Street Sock

One black dress sock

Separated from others

of his own kind,

left to rot on

the cruel city

sidewalk.

How’d he get there?

Why was he abandoned?

Had he done something wrong?

Was he banished like Napoleon?

Or sent from the comfort of

his master’s feet to the concrete

Gulag for a crime?

A crime of passion maybe,

maybe this lone sock

had fallen in love with a

shoe but was crushed to

learn that they could

never be together.

They’d never make love,

they’d never have any,

slipper offspring.

They wouldn’t get

put in the donation bin

in their old age together.

Their love, a crime, so

off the sock was sent.

A single black sock

left out in the rain,

heartbroken and perhaps

insane. Is the concrete the

end of his story?

Will he be picked up and

become part of a new family

of mismatched pairs?

I can only hope that sock

is saved and finds the right

shoe.

Forlorn

Arthur swirled his beer at the bottom of the bottle and ordered another from the curly haired bartender. He wished he could still smoke in the bar since the ambiance in his mind was very film noir. The neon and the soft jazz in the background set the scene.

Arthur just didn’t get it. Relationships, women, girls, ladies, dames, skirts, broads, birds, none of it made any sense to him. It made him very frustrated and sad. He was raised right, he was taught to be upstanding and moral. He was taught to be passionate and kind, yet forthright and strong. He was told to be himself, but to be the best version of himself and women would find him and want him. But so far, those lessons, everything he learned, have not turned out to be correct.

He tried. He really made efforts to meet woman of intelligence and class, of sophistication and humor, but they always seemed to want nothing to do with him. He was always the good friend, or the lover, or the guy that could be counted on to provide some thoughtful advice.  He was always polite, he was always honest, and he was always willing to be there if she really needed him.

But none of these smart, classy and funny ladies saw themselves with Arthur. It baffled him. He thought about all the things he’d love to explore and see and do with someone very special, instead he rocked a bar stool and mused on the nature of his relationships. He used alcohol to cover how hurt he was inside by all the woman he’d wanted to love, tried to love or dreamed about that had essentially rejected him either through action or inaction. It made him terribly mad and sad. A state of being that he knew was a real drag for everyone that cared about him.  

Arthur had been broken hearted since high school and the rejection by the first true love of his life. He’d been in love several times since, but there was always something wrong or the timing of the relationship was off or he just couldn’t bear to be the anchor weighing down the potential of someone special.  So he’d put on his brave face and go out in the world and try to be attractive, to be worldly, and to be someone whose experiences would be delighted in.  

He failed. He’d meet woman who weren’t on the same page as he. They wanted to go cliff diving in Panama or whale watching in Alaska, or zip lining in Costa Rica, or sky diving in Milwaukee, all things Arthur just didn’t really care about. He didn’t find any of that interesting or charming. Arthur’s problem is that he thinks he’s worthy of being loved by someone who’d rather sit with him on the porch on a summer evening than drive to Mardi Gras just cause it was there.  He’d rather be adventurous with someone.

He’d fooled himself into thinking he was someone another person could get excited about. He wanted more. He wanted a relationship that was larger than him, but still something that could be held in his hands, close to his heart and looked in on from time to time with awe.

 Arthur had high standards. He needed his partner to be someone of substance. He couldn’t stand stupid women or classless women. He didn’t like crassness or rudeness. He didn’t like women that hid behind the affectations of youth culture rather than dealing with their issues constructively. He didn’t get girls with tattoos across their breasts that said things like, “Precious”, or “Princess”, he didn’t like excessive facial piercings, he didn’t like woman that didn’t like to read or watched too many hours of reality television. He didn’t like flirts or girls that seemed to want to talk to every guy but him and then be dismissive of his jealousy. He didn’t like women that were still girls.

Arthur tried to fit in to the mold created for him. He tried to be the open armed open minded lover, he tried to be the patient man, the hopeful romantic and believed that love would indeed conquer all. He was beginning to believe that was all just romantic tripe and reality was that he’d always be alone. He was starting to think that no one would find him charming or lovable or worthy of deep and devoted affection to the point that a life without him would be less important. It was the way he wanted to feel about someone. He wanted his life to really start the day he looked into her eyes and fireworks would explode in his brain. He’d know that these were the eyes he would want to stare into as he passed from this Earth.

For now though, Arthur had to deal with his reality. He was broke, he was tired, he hated his job, he was lazy, he was getting fat, and he was morbid and too sad for most people to take. He was annoying, he was silly, and he was discontented most of the time. Arthur thought that perhaps he’d have to try to find himself a bit more attractive and maybe someone special might too.

Arthur pushed back his barstool and stepped outside. 

