“You guys never believe me,” Chris Cooper said, disappointed, as we sat in his room one Tuesday after school. “I swear guys, Joe O’Donnell told my brother Mikey all about it,” Coop stammered. “They were in high school with that chick, she was two years ahead of them. They said there’s gonna be an investigation if the old man doesn’t turn up soon!”
“Bullshit,” said Nick Peabody, the designated badass of our little gang. “That’s just Joe talkin’ about nothin’, that’s all people ‘round here ever do.”
“There’s no way anything that cool happened in Salem,” Chaz Gamble, the undisputed leader of our gang said.
“Yeah, that chick probably just ran him off with all her shopping and partying," I said,
"The old fart just couldn’t keep up with a stallion like her I bet,” Chaz chuckled, nudging both Nick and I on the arm alternately.
‘That chick’ referred to Jamie McLean, formerly Jamie Allen, who was once the prom queen of Salem High School, and the undisputed hottest girl in town. She was eye candy to every kid our age since we were old enough to pretend to care about girls. Every girl in middle school was compared on an attractiveness scale of 1 to Jamie, no joke. She had up and married a much older man shortly after she dropped out of college at the age of 19. As you may expect, this older man, Dick McLean, was very, very wealthy. I mean stinking filthy fuckin' rich, this guy was loaded to the god damn gills.
The two had moved into Loring Manor, a large old colonial house that was set back from the rest of Loring Avenue by a large hill. The house was accessible only by its gigantic stone staircase that ascended the hill. These steps had once been surrounded on either side by gorgeous green bushes that framed the elegant property perfectly. However in the past several years, these bushes had stopped being maintained, and then after one Winter, they disappeared completely. They were replaced that Spring by an overgrowth of gangly looking thorn bushes that seemed to stretch up to eye level and then out over the stone staircase, turning back anyone who would try to climb the steps to Loring Manor.
The rumor in question, which Coop was now so adamently defending despite our refusal to believe him, involved the recent absence of Mr. McLean. No one had seen him down at the yacht club, which was the one place he had previously hung out, playing tennis on days when he knees weren't acting up. When they were acting up, he mostly just drank. Jamie, on the other hand, never saw tennis and drinking to be mutually exclusive, and unlike her spouse, she had been seen down at the yacht club lately. Quite a bit, actually, and usually with a collection of other young, pretty girls, often from out on Marblehead Neck. They were the queen bee's of the dining room there at the Corinthian, and they had made many a man feel weak and many a woman feel worthless with nothing more than a well-timed stare. It was something in their eyes, Jamie's especially, that was menacing in a way that was certainly sexy but also slightly dangerous. It was that exact stare that had probably prompted the first housewife to mutter the phrase, "I bet she killed her husband. He hasn't been seen in weeks, you know."
A comment such as that is often not intentional, and is often later forgotten in moments of logic and reason. However a comment like that is also always overheard. In this case, it was likely a Marblehead High school kid bussing tables who heard it, and he surely passed it along, half jokingly, to a half dozen or so co-workers to get a reaction. They apparently must have reacted fantastically, because now every older kid from Gloucester to Saugus knew the rumor. Even us lowly middle schoolers were hearing about it now, albeit with help from our older brothers.
"Do you guys really think it's impossible?" I asked. We all had walked by the house recently, and Mr. McLean's car had been right in the spot it was in over two months ago. It seemed to be gathering quite a bit of dust next to Jamie's shiny Lincoln that she took out so often to cocktail parties and gallery openings.
"Well, of course it's possible," Nick Peabody said. "I just don't think it happened."
Coop, the one we all called a pussy so often, gulped. "I don't know, man. The windows of the house are all smudged and shit. You can't even see in if you walk right up to them, I bet. I don't know. I just don't know."
"Quit babbling about it," Chaz chimed in. "If you pussies want to know for sure that Old Dick is still alive and well, why don't we go knock on his door. Worst case, he answers the door and we all go home bored and pissed off that another cool story turned out to be bullshit."
