Bum-Bum's Wedding

 

                Gerald kicked his snow covered boots off at the door. They tumbled into the pile of other shoes and winter weather gear left in the corner of the foyer. A little snow flew from the soles of his boots onto the hardwood floor. Gerald dried it with his sock, rubbing his foot back and forth over the spot as he took his winter coat off. He pulled the wool cap from his head and shook the light snow from it. He hung his coat and winter items on the banister. There was a coat rack but it was already loaded up to the point of nearly tipping over.  “Family”, mused Gerald. 

                He walked in his sock-feet through the front hallway into the kitchen. His brother and sister-in-law were mid-argument about how much screen time was too much for Gerald’s niece, Samantha.  Brad, Gerald’s brother, was of the belief that as long as Samantha was learning something there were no issues with her sitting nose deep into the iPad. Trinity, Gerald’s sister-in-law, whole-heartedly disagreed and was of the belief that Samantha needed to socialize more with the other six-year-old kids.

                 Gerald rubbed his cold hands together loudly to see if he could get Brad and Trinity’s attention.

                 “Sure is cold out there,” said Gerald.

                 His brother nodded in Gerald’s direction and Trinity half waved as she continued to make her point regarding the lack of socialization skills as a rapidly growing issue among school age children.

                 Gerald half waved back and curled his toes in his socks. He didn’t like to see his family fight, especially about something so trivial. It made him worry that maybe there were larger issues under the surface Brad and Trinity weren’t willing to deal with.

                 “Where’s Samantha,” asked Gerald.

                 Brad gestured toward Samantha’s room upstairs as he made his point about how silly Trinity was being and that he was practically raised by TV and he turned out just fine. To which Trinity scoffed and said it was obvious he was raised by TV considering his limited attention span. Gerald took this as an opportunity to sneak out of the kitchen and see what his niece was up to.

                 Gerald climbed the stairs, passed the stereotypical photo gallery along the staircase wall. The family photos with baby Samantha, the photos of Brad and Gerald’s long deceased parents in their best 1970’s groovy outfits; one of them, or even both of them, holding either a cigarette or a can of Old Style.  Gerald cringed at the late 1980’s school photos of himself and Brad. Trinity always looked the same in all her photos going all the way back to third-grade it seemed. Gerald was ashamed to admit his little crush on his brother’s wife. He’d never act on it or even vocalize it in any way. Yet it tugged at him in a very jealous way. His sin was envy and being covetous and he shamefully knew it.

                 “Uncle Ger,” said Samantha. Her little name for Gerald. She was at the top of the stairs waiting for him. She was wearing a sheer veil over her head, “I’m playing Wedding.”

                “Who’s getting married,” asked Gerald.

                 Samantha tried to brush the veil from off her face but it was too long. She tried to blow it off her face but it didn’t budge.

                 “Bum-Bum is getting married,” she giggled and grabbed Gerald by the hand leading him to her room. In her room she had set up her stuffed animals in three rows of wedding guests and at the front was her stuffed bunny, Bum-Bum.  She had managed to put a small bow around his worn neck as a tie. He looked nervous.

                 “Who is Bum-bum getting married to,” asked Gerald.

                “Shhhh…. the Penguin is about to start,” she said with her little finger to her lips.

                 A plastic Christmas penguin was clearly officiating these nuptials. Samantha pulled the plastic penguin in front of Bum-Bum and in her best deep voice began the wedding service. Gerald sat down on the floor on the bride’s side as he felt it was the right thing to do.

                 “Do you Bum-Bum,” she said with a very serious look on her face, “take Miss Samantha McClean, Princess of the Islands, Lady of the Water people and all-powerful ruler of Closetvania?”

                  Samantha reached down and shook Bum-Bum’s head in a vigorous nod. “Yes, I do. I most absolutely really do,” said Bum-Bum in his usual high register.  

                 “With the powers invested in me by the State of Connecticut,” said the Penguin, “I now proname you Princess and Bunny!”  Samantha clapped and leaned down and kissed Bum-Bum on his worn-out nose. Gerald clapped and cheered. Samantha took a little bow.

                 “We’re not really married. We’re just pretend married,” said Samantha with a know-it-all look on her little freckled face.

                 “Could have fooled me,” said Gerald, “That was a very official looking wedding.”

                “It’s not real,” she said, in her comforting little tone, patting Gerald on the shoulder.

                 Gerald laughed and pulled her towards him and gave her a big hug. “Congratulations on your big wedding day though. Where’s the reception?”

