June 2015 Haiku/Senryu

Trying to be more diligent about keeping track of my ku. Here's this month's output so far. I will update it as necessary. Surprisingly, it's been a very productive month. I'm thinking about doing the Haiku a day thing every month and not just during NaPoMo. 

Full moon

The half of the Oreo

with the stuff

Daydreamer

now a citizen of the

imagination

Carolina dawn

Rising up the flagpole

a woman's hands

Milky Way

Between the stars

Ahmad Jamal's fingers

Empty crayon box

Our son gets a taste

of the blues

Memorial Day

Strewn about the beach

Lorna Doones

Scraps of tires

The flatness of a tern

in the road

Urbane graffiti

Only the expletive

written in cursive

A black cat

settles on the windowsill

October nightfall

Deepening sunset

A pickup's Rebel flag

shrinks in the distance

A bluebird rises

from a budded branch

April daybreak

White cat

Bloody pause

Nine lives gone

The largest hand

sprinkles the Truffle Salt

Father's Day

Summer Solstice

A Father's hand lengthens

a girl's smile

There to prey

The sight of a rifle in the

Sanctuary

Still rippling over

Charleston South Carolina

Battle Flag

The curl

of a dead boy's fingers

A toy gun

This woman's white hair

How majestic the crown

of those mountains

Prayer meeting

The expressions on faces

outside the church

Not a prayer

The echo of a rifle

through the Pews

Moonrise

Only the cue ball

left on the table

Spin Cycle

Abe Vigoda is dead

again

Wave after wave

Falling onto the beach

Boardwalk tourists

Green light

Cars wend around the fountain

Zazen

June afternoon

The Italian Ice man

shaves smiles

Knot

composed of cords

or net

Cold man

A Shake of jazz to come

Free with Cherry 

Rainy day

Our son only seems to know

words that end in Why

Ornate coal man

Mellow descends a fair well 

drifts in the missed

Frost on

the rear windshield 

Snow moon

Grain moon

A crescent of cake waning

in the urinal

Summer night

the beach fills with

sound of waves

Day after Xmas

throwing out my back

with the trash

Back alley

Written in cursive

his pee

Afternoon fog

low door jamb

sudden sprinkle

JV Football

My son goes to the pine

to learn about pine

Black Hawk on a breeze

The Last Diné Code Talker

rises

Basketball court

Two crows caw

Next game

Dinner time

the open mouths of 

slot machines 

Gardenias 

The blind man's cane

skips a beat 

Lying

over the numbers

Spread sheets

Cannabis seeds

My mother startled

by a roach 

Bouquet of Roses

The skin on her collar bone

blooms

Detached houses

The distant eyes of the new

neighbors

The oak's roots

raise blocks of the walkway

Daddy's fingers

Divorse papers

We spot the typo

together 

June sunset

How softly the petals

flutter down

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday Follies 12 JUN 15

To celebrate the life of the recently ascended Ornette Coleman, here are three of what I like to call Cubist Haiku. Coleman was infamous as one of the great innovators of Jazz music creating what would be called "Free Jazz". At a time when the leading innovators were playing a style (Bebop) that relied on using notes of chords taken from a song's harmonic structure, Coleman eliminated chords from his written compositions and instruments that played chords from his band, a move that struck most as completely crazy. His most famous album "The Shape of Jazz to Come" set the jazz world on fire, and sparked endless debates. And yet, the songs worked, thanks in part to his wonderful ability to create melodies. Coleman was also known for his highly idiosyncratic use of language and sometimes seemingly circular logic. As time passed he came to be justified in his approach to the music but his semantic weirdness never waned. Here then are three haiku/senryu in his honor.

Ornate coal man

Mellow descends a fair well 

drifts into the missed

Cold man

A Shake of jazz to come

Free with Cherry 

Knot

composed of cords

or net

Among the alternate readings of the first piece is " Ornette Coleman/ melody sends a farewell/ drifts into the mist."

The second piece makes reference to Don Cherry, the long time trumpet player in Voleman's band and father of singer Neneh Cherry. 

