Photos on the Walls

All those pictures on the wall,

of family, friends and me,

smiling, laughing and having a ball,

frozen forever in the place to be.

But who’s to remember after it all?

Those pictures, framed, hung with care,

what will happen when I’m no longer there?

Who will hang them or put them somewhere?

After I’ve left this mortal coil and in heaven, I swear.

Will they know me better than my nom de guerre?

It struck me late on a Tuesday night,

as I sat, alone, in my dim apartment light,

that I’ve not a person to pass things to,

once my passage comes into view.

A morbid Tuesday thought, but true.

I’ve no children, no wife, no loving gal,

to pass on those items, to keep them special,

I shuddered to think of those pictures boxed away,

rotting in the dank dark or tossed in the alleyway,

with no reason to keep them or a place to stay.

My Tuesday night, in my bachelor pad,

a growing angst about feeling bad,

for being alone in such a crowded world,

and boxes of my pictures in my imagination swirled,

will not one person know how I endured?

I snorted and chuckled at my own sort of loathing,

an irrational thought, much ado about nothing.

No reason to fret or depressingly twist down a rabbit hole,

there’s still plenty of time, enough to make that goal.

Those photos will be saved and admired by some lovely soul.

I’ll add ever more photos to the wall,

smiles and laughs, growing families and all.

It’s be non-stop, for the eyes of everyone, rapt in awe,

of the life sort of lived, (in a 20 mile range) for Michael,

whose Minute is now conveniently resolved.  

The Plot to Elect Jesus

                “Sir, the poll numbers are in and you’re not doing as well as we had hoped,” said Paul.

                He flipped through the reams of paper crowding his campaign desk and shook his head. Around him was a swirl of staffers and the devoted running through the storefront corner campaign offices of Jesus Christ.

                “Really,” asked Jesus, “what numbers are you referring to?”

                “Well, sir, the numbers among the Jewish community are much lower than previously anticipated,” said Paul.

                “Hmm, that’s not really much of a surprise. I mean, they did crucify me once, why not do it again,” said Jesus.

                Jesus put his hand on Paul’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

                “It’ll be all right. I’m sure they’ll come around,” said Jesus.

                Paul nodded and answered his ringing telephone. Jesus leaned up against the edge of Paul’s desk and marveled at how far they had come in such a short amount of time. He rubbed the stubble on his chin where his lovely long beard had been. He hadn’t imagined his Second Coming would become a political campaign, but he knew he had to roll with the punches in these modern times. He had expected after descending from heaven on a chariot of gold and clouds into the crowds of the believers in New York City his coronation as the Savior would be pretty much a sure thing. But then, the doubting Thomas’s and the critics, pundits and political mouthpieces started their assaults.

                They all questioned him about his intentions, why he was in America, where his birth certificate was, could he be considered an American? Why would Americans follow some Jewish guy from the Middle East when they had a perfectly respectable Christian President? Jesus had to respond in his typical way, being honest that he didn’t really know why anyone would follow him as he was only the bearer of an idea. He only wanted for the salvation of our souls, but that it was up to the people to decide their own fate. Next thing he knew, he was in a political campaign, essentially running for the office of Son of God; or rather, President of the United States.

                The current President petitioned Congress to have the Constitution changed so Jesus could run for President. Congress acted surprisingly swift and created an amendment to allow Citizenship for the Son of God and to clear the way for his campaign. The current President, an allegedly pious and devout man of God, considered Jesus’ return during his term as President of the United States as an affront and he wanted the people to determine who was more worthy to be the chosen one, like some sort of Keanu Reeves.  

                So began the Jesus Christ Presidential Campaign. The Catholic Church, with its bloated banks and vaults, was more than happy to fund Jesus’ run for office. They did have a lot of forms to fill out though and seemed to be somehow profiting off the money they were spending. It was all bookkeeping and beekeeping as far as Jesus was concerned. Money had never really been one of his highest priorities. He thanked them for their faith and moved forward with his run for the office and the hearts of the believers, in him.