                 “It was going to be in the kitchen but the party that is in there is taking too long,” said Samantha.

                 She frowned as she said it. Gerald felt instantly bad that this pretend wedding officiated by a plastic penguin was being held up by Brad and Trinity’s silly argument.

                 “Well, let’s see what we can do about that,” said Gerald as he picked up Samantha in his arms.

                “Don’t forget my husband,” said Samantha.

                “Oh, of course,” said Gerald as he reached down to pick Bum-Bum up as well.

                 Gerald hummed the Wedding March, “Here comes the bride…” but didn’t know the rest of the words as they came down the stairs. He was making a big production of it to alert the over-staying kitchen usurpers as to their arrival. When he got to the kitchen, Trinity and Brad had put their argument away for another time and over-excitedly welcomed Samantha and Bum-Bum on their big day.  They sat her down at the table and Trinity asked her what was on the menu for her big reception.

                 “Peanut butter and jelly,” gleefully yelled Samantha.

                 Gerald looked at his brother, who seemed only tacitly engaged with his wife and daughter, as he stared out the big kitchen window at the quickly falling snow.  Gerald’s brother sighed.

Ivory Tower Elevator Blues

 

Look at them up there,

glaring down on us,

their crocodile sympathies

falling from the sky.

In great puddles

of pity.

 

Poking their heads over the ledge,

imagining our painful languishing

in some wheel of ceaseless

suffering, yet they do not

leave their tower,

all we see is their glare.

 

A silently resentful, pitying glare,

of which we squint against,

as we accomplish the things that must

be done, for the money, the

food and modicum of our

own power.

 

They look so sad behind those

watery, glaring eyes; from what I

can see from so far down below.

I feel a little bad for them in their

tall towers and cushy Corinthian

leather chairs.

 

How they must hate themselves

for their successes, so much so

they allow themselves the time for guilt,

a curious, blind guilt, of superiority

and ineffable desire to be charitable

and kind.

 

Without leaving their tower,

of course,

it’s vicarious pity of the highest

degree, pity and charity at the end

of a very long stick, that may have

had a little poop on it earlier.

 

A shaky tower, built on backs,

of the lesser than’s, and could have been’s,

the should have’s, the wanter’s, and the

never will be’s.

Yet shimmering and beautiful.

Impeccable and gaudy.

 

The ground, so firm and vast,

open and traversable to each

point on the compass in near

endless travel, eye opening and

empathetic to what’s going on

down here.

 

If it were easy, everyone would

be doing it, but it is hard on the

ground, scrambling and earning,

but there’s a satisfaction in the

scratching, like relief from a long

bothersome itch.

 

I’m sad for them;

way up in the sky,

in their helicopters,

planes, ski resort chalets;

never knowing the joys

of just making it through the day.

 

“Well, this is my floor, 45^th floor.

I will see you tomorrow, Jeeves,

thanks for the elevator ride,

good luck with those “elites”

at the top floors.”

 

I winked at Jeeves.

I went to my room in the tower.

Shaking my head at those

above.

 

Allegorical Allegory, Metaphorically I'm Sure

 

If I try to write one more

allegory relating to being

on a roller coaster and

how that stomach drop feeling

goes and how so much of

life is like that feeling I think

I will actually regurgitate my stomach

out of my body, and onto

the people below, in line waiting

for the roller coaster.

 

Over and over, I’ve started

a terribly pedantic poem with

some nonsense about being anxious

on the roller coaster, or happy, or

excited about the sudden scary drop

or some other blathering garbage,

that I got actually sick of the whole

premise. So now you get this.

 

That’s the trouble with allegories.

There’s only so many common

human experiences that can

adequately express that “feeling”

we all have about one thing

or another. 

And I’m tired of them.

Plum tuckered.

Bored.

 

Swimming in deep water,

standing in the shallow end,

seeing your prom date for the first time,

seeing your partner naked for the first time,

seeing yourself naked with your partner

for the first time. (Sheesh, who put your

body together? Silly Putty?)

There are so many common expressions

for these common experiences.

And I feel like they are weak.

Like my naked body.

 

I’m bored with them.

I’m nonplussed.

Like a diabetic kid in a candy store,

it’s a lot to choose from but, I can’t

have any. Or it’ll kill me.

Or I might lose a foot.

 

Ah, was that an allegory!?

Craaaaapppppp……

No Escape.

 

 

Who Said What

 

The muted whispers

of a conversation you’re

not part of echoes off the

walls.