And among the alternate readings of the third piece is "Not/composed of chords/ Ornette"

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

May 2015 Haiku/Senryu

Memorial Day

Strewn about the beach 

Lorna Doones

Full moon

The half of the Oreo

with the Stuff

Spring breeze

I rearrange the flours

in the cupboard 

Garden harvest

More salt less pepper

in my beard

September moon

Ahead in the headlights 

Oh Dear

Cherry Coke

My students ignore

the blossoms

Cherry blossoms

She scrounges her purse

for lipstick

Dripping from

the water tower

Spring rain

Her fingers

on my bare shoulder

Piano music

The Rapture

I find in Revelations

a squashed ant

Milky Way

between the stars

Ahmad Jamal's fingers

Afternoon fog

light drizzle 

low door jamb

Baltimore twilight

The slow fall of a tear 

gas canister

Three AM

The homeless man finds

a round trip ticket

Stretched across

the back bench of the bus

Morning sunshine

Morning fog 

a mother waiting on

the feeble sun

On the Boardwalk

the spotless shoes of the man

in a wheelchair 

Morning fog

only one of us

monogamous

Bouncing off

every riot shield

Waxing gibbous moon

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday Follies 29 MAY 15

So a few nights ago Cheryl Lynn and Anita Baker allegedly had some beef on Twitter, although it was more like one person chewing on some (very spicy) beef jerky. Yes, it was probably petty, although easily the most entertaining thing online at 1 AM. Of course, Tonk playing Twitter (aka Red Kool Aid Twitter, Black Velvet Jesus Twitter) went IN, mostly on Ms Lynn. All of which is cool as a box of Bomb Pops in your Granny's basement freezer. But there was a consistent misconception that needs to be cleared up. And who really is better qualified to do that than your homeless uncle DJ Renegade? First off, I've been an AB fan since Chapter 8 (no that's not a type of bankruptcy) even though her voice (like Lagavulin) ain't for everybody, including evidently Clive Davis. And yes, we can all name five AB songs for every CL song (assuming you go back to '78). And yes, AB sold more copies of "Rapture" than CL sold of allofheralbums COMBINED. All of this is as true as hamhocks are greasy. But when it comes to vocal talent (instrument + musical ability) there is really no comparison. CL got more chops than a bamboo forest has sticks. AB is a singular talent with a unique style and a distinctive timbre all her own, and yet CL can sing her under the table. Pick one, your Auntie's card table? Check. Your Nana's glass top Coffee Table? Check. Your Mama's walnut dining table with the heavy ass extensions? Check. The table where Christ and his Disciples ate the Last Supper? Check. The Periodic Table, the Water Table and the Table of Contents? Check, Check and Checkmate. Whatever you do, DO NOT SLEEP on CL's voice. *grabs you by the lapels* Do not (for the love of Banana NowOrLaters) get it twisted, CL got more range than the Appliance sections at all the Home Depots. Check her LIVE performance with Luther on Soul Train where she harmonizes UNDER him by singing some Bass/Baritone notes like she was wearing some of Lou Rawl's drawls. Check her background vocals on "Got to Be Real" where she harmonizes with herself with multiple Whistle Register notes. Yall ain't probably know she had a Whistle Register because it's perfectly blended into her Head and Chest voices. CL don't grandstand, she just hits whatever notes the song needs and floats on. Shorty got more range than Patti LaBelle (there I said it), but before you get up early to poison my Earl Grey, save your side eyes and Google or YouTube or ask somebody with perfect pitch. All the notes are on the record.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 25 May 15

Speck of white

floating in this evening's tea

October moon

Rhyming 

with every streetlight

June moon

December moon

Drifting into our window

Autumn leaves

A crescent cake 

wanes in the urinal

August moon

Won't you

be my Valentine

February moon

Rippling softly

among the Bay reeds

May moon

The only fool

Holding a mirror to the sun

April moon

Blowing clouds

from bright cheeks

March moon

Frosting

the rear windshield 

January moon

September Moon

Caught in the headlights 

Oh Dear

Blind rage

she bans the July moon

from our bedroom 

Moonless night

Tip-toeing down the hallway 

cat's eyes

So many eyes

on a hanging chad

November moon

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 12 MAY 05

MUSIC LESSONS

My stuffed panda,

nicknamed Pythagoras,

sang to me until I was ten.

