A TABLE, FOUR CHAIRS & A BENCH, a poem - PART SIX

  

A BENCH

Who owns the creek? The raccoon? Or the cat without the claws? The bench marks the beat before the birdhouses behind the grass. They only have one riff, but I love it – and I spend my days ignoring it, over and over, while doing other things besides. I lay down on the long of the bench, my feet still touching the hardwood floor.

This is the life, the floor, the leavenings.

I’ll spend the weekend doing dishes and learning how to get places. I’ll spend the weekend watching weekend and weekend. I’ll spend the weekend reading books that cost me money I don’t have, but I have the books so might as well make the most of them.

I will think about the people I know and knew. I will think about the bad and the good, between them.

I will think about the hurt and the comfort, regardless.

I’ll spend my time writing about it, wishing for the well deep in the well.

I lay down on the bench; I write text messages talking about engagements; I think about lousy ways of doing things lousily.

There is a whole line of being that just goes on until your feet are in the ground.

Like a mother, I drink a Kaluha and Cream (skim milk) and read something nice about something nice.

I send text messages about mutual issues, with a friend some sorted thousand miles away about friends some sorted thousand miles away.

The bench is barely four feet long. It seems longer, only depending on where I put myself on the bench.

I look at the birdhouses, so many Christmases ago.

The lens as medium across the long slab. Really, the reflection in the pixel hue of a total lack of nuance. The reflex is too big for these countering impulses.

A river of problems, calling attention to the clouds.

Tomorrow is the easy day, so I take a pill to make it come faster. I start to forget him, but being the painter, there are still blotches on my hands.

And, of course, there’s always the painting, pained and perfect as you.

Christopher Jackson, Man Accused Of Branding Woman's Vagina, Arrested On Suspicion Of Bestiality

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A TABLE, FOUR CHAIRS & A BENCH, a poem - PART FIVE

A CHAIR – 4

In a hospital, I’m always the nurses’ favorite:  I always ask them to sneak me more Jell-O and say thank you, both before and after.

“She doesn’t eat,” he said. “I don’t eat out,” she said.

Why am I me and not you?

Riding on the front of the shopping cart, pulling something down, only to be put back by mom.

Eating leaves me feel sluggish, so I don’t do it much, unless it’s around other people. And then, only slowly.

There are ways around it, always, yet always it is there. The touching of objects makes you feel like something else is there, but it’s still you, still there. I take a drink of water, look out the window, and then have to go to the bathroom, always thinking of something else even if it’s just the fact that I drank some water, looked out the window and had to pee and then peed. I like that about life, some consistency.

But I also dislike it when things change:  when children grow older, when parents grow older, when I grow older. How the cars don’t always drive between the lines on the street.

I dislike it when when happens.

A gig is a gig as a gag. A gag in a gig. A gig is a grunt with a gag in its throat. Practical gigs as a gag for a grunt or gas. A gig grunting on gin just for a gas. A gag running on a gig for gas, yet grunting. A gig is a gig is a gag grunting on gin for a gas, gagging.

Amid overture to Iran, U.S. strives to reassure Israel. F.B.I. tries to trace last weeks of Navy Yard gunman. House bill links health care law and budget plan. Challenges await plan to reduce carbon emissions.

This is 10:04 pm (PST) on September 20^th, 2013. This is 3 days before my birthday.

This is a beautiful night, watching Arrested Development and eating microwave popcorn.

Merrier Lament

True, there are worse colors in the world

than are alive and true – a recent repose

of singing and dancing lent colors distinct

yet utterly redundant and full of color.

And, yes, true, there are worse beings than

thine, and because you tell me I am you

you make ridiculous the mine that is the

canary, pecking black pus like a string of twine.

I can only have expected, or redacted, the

myriad of bundle that you have laid waste.

And yet so alright:  the purchase of possibility

remains locative, still under the refund date.

In this case it expanses its interest :  a smaller

nettle in the force of worse things were, quite another.

A TABLE, FOUR CHAIRS & A BENCH, a poem - PART FOUR

CHAIR - 3

Why is it assumed that the squares on a window mean you’re in a cage, even if you are in one – I’m talking to you, birds – when the exact opposite can be true:  if life itself can’t get in, life itself loses its will to live. Just what is the cage again? t

There are internal logics and there are interns and logic but the two usually don’t meet.

I try not to worry but by doing so, that makes me worry more.

The frogs by the creek sound great while reading outside at night.

Frogs like to hop, and I hope they make it.

It’s all implicitly permitted.

Something new and unexpected is something new and unexpected. I’m used to it. It is.

A Republican View of Illness as Marxism:  whatever the other has, we have now.

After being off anti-depressants for weeks now, I can get a boner, and I make use of it, but I also cry at everything, never more so than when listening to “If Mama Was Married”.

Don’t call me at 3 AM. I’ll either be asleep or writing this.

I always wonder about the Saras.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is it,” mouth half full of it still. She continues this through serveral swallows and egging her on by her father that she’s already tasted it and likes it so swallow.

“It’s eel,” I say and she frowns, but then turns her thumbs up in proud accomplishment .

“Your mama won’t even try it,” I say not to be more amateur food snobby than I should.

While I was ordering, I mentioned I would be getting eel – both girls put on their gross-out faces, full force.

You’ll fake me and I’ll fake you:  there’s nothing left but the lingering smoke, still lingering like a sunset that never sets.

Trying the tour, I douched up amid royal reminiscence.

House is calling me back home and to marry me.

Romance is just disapproval, hidden under the sheets.

When world views span such dissimilar preferences, what’s left to a relationship but memories?

Sex changes the most innocent of ideas:  I like, like, like-you like-you.

Mailboxes with flags, still.