hardest thing to write about

is death.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I can write about death all day.

Until it becomes personal.

Then, I really don’t know what to

say about it at all.

Sure, I can write a story about

the Grim Reaper coming into

someone’s bedroom late in the night,

waking up the soon to be departed,

having a chat about their life,

smoking a cigarette, and whisking the

soul to heaven.

No problem. Story practically writes

itself. But it’s tougher when it’s personal.

It’s not some mythological creature of

legend shrouded in a ragged black hood reaching

out with a bony hand. It’s certainly not as

dramatic as all that. 

There’s no special effects.

When someone dies.

It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. It’s sad.

It’s cruel. It’s inevitable.

Albeit, sometimes too soon; enhancing the cruelty.

It’s random, yet so targeted.  And leaves so

many in its melancholy wake to wonder, to mourn,

to grieve, and cry.  And I still don’t know what to say.

I’ve been going to funerals

since before I could walk. Death has been

constant in my life and it is nothing new.

In fact, it’s sort of old hat. Occurring with

such regularity that I’m almost bored with

it, or maybe, tired of it.  Yes, I’m tired of

death. 

I’ll get out the black suit. I’ll say my prayers.

I’ll kneel, sit, eulogize, and wish to God

that I could just go home and get

back to normal. I’m tired of the

bully that death can be.  I’m tired

of the saint death can be.

I’m tired of trying to figure it out.

I’ll pay my respects for the living,

the survivors of death, the family,

the friends. I’ll say that I’m sorry.

I’ll say that it’ll be okay, in time.

And it’ll be true.

Yet tinged with the mechanical motions

of a seasoned professional mourner.

With nothing original to say.

Death not only robs us of a loved one

but it robs us of the right words to say,

to write, to sing, the chance for new memories

before the old ones fade away.

That’s why it’s so hard to write about.

That’s why I’m not sure what this is about.

Hungry

A growling and grumbling

in my gut is telling me

something I think I thought

I already knew.

I’m hungry.

It’s more than simple hunger, starvation

or emaciation. Food in my

1^st world life is fairly simple to obtain.

Go to the store. Go to the restaurant.

Microwave a burrito.

The grumbling and growling

is much more than a need for food.

It’s a hunger for something more

sustaining. Something more filling.

Something…

I’m hungry for being wanted.

I’m starving for being lusted after.

I’m un-sated for love.

I’m craving an unspoken trust between

minds, hearts and smiles.

The buffet seems to be closed though,

my deli ticket number never gets called,

they’re out of the meat I like,

they’re not serving breakfast after 10:00 am,

they put pineapple in the potato salad.

I’m unaware of how to satisfy this hunger,

I’m not sure where to go to get a good meal,

I don’t have the right cooking utensils,

I won’t go to a Farmers’ Market,

I haven’t the slightest where you got yours.

A grumble and a groan,

from deep inside.

The Last Dance...

It’s sort of odd to

hear a Disco song

of a bygone era

rattling through ones

mind on a milestone day

that is also about to become

part of a bygone era.

Disco and my Thirties

are over.  Disco has been

dead for a long time,

and it died in my lifetime,

which is interesting in and

of itself. I lived with Disco?

There’s still a few songs I guiltily enjoy.

My Thirties however, I’m glad

they’re ending.  They have been

exceedingly rambunctious, annoying,

terrifying, depressing, joyful, hilarious,

embarrassing, disappointing, mournful,

melancholy, morose, anxiety ridden, and

at times, even a little sexy.

Just like Disco.

With a lot less drugs.

Or Gold Lame pants.

My Thirties, at times, did have

a pretty good beat, something you

could dance to, but I think it was more

about learning the dance steps than it

was about the dancing.

And, I like dancing.

But I like learning more.

So Donna Summer, you go ahead and

play your song in my head, I can take it:

“So let's dance, the last dance
Let's dance, the last dance

Let's dance this last dance tonight…”

Groovy.   

Ranking

I’m a novice at this getting

older thing. It’s the first time

I’ve had to do it so I hope

everyone can bear with me.

It’s always new.

I’m an amateur at aging.
I’m nowhere near a

professional at it.

It’s just what I’m doing

every single day.

Year by year a new milestone

is struck. A new age bracket to

explore without ever believing

I’d make it this far.

