Old People

Old people doing old people thingd
like
vote Republican
drive slow
pick up their perscriptions at Rite Aid
pop prescription pills
read large print books
forget things easily
are in bed by seven
eat the early bird specials
wear slacks
get their hair done at the salon
use canes
forget things easily
get skin spots
reminisce about the good old days
wait to die.

An Excerpt from Threadbare Thursdays

Sometimes I would catch myself watching her change, not so much to get a glimpse, no not to be perverted, but more so to capture her beauty.  Her pale delicate bare shoulder, adorned with only a thin bra strap stole my breathe--her bare back was enough to send me to new heights.  Not only did her body excite me, but she completely captivated me.   I sat there watching her, not consumed by lust but rather mesmerized by her loveliness.  When she caught me, she'd stick her tongue out at me. Or she'd joke about me being a "pervy lesbian"; tell me to take a picture it would last longer.  I knew she was only joking yet guilt managed to instantly wash over me. To her it was a joke, but if only she knew how much I wanted her.  How painful it was to watch this beautiful creature get half naked in front of me, just within arm's reach and there was nothing I could do.

Word Deficit

I don't do poetry
Using words to paint,
how absurd!
Isn't that what my acrylics are for?

Landscape with The Fall of Icarus

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings’ wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning



-William Carlos Williams

Packing

Tenant shall leave the apartment in the condition found means:
Packing up
the dishes we bought because they were cheap
the silverware
the giant 42" plasma TV
the dresser
the couch
the desks
the computers that gave the place a gentle hum
the cat,  who is clueless as to what is going on
the shower cutran that gave the little white bathroom color
my failed attempts at art that decorated our walls
the pictures of our friends
the area rug

the bed we spent so many nights together in--both happy and sad
out clothes.
It also means cleaning
the floors
the shower
the closets and finding forgotten items
the spaces that were once covered by furniture
fixing holes in the wall
until we're left with the empty apartment
and feeling quite empty ourselves.

A Snippet

Here's a little bit from a short story I've been working on:

Tuesday will be no different from Monday.  The work week never is. Adult life is almost like the instructions on a shampoo bottle, lather, rinse, repeat. Only it’s work, sleep, repeat.  You’ll wake up late for work.  The bright green flashing lights on the alarm clock will let you know that you should have left a good ten minutes ago.  Hop out of bed, skip the shower, you’ll do it when you get home. It’s just work after all.  You don’t need to shower to just sit there, at the job that promised challenges but never really gave you any. There’s no one there to impress, there’s nothing there that’s impressive. Run to the bathroom to take care of the essentials: wash your face, brush your teeth, take a piss. Trip over the laundry, the cat, whatever the hell was on the floor. Throw together some clothes that barely pass the "business casual" dress code.  Wonder why all of your work clothes makes you look like such a schmuck while catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror to fix your bedhead hair.  Grab the necessary, wallet, cell phone, keys, granola bar. Drive to work, stop at Dunkin Donuts for coffee, you’re going to be late anyway, what’s five more minutes?

The day will go by much like yesterday and the workday before that. Work, work work, or push paper to make it seem like you’re working.  Administrative Assistant hangs under your name plaque, it sounds fancy, but you know it’s really just an over-glorified term for secretary. Having a name plaque is there to make you feel fancy, it doesn't. Sit in your cube and feel like a cog. Your boss resents you because you don’t give enough effort, you stopped putting in any effort because your boss treated you like a child.  While you’re sitting there doing menial data entry or answering the phone any of the following are acceptable activities to keep you sane: :

a. Doodling or sketching your latest painting

b.. Checking Buzzfeed, Flavorwire, Facebook

c. Make your grocery list (at least that’s productive)

d. Daydream.
If it’s a good day, you’ll be able to accomplish all four without making anyone in your office suspicious of your lack of work productivity. Check your email frequently, it's your only connection to the outside world. Your boyfriend, Eric, the one you live with, the one you’ve been for what feels like forever, the one your grandmother has been begging you to marry already so you can give her more great grandchildren, emails you frequently either with silly links or other random finds from the internet. It's nice to know you're not the only non productive one at work. Don't question if being in contact with each other is a bad thing, his emails provide you with entertainment that make the day go from torturous to almost bearable. Abby, your best friend will email you sporadically, she commiserates with you on the horrors of working a nine to five and starts planning the weekend. You should say no to her ridiculous suggestion and save money or be a responsible adult, but you'll say yes, blow more cash than you care to Sunday and feel extremely miserable after consuming so much alcohol on Sunday. Penelope, your sister will chime in randomly. Finally sometime in the afternoon, you'll get an email from the one that always managers to put that dorky smile on your face. Noah will reply, to an email you sent him two days ago or to something you think you sent two days ago. You don't remember, your minds all a flutter because he messaged you. Before you know it, after a day of replying to emails and pushing paper, it's time to go home. Pack up, wish everyone a pleasant evening. Use the word pleasant too--it's more work appropriate. Get to your car as quickly as possible and drive home. Grab the mail from the mailbox. Valpak, wonderful. Something the mailman put there so you can throw it out. Go through it as you enter your apartment. You'll be greeted by the cat followed by Eric saying a sweet hello from behind his computer monitor. The reflection of his monitor in his glasses makes him look like a cyborg. You know he hasn't done a damn thing but play Starcraft, World of Warcraft, Minecraft, whatever the latest Craft he's into since he's gotten home--a good two hours before you . Hide your disappointment at having to figure out dinner once again. Pet the cat, tell her she's the sweetest thing on the planet. Sigh at the messiness of your apartment and wonder how your parents--yes, the waitress and the janitor--were better at keeping things together than you, a college educated white collar worker with no children will ever be. Change out of your work clothes as soon as possible. Trade the no personality khakis and white button down shirt for a pair of sweats and your college hoodie. Throw together dinner. It'll be some type of meat, starch and veggie combination. Nine times out of ten it's chicken, tonight though, it's pork with a side of rice and beans. No veggies, the beans and rice will suffice. Serve Eric dinner, he'll love it. He'll say something like, "This is delicious," or "You should make this more often." Smile sweetly and accept his compliment. You'll both finish eating within minutes. Aside from his compliment, you won't say another word to each other. Two cogs sitting in front of the television, stuffing food into their faces. What have the two of you become? You were so in sync once, you were both so fit. You'll remember when you used to be attracted to one another, when you actually felt something for each other---something more than just a level of comfort. Sure you love him, but are you in love with him anymore? Funny how a preposition can make such a difference. You can't be the only one that feels this way, right? Clean up after dinner, leave the dishes in the sink. You really don't feel like cleaning and there's always tomorrow anyway.

The tao of touch

by Marge Piercy

What magic does touch create
that we crave it so. That babies
do not thrive without it. That
the nurse who cuts tough nails
and sands calluses on the elderly
tells me sometimes men weep
as she rubs lotion on their feet.

Yet the touch of a stranger
the bumping or predatory thrust
in the subway is like a slap.
We long for the familiar, the open
palm of love, its tender fingers.
It is our hands that tamed cats
into pets, not our food.

The widow looks in the mirror
thinking, no one will ever touch
me again, never. Not hold me.
Not caress the softness of my
breasts, my inner thighs, the swell
of my belly. Do I still live
if no one knows my body?

We touch each other so many
ways, in curiosity, in anger,
to command attention, to soothe,
to quiet, to rouse, to cure.
Touch is our first language
and often, our last as the breath
ebbs and a hand closes our eyes.