Another Day at the Beach

 

                “Bro, it’s like this,” said David. He adjusted his backwards neon pink baseball cap on his head, brushing his dishwater blonde hair back. “it’s like, you gotta feel it, like, in your soul, like and like, get into it like so gnarly that it’s like in you forever, like, you know?”

                 I nodded and placed my small tape recorder on the bench between us. David didn’t really notice and he kept on speaking. In some sort of English, I’m still not sure.

                 “Like you’re like a reporter, right? Like, so that’s like super awesome like you get to like do that for like, a living or whatever, but like taking care of Mother Earth is like, everyone’s like, religious, like something, like, like ah, like, their like… um…,” said David.

                 “Their sacred duty you mean,” I said.

                 “Yeah bro, like yeah, that’s the words like, I couldn’t, like, find, or whatever,” said David. He pat me on the back, the gesture mis-timed with his words.

                 “So, David, getting back on point, how did you get into being this Eco-Warrior? You’ve been camped out here by the beach for a month now trying to draw attention to the Global Climate Crisis and all while completely naked. How did this come about,” I asked.

                 “Dude, like I was on my Insta and I was just like talking to my followers about like how bad like, it is for like, the Earth right now, and like how we all have to like do our like part and my followers were like, ‘Yo, Dav, what are YOU doing about it?’ and I was like, yeah bro, what am I doing about it? So then I was like, from there, it was like, this epic journey to like just come out here and like, live on the beach to like, raise awareness. Plus, I’m like totally ripped and cut and I’m like, people like, like that about me so I like was like, to my followers like, ‘Yo, bro and hoes, should I like do this naked?’ and they were so stoked for it. So that’ s like how I did it,” said David. He flexed a little so I could clearly see how ripped and cut he indeed is.

                 “And how much awareness do you think you have brought to the climate change issues,” I asked.

                 “Like, that’s like, a tough question bro, because Like, on the beach I haven’t like, had much like ableness to like, check the actual stats on the Earth and what, but like I know my message of like, conservativism, is like, totally reaching my Insta followers, cause like I got like so many more like, likes,” said David.

                 “Cool. Cool. So I think I have enough for my story,” I said, “Really appreciate your time and I do hope you can continue this noble conservation work.” I turned off my recorder and put it back in my pocket. I stood up from the bench and went to shake Naked David’s hand. He pulled me against his nakedness and hugged me too hard.

                 “Thanks Bro, like totally thanks to you bro,” said David as he clutched me tight.    

                 I was released from his naked grasp and I pat him on the shoulder, wished him good luck and started walking away. I looked back over my shoulder to wave and watched as Naked David brushed sand out of his pubic hair. He already had his phone out and was clearly about to broadcast something to his followers. I realized that our interview would be on Instagram before I could get home to write it and submit it and get it published. I sighed and kept walking toward the bar at the end of the beach where I could get a stiff drink and re-evaluate my life. Maybe take up smoking again. Call that old girlfriend and see if she forgave me yet. Try to sleep with her maybe. Or maybe I should just take all my clothes off and join Naked David in his quest.

                 The bar was sparsely crowded. It was mid-afternoon and only the old, hard core, beach drinking, alcoholics were present. They were all leathery and dry from all the sun and booze. Their white wisps of hair tussled in the ocean beach breeze. I was the only person in the place wearing shoes.

                 I ordered a whiskey and water on the rocks and sat on the worn wooden, stiff, barstool. The bartender nodded. I looked out back towards the sand and the beach. I couldn’t hear the ocean. I could only hear the traffic going by and the faint grinding sounds of construction somewhere.

                 “Can I smoke at the bar,” I asked the bartender as he brought me my drink.

                “Sure, we’re outside, so, go for it,” said the bartender, clearly in the I-don’t-give-a-shit phase of his career.

                “Thanks,” I said.

 

But I didn’t have any cigarettes. Just another day at the beach.

Photo Credit: https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/az-jackson

Bad Business

 

Doing business bad,

just a bad businessman.

Although I should probably

write, “businessperson”, but that

just doesn’t have the same

sort of poetry to it.

 

If you’re doing business,

and you’re doing it bad,

let’s just agree you’re a

terrible person and it

doesn’t matter what we call

you.