"What's the best case?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Jamie opens the door, says she's lonely for a man, and invites us all in for some handjobs!" Nick says, snickering with Chaz about this ridiculous possibility.
"Or he's actually dead," Coop says. "And we find the body when we go up to check it out. Probably hidden in the basement or something." This was unlike Coop. The kid was always so carefree and naïve. He wasn't himself because of this dumbass rumor, and I was damned if I was going to let this shit continue.
"Okay," I say, "Let's go then. This Friday."
"What?" Coop stammered.
"Yea," Chaz said, "Why not? There's probably so much cool shit up on that hill to check out. That chick almost always goes out on Friday's anyways so we can look around the backyard and stuff. If the old man's there, we'll just run away and say we were playin' man hunt with the older kids."
"I love it," Nick said, looking eager. "We're gonna find a fuckin' dead guy."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe we'll just get handjobs."
We all laughed and stood up to grab our bikes and head down to the park to play some wiffle ball. Chaz grabbed Coop around the shoulder on the way out and said "Look, Coop. We're not gonna really find a dead guy. But you gotta learn sometime not to believe dumb shit, so we're going up there to check it out."
"Yea," Coop said, "I know. I just don't want to get us into trouble, that's all."
"Pussy," Peabody sneered.
Just like that, it was decided. Friday night we'd climb the stairs to Loring Manor. Then what? Would we just dick around in the backyard, looking for body parts and hoping we didn't find any? Probably. But when Nick and Chaz got together and excited about something, especially when it involved proving that Coop was a pussy, crazy shit always seemed to happen.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Fireworks in the Point
It’s a little before midnight as I walk up Lafayette Street in Salem, past Los Amigos Market and Harbor Street. The sound of a loud bang startles me, and I feel terribly unnerved as I try to keep cool and continue on my way. A second clap of violent noise follows, however it is accompanied by bright blue and red lights in the sky. I feel instantly relieved. I had forgotten that it was two days before the Fourth of July, and it was only natural for the neighborhood kids to test out a couple of their bootlegged fireworks in advance, if only to make sure they hadn’t been ripped off. Three nights ago there was a shooting on Ropes Street, right behind Major’s Pub, about a block from where I am when I see the fireworks. Tonight, the commotion in this neighborhood is celebratory in nature, but I wonder how many other people jumped when they heard the first bang tonight.
I always look out of place on my late night walks from the Hotel to my house on Linden Street. My tailored suits and designer ties get strange looks from the people who pass me on my journey. Most people have been out of work for hours by the time I begin my trek home from the office. Sometimes I’m curious what people think. In a town that is rarely innocent or normal, I doubt people draw the correct conclusions. A young man in a nice suit walking through a rough neighborhood at night could mean any number of things; an aspiring sports writer who is working a hotel job to make ends meet doesn’t seem as plausible in this neighborhood as a prominent drug dealer, a corrupt local politician, or a crooked used car salesman here to buy stolen parts from carjackers. Any of those things would fit in better here than I actually do, so sometimes, I pretend.
Often times I find myself thinking about the guests of my hotel on these walks. The people who stay with us are often here for their annual vacation, or for a wedding, or a graduation. They see the sides of Salem that they want to see: historic, intellectual, up and coming, “liberal” and “green”. The dozens of museums and gift shops and boutiques give a great image of a beautiful New England vacation destination, and as a transplanted local I have to admit these tricks sometimes fool me as well. However the real Salem is here, in the Point, and once you’ve seen it you are always aware of it’s presence. This town is not rich; in fact it is barely even middle class. The incidence of mental illness, drug addiction and alcoholism is startlingly high, and the longer you live here, the more visible it becomes. Spend even one day volunteering at the homeless shelter downtown and you will realize the sad reality that there aren’t enough beds there for those in need, even in the warm summers. The disparity between the perception and reality of Salem has become irreconciliable.