Never had a blueprint or road-map.

I’ve just had to make it up as I

went along; Highs, lows, loves,

broken hearts, lies, truths, failures,

successes and never really knowing

if it was right, wrong or just what it was.

 Always a new issue, crisis, conflict,

grumbling, grousing, and to go through,

always a new lesson, always an education,

always a time and a place for a new time and

place.

I’m still an apprentice at living,

I’m still a beginner at being.

I don’t know where I’m going,

but I have seen where I’ve been,

and I suppose that’s where credentials come from.

I’m facing a new decade of numbers,

a chance to move up in the

rankings of life to Semi-Pro and

if I’m lucky, loved and liked,

I might turn Pro. 

Getting my Thanks on

I’m thankful for Art.

I’m thankful for free expression.

I’m thankful for imagination.

I’m thankful for the dreamers.

To see an empty canvass,

an empty page,

a blank music sheet

or pile of rusty metal,

and think…

that could be something,

that will be something,

I will make it something.

I’m thankful for the painters,

the poets, the writers, the

musicians, the sculptors, the

outside visionaries.

I’m thankful for the thinkers.

I’m thankful for those that see

pain, love, lust, suffering, joy, and

loss, and they give it shape.

Cutting away the stone,

mixing the paint,

banging piano keys,

typing the same word over and over.

I’m thankful we have the ability to

get the abstract, and see the shades of all

our churning thoughts and states

into a simple representation of all of us.

I’m thankful we have Art.

I’m thankful we have free expression.

I’m thankful we have imagination.

I’m thankful we have dreams. 

Mr. Golden and His Rule

I’m not sure how hard

this is.

I don’t get why it’s so

tough.

There’s always been a way

to behave.

I can’t help wonder where

it went.

Treat others as

you

would

like

to

be

treated.

It’s pretty simple.

I can’t imagine a simpler

message.

It’s just… so simple.

We teach it to children

and they grasp it.

Wide eyed and believing

and they get it.

We wrestle with it.

We resist it.

We think we’re better.

We think we know better.

I’m not sure how it got

so hard.

I’m not clear on when it

changed.

I’m unsure about the

evolution.

I think I miss my name. 

Someone Has to Get Coffee

                This has been a very difficult overnight and morning for me. I’m a passionate liberal with dreams of a Star Trek type future. A future where the accumulation of wealth is no longer the driving force in the culture, where race, creed, religion, sex, are no longer on anyone’s minds or even an issue. People are only interested in the advancement of humanity as a whole and exploring our infinite potential. So in light of our recent election, I’m a little bummed out.

                This election and its results are indeed different than the ones in the past. This is the first time I can recall that I’m genuinely afraid for people I know and people I love. In the past it’s been disagreements about rhetoric and some minor domestic policies, but I always thought the candidate had what they felt was the best interests of the people at heart.  This time, I’m not so sure.  

                I’m not sure because for the first time I feel like the country has elected a person who wants to put his own ideals ahead of the American ideals. The people have elected a person whose own greed and lust for power have overshadowed any humanitarian or altruistic virtues I’ve come to associate with the office of the President.   Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness are at the core of the American value system. We’ve almost always looked to Presidents that reflect those values and help to attain those lofty goals, by moving us forward into better times, domestically or economically.

                But then, is this President-Elect a reflection of America?  Is it possible that this shining light on the hill has devolved into a xenophobic right wing white men’s Christian conservative values country? Is the Election of Donald Trump a true reflection of this country’s underlying distrust of women, of homosexuals, of immigrants, of persons of color? Is it underlying any longer? I’m afraid that it is no longer underlying. I’m afraid we liberals were complacent and blind. I’m afraid we were arrogant in our expectation that people in this country are generally good and want equality and liberty for all.

                I’m angry that the election of this man happened. I’m angry that I have to be fearful for my friends and family. I’m angry at the people who voted for a TV celebrity rather than for progress. I’m angry at broadcast television for never providing any in-depth political reporting about anything, leaving a gap in information. I’m angry at Cable News for constantly focusing on the wrong issues and talking about them to death.  I’m angry at the failure of newspapers. I’m angry at the amount of disinformation that has been allowed to seep into American culture. I’m angry that somehow, facts aren’t facts anymore because of how they make you “feel”.  I’m angry that someone’s opinion matters more than the facts.  I’m angry because I just don’t think going backwards is anyway to move forward.