Then I heard the bike sprocket

of logic rip up

the pants leg of his song.

The logic of adolescence

is the long blue ache

for adulthood.

I blew adolescence

like bubbles from a trumpet's bell.

From my Middle School hallway,

music class beckoned.

Pythagoras sang music

as a sacred form of math,

neon numbers raised to the highest power.

All my school trumpet desired

was to be carried home

to our housing project

in a case with a velvet lining,

a conical mute.

Why do clouds get to play with

such vast velvet Blues in the background?

The mute desired to teach me

how to moan in public,

but I took up the trumpet

as a budding oral essayist.

Or to replace what Pythagoras sang.

My mouth became a bed

for the mute to dream in.

I did not dream of god

the way I dreamt that

minor chords wore hard hats

with tiny beaming lights.

I still recall the whole notes

of my eyeballs

filling with blinding light,

a bright blare

not unlike a horn,

whose body became

a balm for my adolescent fingers,

even when they couldn't

bear such brassiness.

And Miles above —

clouds were hoarse whispers

galloping from god's muted mouth.

I knew the needles of a pine

and the needles of a phonograph

could both sew song into spinning air

but didn't make the same scents.

There was scented oil

glistening the trumpet's valves.

Inside its coiled body,

a half note curling towards the open bell,

wet, rhythmic breath

buzzing into the late afternoon

with the lilt of eyeballs filling with light.

Why do we say "late afternoon"

like it showed up drunk and disheveled

hours after it was due?

Or worse, as if it recently died?

Logicians think death

has no logic, but

the logic of death

is the long blue ache for life.

My boy T claims

the truest thing about music is this:

a poem can be a useful essay,

but an essay is a useless ass poem.

I know breath collects inside a horn

the way dew collects on curling leaves.

But who collects the shavings

of quarter notes that curl

around a trumpeter's feet?

I wasn't old enough to shave,

not even seconds off the time

it took to sprint for the schoolbus.

I left my school trumpet

on the bus several times,

but it never held it against me.

Maybe I only took up

the trumpet so I could hold

Latricia Taylor against me

and collect her curling breath

in the bowl of my collar bone.

Miles above, clouds were hoarse whispers,

curling fog from god's frozen nostrils.

After I got my front tooth knocked out

I tried to play the trumpet,

but my band teacher claimed it

impossible as a one armed man

playing a violin.

I can still read the notes curling

across sheet music as easily as a grocery list,

but never learned to play by ear.

Like a man who can read French newspapers

but not comprehend the frank whispers

of the woman he desires.

Desire is a housing project

in a former French City

famous for its trumpet players.

I've truly never lived in that city,

but since my first tryst with the trumpet

the long blue logic is this;

we're all born and razed

in our red brick projects of Desire.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday Follies 8 MAY 15

One of the things I did during April was revisit some older poems that I wasn't happy with. There were a couple that I really thought improved and these are two of them. 

Ode To Full Lips

(for Miss Prissy)

Horizontal half-moons

silken as cinematic whispers,

last night heard my tongue

pray for that sacred space

between you.

We worship

your red's exquisite sheen

for how easily it exceeds

the Two of Heart's glossy finish.

You know it aint good sense

that makes us imagine

your fat bottom gleaming.

Months ago,

I dreamt you as sliced halves

of fruit beneath glass,

above teeth white

as an apple's bare flesh.

But now I'm shoplifting Chapstick,

brushing rich gloss

across a canvas

stretched like skinny jeans

after a midnight binge,

bewitched by what

surrounds your mouth's

satin machine.

You've been chapped

by cold, salt and sunlight.

But a single flick

from the scarlet felt

of a wandering tongue,

can supple all again.

And when are our

busses scheduled?

I want to ride

your double-decked

lushness deep into

the tunnel of your doubt,

then string bright sighs

along its dark ceiling.

You need no MAC,

Max Factor, or Clinique.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

Now that I've kissed

the blues for you,

come close

and hum

your cinnamon song. 

