Sleepy Fingers

 

“What are you going to write

about,” she asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said,

“My fingers are a bit sleepy.”

 

“Sleepy fingers. Now that’s something,”

she said.

“Meh,” I said, “Sounds like a rejected

1970’s rock band name.”

 

“Ha, yeah. Sleepy Fingers; I’m sorry,

but I just don’t think your song,

Wake Up With Me In You, is going to

make the charts,” she said in her best Record Agent voice.

“Aw, really mate, that song is the

essence of our whole band, mate,” I added in a mockingly British accent.

 

“Are they a British band,” she asked.

“Of course they are,” I said.

“Not an American band,” she said.

“Yeah, definitely not an American Band,” I said.

“I’m sure they were just ahead of their time,” she said.

 

“For sure, Sleepy Fingers was all about that new

sound. Legends in their own minds,” I said.

“Makes me wish for a Behind the Music episode for

bands that never existed,” she said.

 

“I’ve never heard a steel drum used in quite

that way. Ingenious,” I said.

“And the kazoo choir, brilliant,” she said.

“Don’t forget the 25 minutes of bacon frying,” I said.

“Wasn’t that the album name, Sleepy Fingers – Bacon Frying,” she asked.

 

“I believe it was actually titled Bacon Fat Frying,” I said.

“Ah, that’s right,” she said, “Just a musical marvel,” she said.

We smiled at each other.

Loving the magic of nonsense between lovers.

 

“So, you’re writing about this,” she asked.

“Already done,” I said.

A kiss.

A smile.

 

An Inner Voice

 

My inner voice is  

claustrophobic. 

Scratching and clawing 

at the sides of my skull, 

Mewing like a wild cat, 

stuck in a cage at a City 

Zoo.  

Pacing back and forth 

behind the black iron bars, 

stared at the fat onlookers, 

chomping on popcorn and 

corn dogs or other corn related 

food items, pointing and 

gawking at my bristled fur. 

My inner voice, wishing for 

wildness, untempered freedom 

and a little spot in the sun 

to roar and run, to chase and 

be chased, to smell the wonders 

of each blade of grass and pee 

anywhere.  

A stir-crazy inner voice, 

kept caged as the muckity-mucks 

wander about in the haze of  

unearned self-righteousness,  

with Strawberry Ice Cream dripping 

from their over fed mouths onto  

their smugly inappropriate tee-shirts. 

An inner voice, wanting to pounce, 

scream and slaughter, 

shout and slay; 

sharpened by a prolonged 

solitude. Claws longing 

to tear and thrash, rip and slice, 

through the numbskullery.  

A loud inner voice, yet, untoothed and 

declawed by social fragilities.  

Pining for lust, love, passion, good sense, 

virtue, and acceptance outside of a cage, 

outside of convention, inside the hearts 

of the willing, the able, the understanding.   

But finding none.  

  

An inner voice, still stalking 

back and forth in the bone  

cell, snapping and snarling, 

but quite contained, not to 

be unleashed per the rules 

of social convention. As per 

the dignified rules of behavior.  

An outer voice; a zookeeper of 

sorts, managing to secure the locks 

of the more lecherous and salacious, 

unbridled cynicism and passions of the wild ego, 

keeping the onlookers and muckity-mucks 

in their relative security of blissful 

ignorance.     

My inner voice, staring out, panting, 

licking his lips; waiting…  

 

 

Voting is More Important than Good Poetry

 

There’s was a silly little sign 

that once hung in the barbershop 

where I got my haircut as a child. 

Among other wildly inappropriate 

signs and posters, too “mature”  

for the eyes of child.  

This small scroll had an Irish toast 

of sorts, which goes, “When we drink,  

we get drunk. When we get drunk,  

we fall asleep. When we fall asleep,  

we commit no sin. When we commit no sin,  

we go to heaven. So, let's all get drunk,  

and go to heaven!” 

It came to mind this Election Day morning. 