The Hotel, which sits on the edge of Pickering Wharf, the Point and Downtown, is a symbol of the duality of the city. A four-star, luxury facility, the Hotel is mandated by law to provide public bathrooms. The result of this law? The homeless come here to piss and shit. If you work the front desk, you get to know many of them by face, and the more amicable ones by name as well.
I never really know how to feel about these conflicting aspects of Salem. Living in a relatively safe and nice neighborhood allows me a certain amount of distance from the harsh realties of Life Bridge Shelter and Lafayette Park. Being a college student gives me the even greater luxury of belonging to a unique and united subgroup of the cities population. In many ways I admit that embracing these factors is a cop out; a way of ignoring how hippocritical it is for me to stand behind a desk and ask for $265 for one night of shelter while dozens lack money or food just a few blocks away.
Tonight, however, there are celebrations. There are fireworks in the Point, and there will be tomorrow as well. After Monday, the sources of sounds of the night are anyone’s guess.
I always look out of place on my late night walks from the Hotel to my house on Linden Street. My tailored suits and designer ties get strange looks from the people who pass me on my journey. Most people have been out of work for hours by the time I begin my trek home from the office. Sometimes I’m curious what people think. In a town that is rarely innocent or normal, I doubt people draw the correct conclusions. A young man in a nice suit walking through a rough neighborhood at night could mean any number of things; an aspiring sports writer who is working a hotel job to make ends meet doesn’t seem as plausible in this neighborhood as a prominent drug dealer, a corrupt local politician, or a crooked used car salesman here to buy stolen parts from carjackers. Any of those things would fit in better here than I actually do, so sometimes, I pretend.
Often times I find myself thinking about the guests of my hotel on these walks. The people who stay with us are often here for their annual vacation, or for a wedding, or a graduation. They see the sides of Salem that they want to see: historic, intellectual, up and coming, “liberal” and “green”. The dozens of museums and gift shops and boutiques give a great image of a beautiful New England vacation destination, and as a transplanted local I have to admit these tricks sometimes fool me as well. However the real Salem is here, in the Point, and once you’ve seen it you are always aware of it’s presence. This town is not rich; in fact it is barely even middle class. The incidence of mental illness, drug addiction and alcoholism is startlingly high, and the longer you live here, the more visible it becomes. Spend even one day volunteering at the homeless shelter downtown and you will realize the sad reality that there aren’t enough beds there for those in need, even in the warm summers. The disparity between the perception and reality of Salem has become irreconciliable.
The Hotel, which sits on the edge of Pickering Wharf, the Point and Downtown, is a symbol of the duality of the city. A four-star, luxury facility, the Hotel is mandated by law to provide public bathrooms. The result of this law? The homeless come here to piss and shit. If you work the front desk, you get to know many of them by face, and the more amicable ones by name as well.
I never really know how to feel about these conflicting aspects of Salem. Living in a relatively safe and nice neighborhood allows me a certain amount of distance from the harsh realties of Life Bridge Shelter and Lafayette Park. Being a college student gives me the even greater luxury of belonging to a unique and united subgroup of the cities population. In many ways I admit that embracing these factors is a cop out; a way of ignoring how hippocritical it is for me to stand behind a desk and ask for $265 for one night of shelter while dozens lack money or food just a few blocks away.
Tonight, however, there are celebrations. There are fireworks in the Point, and there will be tomorrow as well. After Monday, the sources of sounds of the night are anyone’s guess.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
On Working and Karma
In our world, to work is to exist. At least that’s what I tell myself whenever I find myself lugging wheelbarrows full of crushed rock from one end of a yard to the other at 7am on a Tuesday morning. It seems like a strange job, when one examines the implications of putting down something as ordinary as rock in someone else’s garden so they can later show it off to others as a symbol of their own success and hard work. Such an analysis shows the hierarchy of the situation: that person is not only successful enough to have a wonderful garden, but to have the luxury of paying others to move their barrows of crushed rock for them. They’ve worked so hard that at this point, they’re beyond hard work. What a life.