THE COLTRANE IN YOU
( for Terrance )

Wonders
if riffs you only dream
redeem what
you can't seem to play,
even if every note
could be token.
Fears even if
those notes were to reign,
some umbrellas might
remain unopened.
Supposes what
Faith means
is melody
forever moistening
a mouthpiece,
filling even the fifths
in the next bar.
What you pray
and couldn’t pray for
rooted in the same
earthy chord,
always entwining.
Say the embouchure
of Desire beckons
from a double bed
in a bitter suite
you seem to enter
on a hemp rope
of incense smoke
you barely remember,
in a lavish hotel
where you can never
check Inn.
Doesn't every
untangling tongue
wish to probe
the pouty mouth
of Imagination?
But what notes
the cursive smoke
now rites,
blew all ayes.
Say a naked triad
tempts the rhythm.
An organ swells.
The key motif is
all things in modulation,
let us therefore
praise the pious piano,
then change the lock,
to change the key.
What is this Acknowledgement
but a mere opening riff
curling like
the mysteries of
a quarter moon?

The audience phases,
fully dressed, observant
of the sabbath of Resolution
through half-full glasses.
A brass scepter,
your sax sanctifies
the fingered strings
of the upright bass
as unholy sticks cross,
but the cymbals
have the sound of cymbals
that are unseen.
Still the audience
witnesses and testifies.
You squeak,
and they find
in chorus-like fashion
along the back wall
a groove in unison,
E pluribus unum.
Filling all four chambers,
exposed brick walls
the color of kaolin,
the definition of diastole.
Smoke rises
in systolic Pursuance
of forms, spilled
spirits pooling
in mirrors.
A surprised door opens
and eyes widen.
Psalm, says the sax,
because the chairs
are full of ears
opened earnestly,
craving serenity.
Nimbus, nimbus
says the notation:
but can even
the nimblest fingers find
that cumulus chord?
Notes float
and conflate with
what was whispered
and almost wholly writ:
no redemption
but these digressions
on the downbeat
raining, raining . . .

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

NaPoMo 30 for Thirty 2015

Well, it's that time of year again wherein your intrepid hero writes one poem for each day of National Poetry Month and hopes 2 or 3 of them are worth keeping. As in year's past they will mostly be haiku, Senryu and other short forms, although not necessarily. Also, as before I'll be updating this post throughout the month. You should feel free to leave your own haiku in the Comments. So here we go . . .

Bouncing off

every riot shield

Waxing gibbous moon

Riot police

an unbroken line of 

overhead geese

Nightfall

The solo sound of a

tear gas canister

Heat lightning-

The flash of her tongue

On my nipple

A single blossom

amongst shining leaves

Her bare shoulder

Her eyelashes

A rise and fall just

before the beach

Her new lipstick

His barely sipped glass

Of Cabernet

Spring Rain

Keeping both of us awake

wet spot

Half moon

The sudden sharpness

Of her nails

Bumble bee

Its unsettling buzz

tattoo gun

Her lashes

The only things

I shadow

Staff meeting

I now become Chairman

of the bored

Poker game

After we shake

The strength of his hand

Sudden downpour

Praying it still seals

Cheap Condom

Jazz

Even the silences

Are cool

New 

afro

A 

day

In 

the 

life 

of

Dandelions

Old piano

One by one

My teeth desert me

Learning about the bamboo

from the bamboo

Baby panda

Spring sprinkle

The gutters fill with

Cherry blossoms 

Puff of smoke

The Four Twenty Express 

embarks

Material Sacrifice

My son teethes on

the black knight

Pacifier

I hum the theme from

Jeopardy

Rap video

The thick legs of

the TV stand

Sauerkraut 

The aftertaste of 

Sixth Grade German

Smoke above

the volcano on Fogo

Grandfather's glare

First of April

The wind rolls a butt

around the tray

Bathroom mirror

All this new gray

almost time to die

Starbucks

An old navy veteran

reads Melville 

Birthmark

Have you always had that

Question Mark

Elevator

I say seventeen

she eyes my feet

Poker game

A Russian guy tables

his AK

Busted Brackets

A Cardinal hops to

a higher branch

Blood moon

The red speck dotting

her eye

Blood Moon

The traffic light refuses

to change

Blood Moon

the rising sound

of a siren

Her hand

Learning when to hold it

when to fold it

Low tide

Footprints filling with

starshine

 

