Positivist

 

Positivity.

 

I’ve stared at that word

for quite a while now

wondering what I should

write about it. And all I

have is that I’m positive

I don’t have anything good to say.

 

I thought I should perhaps,

write something slightly

more upbeat than my last

few poems. They’ve been

somewhat down in the dumps

and I should try to bring a little

positivity into our lives.

 

But then life, being what it is,

seems to get in the way and my

patience for the general incomprehensible

nonsense overflowing from the bowels of

humanity makes me lift my feet up, trying to

avoid each miserable puddle to miserable puddle

like a child splashing through the street after the rain.

 

Avoiding all the muckity-muck as

best as I can, while whispering the

most profane of curses and swears.

In the vilest way, I swear and grumble

in streams of rage and impatience.

At the endless masochism puddled

in my path.

 

Positivity.

Be positive.

 

“You look nice today,” I say.

 

Crap.

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Picture: 

Girl looking into a mirror

Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Something About the Old Gods

 

I was pondering the relevance

of the Ancient Gods and

Goddesses of myth on my

drive into work this morning.  

And how those ancient beliefs

fall in line with the contradictions

within the human condition.

 

Zeus at least, was

presented as a morally

corrupt and contrasting

figure of an all powerful

deity. He was flawed, thus

excusing man’s flaws.

 

God though, the Christian,

Jewish God, is infallible.

A perfect being without

error, directing the compass

of destiny through just means.

 

Disease, viruses, sickness,

famine, plague, war, etc.,

all created through God’s

creation.  Yet it’s all part of

a plan. A plan based around

a predeterminate free-will.  

 

I propound the antique belief in

the Ancient panoply of Gods

is akin to believing in some level

of modern moral turpitude.

A paradox.

 

God is good.

God makes man.

Man makes sin.

Man destroys God.

God destroys man.

Is God good?

Is Man good?

 

Is believing in a Minitour or

Centaur any different than

believing a vaccine is unsafe

or that there’s some sort of microchip

in their designed to… I don’t even know,

Is there any difference?

 

Are human beings so easily

taunted by myth we’re not

capable of seeing through it,

seeing them as just stories,

and we just writhe in the agony

of misinformation and arrogant

contradiction?

 

I should just focus on my

drive into work.

I don’t want to miss my exit

and there’s a lot of stuff to

do on my desk.

This is not a Labyrinth.

 

But I fear the beast in the middle.

 

When the Dam Breaks

 

I don’t know what to say, again.

It happens every so often,

when the wells run dry

and the usual flow of

words are stifled at the source.

 

Dammed up behind some

casual comfort.

Cut off behind a wall of boredom

and repetition and repeating myself.

Again.

 

How much more have I got to say?

Do I say anything?

Is there meaning in the work that I

do with this?

Is this just an exercise in self-delusion?

 

At least I’m getting exercise,

so that’s something, I suppose.

Supposing, is something I should

do, in the creation of these poetic

word shavings.

 

Ick, word shavings?

Really?

That’s like that magnetic poetry

on the fridge just got nudged and

the words “word” and “shavings”

fell to the linoleum.

 

And I was like, “Ooooh, a neat-oh

phrase! Let’s put that back on the

fridge. Look how cool and very 1990’s

this all is.” As I buff my fingernails

on my shirt in pride.

 

It’s not doubt though,

it’s more like a lack of purpose.

Why say anything if there’s nothing to say,

nothing to write?

Rote obedience to the words, I suppose.

 

I’ll just have to find something

worth saying.

At some point.

As I am compelled.

When the dam breaks.

No, Is What I Said

 

No, is what I said.

No, not right now.

No, I’m not interested.

No, I don’t like that.

No, just… No.

 

No, is a tough word to hear,

for most people.

They take it personally when told, “No”.

People would rather say anything else

than say the word, “No.”

 

No. It works for me.

Do you want this Pill? No.

Do you want to go swimming? No.

Do you want me to make you lunch? No.

Well, what are you making? Ick, No.

 

I’m okay with hearing no too.

Do you love me? No? Okay.

Do you want to hear this haiku? No? Okay.

Do you want peppers on your sandwich? No? Okay.

Do you ever see yourself being in love with me? No? Okay.

 

No is just alright.

It’s clear. It’s unambiguous.

It is direct and commonly appropriate.

No is reliable.

No is real.

 

No doesn’t coddle you

or fill you with false anticipation.

It’s done with you in two letters,

N-O.

That’s it.

 

Until the right Yes person comes along.

The Yes person to take those specific and

concrete No’s and turn them into sweet

honey that tingles the tongue into

blissful acquiescence.