 

Bad business is when you

handle the business of living

and what life constantly throws

in your face, mind and body;

poorly. Or in this poetic case,

handle it with all the temper tantrum skill of a four year old at a Six Flags.    

 

If you think your Nation's borders

are being encroached upon

and you decide to invade that other

Country; you’re just doing bad business.

If you think the appropriate response

to an off-color joke is violence, you’re doing bad business.

 

If you can’t handle the minor

jabs and arrows of criticism,

you’re a bad business person.

Children can’t handle businesses,

that’s why we don’t let them.  

Adults handle business. Unless it’s lemonade.

 

Handle your business with

dignity, calmness, intelligence

and respect. If these approaches

are rejected, spit upon, or ignored,

then you can elevate your measured

response.

 

With business savvy, acumen, and

guile. And not military incursions and

open hand slaps.

Handle your business better.

 

A Fiery Rant

 

Prickle and prattle,

bristle and bravado,

so much fury and fire,

without so much of an

inkling of compassion

or empathy.

A monolith of unexplainable

19^th Century thinking buffoonery.

 

Do as we say,

not as we do,

be the old world,

not the world as it is,

a closed minded

insecurity, baffles me.

So, incomprehensible.

 

An obsession with labels,

sub-labels, sub-set-labels,

neuro-specific-sub-set-classifications,

of the genus homo-Saipan.  

An obsession with other people’s

genitals. Is so bizarre to me.

Get over it.

Get beyond it.

Obsess over climate change,

and not underwear changes.

Obsess over despots and dictators,

not honeypots and dicks.  

 

The prattled prickling,

of bruised bravado,

ceaseless in their intolerance of

a desire for tolerance,  

Equity,

and to be free to insult

evangelical or puritanical

moralism, by just being.  

 

Okay, I just had to say it,

just get it off my chest,

it’s been bothering me.

(Deep breath)

Okay, we’re good, it’s good.

No Judgment.

We’re okay.

 

We’re not.      Damn it.

Another Day

 

“Long enough for ya,” said the Day.

“Yeah. Pretty long,” I said.

The Day rapped his bony fingers

on the edge of my desk and

sighed heavily; his breath spewing a rancid,

sour milk odor.

 

“Sheesh,” I gasped and pinched

my nose.

“Hm? Oh, sorry, I never brush,” said the Day.

“Why not,” I asked, knowing I shouldn’t ask.

The Day cleared his throat and

started to sing.

 

“No, no, no, no, no, no singing. That’s

just not happening,” I said.

“Why not,” asked The Day.

“It’s just not happening. Don’t you

have anything else to do,” I asked,

now completely out of patience.

 

“You don’t like my singing,” asked the Day.

“Um, no. Not at all, plus the corpse breath

doesn’t help. I’m sorry I asked at all,” I said.

I looked back at my work computer screen

and started to pretend to read.

 

“What are you reading,” asked the Day.

“Work stuff, you wouldn’t get it,” I said.

“Sure, like my job is so easy,” pouted The Day.

The Day snorted and a glob of green goo

spurt from one of his seven nostrils and

onto my office carpet.

 

“Nice. Real nice,” I said, “how am I going to

explain what that is?”

“Seems like a Wednesday problem to me,” said The Day.

“Oh, just because you’re Tuesday, you think it’s

all gravy and milkshakes for the rest of the week.

Well let me tell you, there is no gravy and the

milkshakes aren’t…that…good,” I said.

 

“Yeah, listen I gotta get going, so, real neat

hanging with you, but there’s a mother

in Iowa waiting to pick up her kid from school

but she doesn’t know that he got detention yet

and they were supposed to go to the dentist, so…

yeah,” said The Day.

He vanished into a fart cloud

and my office was quiet.

I tried to focus my attention

back on my work, on the last

few minutes of the work-a-day ticking

clock on the wall.

 

The tick, tick of the clock seemed,

wrong. It sounded like it was coming

from behind me. At the window,

I turned in my chair and looked

outside.

 

There was Wednesday, tapping lightly

on the glass. He looked drunk and

disheveled, squinting against the

sunlight on a cloudy day.

 

I shook my head and turned

back towards my computer.

 

“These guys. I swear, these

fricking guys...,” I mumbled.   