goose tracks

in a muddy field

Ancient cuneiform

This piece of mine

My Republican cousin 

loves homophones

Low tide

The beach too has a

receding hairline

IV

The nurse searches your arm

in vain

Purple

Crayons on the wall

bruises

Winter sun

Ducking to avoid the glare

Jaywalker 

Schizophrenic 

Beams of sunshine converse with

rain drops

Fireflies

lighting up her face

freckles

Serena fires

A two handed backhand

glance

Full moon 

Our infant son's eyes 

refuse to close 

Morning fog

last night's wine clouds 

the tongue

Welcome Mat

just inside the door

Her tongue

Learning

about the pine from

The Coach

Two queens 

alongside the board

Chess Widows

Contemplating

A Queen Sacrifice

call from the wife

Big Bluff

The bettor tells his girlfriend 

only one more hand

Pawn to King four

My opponent opens

his paper bag

Call to prayer

The stopped bus hisses

Kneels

My last line

written in blood

Paper cut

Low Tide

The ocean also gets

Morning Breath

Good buy

She said after reviewing

my purchase

Kanye West

Swaying a Boardwalk speaker

hot wind

Red horizon

Pigeon feathers flutter

from a hawk's beak

Drug dealer's name

Dripping down a brick wall

Fresh snow

Sunday afternoon

At the poker table

I lose my religion

Casino exit

My shadow keeps moving

further ahead

Evening sunset

A bridge rivet flooded

with rust

Swearing to God

The presiding judge

bangs his knee

Full moon

The silent O of 

the pistol's muzzle

Back alley

A rat laps rain

from an eggshell

Morning fog

A Prius creeps up

on little cat's feet

Calvary Baptist

All the shrubs and trees

in their Easter outfits

April sunrise

A single drop of blood

on a light blue tile

Swearing to God

The presiding judge

bangs his knee

Evening sunset

A bridge rivet surrounded

by rust

Full moon

The silent O of 

the pistol's muzzle

Summer heat

Pigeon feathers flutter

from a hawk's beak

Driftwood 

strewn about the beach

Sunbather's legs

Three little girls

Twirling in pink tutus

Cherry Blossoms

Up late

buzzsaws cutting into

the silence

Too many

Students who missed

the syllabus

The gardener

switches her radio

to Al Green

Not New York's finest

that gardenia in her hair

Strange Fruit on her lips

With a quick-blown kiss

she high heels her way into

the Etheridge night

April morning

A male Cardinal lands

on fleek

Up late

buzzsaws cutting away

the silence

Prison workshop

The killer tries to erase

his mistake

Lorton Prison

The length of a sentence

of its echo

The kick

in her curried shrimp

in her belly

Diner waitress

The arches in her eyebrows

in her feet

Memorial Day

The flag on her fingernails

on her mantelpiece 

Half moon

beneath her eye

Blue black

Sugar Sphinx

my mother loses her

Sweet tooth

April night

A man handling a snake

In the sky

April morning  

lilac petals land

undead

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

FRIDAY FOLLIES 27 MAR 15

I will definitely be doing a poem a day this year for National Poetry Month (NaPoMo) and will add an extra twist this year. Be sure to check out the April 2015 issue of POETRY magazine, there's a lot of strong work there from the forthcoming Breakbeat Poets anthology. Having said that, here's a poem or two . . .

Morning fog

The smell of coffee

lifting

Waddling in

V shaped tracks

flock of geese 

To and fro

in this Sandy wind-

Stop Sign

Lynchburg Virginia-

The body of a black boy

under a white sheet

Vernal Equinox-

Half the eggs spill

the carton

Vernal Equinox-

Her glass eye 

half full

Poker game

The winner stacks up

his lies

Casino

So many happy sounds

from the machines

In the bushes

The smell of beer

before and after

Hand on chin

The Portrait watches Zoe

puzzle

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday Follies 20 MAR 15

Black Byrd

swinging in the dead of night

Take those broken wings . . .

