Salmagundi

Sleep until the sun shuts down the night
with baby like eyes turn to the velvet dark
roll back the years and be still
while magicians plow your future

All the What Ifs are in a box
to be taken to sea and set adrift
with the other What Ifs and Happenstance
the dispensary is now closed to thoughts

When you awaken and shake the vaporous sand
off your bed and take the first wooly step
look careful to joy and inquisitive natures
as the salmagundi has now been served

Feathers and Buttons

The Princess of Feathers, given that name by her father because of her delicate curved eye lashes, reached across the table to her brother. They hooked their little fingers, as they had always done with each other in this fashion, since before they could remember. They had speculated that it had been so even in the womb for they were the closest of twins. He was called the Prince of Buttons, also by their father, because he favored hard things that joined the un-joinable.

Down the table was Harriet who was just finishing the last notes of her song about wallpaper. In her lap she held her pet echidna, Doris, who like to blow bubbles. It snuffled and tried to borough deeper into her lap. Next to her was her husband Arnold, not Arnie, it was not allowed to call him anything but Arnold. However Uncle Arnold was allowed, but just for them. He was a bartender by profession with the requisite bulbous red nose.

At the opposite end of the table sat the children’s mother, Morris. Morris and their father had hired a woman to bear them a child. To keep things from getting confused, their father and Morris had decided which roles they that would play. Father was not there, of course, because this was his wake.

Holy Underwear

Laying side by side
virginal, encased in
The Holy Underwear

Pinky fingers
lightly touch
then retract
like a tidepool
this dance
goes on all night

In the morning
as they get up
to face the elders
The Holy Underwear
( they discover )
has disappeared

the laundromat

A face is looking out at me from inside the dryer. I look around the laundromat to see if anyone else might find this a tiny bit odd. The only things that seem to be of interest are holy underwear, missing socks, and stained sheets. That’s when I notice the little girl standing next to me, fluffy hair, white dress, long white stockings, and white shoes. She says to me, “She wants you to be quiet,” pointing to the face in the dryer. I look back, blink hard, stumble backwards and fall out of bed.

Really?

Ham and Cheese?
Really?
Ham and Cheese?
What about Green Eggs and Ham?
Or Ham on Rye?
So and so is really a ham?
Ham and Cheese?
Really?
There is a Japanese Ham Sandwich pose in Bikram Yoga.
It hurts and I hate doing it, but I do it.
We have ham on Thanksgiving.
I worked in a Ham factory. Now that I really did.
But Ham and Cheese?
Really?
Ok, here then, here is my response to Ham and Cheese:

Ham and Cheese

“Come here and look at this.” Muriel shouted. She was definitely peeved about something. I swallowed hard as I approached her desk. “Look at this, can you believe this, someone has put what looks like a ham and cheese sandwich in my shredder and then added a pickle.” “It IS your favorite lunch.“ I added. She did not appreciate that at all. I crept further into dangerous territory, “maybe it slipped off your desk. Is there a diet coke in there and chips?” She picked some of the slobbery mess and flung it at me. I anticipated this and ducked. Gladys who was standing behind me didn’t. She shrieked and soon the whole office came over to see the disaster, all except Arnold who sat at his desk, his back to all this. His chest heaved in spasms of silent laughter.

degradation of memories

Standing in the Big Box sliding memories into the grey plastic machine
It is kindly and tries to treat me well
When it eats one it is usually a monument I want to forget

The machine will collate, replicate, index and transmutate
My memories into bits and then back into light
Disseminate them onto disks that will store and protect

What will not be taken into account
Is how the degradation of memories will still occur
Until someday my grandchild will look at a picture of me holding her
And ask: Who is that?

the envelope

The table top was covered with photos

he held up one to the light

examined it closely

passed it to his sister

their mother smiling slightly

then their father trying to be formal

then their mother and father together

no smiles in that one

just 4 by 6 pieces of paper

but more like spoons

stirring the pot of forgetfulness

he turned and looked at her

she nodded

they stuffed them back into the envelope.

wee wee wee all the way home

when I went to ask him
who loved you as a child
his back was already to me

heart black
genetics pressed in on him
a blanket of coal
to warm him frigid

"momma did"
mementos arrive quickly
flicker older brain cells
that rush together with
pictures of stained glass hugs

he is agile yet aged
pretends the neglect
is tolerable and normal
for the times

when he thinks of love
it is empty as empty
as the old trinket box
he keeps on his shelf

Cheap

Deddi, deddi, there’s a popcorn cart

Oh deddi, can we please have some!

it smells so wonderful, deddi

we haven’t had any popcorn in a so very long time

oh deddi, please, please, I promise to be good

can you turn around, please, please,

he looked at me as he started to turn around

and said, OK we’ll drive by again, slowly this time 

then you can have a really good smell

sep sep

ba deddy sep sep

ing cong gooly sep sep

ba deddy sep sep

siskel & ebert

sep sep

ba deddy sep sep

Ebert

sep sep

Organize

He leaned across the table to whisper in her ear, “Let’s stop this talk of drawers” She gasped. Her quick inhale told him that maybe he went too far. As much as he cared for her, he really didn’t want talk about her drawers. The artifacts of her life were too messy, too unorganized. He liked neat, tidy. This was all too much for him. His well ordered life made him feel comfortable. But then, what was it about this woman that stirred something in him? His heart beat a little too fast. His breathing was shallow, spasmodic. He drew back and stirred his coffee, anything to cool the conversation.

A single tear made its way down her cheek. When it reached her lips, her tongue darted out to drink in her sadness. She wanted to leap up and run for the door. No, she decided, she would not let him go so easily. She said, “But, I want you in my drawers. I want you to organize me,”  with such ferocity that he leaned back in his chair. The gale force of her desire tilted him backwards. Gravity took over and he fell to the floor.

Junk Drawer

My Junk drawer is full of crap

I mean some real god damn crap

it serves no purpose except

to aggravate me to extremes

up and down go my emotions

and my junk drawer quietly wins

It is on a high as high as Mt Shasta

corralling all my crap so expertly

and leaving me with nothing but

all the other stuff in my house

Loneliness pulls the skin from

my bones when I think of all

the crap I am missing out on

shut the drawer dammit

shut the drawer

yes that really is my junk drawer and my crap