Pigeons Eat Pizza

I had no idea that pigeons ate pizza. This morning two pigeons were pecking away on a slice of thin crust pizza. I’m not sure how a thin crust pizza even got into Chicago, but there is was, being slowly consumed by the two pigeons. Each one would peck at a time to keep the pizza from bouncing too far from each other’s beaks.

It was a full slice too with cheese and tomato sauce still on it.  I only had a moment to really marvel at it as I was in the flowing river of commuters exiting the train station. I would have liked to watch a little more just out of sheer curiosity. I really had never seen a pigeon eat pizza, let alone two pigeons. It made me wonder what else pigeons do that I am not aware of.

Pigeons play cards. They huddle together in tight poker table type groups and play Texas Hold ‘em. However, pigeons don’t call it that, they call it, and “Coo-Coo, deal the frigging cards already ya cheatin’ bastards”. They don’t play with money because pigeons don’t understand how paper can be traded for goods and services. They use seed or shiny things they found to ante. Since they are terrible at math they always think the other pigeon is cheating. This wouldn’t be too far off base because;

Pigeons cheat at cards. Of course their cards are usually Chinese take-out menus and any of them with the fire breathing pigeon pictured on it is an ace. Pigeons aren’t familiar with dragons, so they assume it’s a fire breathing pigeon named Roy. Every hand ends in a draw because all the pigeons claim they have seven “Roys” in their feathers. Or as they call it, a Full Roy.

Pigeons are ninjas. They are silent assassins trained in the deadly and ancient art of Pigeon-fu. This martial art has been practiced for centuries. It consists of casually bobbing in front of a full speed walking human being and then suddenly changing direction and causing the human to stumble ever so slightly. In more extreme cases the masters of Pigeon-Fu take flight right in the faces of the on-coming humans causing panic and the human curse word, “Ahhrgh”.

Pigeons don’t speak English.  They’ve been known to pick up a few words of obvious tender endearment like, “Sky Rat”, and “Festering Poison Fowl”. Humans don’t use the quantifier “Coo”, for most of their phrases so they pigeons just can’t understand them. The humans just don’t seem to want to learn pigeon. A clearly superior language.

Pigeons secretly want to drive. Sure the power of flight is okay, but what most pigeons really want is to drive a super fast American car from the 1960’s. Something with “Coo-balls”. And then they want to poop on it. They live half this dream on a daily basis all over the world. They do wait until you wash your car to do it. They are jealous of the supercharger.

It seems pigeons do a lot amazing things, from crapping on great sculptures to slamming into office windows for kicks. They are the daredevils of the bird kingdom (Daredevils not always being the brightest of us though) and they will not stop until they get their “Coo-uppance”.  Just watch them someday. You’ll be amazed. Plus, they’re already watching you and are poorly planning your DOOOOOOM. 

Science Triumphs!

This morning humankind made another amazing leap forward in the field of “look at our big brains” contest.  NASA’s Mars rover, Curiosity, successfully landed on the surface of Mars. Curiosity is the most sophisticated roving lab ever to land on another world. The rover is the size of a mid-sized SUV with some of the most advanced technology available.

It was launched in November and finally made it to the Red Planet this morning. So that’s one hell of a commute. It’s designed to last two years on the Martian surface but might operate longer. Considering the successes of the 2004 rovers, Spirit and Opportunity; Spirit stopped working in 2010 and Opportunity is still functioning. So odds are pretty good that Curiosity will not be killed by the cat. Unless that cat is a mutant Martian monster who our rovers disturb from its billion year slumber then proceeds to wreak havoc upon the cosmos.

I find it fascinating that at this very moment there is a device made by the hands of men and women rolling around on the surface of a planet 352 million miles from Earth. It’s astounding. It’s monumental. It makes me proud to be a human being for once. Considering how awfully we tend to treat each other I think this dedication to the exploration of another world is inspiring. Also it’s kind of neat to happen during the Olympics.

It was ambitious and I think it’s something we’ve been lacking for a while, especially when it comes to the solar system and universe around our little planet. Our home is essentially a giant rock in space, luckily caught in the “Goldilocks” zone of the sun’s gravity. Liquid water can exist on Earth which allows for the promulgation and expansion of organic life to root and evolve. It’s really a celestial crap shoot to be in the butter zone of the universe.

I’m happy that there are scientists still breaking the boundaries of our little planet. I don’t think little kids want to grow up to be Astronauts anymore. I don’t think there are many explorer types any more. I miss the kinds of people that were only interested in the expansion of their own knowledge and the knowledge of future generations. I just don’t hear much about them. I’m sure they are out there, working at some dead end job for now and working on worm hole theory on the their nights off. I’m sure there are brilliant minds just itching to try out that Flux Capacitor or molecular displacement laser, a.k.a., Death Ray.