                I think social progress is essential to healthy National growth. Fear has never been good for social progress or social justice. Historically, fear has led to Pogroms, isolationism, extremism and divisions so deep that it takes generations to finally heal.  A populace that is terrified of their shadow will do just about anything to protect itself from any perceived threat, real or imagined.  The President Elect played those fears like a harp from hell and the people, uninformed, disenfranchised, and isolated heard music.

                I had a few lines from the movie Gladiator go through my head this morning as I listened to Donald Trump’s speech. “I think he [Commodus] knows what Rome is. Rome is the mob. Conjure magic for them and they'll be distracted. Take away their freedom and still they'll roar. The beating heart of Rome is not the marble of the Senate; it's the sand of the Coliseum. He'll bring them death...and they will love him for it.”    In this case, the Coliseum was the Media, the debates, the constant onslaught of “news” stories and a man fanning the flames of fear against a woman with ideals of hope and courage.  

                Right now, I’m still upset though. I’m deeply disappointed by the voters. I feel as if the hopeful America I believe in; the one for progress, inclusion, possibility and equality has taken a step backwards toward tyranny, religious extremism, and the extremes of conservatism.   

                Yet, I should stop there. I should stop and be reminded that this is a wake-up call. This is a klaxon call for us to open our eyes to the troubles within our deeply divided nation and really start to work to fix those problems.  We must not flee in despair but plant our feet firmly in the ground and use our woken voice to do what we can to fight any policy or legislation that threatens the freedoms of any American. A crime against one is a crime against us all and we must be resolved to resist any attempts to limit our liberties, our lives or the pursuit of our happiness’s.  

              

Voting is Cool

On this most Auspicious and

American of Days, I want to

encourage everyone to get out

and vote. It is a right so many

have sacrificed for and some don’t have.

Using the collective voices of

this Republic we can indeed

create the sort of country we

want. We are the destiny makers,

we are, “The dreamers of the Dream”.

Republican or Democrat, independent

or Green, it’s important to know that

participating in the process is just as

important as your person winning.

The power to vote is essential to the American

Experiment.

The Founder’s, I like to think, hoped this

American Experience would encourage

free thinking and encourage boldness in the

face of tyranny and oppression. They hoped

to create a Nation with Liberty and Justice for all.

They weren’t perfect. They missed the slavery

issue completely. They were not Gods, but men.

They were flawed and men of their time and era.

Yet, they had foresight, they knew this country

wasn’t for them. It was for us. Now. Here.

So make sure you’re voting today,

make sure you’re thinking about what’s

best for everyone and not just yourself,

because we are all in this together

and for generations of future Americans. 

Picking Battles and Choosing Fights

It’s great to be a principled

person.

It’s good to know that your

morality is superior.

It’s nice to feel that everything

can be explained.

But not everyone feels that way.

Some people are immovable as

mountains. Uncompromising as

the seas and as disrespectful

as age is to dignity.

To want a reason,

an explanation, insight into

why someone does something terrible

is perfectly normal and it’s good you

want to know.

I have found however, and still find,

that the answer isn’t usually very good.

It’s unsatisfying. It’s empty.   Meaningless,

and baffling to the rational person.

Some folks are just bad.

There are those types, those people,

that’ll knock a man down just because they

can, who’ll attempt to assert control over others

in a vain attempt to have control over their

own emptiness; their own moral vacancy.  

There is no reaching them in a casual conversation,

and no just or moral act will show them their

erroneous ways. Some folks are just pricks,

who actually enjoy being pricks due to the chemistry in

their faulty wired brain.

It is great to try and reach them,

it’s good to try and have them explain,

It’s nice to want an answer for how they can

justify themselves.

A leopard doesn’t change its spots

however, and a jerk is a jerk and no

punishment or application of moral

virtue will ever get through.

They feed on their chaos.

It’s best to starve them of

their chaos instead. To hold them at bay

in their pursuit of anarchy.

Passive resistance against a tide

of inhumanity.

Action moments must be

timed carefully with bullies, braggarts,

cowards and chickens.  Sometimes taking

an action against them, at the wrong time,

leaves them enraged and bitter without

having learned anything.