Snakes in Ireland

 

                St. Patrick was sitting at the pub, absently stirring his drink as he stared off. He was starting to squint as he looked through the pub’s window.  The sun was just near setting and the pub had taken on a golden hue. He wondered how many Pots O’ Gold references he’d have to endure when everyone should know by know that it’s Leprechauns that have the Pot’s O’ Gold and not Saints. 

                He stopped stirring his drink and lifted it to his lips. The ice clinked in the small rocks glass as he sipped his Whiskey and water. The cool, sweet brown spirit sweetly tickled his lips and he swallowed happily. He said a quick thank you to God and Jesus for the miracle that is Irish Whiskey.  He tipped his glass to heaven as a toast. 

                “Patrick! Patrick!” 

                St. Patrick turned on his stool to see Ms. Siobhan McMurphy burst through the pub door.  She was a shamble of green, her black and gray hair sticking out from under her kelly green head scarf. Her jacket was disheveled, her long skirt was twisted sideways and one stocking appeared to be making a run for her ankle while the other was still proudly in place. 

                “Patrick,” she shouted again as she rushed to his place at the bar.

                “What is it woman,” asked St. Patrick. 

                She attempted to catch her breath as it seemed she may have been running for some distance. 

                “Snakes Patrick! Snakes are everywhere,” she said as she crossed herself.

                “Get a hold of yourself woman. I’ve not time for your foolishness,” said St. Patrick. 

                She started to straighten her skirt and bent down to fix her loosened stocking. She gave a mean look to Old Peter whom she caught sneaking a peek at her bare leg.  “Mr. Peter!” She scolded.  He smiled wryly and looked back at the other old men gathered around the pub’s rear table. They chuckled to each other. 

                “Now, what’s all this you’re saying? Snakes? Ms. McMurphy, I happen to know with some great authority that there are no such creatures in the country,” said St. Patrick. He shook his empty Whiskey glass at the pub keeper. 

                “As the Lord is my witness, there was a snake in the alley behind young Daniel Heaney’s place. He showed it to me himself,” she leaned in closer to St. Patrick, “Daniel told me it had bitten him on his…,” Siobhan blushed brightly as she spoke, “on his… ‘you, know, what’. And there it was, hanging from the front of his trousers like an albino monster from the sea!” 

                “I see,” said St. Patrick, “and what did you do to help poor young Daniel Heaney?” 

                The pub keeper placed a fresh drink in front of St. Patrick and stepped away while covering his mouth. 

                “Oh Patrick, I didn’t know what to do so I grabbed it! But it wouldn’t let go! And the noises young Daniel was making. I’d never heard such a noise. it must have been hurting him so,” said Siobhan McMurphy. 

                “You just reached down and grabbed the, snake…, hanging from the front of his trousers,” asked St. Patrick. 

                “I did. It fought with me for sure. Daniel sure seemed to be struggling though as I really had to yank and pull and coax it.  I thought I finally had it but it spit its venom at me,” said Siobhan, “that seemed to work though because Daniel quickly turned around, in what I can only believe to be great agony and when he turned back the snake was gone. I think it may have fallen off him and scurried or crawled or slithered down that alley. Oh dear Patrick I do wish you’d investigate it for us!” 

                The pub was silent. Johnathan the lamp lighter buried his face into the crook of his arm as his belly shook. Old Peter and his group were sweating with their stifled smiles. 

                “Sounds just terrible Ms. McMurphy. I will investigate it right away. Right after I finish this drink,” said St. Patrick.

                “Oh thank you so much! You truly are a Saint. I won’t forget this! God Bless you Patrick. God Bless,” said Siobhan. 

                St. Patrick put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. He tucked her hair back under her head scarf. 

                “My pleasure, my pleasure. Now, why don’t you hurry home and give yourself a good washing up. A pub is no place for a woman of your… stature,” said St. Patrick. 

                Siobhan nodded and crossed herself again. She bowed and started backing out of the pub and out the door. St. Patrick put his fingers to his lips and with a furrowed brown kept the pub patrons silent. St. Patrick rose from this stool and went to the window and watched as Siobhan McMurphy ran down the dirt road towards her cottage.  St. Patrick strode back to his stool and took a long sip from his whiskey. 

                “Okay lads, she’s gone,” said St. Patrick. 

                The pub erupted in laughter.  They pounded the bar top and the tables and spilled their pints all over the floor. 