I respect these men and woman that devoted their time and intelligence to making something so fascinating possible. We have a huge robotic craft rolling around on another planet. In fact, we have two! That’s the kind of big brain stuff we need on Earth. I think we should put away all this petty squabbling about religion and politics and get back to what made our species the most dominant ever. Exploration. Discovery. Intelligence and perhaps a little profit.

I’m not advocating a whole Avatar thing and mining the resources from a distant habitated planet. (Seriously: unobtainium? C’mon). I do want us to stop thinking so small about our world and remember the universe is bigger than we can imagine. However, our collective imaginations do make it ever more reachable. 

Hotter ‘n Hell

Sweat trickled down my nose,

down my back,

over my chest,

dampening my once

laundered shirt.

I had to run in the

morning sun,

trying to catch a train

to get to my bane.

I missed it.

By

mere

milliseconds.

I ran back down from

the commuter train platform and

raced to the local

train the next block over.

Breathing heavy

and already a sweaty

mess of a man.

I rushed into the station,

paid my fare and got

stalled on the

escalator by the

walking dead.

I had to run up three

flights of stairs only

to just miss the next

local train

By

mere

milliseconds.

I sweat, there’s no denying

it. I can’t help it. It’s my genes.

I couldn’t stop while waiting for

the next train.

A salty puddle of out of breath

hotness, sitting on the next

train that came along,

wiping the copious wetness

off my nose and forehead

while trying to look put

together for all the pretty

married women I saw.

(and there were a few)

It was hot.

I wondered what I did to

deserve such hellish

morning treatment.

Then I remembered last night

and I wonder if she’s mad.

A sweaty man,

sitting in hell,

wondering about the

curses of the previous night. 

Art

Art is candy for

the soul and it’s every

where.

A poem,

A painting,

A dirty limerick,

A cloud that looks like a bunny,

A mother’s smile,

A spot on the mirror,

A blurry old Polaroid,

A girls crumpled sweater on the floor by the bed,

A song,

A beat,

A drink of cool water,

A beer,

A kiss placed on the edge of your nose by the softest lips ever.

It’s candy of the sweetest

kind, just sugary enough,

but not sticky.

It lasts in your

memory long after it’s gone.

It stirs the blood pumping

in your veins and makes

you marvel and hold your

breath a little so not even

the sounds of your own

body can deter you from

the magic.

A bird’s song,

A long summer shadow cast on the dusky sidewalk,

A crunchy, rocky beach path,

A laugh from a lover,

A breeze that smells like lavender,

A rain shower that pelts the window.

The soul isn’t an art critic.

It’s a candy lover.

August

August is one of those months that reminds me of how tightly we hold onto traditional names of the past. The month was originally named Sextilis by Romulus on the original ten month Roman calendar around 753 B.C. In 8 B.C. it was renamed August in honor of the Emperor Augustus to commemorate his many victories and conquest of Egypt. By then they had adopted the 12 month Julian calendar.

Could you imagine if it was still called Sextilis? Hump day jokes would pale in comparison. So I’m a little glad it was changed to August, I don’t know if I could handle the embarrassment of Sextilis. (Although, I’ve been told that I have nothing to be embarrassed about).

It’s been 2,020 years of August and we’ve seen no reason to change it. I can’t imagine why we would need to either.  It is something that connects us to the past and certainly the incredible world domination of the Romans. There’s very little in our culture that was not in some way influenced by the Roman tradition; for Westerners anyway.

From the way we address each other to handshakes, we’ve certainly been conditioned by Roman history. With the introduction of Christianity into the Roman world a lot of those social morays changed and adapted into what we would consider civil and polite society. Those purists would look at the Romans as Pagans and be appalled at their debauchery, but still we owe it all to them, and their forefathers, the Greeks.

The Romans had a society equal to our own, with all the major problems we often find ourselves embroiled. Foreign wars, taxes, legal wrangling, sports entertainment, religious conflicts, political intrigue, crime are all things very common to a super power like us. It’s important that we not forget the lessons learned. Of course under the Roman Emperor things operated a little differently, but the idea of the Republic still mattered.

I think August is a good month to reflect on history. It’s a chance to explore who we are and how we got here before fall arrives and winter sets in. There’s still enough bright summer sunshine to get to know this world we’ve inherited, molded, reshaped and plan to hand down again someday.

It’s a chance for new possibilities, new ideas, perhaps changing or challenging the concepts or ideas we’ve thought were so important to us and re-examining them in the bright backdrop of history.

Maybe I need another cup of coffee. Or another great kiss. I’m hoping there’s opportunity in August for plenty of both, maybe the latter more than the first. Only time will tell.

   

P.S. Rest in Peace Gore Vidal.