Of course, in this whole scenario, the job of moving and then arranging glorified pebbles isn’t the strangest occupation imaginable. Consider, for a moment, the life of the man whose job it is to crush those rocks, or pluck those rocks from the earth to be crushed, or to choose which rocks would look lovely in a garden after being decimated into tiny remnants of their former selves. Such jobs seem to me like the work not of men but of minor deities, at least in terms of responsibility. I don’t think I could ever be comfortable with such an arrangement; I would just find myself feeling sorry for the rocks.
That’s not to say, however, that my capacity for weird jobs is limited to picking up small bits of stone from one place and moving them to another. I have had a whole plethora of odd experience. For a ten month stint a few years ago I was a butler for a very wealthy 104 year old woman living on the top floor of a rather upscale hotel just outside of Boston. My tenure with Mrs. Kirshner was not ended by her death, as one may expect, but by an argument I had with her rather confrontational daughter, June, after I had allegedly lost Mrs. Kirshner's slippers. They were later found in the backseat of June’s car.
Before beginning my tenure with Mrs. Kirshner, I held a temporary job at a prestigious University in Somerville. I was hired as a “Security Technician”, a job which required me to walk through each of the University’s twenty-six buildings while they were unoccupied and check the accuracy of the floor plans. The most important part was to make sure that every door in the floor plan would swing open in the way indicated on the chart I was given. The purpose of this endeavor was to ensure that, in the event of a hostage situation, a State Police sniper would know where to aim his weapon when dealing with any given door on the campus of this prestigious institution of higher learning. One would surely expect that I had some knowledge of architecture, or training in security planning to be selected for such a position. However I did not have any of that, and was hired solely on the basis that I didn’t mind spending the summer of 2006 walking through the empty buildings with endless floor charts, opening hundreds of doors to ensure that they did, in fact, swing open in the correct direction.
Over the course of that summer I found seven mistakes on the University’s floor plans, read fifteen books rented from the University’s library, and made exactly one friend. Alvin was a janitor on the North side of campus who would occasionally bring an extra donut to work for me and thought it was fascinating that people actually used GPS devices while driving. In the world Alvin grew up in, everyone just tried their best to make it to where they had to go, and if they needed directions, they asked at a local gas station or coffee shop. Him pointing out things like this contributed to my ever increasing cynicism towards the changing landscape of our society. The GPS itself represents a world where people care only about the destination and disregard the value of the journey. Such thoughts make my brain feel sore and tired, a feeling I truly detest.
It was realizations such as this that led me back to my landscaping job. Here I can be sore of body, but rarely sore of mind. There is honesty in this work, and even when I don’t know where my next job site is, I never use a GPS to get there. I trust that the roads will lead me where they are supposed to, and take in all I see as I daydream about the day when I can pay someone else to make my yard look good enough to show off to the neighborhood. I don’t think I’ll ever have the heart to use crushed rocks though. No matter how much of a big shot I become, I refuse to take the role of someone who sentences something as indestructible as a rock to its demise. I believe in Karma.
Of course, in this whole scenario, the job of moving and then arranging glorified pebbles isn’t the strangest occupation imaginable. Consider, for a moment, the life of the man whose job it is to crush those rocks, or pluck those rocks from the earth to be crushed, or to choose which rocks would look lovely in a garden after being decimated into tiny remnants of their former selves. Such jobs seem to me like the work not of men but of minor deities, at least in terms of responsibility. I don’t think I could ever be comfortable with such an arrangement; I would just find myself feeling sorry for the rocks.
That’s not to say, however, that my capacity for weird jobs is limited to picking up small bits of stone from one place and moving them to another. I have had a whole plethora of odd experience. For a ten month stint a few years ago I was a butler for a very wealthy 104 year old woman living on the top floor of a rather upscale hotel just outside of Boston. My tenure with Mrs. Kirshner was not ended by her death, as one may expect, but by an argument I had with her rather confrontational daughter, June, after I had allegedly lost Mrs. Kirshner's slippers. They were later found in the backseat of June’s car.