 

All my No’s are really just waiting,

for the right person who’ll turn all

my No’s into Yes’s.

A Yes man.

For a Yes woman.

 

Subtle Cruelties

 

The random strange cruelty

of the world is truly something

to behold. The shadow of malignant

chance creeping effortlessly

amidst our daily lives.

 

Life is, streaky.

Like a baseball team.

You’re having a good season

and then, “Wham!”

Slump city.

 

Where does this dark

random malignancy come from?

In what foul wretches of the

underworld is it made?

A stinking, vile cauldron of witches’ brew?

 

I’m very much trying to value

my good streak, and recognize it

while it lasts. I want to hold onto

it for as long as possible and keep the

creeping darkness at bay.

 

Yet, the fringes of luck I can see, are being

tainted by the wispy tendrils of

chance and general rotten

happenstance.  

Tearing and gnawing at the edges.

 

It starts with something simple,

a stubbed toe in the morning,

ending in fires and shouting,

ambulances racing over city

streets as the rancor and havoc erupt.

 

I’m still trying to keep my chin up

though. Still trying to keep that hope

alive that my happy plans will not be

destroyed by the dark machinations of a

stubbed toe or a missing turn signal cover.

 

Which I discovered this morning on

my car before I went to work.

Because the little cruelties of the world

are relentless in their desires to keep us

down.

Doris on the Floor

 

The ice cream melted on the kitchen counter. Doris never had the chance to put it back into the freezer before she died. The strawberry ice cream dripped and leaked, puddled and pooled, across the counter and steadily dripped onto the cold linoleum in gooey globs. Doris didn’t know. She was dead. The ice cream that pooled in her hair and splashed in small drops on her face were of no matter.

 Doris of Ivy Lane. Doris of The Prairie School for the Gifted. Doris of Allen County’s Concert Pianist Society, was dead. She wasn’t really a fan of ice cream either. She had only bought it for her granddaughter who was obsessed with it. Doris only ate orange sorbet; in delicately small spoonfuls. To match her petite features.

 Doris on her yellow kitchen floor. In a puddle of sticky, congealing strawberry ice cream. The coroner and medical examiners would have a field day with her poor body. All sticky and icky with old ice cream in the week she’d be there. Ants would somehow find her first and start their harvesting of all the sugary goodness encasing her body. For now, she was still just there. A sticky corpse unknown to anyone walking by her house, dropping off her mail, or calling to ask about the charity auction for next month. Doris’ life, left for someone else to discover, to tell.

 Doris, dancing barefoot in patches of moonlight while Steven drank red wine from the bottle and smoked. He waxed philosophically about life and everyone’s inevitable demise and the poetry of all things. Doris, at 23, was so impressed by Steven and his 27-year-old wisdom. He was so cool and sexy. Tall and muscular. She danced barefoot for him in the moonlight because she thought he loved her. Which he didn’t, but it was 1968 and everyone thought they were Alan Ginsburg, Jack Kerouac or James Dean, even though James Dean had been dead for 13 years by then.  It was all about the, “poetry of love, baby,” Steven would say as he pulled her close to kiss her.

 Doris, dead on her kitchen floor. She’d joined them all now. Alan, Jack and even Steven had passed some years back. She had her fling with Steven, who had gone into aeronautics or something and never got to be the Hep Poetry Cat he wanted to be in New York Cafes, encircled in cigarette smoke and bongo music. Doris heard he died while jogging up a hill, talking on a Cell phone about propellers or something. Doris had shaken her head when she heard, remembered that strange night of love-making and “tsk’d”, the way people do when a memory like that pops into the head.

 Doris had always felt that she was more Kerouac anyway. She played the piano. She liked jazz. She understood the mood piano music could inspire. She loved paying. She played in school. She played on a few records. She played at the community center for the old folks.  She followed through on her beatnik dreams as it were, unlike so many of the men who thought themselves beat poets and artistic types, when after all they really were just spoiled white boys.

 Doris’ lifeless eyes were open, staring at the edges of her kitchen cabinets. Dilated and fixed, her eyes, hazing over. Eyes that witnessed the rapid changes of society, that petered out at the last minute, leaving so many unfulfilled and disappointed. If they could look sad, they would. Doris’ friends had only recently commented on how tired she looked these days. She’d brush them off, saying she was just fine.

 The week passed with Doris on the floor, covered and coated in the pink hue of Strawberry Ice cream, before her daughter finally came by to check on her. Doris would have been embarrassed by the mournful wails of her daughter, but it was probably alright. These things happen.