                St. Patrick shook his head and took another sip of his drink. 

                “Why of all the people of the Earth did I have to save the Irish,” asked St. Patrick. He tipped his glass towards the heavens again. He stood from his stool, paid his tab and headed out the door to have a few words with young Daniel Heaney. Fiddle music started as St. Patrick exited the door into the Irish twilight.

 

 

 

Once Upon An Every Time

 

It hurts me more than
it did once upon a time.
This, time.
Each day, a little
more heartbreak,
a little more sadness.
Each, time.

Time, standing in
the window, licking
a sharp knife,
watching me.
Ready to crash
through the glass
and get me. 

Time tumbling down to me,
glass shards spinning in the
sunlight like a sparkling snowstorm,
Time swinging that blade,
cutting me to the quick,
as I stand gawking at the
horrors of an everyday life,
every, day. 

The hurts,
of time,
repeatedly,
banging our heads against
history, screaming at
us to “GET IT?! DO YOU GET IT?!
ARE YOU GETTING IT YET!?!
YOU COMPLETE NIMRODS!”
as we simply stare in a blank silence. 

It breaks my heart,
this ravenous Time,
pressuring us to become
diamonds when we’re still just coal.
Stupid,
Dull,
Coal.

Broken Smiles

 

His teeth were jagged

razors in his mouth,

poking and pointing

in all different directions,

some broken, some blackened,

in a smiling Jack-O-Lantern face.

 

Bulbus and withered,

creased with crisis,

worry and hunger,

rashy and itchy,

plagued with unintentional

consequence.

 

She had a similar smile,

broken and bloody,

brown paper bag skin,

uneven eyes, slightly swollen

from long crying nights,

or screaming fights.

 

She smiled, despite the

state of her damaged teeth.

He smiled, despite the

damage he had caused

and the waning pain in

his swollen knuckles.

 

These broken smiles,

from the side of the road,

begging for change,

begging for a change,

made me turn my head away

as they looked at me.

 

My own face,

as rugged and wrinkled,

worried and tired,

slashed and sullen,

in my own selfish

concerns.

 

The light changed,

I pulled forward,

sadly wondering about

their broken smiles.

And my own self-indulgent one.  

 

Clearly a Poem for a Friday

 

Holy Moley,

what a day,

a new day,

a day.

day,

d.

 

Holy Cow,

new enthusiasm,

enthusiasm,

euthanasia

hm?

 

Holy Guacamole,

yay avocados,

avocados,

avec plaisir,

dip.

 

whenyourwordsarerunningtogether

inyourbrainandyoucan’tseemtostop

them.

 

Dip.

Ha-ha.

 

 

Through the Garden

 

He walked into the

yard, shaky on his

feet, blood pouring

from his nose,

staining his shirt,

another fight.

 

She rolled her eyes

at him.  He snorted

and spit blood into the

grassy yard.

“Never going to learn,

are you,” she said.

 

He shuffled passed her,

and started up the steps

towards the back door.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said,

“This time you get the hose.”

He stopped on the stairs.

 

He turned around and

looked at her, through

his stinging eyes.

“I was defending your honor,”

he said in between bloody sniffles.

She put her hands on her hips.

 

“My honor is just fine and I don’t

need you rushing off to fight

every time you imagine my

integrity is being besmirched,” she

scolded.

 

He stood there on the stairs.

Bleeding.

Sniffling.

“I have to keep you safe,” he said.

He looked at her through his bruised

and swelling eyes.

 

“No. No you don’t, idiot,” she said,

“In fact, I don’t think we should be together

any more. I’m so tired of your fake

bravado and mis-intentioned valor.

It’s dumb. So please leave.” 

 

“But baby. I do it for you, for us,” he said.

“No,” she said, “you do it for you. Like

the bear wrestling, the oil company take-overs,

the self-indulgent hockey games. It’s all

about you, not me. Please just go.”

 

He shuffled reluctantly on the stairs.

He spit more blood onto the lawn.

She sighed with disgust.

“Fine. I’ll go. But you’ll be sorry,”

he said.

 

“I’m already sorry. Sorry I ever met

you,” she said.

He started to shuffle back

through the yard, heading for the garden,

“Stay out of the sunflowers,” she yelled.

But he traipsed on through them.

 

“Idiot,” she muttered.