Before beginning my tenure with Mrs. Kirshner, I held a temporary job at a prestigious University in Somerville. I was hired as a “Security Technician”, a job which required me to walk through each of the University’s twenty-six buildings while they were unoccupied and check the accuracy of the floor plans. The most important part was to make sure that every door in the floor plan would swing open in the way indicated on the chart I was given. The purpose of this endeavor was to ensure that, in the event of a hostage situation, a State Police sniper would know where to aim his weapon when dealing with any given door on the campus of this prestigious institution of higher learning. One would surely expect that I had some knowledge of architecture, or training in security planning to be selected for such a position. However I did not have any of that, and was hired solely on the basis that I didn’t mind spending the summer of 2006 walking through the empty buildings with endless floor charts, opening hundreds of doors to ensure that they did, in fact, swing open in the correct direction.
Over the course of that summer I found seven mistakes on the University’s floor plans, read fifteen books rented from the University’s library, and made exactly one friend. Alvin was a janitor on the North side of campus who would occasionally bring an extra donut to work for me and thought it was fascinating that people actually used GPS devices while driving. In the world Alvin grew up in, everyone just tried their best to make it to where they had to go, and if they needed directions, they asked at a local gas station or coffee shop. Him pointing out things like this contributed to my ever increasing cynicism towards the changing landscape of our society. The GPS itself represents a world where people care only about the destination and disregard the value of the journey. Such thoughts make my brain feel sore and tired, a feeling I truly detest.
It was realizations such as this that led me back to my landscaping job. Here I can be sore of body, but rarely sore of mind. There is honesty in this work, and even when I don’t know where my next job site is, I never use a GPS to get there. I trust that the roads will lead me where they are supposed to, and take in all I see as I daydream about the day when I can pay someone else to make my yard look good enough to show off to the neighborhood. I don’t think I’ll ever have the heart to use crushed rocks though. No matter how much of a big shot I become, I refuse to take the role of someone who sentences something as indestructible as a rock to its demise. I believe in Karma.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Her Sky
I took a walk the other day,
Down to this park that meets a beach
That I hadn’t seen before,
And there you were, but you didn’t see me.
You weren’t looking out or down or around,
But up, up at the sky above the water
That swirled with colors of purple and red
As the clouds danced around above you
In other worldly steps with the stars.
Now, I saw it too but I knew right away
That they were dancing for you.
And with every twitch of wonder in your eyes
The colors got brighter and the movements
Of the moons and stars more elegant.
I had no idea you were a choreographer.
Really though, part of me did know,
Because although you always denied being an artist
I’ve said from day one that
Every little move you make when we’re together
Is a chapter in a story I hope you never finish.
Down to this park that meets a beach
That I hadn’t seen before,
And there you were, but you didn’t see me.
You weren’t looking out or down or around,
But up, up at the sky above the water
That swirled with colors of purple and red
As the clouds danced around above you
In other worldly steps with the stars.
Now, I saw it too but I knew right away
That they were dancing for you.
And with every twitch of wonder in your eyes
The colors got brighter and the movements
Of the moons and stars more elegant.
I had no idea you were a choreographer.
Really though, part of me did know,
Because although you always denied being an artist
I’ve said from day one that
Every little move you make when we’re together
Is a chapter in a story I hope you never finish.
Monday, February 21, 2011
40 Ruthellen Way
It was December of 2007 when I decided to steal Kelley’s wife. This was before I knew that him and I would transform Sawyer Motors into the most successful Ford dealership in New Hampshire, and I was still just a salesman at the time. Marissa wore a red dress to our company Christmas party, and her short blonde curls showed off her classic beauty. When she approached me, I tried to act like I didn’t know who she was.
“Greg Bonner,” I said, reaching out my right hand, “And you are?”