Kindness in the face of overwhelming adversity

can sometimes go further than a night in jail,

a punch in the face, a kick in the rump or even

a well thought out, coherent, logical, conversation.

Sometimes.  Not always.

Wisdom is knowing when to fight,

and when not to. Figuring out when to

apply it takes patience and courage, even

when the crowds are screaming for bloody

revenge.  

Sometimes all is failure and there is no

road to redemption. Then you write them

off and go on with your life,

knowing some souls are too damaged to

ever redeem. 

Ghost Hunt

                The Paranormal Team from the University arrived at Megan’s and Jamal’s new house. They unloaded two vans and an SUV full of all sorts of cameras, motion detectors, infrared lights, night vision goggles and a hearty sense of self importance.  Megan sighed. Her boyfriend Jamal had been frightened by what he called “Phantasm Noises” coming from the attic so he called the University.  She’d heard them too over the two months they’d been living together but just chalked it up to the house settling or just being old. It was an old house. She hoped they would be able to fix it up slowly over the course of their relationship.

                “Where can we plug this in,” asked the Leader of the paranormal group, Professor Montgomery.

                “Anywhere is fine, just as long as it’s out of the way,” said Megan.

                Megan didn’t believe in ghost hunting. She followed the old axiom that “seeing was believing”. She wasn’t one to succumb to the supernatural. She just took it for what it was.  Jamal on the other hand was terribly superstitious. He threw spilled salt over his shoulder, wouldn’t walk under ladders, looked for four leaf clovers and kept a vial of holy water in his nightstand. Megan through it was ridiculous, but he was a great lover and one of the most compassionate guys she’d ever met. So she forgave him his superstitions.  

                “We might have to drill a hole in this wall to run the cable for the thermal,” said Professor Montgomery.

                “Not on your frigging life,” said Megan.

                “It’s fine,” said Jamal.

                Megan turned to Jamal and gave him the death stare Megan had tried, pleaded with Jamal, not to invite these weirdoes into their new house. She said there was probably a bird or something that got into the attic at night and that was it. There was nothing supernatural about it. Jamal told her that he heard voices in the attic and saw strange floating orbs. She told him it was probably from the TV and dust particles. He said that he just wanted them to be safe in their new house and it was for both of them.  Megan finally agreed to let these nerds in and perform an overnight Ghost Hunt.

                Professor Montgomery gave a drill to one of his assistances and he drilled a hole right through the baseboard near the bottom of the stairs. Megan cringed. The assistant ran a cord through the hole and plugged into the wall socket behind the TV. He almost knocked the TV off the stand and Megan lunged forward to save it.

                “Please be careful,” she said.

               

                The assistant shrugged and went back to setting up the equipment. Megan could feel the vein on her forehead throbbing and she felt very flush. She steadied the TV and went to the kitchen where Jamal was sitting at a laptop. He was watching each of the observation cameras come on line and he was rubbing his hands together in what appeared to be boyish glee.

                “They better find some serious ghost shit in this house or I might have to dump you,” said Megan.

                “Honey, these guys are the best. They would have had their own TV show if there weren’t already so many paranormal investigative shows on already. They’re the best,” said Jamal.

                “I don’t think you’re hearing me Jamal. If they don’t find something, I’m dumping you,” said Megan.

                Jamal waved her off and watched the laptop screen as the camera picture from the attic came on-line.

                “That’s a great view of the Attic. Right where I told them I saw the orbs,” said Jamal.

                Megan rolled her eyes and opened the fridge and took out a bottle of white wine. She got a glass from the cupboard and poured herself a healthy dose of vino.

                “Do you think that’s wise? It’s 1:30 in the afternoon,” said Jamal.

               

                Megan looked back at Jamal and took a big sip from her glass and made an exaggerated gulp and satisfying sigh.

                “Real mature,” said Jamal.

                Megan stepped out of the kitchen and back into the living room where three assistants of Professor Montgomery were sitting in a circle. They all had their phones out and were all on Twitter.  Megan stepped around their Twitter Jerk and went into the dining room. It was the only room where the paranormal investigators had ignored. Their early “testing” had shown no paranormal activity so they thought they should concentrate on the attic and other rooms. It was quiet in the dining room.

                “What a ruckus,” said Captain Jonah as his spectral form took shape in the chair next to Megan.