                The attack ads on TV were a bit worrisome for J.C., it was something he hadn’t really considered. The Romans only cared about a little graffiti here and there on some buildings. Here the onslaught against him constantly playing on TV were very disheartening. They called him all sorts of terrible names and seemed to miss the whole point about treating others the way they wished to be treated. He could only forgive them and try to move forward with his own positive messaging.

                “Sir, that Pope fellow in on the phone for you again. Something about your stance on Women in their church or something. I dunno, more about how they got your message all wrong,” said Paul.

                Jesus sighed and took the phone from Paul. He rolled his eye up toward Heaven and Paul snickered.

                “Yes Mr. Pope.  Yes, you see, I have been very busy. Um-hm. Yes that’s right. Running for President…. yes. Seems important to him. Right… um-hm… yes…  Right, women are an important part of God’s community and… what’s that? I’m pretty sure I did say so. I did say so… I did… Mr. Pope, I did so say it. I did… Yes, I did. I did so say it! Mr. Pope… Mr. Holy Father… I’m not going to do this… Right, Holy Father… Listen, I’m going to go now. You have a blessed day,” said Jesus and he hung up the phone.

                “He’ll just call back you know,” said Paul.

                “That’s okay. I don’t speak Italian so it all works out,” said Jesus.

                Jesus rubbed his hands together and smiled warmly at Paul. 

                “Okay, what’s next on the agenda,” asked Jesus.

Let's Get a Drink

                She placed her wine glass on the bar as she stared into the depths of her cell phone. Her face was washed in the blue light of her phone. Her thumbs sliding up and down over the small screen in a blur. She was not interested in the bar room nonsense around her. The jukebox playing too loud. The random sports ball game on the overhead TV’s.  She was focused entirely on the small screen in front of her scanning eyes.

                Her loose hair was drooped down the sides of her face, concealing her full visage from my view. Which was likely for the best since I was already starting to feel like a creep for watching her. I’d watched her since she confidently strode in and took a seat at the bar. She quickly ordered her white wine from the bartender and almost immediately dove into her phone. She’d barely put her small purse down. I had thought to say something to her, but decided better of it. It seemed rude to now try and interrupt her. She was there to do her thing and I could see that I would be a bother if I tried to speak with her. I knew to respect her space. Even if that space was eyeball deep in a flurry of text messages.

                The bartender looked at her and then at me. He raised an eyebrow. I shook my head as if to say, “No, not this one.” He understood. I pointed to my near empty bottle of beer. He nodded again and dug out a fresh bottle from the cooler. He opened it and placed it in front of me. I kept my unfinished beer in my hand. I had to get every last drop otherwise it seemed like I was getting cheated. I never let the bartenders take my bottle until it was completely empty. The bottom is where the good stuff is.

I saw the flash of her arm as she reached in front of her for her wine glass. She snatched it off the bar top and took a quick, tight lipped sip. She put the glass back down in front of her. Her eyes never left her phone screen. I looked at her. White sweater, nice but not too dressy, tight jeans but again, not too dressy. Her dark hair seemed black in the diminished lighting of the bar and in the silhouette of her glowing phone screen. It could have been brown. She wore the ubiquitous tan boots of the day. They looked new. She wore a few rings on her left hand, same with her right. None of them looked like a wedding band, but then, I’ve been fooled before. Her look was a mixture of serious but fun, of someone who seemed like they could go out all night or go home early and be comfortable in their clothes.  I thought that was admirable. I never know what to wear or when to go home.

I looked around the bar for anything else to catch my eyes. I was actively seeking something, anything, to keep from being bored to tears with how mundane I had let things become. I wasn’t craving adventure or something obnoxious, but something at least interesting. Something to break up the monotony of thought. The talking to myself every night in my small apartment had started to gnaw at me. I was answering too often and marveling at my own incredible insights into the vast wasteland of bachelorhood. Some days it seemed like I talked to myself more then I spoke with other people.

The bar was dead, except for myself, the bartender and the woman. Yet, the jukebox was still too loud for some reason. The music was that mix of unfamiliar and familiar, funky but electronic, and all too loud. I motioned to the bartender that perhaps the music was too loud for this small crowd. He nodded back, but didn’t change the volume. He only did a little hip thrusting dance, smiled and returned to drying the pint glasses. Which I didn’t understand as to why he was washing them since there were only two patrons and neither was using a pint glass. I politely smiled at his portly dance moves and took a final swig from my old beer bottle.

