There’s a poet with a
lazy pen
who lives here deep inside
of me
He sees the things
that we all see
then questions just how can this be,
His logic sometimes
sits askew
he sees the old as
something new
he sees the new
without its paint
then rhymes the
things that good folks kaint
zc
Don’t deplete our
savings
to save the likes of me
Morphine is expensive
locked up as you can see
Don’t hand out all our money
when things are looking grim
you needn’t even feed me
I don’t mind being slim
It’s not the bell that tolls for
me
it’s the trash truck that you hear
set me out along the curb
as soon as they are near
They’ll take me to
the landfill
where I can go in
peace
the flock of
lovely seagulls
can surely have a
feast.
Stepping into the
depths of a dark thought can sometimes leave imaginary gum on your shoe.
Mahatma Koat
The gear ratio within
a windmill mechanism is the same as that on an English Racer bicycle, but without
the handbrake.
Spending too many
years working with a microscope can accelerate your fear of touching any
surface.
It was through the
study of octogenarians that resulted in the refrigeration of cheese. In Latin: Quo maior, eo frigidior fies. The
older you get the colder you become.
In the chilly hours
and minutes
of uncertainty
Donovan
Broken windows &
empty hallways
Randy Newman
Can’t you see
what that woman’s been doing to me
Marshall Tucker Band
I would have to say it began with the snake. Ever since that day I have not stepped into the garage without first looking down. I don’t even think about it anymore, it has become a habit. Look before stepping. The day I opened the door looking down and saw the pair of shoes, looking up was too late. The fist was already heading towards my face. I was knocked back into the kitchen, landing flat on my back, my head striking the hard tile floor. This looked to be a water delivery man gone off the rails.
Looking up from the floor I could see that the hand that didn’t hit me was still supporting the large 5-gallon bottle of water on his shoulder. He hadn’t bothered to set it down. Of course, my first thought was that if I were going to pick a fight with someone, I’d want both hands free. But that’s just me, I guess.
My next thought, as I lay there on the floor, was that I was now on the same level as the snakes that get into my garage. Not at all where I wanted to be. I had to get to my feet and inform this delivery guy that I was not happy with his service and I wouldn’t be paying him.
While I was getting to my feet, he had walked over to the kitchen table and taken a seat on one of the chairs. He put his head in his hand and began to cry, telling me in between his blubbering, that he was sorry, he was just having a bad day.
The
crying was unexpected. Not the punch—life has thrown worse at me than a man
with a water jug and poor impulse control—but the crying. That part threw me
off balance more than the tile floor had.
He sat there, shoulders shaking, the big blue bottle still perched on him like some kind of emotional parrot. I stood there rubbing my jaw, trying to decide if I should offer him a tissue or a stern lecture about customer service.
“Bad day,” he kept saying. “Bad day.” As if that explained the fist.
I glanced toward the garage door again, half-expecting a snake to slither in and offer its own apology. At this point, it wouldn’t have surprised me.
I finally pulled out a chair and sat across from him. Not because I wanted to, but because standing made me feel like I was looming over a wounded animal, and I’ve never been good at looming.
“Look,” I said, “I get it. We all have days where we want to punch someone. But usually we don’t actually do it.”
He nodded. “I know,” he said. “I know. I just… snapped.”
“Next time,” I said, “snap in the truck.”
He let out a wet, hiccupping laugh.
And then, because the universe enjoys timing, the garage made a sound. A soft, sliding, unmistakable sound.
We both froze.
I didn’t even have to look. I knew that sound.
“Snake?” he whispered.
“Snake,” I confirmed.
And for the first time since he hit me, we were on the same team.