To Die On The Moon - Revisited

 

Here is a Flash Fiction story I wrote that was recently rejected by a Flash Fiction contest. I hope you enjoy it. --- 

Gerald cried as he stepped from the space capsule. He was 93 years old and he made it to the moon. To die.

All his life, Gerald stared up at the night sky; wishing he could be an astronaut. He dreamed of weightlessness and being lost among the vastness of space. He drooled over every star chart and astronomy book he could find; every interview with an astronaut, every TV show about space travel. He wanted more than anything to be someone who walked on the moon.

He wasn’t a great school student. “He’s too much of a day-dreamer,” said his teachers to his disappointed parents. His friends called him a nerd, girls pointed and giggled at him and shame coagulated inside. He stopped looking up at the night sky with desire, replacing it with disdain for his own foolish wants. He ended his outer space quest, like prize fighter dropping his arms in the 1st round, knowing there was no way he could defeat his opponent.

The space suit was lighter on the moon. He was able to move freely as he turned to step down the capsule ladder. He felt the lightness one feels when they see the love of their life for the first time, rather than the lightness of atmosphere. He turned and reached into the doorway of the capsule and grabbed his ragged aluminum chair. He fought hard with the Space Administration to let him take his old folding patio chair with him. It was where he wanted to sit when he took his final breath.

 In college he met a woman. Beth had the stars in her eyes. The same stars Gerald had abandoned in his lowered self-esteem. Beth’s eyes sparkled with dreams of space and math. She was so much better at Math than Gerald. He knew that he had to be a part of her life. He felt that if he could just be with this woman his life would come into focus and all the torments of his youth would disappear into those sparkling, radiant eyes. He convinced her to be his math tutor. She reluctantly agreed.

They were shy with each other at first, awkward and bound by the social values of their times. It was when she spoke of Space, did their passions get the better of them. Nights were spent under the blanket of the twinkling sky as they whiled away the hours discussing otherworldly fascinations. Gerald, lying on his side, resting his head in his hand, listened to Beth talk excitedly about the potential for life on other worlds, about the incomprehensibleness of the universe, and how very small Earth really was.

He used her line about how truly small the Earth was in their wedding vows and that being a small planet, they should make the most of it together. She practically leapt into his arms when she said, “I do.”

Gerald stepped onto the lunar surface. He was trying not to breath so heavily but it was hard to contain his excitement. His Moon boot kicked up a small cloud of regolith as he stepped forward. Gerald stood on the surface of the Moon and looked up towards the glittering stars. “Oh Beth, we made it honey,” he said out loud. He reached up to wipe the tears from his cheeks but his big space-suit glove clonked on his helmet visor. He chuckled at himself.

He laughed at all the years he spent denying himself the simple joy of looking up at the night sky because he was too busy or too tired. Beth became a nurse. Gerald became an insurance agent after college. They both needed good jobs to support their growing family. The telescope was hidden away in a box in their first apartment, then regulated to the attic once they got the house.

They tried to kindle their love of astronomy in their children but they didn’t seem to care too much. There was no novelty in it for the kids it seemed. They grew into a happy family however. They never wanted for much and felt that after their long, hard busy days, they had each other to sooth the rough edges life can sharpen.

Gerald walked on the surface of the moon. He giggled with glee as he bounded along in great leaps. He didn’t feel at all like a 93-year-old man. He felt like that little boy jumping on his bed, pretending to be Neil Armstrong. His heart monitor started beeping and a warning appeared on the visor about his exertion levels. He didn’t have much time to get to the spot he’d picked out. The spot where he could look back at the small Earth and think about his beloved Beth.

Beth was 82 when she died. Gerald was holding her hand, promising her that he’d take her to the Moon when she let out her last Earthly breath. He felt her body go cold. He felt as if he’d been clubbed on the head and a thief was making off with his most treasured possession. He wept for days. He wept at her funeral, at her grave and in the bed they shared. He entered the Moon Travel contest on a whim, something he did while so deeply mourning for his wife that he was genuinely surprised when he won the contest.

Gerald unfolded the old chair and placed it carefully. He gingerly lowered himself into the seat and looked up into the universe. He opened the pocket of his spacesuit and pulled out Beth’s ashes. He held them in a clenched hand. Remembering the love he had. Still had. He opened the vial of ashes and shook them, mixing with the moon’s surface. “Good-by love,” he said. Beth’s ashes drifted weightlessly into Space. Gerald turned his oxygen off. He turned the vitals monitor off. He leaned back in the folding chair and looked up.

Gerald died on the moon. Just as he planned. Like he dreamed.