I’m not really sure why, but I thought  

I’d try my hand a sort of re-worked version 

of that toast in honor of this prestigious 

Election Tuesday.  

 “When we vote, 

we get a voice. 

When we have a voice, 

we must raise it. 

When we raise it, 

we commit to the future. 

When we commit to the future, 

we all win. 

So, let’s all vote and go to the future!” 

 Meh, I think I like it better when  

it’s about drinking.   

 Regardless, it is still imperative that 

Americans get out and vote today, 

if they haven’t already, and cast their 

vote for a future they can be proud of 

and look back upon fondly by saying to their 

descendants, “I did that. I looked forward and 

did this for you, my beloved progeny”.  

Good poem/Bad Poem? 

Inconsequential. What is important, 

is your voice is heard, your vote is cast, 

and you fulfill your duty as a citizen  

as the driver of this Country’s Destiny.  

 

Watching the Fire

 

Watching the flames

in a fire pit flicker and flirt

with the logs, watching the

fire tease the wood, starting

to smolder, then ignite and

a burst of hot fire explodes.

 

Taking a step back,

as my mind was wandering,

lost in the strange eroticism of

the flames. I was transfixed by

the fiery gyrations of the naked

flames.

 

Licking my lips, took a sip

from the cold beer in my hand,

and tried to relax my over excited

Puritan brain. Aghast at the overt

loss of virtue in the swirling cloud

of backyard fire.

 

Overheating in the inviting

warmth, tempting my thoughts

into lurid dalliances of imagination,

mirages really, in this desert of contact,

too heated for the time, knowing only

the chills waiting away from the lustful light.

 

The fire, spitting embers into the

night air, swirling overhead as if

the imagined longings beyond this

solitude could be carried by the wind

into the minds and bodies of those

whom we lust after.

 

The fire, burning in the dark,

warming the ends of forgotten

sensitivities and kindling those

delicate fibers of memory, when

passion was always hot and on

the edge of blasting incandescence.

 

Another cool sip to simmer the

hot blood, another step back,

from the fire, can’t take it with you,

but don’t want to leave, an embrace,

burning through the body, to lose,

to the cold.

TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY!!!!

 

Yesterday, October 25^th marked the 10-year anniversary of A Minute with Michael.  Ten years of poetry, short stories, and essays for your enjoyment and my relief. 

Ten frigging years of it, resulting in 1,251 (including this one) posts on Blog Spot. That means you could read one article a day and it would take 3.4273 years to finish.  I think that’s quite a milestone of personal achievement. 

I’m exhausted; not by the writing though. If anything, that has been the saving grace of the last ten years as I’ve battled depression, newly discovered anxiety issues, personal setbacks, money issues, dental issues, minor health issues and the general daily annoyances the universe throws in our paths in some attempt for us to build character.  And building character is so tiring. 

I feel absolutely privileged to have been able to share with you. I like to think that in these ten years I’ve grown as a writer, poet and as a human being. I have hopefully matured in some of my thoughts, actions and deeds. I hope I will continue to have the opportunity to grow and always become better than what I started as.  I hope to continue to see the depth and beauty in the world, point out the hypocrisies I see, leave any judgment at the door and have a body of work worthy of looking back on and saying, “Meh, not all of it is terrible.”   

Here’s to another ten years, perhaps another book or two. Here’s to my hopes that some of what I have written has touched you in some way or another and will continue to do so. I sincerely thank all of the people that have supported me and continue to do so. I totally owe you all a Coke. 

Thank you! 

Michael, with whom you've spent many minutes. 

Is it Scary Enough?

 

Normally, around this time

of year, I write mini-horror stories

and terrifying tales of mysterious

doings and bone-chilling, skin-crawling,

nightmare fuel.

It’s a tradition with me, of sorts.

 

I typically get a kick out of the

macabre around Halloween and

I think it’s fun to write some silly

little story about a haunted house or

cursed carnival ride or a desolate

desert highway.  