She smiled coyly, looking down at her dry martini. “Two fish are in a tank, one turns to the other and says ‘Do you know how to drive this thing?’” She broke into a cat-like smile as she looked up at me. Forty-five minutes later we had talked about India, the Kansas City Royals, and ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’, and I was sure that we were in love.
Five months later, my phone rang at the office.
“Greg Bonner at Sawyer Motors,” I answered.
“Hey, Sparkleboy,” Marissa whispered, “Are we all set?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Remember, 34 Turtleback Road. There should still be a ‘Sold’ sign out front. The key is under the wooden sailboat on the front porch. Kelley’s still here, but you should probably leave soon. He’s been ducking out early lately.”
“Bastard,” she said, “Okay, I’ll get going then.” She paused for a second. “Two hats are sitting on a hat rack, when one turns to the other and says ‘You stay here, I’ll go on a-head.’”
“Your delivery is getting better. I’ll see you soon, Mariss” I said, and as usual she hung up without saying any sort of a goodbye.
Kelley stood in my office just a few minutes later, hands in his Khaki pockets, his handsome face and short brown hair looking All-American as ever. He had played football at Delaware, which may not have been Notre Dame but still topped my spot on an intramural basketball team at Endicott.
“Got anything planned for this weekend?” the should-be Senator asked me.
“Not really,” I lied, while looking at my reflection in his shoes. “Just some wine and old movies. Yourself?”
“Oh you know, gotta clean the gutters and trim the hedges. Never a dull moment at 40 Ruthellen Way,” he said as he turned and walked out of my office, leaving the door open behind him.
He always referred to his home like that, flaunting his perfect address like he had invented it or something. Even so, there was no denying the purity of it. It was almost like it pardoned him of all his sins: his strip club visits, his fondness of reality television, even his inclination to end a converastion abruptly, which, judging by his wife, was a sexually transmitted affliction. I wondered how long it would be before I started sending e-mails that were half-finished or waltzing out of bars without finishing a story about the worst test drive I’d ever taken.
I got up, still pondering this question, and closed the door to my office. I had expected a wave of emotion, but much later, like three months down the road when I ran into Kelley at the grocery store and saw him buying a month’s worth of T.V. dinners. Somehow it had crept up on me, and as I sat back down at my desk, I began to cry. My sobs were short and silly, reminding me of Marissa’s jokes. The only difference was my tears had never resided at 40 Ruthellen Way.
“Greg Bonner,” I said, reaching out my right hand, “And you are?”
She smiled coyly, looking down at her dry martini. “Two fish are in a tank, one turns to the other and says ‘Do you know how to drive this thing?’” She broke into a cat-like smile as she looked up at me. Forty-five minutes later we had talked about India, the Kansas City Royals, and ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’, and I was sure that we were in love.
Five months later, my phone rang at the office.
“Greg Bonner at Sawyer Motors,” I answered.
“Hey, Sparkleboy,” Marissa whispered, “Are we all set?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Remember, 34 Turtleback Road. There should still be a ‘Sold’ sign out front. The key is under the wooden sailboat on the front porch. Kelley’s still here, but you should probably leave soon. He’s been ducking out early lately.”
“Bastard,” she said, “Okay, I’ll get going then.” She paused for a second. “Two hats are sitting on a hat rack, when one turns to the other and says ‘You stay here, I’ll go on a-head.’”
“Your delivery is getting better. I’ll see you soon, Mariss” I said, and as usual she hung up without saying any sort of a goodbye.
Kelley stood in my office just a few minutes later, hands in his Khaki pockets, his handsome face and short brown hair looking All-American as ever. He had played football at Delaware, which may not have been Notre Dame but still topped my spot on an intramural basketball team at Endicott.
“Got anything planned for this weekend?” the should-be Senator asked me.
“Not really,” I lied, while looking at my reflection in his shoes. “Just some wine and old movies. Yourself?”
“Oh you know, gotta clean the gutters and trim the hedges. Never a dull moment at 40 Ruthellen Way,” he said as he turned and walked out of my office, leaving the door open behind him.