                “I know, right,” agreed Megan.

                “You’re boyfriend is a dweeb,” said Captain Jonah, “you should run away with me like we talked about.”

                Megan looked at the colorful but shimmering shape of Captain Jonah, the former resident of this old house. He died at sea while whaling but never really accepted the fact that he was dead.

                “No Jonah. He’s not a dweeb. He just can’t see what I see and he finds it frustrating,” she said.

                “Dump him and run away with me,” said Captain Jonah again.

                Megan took another sip of wine and looked at the old, but very handsome face of the Captain. She wondered what his thick black hair would feel like between her fingers, if his hands were rough, if he would kiss her like she thought men of his era kissed women. She closed her eyes and tried to clear the thought of them in bed together from her mind.

                “I love when you think that way,” said Captain Jonah.

                “Even dead, you men are all alike,” said Megan.  

               

                The Captain winked at her and vanished from the table. Jamal walked in on her.

                “Who were you talking to babe,” he asked.

                “No one hon. No one,” said Megan.

                She got up from the table and put her arm around Jamal’s neck. She kissed him on the cheek.

                “I hope your ghost hunt goes well. I’m sorry I’m out of patience with it,” she said.

                “Thanks babe. I know you don’t believe in any of this stuff but I appreciate you putting up with it,” said Jamal.

                They hugged each other and Megan looked back toward the dining room table. Captain Jonah had reappeared and had folded his arms over his chest. He rolled his eyes and then disappeared. 

Voices of the Dead

Buddy wanted to Rave On,

Jimi’s Wind Cried Mary,

Stevie Ray’s House was A’Rockin’,

Elvis was In the Ghetto.

Marvin wondered What’s Goin’ On,

Scott needed Vaseline,

Kurt Smelled Like Teen Spirit,

Mama was out On a Winter’s Day.

ODB Got your Money,

Prince is Listening to Doves Cry,

Jim Broke on Through,

David is a Starman

Lemmy is all Aces,

B.B. is wondering Where the Thrill has Gone,

Lesley knows it’s Judy’s Turn to Cry,

Joe has a Little Help from His Friends.

Lou is Walking the Wild Side,

Ravi is wondering about Norwegian Wood,

Donna will always Survive,

Davey is a Daydream Believer.

Whitney Is Every Woman,

Etta finally has her At Last,

Amy’s Tears Dry on Their Own,

Ronnie is a Holy Diver.

These voices are haunting me,

from the radio, getting in my head

and making my body move in

uncontrollable ways.

It’s as if they possess us,

in their ghostly ways,

making us remember,

so they don’t fade away. 

The Date

The band was playing something

soft in the background,

drink glasses clinked over

murmured conversations.

The lights were low,

pink and blue neon,

reflecting in the fun-house

mirror over the oak bar.

She sat on her stool,

crowded by a man

more interested in talking

than listening.

She’d dressed up for this date,

Hair, make-up, and the expensive

perfume.  She was nervous the night

before, like a teenager.

She had no reason to be.

She thought he’d be nice,

but he was crude, rough and

dim as a gas lamp.

His profile was deceiving

and she should have known

from spelling errors and syntax,

but he was handsome. So, a chance.

He didn’t compliment her,

he only said she looked, “Tasty”

and that they should probably

just skip dinner in favor of heavy drinks.

He said something about “Those people,

and how they all think, they’re dirty, and

evil and they should be segregated”.

She cringed and brushed her hair back.

His shirt collar was open, a small

mustard stain on it kept

demanding her attention. She figured

this was his “nice” shirt, for funerals and dates.

He said she had nice legs and he put his

hand on her knee. She sat up straight

and brushed his hand away. He acted offended.

She wanted to vomit.

The band stopped playing their soft song.

People clapped lightly.

She stood from the stool.

She said she was done.

“Bitch”, he called after her

as she walked away.

She knew she had done the right thing.

She was glad to go.

She was lucky to get away.

The rest of the patrons were

stuck listening to her date,

curse her and call her all sorts of things.

He was asked to leave,

so he yelled at the bartender,

he yelled at the bouncer,

he called everyone in the bar, “Fags”.

He stormed out.

Thinking he was right.

Thinking he did the right thing.

The hell with that place and her.