I looked at my own phone, to check the time. I thought about how everyone had pocket watches again, although less elaborate and with less winding involved. The night was still very early.
Hardly anything had happened yet. I didn’t know if it would.  I glanced over at the woman sitting on her stool. She’d put her phone down for a moment and was vacantly looking up at the TV screens as Orange jersey college team played Blue jersey college team. Her hand was draped gently around the stem of her wine glass as she tapped the side with a ring. She never turned her head.

Her phone lit up from the top of the bar. She scooped it up like it was prey and she was ravenous for a bloody kill. Her thumbs returned to their fury as she tapped away. I thought about her world. Or at least the world of space she was currently occupying. She was out in the world but not a part of it. She was present but not there at all. I at least felt like I was there, living in the moment. Even if the moment was boring as hell. It was raw, real and truthful. I was alone and no amount of phone interaction would change the present space I occupied.

 I took a sip of my new beer and motioned for the bartender.

“I think it’s whiskey o’clock,” I said.

Go! Go! Dystopia!

Bring on the Dystopian Future!

I’m ready for the wastelands,

the breakneck speed of survival,

the cursed Earth motorcycle hordes

cruising the scorched planet for

resources, women and other

previously mundane but now precious

commodities.

Let’s do it!

I’m tired of this desk job.

I’m tired of the nine to five.

I’m bored with the same TV and

movies. I’m already lonely so what

difference would a burned and scarred

world make? My odds of getting a date

are probably equal.

So let’s just chuck it all!

No more inequality, we will all just

be “survivors” striving to re-invent

society. We can be the re-inventors

after the great fall of the world.

We can have the front row to

evolution’s great leap.  We can be

the tellers of the stories.

Sure, it’ll be tough at first,

there will be casualties and difficulties,

but think of the rewards of being the

society after the dystopian nightmare!

We’d be remembered as the dreamers and the

doers. The Ben Franklins of a new age!

The new Thomas Jeffersons!

We could be the Phoenix rising!

Or, you know, maybe not.

I mean, there’s a lot of problems in a

dystopia. I mean, I hated the Medieval

period in human history and I don’t know

if I could endure that sort of Dark Age

again. I mean, I’m sort of a slight guy,

no muscle-bound thick neck, so I probably

wouldn’t survive a week into the dystopian age.

Rats. I seem to have talked myself out of the

awesomeness of a New Desolate Age of scrounging

and scratching out some little ounce of survival

on the torched plains of Earth.

I mean, yeah, who wants to crap

into a hole in the ground after we’ve

come so far with indoor plumbing.

Air conditioning.

So maybe we avoid all this war stuff,

we do something about these fires,

we try some humanitarian aid instead of

denying people their basic humanity.

Perhaps we prevent a dystopia and try to

build rather than tear down.

Perhaps it is not too much to hope for,

it is not too much to make real.

It’s still probably easier than me getting

a girlfriend.

A Screwing Around

Just screwing around today.

Nothing important.

Nothing imperative.

No lives to save.

No lives to deny.

Nothing to do but count

the minutes as they go by.

Screwing around time is often

spent in the wallowing of memory,

the disappointments of the present

and the vacant void of just not

giving much of a steamy crap about

anything.  Prior motivations are

lost in the ether of the mundane.

Time spent screwing around is

wasted time.

But it’s my time to waste if I

want to.

Who’s going to stop me?

Not me.

No lover. No sweet kisses to fill the time.

So screwing around it is.

No impending doom.

No important decisions to make,

other than where else to waste my

time, my life, tonight.

No safety of a lover’s caress or

kisses on the head.

So what does it matter if I waste

the time so preciously provided through

the magic of evolution, the universe and

the cosmos. Of all the millions and trillions of

things to have happened for me to arrive at this

point in time is impossible to fathom.

So I will shit on the moment.

Shit right on it because I can do that if

I so desire. And right now, it’s a screwing around

sort of disenfranchised mélange of “meh” and over powering

ennui that has me so precociously interested in

screwing around.

Screw it.

This poem is just screwing around.