He always referred to his home like that, flaunting his perfect address like he had invented it or something. Even so, there was no denying the purity of it. It was almost like it pardoned him of all his sins: his strip club visits, his fondness of reality television, even his inclination to end a converastion abruptly, which, judging by his wife, was a sexually transmitted affliction. I wondered how long it would be before I started sending e-mails that were half-finished or waltzing out of bars without finishing a story about the worst test drive I’d ever taken.
I got up, still pondering this question, and closed the door to my office. I had expected a wave of emotion, but much later, like three months down the road when I ran into Kelley at the grocery store and saw him buying a month’s worth of T.V. dinners. Somehow it had crept up on me, and as I sat back down at my desk, I began to cry. My sobs were short and silly, reminding me of Marissa’s jokes. The only difference was my tears had never resided at 40 Ruthellen Way.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Selected Poetry - A Collection
The American Dream
People say The Dream is changing.
Deal with it.
Sell your truck,
Downsize,
Spend smarter,
Eat less,
Read more,
Learn Spanish,
Love better,
Lower expectations
(Especially of our “icons”).
And most of all don’t complain,
It’s really, really not helping.
The Big Finish
This is the solution.
The necessary alternative
To years in a nursing home
And old age.
Six months before my 60th birthday
I reminisce 10,000 feet above the ground.
I had a good run, a great one mostly,
And the future offers little more than
Chronic health problems and
The steady disintegration of the body
That once popped jump shots into hoops
Over hot blacktop down at the city park
And once could hike mountains for days at a time
Just for the fun of it.
Now I can still climb the stairs,
But barely,
And living to see the day I can’t
Would just be too much for me.
This seems like the right way to go,
Skydiving with no parachute,
Naked,
Right into the middle of the Super Bowl.
The Catcher - A Poem for the memory of J.D. Salinger
Last night another big one fell.
There’s fewer left everyday.
Someday there might be none,
And then what?
Who will tell us when
To kill the rock stars now?
There are no more bananafish.
Sick Day
I woke up sick today.
I wasn’t positive at first,
But now I’m sure
Because all I wanna do
Is watch re-runs and take naps
With my gallon of water by my side
(I’m out of cups again).
I should be writing
Or working out
Or accomplishing
Any number of tasks
That need doing.
All that can wait, though,
Until my head stops feeling
Like it’s stuffed as full as a piñata.
I wonder if there’s candy in there?
That’s the fever talking.
Holden Caulfield has checked out.
How To Feel Alive
We showed up late to miss the opening act,
The kind of bold move you only make
When you’ve been drinking
And you have tickets to see your favorite band.
A group of diehards who know all their songs
And memorize set lists of every show they see,
We held our heads high and our spirits higher.
The mass of tie dye moved about anxiously
In anticipation. As the band emerged onto the stage
The chants and the pipes sparked up together at once.
“Umphrey’s! Umphrey’s!” we yelled,
And the scene could best be described
In their own words:
“The air felt different at the start of the show
As every breath resembled smoke”.
They began to play and those who had not
induced euphoria on themselves already
Were now forced into it and beyond.
Love in the Zombie Apocalypse
Love is learning how to use a twelve gauge
When the flesh eating monsters tear down your girlfriends door.
Love is sprinting out through the chaos and anarchy to the car defenseless,
Just to move it closer so she doesn’t have to risk her life
anymore than she has to.
Love is ignoring warnings to fend for yourself and forget all others
When you agree to her sobbing pleas to go back inside for the dog.
Love is holding her hand tight as you purposely ram your car
Into the stumbling masses who crowd the once civilized streets,
Hoping to god you inflicted enough damage to keep them down on the blood stained pavement.
Love is trying your best to make it out alive together,
And knowing that if they get her, you’re going down too
But you’re taking as many of those zombie fucks with you as possible.
That’s love.
Move
I want my words to move like you.
I want them to tell of beauty and pain and dreams and death.
I want my words to dance on the page like you dance on stage,
And to have the flexibility you have, and the stability, and the confidence.