Mississippi rain

Half nod of a Byrd

hanging from a tree

EXCERPTS FROM "THIRTEEN WAYS OF HANGING A BLACK BYRD"

ONE

Among twenty rainy trees,   

The only hanging thing   

Was the body of the black Byrd.

THREE

The black Byrd swung in the winter wind.   

It was the Final Act of the pendulum. 

FOUR

The rope and the tree

Are one.   

The rope and the tree and the black Byrd   

Are one.

FIVE

I do not know which to infer,   

A body of shadows   

Or a body of light,   

The black Byrd hanging   

Or just before.

SIX

Raindrops fill the window   

With savage reflections.

The body of the black Byrd

Crosses it, to and fro.

The moon

outlines

An inexplicable cause.

THIRTEEN 

It was midnight all day.   

It was raining   

And it was going to reign.   

The black Byrd swung

In the locust-limbs.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 17 MAR 15

My heart is battered. 

What kind of oil is best 

to fry it in?

Evening sun

Unrolling the Prayer Rug

A ghazal

Mouse in the bathtub

Suddenly

I can dance

Fourteenth of March

Today's Pi is not

fattening

Winter wind

Halfway across the lot

tears 

Snowy field-

One by one the crunch

of geese

There once was a Coxswain named Borringe, 

who openly inspected his sporange, when surprised by his Skipper,  

it got caught in his zipper, 

turning him six shades of orange.

Tuesday Tidbits 20 Feb 15

Equinox-

The saxophonist's head

half-cocked

Scimitar moon-

Silently counting

the scars

Up all night

around and around the house

Winter Wind

Polar Vortex-

The subzero whiteness of

the toilet seat. 

Snow drifts-

Marshmallows in one

side of the mug

Snowy field

Crossing to the other

side of the tracks

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 17 Feb 15

Valentine's Day-

The Poker Room couch

filled with women

Valentines Day-

The Ebb Tide's

slow tease

Fiftieth birthday-

Breath taken away by a

trickling stream

Fifty-fifth birthday-

The Brown Thrasher may be

going extinct

Low Winter sun

Sharp glare from a neighbor's

window 

Snow storm 

The silent softness of a 

wool blanket

Winter sunset

A husband and wife with

matching walkers

Snow forecast

I grab another bottle

of dandruff shampoo

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

V-Day Follies

Valentine's Day-

In the corner of her eye

his smile

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday Tidbits 3 Jan 15

The new year has brought with it a crazy series of health challenges. I ended 2014 with a bad case of S. A. D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder) induced depression that started a few days before the Winter Solstice and didn't let up until Xmas Eve, I've gotten it a few times before but never that severely. Fortunately by the 2nd day I recognized it for what it was. Xmas Day I was fine, but the next day I woke up with a low level migraine. The headache didn't seem that bad but the 26th was very sunny and my light sensitivity went through the roof, my sound sensitivity went with it and I wound up spending almost a week wearing sunglasses and earplugs and only leaving the room to eat. At the worst of it I was showering while wearing the sunglasses and earplugs. I tried playing some poker after the First but the cacophony of the casino was brutal, and the myriad flashing lights pure torture, especially the White LEDs in many of the slot machines. Just as that began to abate, I threw my back completely out doing absolutely nothing except walking down some stairs. Two more weeks in bed (and excruciating pain) and then I lost my favorite hat when the wind caught it and I couldn't chase after it, because bad back. Then I got the Flu. I go fifty years with no flu shot and no Flu and now the last two years I came down with it back to back. Fortunately, it isn't nearly as bad as last year's strain although it seems to be lingering longer. I have never taken my good health for granted and January 2015 was a reminder how good I've had it. The good news is that my back healed better than it has in 20 years. And I got a poem accepted into a very prestigious journal that I've never even sent a single poem to. Go figure. But I'm back and should be posting more regularly. Here's a few Ku I managed to scratch out during that time. 