 

This year however, the fun, make-believe

chills of Halloween seem to pale in

comparison when the real world is

already far scarier than any fictional

drama or suspense my little noggin

can come up with.

 

Rampant sickness sweeping the globe?

Check.

Major Political Unrest at home and abroad?

Check.

Maniacs, fires, and global catastrophe?

Check.

Candy Corn?

Get bent you monster.

 

Writing a little bit of horror escapism seems

like a wasted and futile pastime.

I know it has value, but who wants to add

to the real-life terrors right now.

The knife-wielding killer is in the darkened hallway;

so what, does he know the state of my 401K?

 

The real terrors of getting sick and shitting myself

to death or waking up in an ever more present dystopian

horrorscape far outweighs any fictional misty moors of Scotland

and being hunted by a blood-thirsty werewolf.

The real-life human blood lust is all too much,

and makes for a better horror story anyway.

 

Although, who knows, maybe as we get closer to

All Hallows Eve, I might find some inspiration and

crank out some blood curdling twisted tale ripe with

Twilight Zone inspired twists and drama.

But for now, I’ll just watch

the Presidential Debate tomorrow night and

clutch my pillow close and pray that the

noise I heard from under my bed is a mouse

and not Tucker Carlson.  

A Passionate Pragmatist

 

As a passionate pragmatist,

I think it’s a great idea but

would like to break it down

for a bit, really get in there

and see how everything works

while simultaneously committing to

the whole process.

 

Kissing you is amazing and

deeply satisfying but how

did kissing become the way

we express our passions for

one another instead of just

rubbing one’s head or winking

or something along those weird actions.

 

How do you look at me with

such wonder and amazement

as I drive, as I mindlessly babbling about

the evolution of the city and roads

and how it marked the beginning

of modern human society.

 

What makes you reach out for my

hand as we sit quietly, what makes

you let go when things are noisy.

When do I bother you and why does

it bother you and what can be done

about the things you do that bother me.

Like letting go of my hand, when I’m not ready.

 

I don’t want to jump in the puddle of

love, splash around and get soaked,

I like my dry clothes and dry shoes,

there’s probably traces of oil and muck

in that puddle and neither of us need that

these days. Let’s walk around the puddle,

hand in hand, stay dry and get to the

restaurant that requires reservations even

though it’s never busy.

 

You like to go there though, even if I don’t

see the point of food on a stick, I never

know what to do with the stick after I’ve

eaten, where do all the little wooden sticks

go, is there a big pile in the back, do they wash

them. You laugh at my questions and I laugh

at your laughing and I feel the years between

us in my heart, the trust, the comfortable everydayness.

 

I always want to scoop you up

in my arms and kiss you in the

lobby of some great train terminal

while the onlookers smile and clap

because they know the importance of such

displays. But your bags are missing, and

we have to catch a taxi to get to your

mother’s before your brother gets there

and gets the good room.

 

You’re the disorder of my order,

the variable unaccounted for in

the step by step plans so carefully

laid out to avoid the stress sweat and

uncomfortable butterflies of anxiety

who are always on the verge of throwing-

up inside my stomach.

 

To hold you is grand, to be peaceful

with you is marvelous, no spontaneous

madness, only planned spontaneity, is

on our menu. And you laugh at me,

again, as I struggle to just have a good

time with your weird friends who seem

to go sky-diving and spear fishing and

shook hands with the Dali Lama.

 

They hop on planes for Bali at a moments

notice while I need three months of

meticulous planning, which you then fix

because I ran out of patience with the travel

agent because what they kept telling me wasn’t

making sense. I’m not flying to Denver to

go to Mexico, that’s lunacy. I’m not going North

to go south.

 

One thing at a time, one step at a time,

one problem solved before the next,

a pattern of solutions in a circle to end

where we began, but always the better for

it. If you’re comfortable with that, then all

my questions and issues, but especially my

passion, are all yours, without debilitating debate.