I want my words to make you dance the way your dance has made me write,
And even though this poems for you I hope others feel like dancing too.
I want my words to be as soft and as smooth as your skin
And as full of wonder as your eyes.
I want my words to spring and kick and pirouette,
To shine and shock then fade to black.
I want my words to command the spotlight
And do with it what they will,
And I want my words to get your attention
And hold it like you hold your breath
As you wait for my next word.
People say The Dream is changing.
Deal with it.
Sell your truck,
Downsize,
Spend smarter,
Eat less,
Read more,
Learn Spanish,
Love better,
Lower expectations
(Especially of our “icons”).
And most of all don’t complain,
It’s really, really not helping.
The Big Finish
This is the solution.
The necessary alternative
To years in a nursing home
And old age.
Six months before my 60th birthday
I reminisce 10,000 feet above the ground.
I had a good run, a great one mostly,
And the future offers little more than
Chronic health problems and
The steady disintegration of the body
That once popped jump shots into hoops
Over hot blacktop down at the city park
And once could hike mountains for days at a time
Just for the fun of it.
Now I can still climb the stairs,
But barely,
And living to see the day I can’t
Would just be too much for me.
This seems like the right way to go,
Skydiving with no parachute,
Naked,
Right into the middle of the Super Bowl.
The Catcher - A Poem for the memory of J.D. Salinger
Last night another big one fell.
There’s fewer left everyday.
Someday there might be none,
And then what?
Who will tell us when
To kill the rock stars now?
There are no more bananafish.
Sick Day
I woke up sick today.
I wasn’t positive at first,
But now I’m sure
Because all I wanna do
Is watch re-runs and take naps
With my gallon of water by my side
(I’m out of cups again).
I should be writing
Or working out
Or accomplishing
Any number of tasks
That need doing.
All that can wait, though,
Until my head stops feeling
Like it’s stuffed as full as a piñata.
I wonder if there’s candy in there?
That’s the fever talking.
Holden Caulfield has checked out.
How To Feel Alive
We showed up late to miss the opening act,
The kind of bold move you only make
When you’ve been drinking
And you have tickets to see your favorite band.
A group of diehards who know all their songs
And memorize set lists of every show they see,
We held our heads high and our spirits higher.
The mass of tie dye moved about anxiously
In anticipation. As the band emerged onto the stage
The chants and the pipes sparked up together at once.
“Umphrey’s! Umphrey’s!” we yelled,
And the scene could best be described
In their own words:
“The air felt different at the start of the show
As every breath resembled smoke”.
They began to play and those who had not
induced euphoria on themselves already
Were now forced into it and beyond.
Love in the Zombie Apocalypse
Love is learning how to use a twelve gauge
When the flesh eating monsters tear down your girlfriends door.
Love is sprinting out through the chaos and anarchy to the car defenseless,
Just to move it closer so she doesn’t have to risk her life
anymore than she has to.
Love is ignoring warnings to fend for yourself and forget all others
When you agree to her sobbing pleas to go back inside for the dog.
Love is holding her hand tight as you purposely ram your car
Into the stumbling masses who crowd the once civilized streets,
Hoping to god you inflicted enough damage to keep them down on the blood stained pavement.
Love is trying your best to make it out alive together,
And knowing that if they get her, you’re going down too
But you’re taking as many of those zombie fucks with you as possible.
That’s love.
Move
I want my words to move like you.
I want them to tell of beauty and pain and dreams and death.
I want my words to dance on the page like you dance on stage,
And to have the flexibility you have, and the stability, and the confidence.
I want my words to make you dance the way your dance has made me write,
And even though this poems for you I hope others feel like dancing too.
I want my words to be as soft and as smooth as your skin
And as full of wonder as your eyes.
I want my words to spring and kick and pirouette,
To shine and shock then fade to black.
I want my words to command the spotlight
And do with it what they will,
And I want my words to get your attention
And hold it like you hold your breath
As you wait for my next word.
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