Antique fire truck-

Remembering red

pistachios

Black ice-

slipping into something

less comfortable

Evening Forecast

A steady flurry

of side eyes

Migraine-

A thousand needles under

the Xmas tree lights

Winter Solstice-

The never ending darkness

of this chocolate bar

Day after Xmas

throwing out the trash

my back with it

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

The Best Laid Plans (Of Mice and Men)

It was one o'clock in the morning and there were two things on the table in front of me; a slice of Lemon Pound cake and a white Apple bag containing a small gift. I couldn't really tell which one was pissing me off more, the Apple bag I was certain, was mocking me like a heartless kid in the Second Grade pointing out the one damn thing that I didn't want to hear. But the pound cake might have been worse. At least I knew why the Apple bag was upsetting me, the pound cake I couldn't quite figure out. We had always been cool, it was my favorite, in fact. Whenever I felt down I'd stop by and after a few bites it was guaranteed to cheer me up. But not this time. This time it was just sitting there uneaten on the plate, the upper edge of it curling like a savage half-smile or maybe it was just the way that the whole thing was shaped like an open mouth, a mouth that was laughing hysterically at my silly ass. Not that I maybe didn't deserve to be laughed at, but still. I was sitting there, shooting laser beams out of my eyes at the two of them. I had been there this way at least 15 minutes, which is a World Record for me to sit and not eat something sweet, especially if that something was the Lemon Pound cake at Bread and Butter in the Borgata Casino. Which is where I was sitting, boiling, boiling mad like a pot of water forgotten over a high flame for way too long. I was so incensed I had actually lost track of time, so furious I didn't even see my boy JS walk up and slide into the seat across the table from me.
"Yo Pitt, you alright?" he asked.
"I walked by here twice and you're just sitting here like this. I don't think I've ever seen you this mad in ten years."
"What happened?" he asked "You lose a big pot in the Poker Room?
"Something like that." I said.
"It must have been a really, really big pot for you to be this pissed." he said.
"Something like that." I said.
"Nah", he said," I seen you lose a hundred pots for big time money, it's got to be more that that."
"Something like that." I said.
He started chuckling, "Wait a minute, this is about that chick, isn't it?"
"Something like that." I said.
"You just don't learn, do you? He asked.
I sighed "Something like that."
"Of course!" he said, "What else could it be?"
He looked down at the table, at the Apple bag and the pound cake.
"What's this?"
He reached for the bag, opened it and removed the contents. It was a small gift about the size of a paperback book, wrapped with ribbons, a bow and a card with a woman's name handwritten on it taped to the bottom.
"Damn!' he said, "Look at us getting all fancy, ribbons and bows and shit."
"This is wrapped really nice." he said, "No way you did this yourself."
"I didn't." I said, "I got it done at Hamilton Mall."
"Hamilton Mall??" he asked "You rode the bus all the way out there just to get this wrapped? Or did you buy it out there and get it wrapped afterwards?"
"I just went there to get it wrapped.' I said.
He looked at me, "Either you're crazy or this must have been super important."
"Probably a little of both." I said.
"It's a little early for Christmas gifts, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "It was for her birthday."
"She's working right now" he said "Why don't you go give it to her?"
"I tried." I said "She wouldn't accept it."
"Really?" he asked.
"Yeah." I said "I kept trying but she flat out refused and the worst part about it was she did that whole "beautiful woman trying to let a guy down easy thing" like I'm some kind of a moron who wouldn't know what was happening."
"Well . . . " he said "What would you prefer she say?"
"Do you want her to say "Leave me alone you crazy obsessed Stalker?"
"If she really thought that, then yeah, that would actually be preferable." I said. "At least that would be honest. I hate it when people try to bullshit me."
He looked at me like I had three noses. "You'd prefer that to what she said?"
"Of course I would.' I said "You can't have a real relationship with someone without honesty."
"You got to start somewhere, right?" I asked.
He shook his head a few times. "Let me ask you a question."
"Whatever", I said.
"What would it take for you to just leave her alone, like what would she have to say to you?"
"If she told me she was in a long term loving relationship, that would do it." I replied.