 

You can almost make out

what they are saying but

the whispering and mouth

covering is just too good.

 

A chuckle and a giggle

breaks the shushed, muffled

words, but their conversation

is still a mystery.

 

Your self-confidence and your

anxieties, talking just out of your

earshot. Self-esteem listening too,

but not talking much.

 

You try to inch closer but

they see you and they all

step further back, now knowing

that you’re eavesdropping.

 

How can they carry on without you?

What do they know?

What embarrassments are being unfurled?

How can they do this to me?

 

You know you should be part of

the conversation, but they won’t let

you in. Excluded from your own mind

by your own mind.

 

“Jerks,” you mutter, kicking at the dirt.

You shove your hands in your pockets and

turn towards the hallway. Skulking back

towards where ever it is you came.

 

“I’ll show them,” you say.

Planning your revenge.

But know you won’t.

You know their secrets already.

 

I Erased The Previous Line

 

“So much poetry is like

Angels dancing on the head

of a pin,” I typed.

 

My face twitched.

A hard blink of my left eye,

involuntarily contracted

my left cheek into a hard

ball.

 

I erased the previous line.

 

“Poetry, is not like Angels

dancing on the head of a pin,”

I typed.

 

No twitch.

But a curious insecurity

welled up inside.

Some deep mistrust of

that phrase.

 

I erased the previous line.

 

“Angels dancing on the

head of a pin, have nothing

to do with poetry,” I typed.

 

My nose wrinkled.

I felt as if I had to sneeze,

but no sneeze came.

But there was the wrong

smell to it.

 

I erased the previous line.

 

“I think I’ll put a pin in

this one,” I typed.

 

The Angel sitting to my

right, knitting a pot holder

with large needles, nodded

and continued rocking

in her chair.

 

I kept the previous line.

 

 

Suzanna's Potential

 

Manny used the sharp, metal scraper to chip away at the rock-hard barnacles weighing down the boat’s hull and bow. The barnacles were thickly encrusted across the boat, like age spots on the face of a beautiful woman.   

She was a speedy little boat in her day. Swift and light, coasting through the sea as if on a beam of light. She hardly needed any work back then. A little paint job here and there, every few years, and she was good as the day she was made. She was spry and playful with just enough of an engine to get you where you needed to go.  She was made well and seemed like she could go on forever. 

Time is hardly so nice for long and after a few poor captains, shoddy crews, and what can only be described as painful ignorance, she was left in too deep water and was quickly crusted over with the hitch-hikers of the sea. 

Manny had her now. He’d salvaged her. She was now his to take care of. He was happy with her lines, her curves and even her age. She was his. He’d worked all his life to have a boat of his own. A boat to fish off of, to see the setting sun glisten and sparkle off the calm ripples of the ocean tides, a place of his own to hide from the weary land.  A place for her to have him. 

The barnacles were too thickly encrusted for a power washer to blast off. There were layers of them that needed to be chiseled and scrapped away. The boat, “Suzanna”, Manny named her; was painted white on her bow, keel and stern, with a long red stripe defining her edges. Her engine was gone, but Manny new he could replace it with relative ease. Suzanna was easy to work with as he was finding. 

The employees of salvage yard where Manny first saw Suzanna were skeptical at best when Manny pointed Suzanna out to them. They snorted at him, incredulous that he would want that boat. A barnacle Winnebago someone called it. Manny didn’t mind. He saw the beauty underneath it all. He knew there was magic under it. 

They hauled the boat to Manny’s special dock; another little part of the world he’d carved out with his own two hands. The salvager’s snickered as the boat dropped heavily down from the lift on to the support braces Manny had set up. Braces to keep the boat up off the ground so he could clean her and get her seaworthy. Manny felt the salvager’s sneers and heard their condescending jibes as they drove away.  It didn’t matter to Manny. It didn’t matter at all. Manny was about the potential of things and not about what they were. 

The metal scraper edge dug hard into the thick dead barnacle husks and sheared them off into a great craggy pile on the ground under the boat. Manny wiped the sweat from his face and rested his tired arms against Suzanna’s hull. He looked out towards the water, as the sun was setting, and could already see himself and Suzanna, lazily rocking on the clear blue waters. His eyes were wistful with memories of things to come. 

The sky started to darken with the setting sun and Manny knew that his time with Suzanna wouldn’t last long today. He pressed his hands on her hull and wiped away some lingering dirt. He smiled. He put his tools away for the day and was already dreaming of tomorrow.