"Bullshit!!" he said. "You wouldn't give up then, that would just make it worse."
Now, I was even more pissed, something I hadn't thought was possible.
"Remember a few years ago when she started going with dude?" I asked.
"And she was floating around here, giggling like a schoolgirl who had discovered true love."
"Yeah" He said, "I remember that."
"OK", I said, "What did I do then?"
He thought about it for a second. "You told her you were happy for her."
"Do you think I was lying?" I asked?
"No." he said, "Stupid maybe, but not lying."
"Did I keep trying to talk to her?" I asked.
"No." he said " You backed off, I guess you got a point, but I can't imagine caring about somebody THAT much."
He picked up the gift and turned it over in his hands.
"If I know you" he said "This is some kind of book."
"Of course." I said.
"You and those books" he said.
"Must be one hell of a book, what is it, a Bestseller or something?"
"No," I said "Nothing like that. It's not what you think it is, this whole situation isn't really"
"Well' he asked "Why is it such a big deal? Why not just return it or give it to someone else?"
"I can't return it" I said, "It's signed to her personally with a note from the author."
"Really?" he asked "You went through all that, getting it signed and shit?"
"Yeah." I said.
"Silly Rabbit, Trix are for kids." he said chuckling.
He turned it over again and looked at it. "You gotta let me see this book, it must really be something."
He reached for the ribbon as if to untie it, I snatched it from his hands.
"Whoa Dude, chill!' he said.
"You can't open it." I insisted.
"What difference does it make?" he asked, "She doesn't want it anyway."
"Is it some kind of secret?" he was grinning.
"No" I said, ""Nothing like that. It's not at all what you think it is"
"Well what book is it? He asked.
"Hand me your iPhone." I said.
He put it on the table, I picked it up, typed the Book and Author's name into Google, then hit the first result and handed it back to him. He read the entry silently, slowly moving his lips, then began scrolling down. All around us slot machines were making their merry C Major rings and chimes, and the voices of the other people in the café became audible to me for the first time. he scrolled down to the bottom, double tapped his phone, then re-read the entire entry. He then looked up and scratched his head.
"I don't get it." he said, "What dude buys this book for a chick?" "It doesn't make any sense."
"I mean of all the books you could buy her, why this one? Is it that well written?"
"I don't get it." he looked at the screen again "What's the big deal?"
"I mean is this the right book? This is the book you bought her?"
He turned the phone towards me so I could read the screen. I nodded yes.
"Really?" he asked again. he turned it back towards himself and slowly read aloud.
"A Question of Freedom: A Memoir . . ."
"That's it" I said, "That's the right book."
"By Reginald Dewayne Betts" he finished.
"Wait a minute, I've seen this name before in your Facebook comments, you know this dude."
"Yeah." I said "He's a good friend."
"So you wrote him and asked him to sign it and everything?" he asked.
I nodded yes.
He laughed.
"Seem like an awful lot to go through for somebody who doesn't really appear to care about you." he said.
"I mean, you say yourself that she doesn't know how to be loved. So what's the point?"
"Because reasons." I said.
"What's that song by Cuba Gooding's dad?" He was laughing again..
"Everybody Plays the Fool Sometime" I sang badly.
"Exactly." he said.
"But it's like a poker hand." I continued "You always try get your money in with the odds in your favor, but sometimes the other guy gets lucky and you don't win. That doesn't mean you don't bet." I said
"I don't know." he said "Seems like a longshot to me."
"Look," I said "If you care about somebody then you care about them, it's not like you can just hit a button and quit caring."
"I know" he said "But it's been years and things are still the same."
"Yeah" I said "But if you believe in somebody, then you believe in them, just because they don't know something now doesn't mean they can't learn it eventually."
"You got a lot of patience." he said "Definitely more patience than sense."
"So what happens now?" he asked "What's Plan B, you just gonna sit here and be mad forever?"
"Not forever" I said "The Buddha said that walking around angry at somebody is like grabbing a hot coal to throw at them, you just end up burning yourself."
"Good thing you're sitting." he joked.
"It is what it is." I said
" I don't know yet." I paused, "I'll think of something eventually."
"Well" he asked "While you're thinking, are you going to eat this slice of pound cake? It's making me hungry . . ."