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My girl too

It’s been years since my dear daughter changed her hair colour to deep black. I can’t remember why or exactly when she did it. Sometime after she left the nest anyway.. The last thing dear old dad wants to do is to be critical of her. She is, after all, a very sensitive creature. Also very independent and strong headed. But she does get the drift after a while as to what her dad’s opinion is.

This morning she texted me, and there was a picture to download. The caption above the picture said “Dad, I know you never liked my black hair, so here you go! I went natural. I kind of hate it, And I am thinking of going back and getting it fixed. But I did want you to see what I used to look like.”

I wrote back and said don’t you dare.

Here’s what she did for Dad

It happened one night

Rosy red puddle

Mahogany floor

Twenty nine fingers

Have been through the door

One of their owners

Has taken a knife

And mortally wounded

The Principal’s wife

Blood on the doorknob

(But on the outside)

There’s a ring in the bathtub

But is it a guide?

Her body is naked

And lies in the hall

Something inside of her fist,

In a ball

The balcony window

Is splintered and hangs

And the cat in the corner

Is showing its fangs

On the dining room table

A Cadbury box

Some pieces are missing

The parakeet talks

Tells of a struggle

And lets out a scream

Gobbles a biscuit

And now there’s nineteen.

There’s a man in a mustang

He’s driving away

He cries and he screams

And all Hell is to pay

But there’ll be no more lessons

Not tomorrow at nine

Now he speeds up the highway

And crosses the line.

Bodyglove Blues

Muscles twitching, jumpy nerves,

The patience wearing thin.

And trickling veins are showing through

The alabaster skin.

Loose connections, shorting out.

The nails are getting yellow.

Bathrooms must be close at hand.

Life’s never been so mellow.

Now, turn that frown right upside down

And be that happy fella-

Just say Hi, and wave goodbye

‘Cause your smile is your umbrella!

Aberration

On the third floor of the stacked parking garage, I sit hunkered down.  Locked in the dirty black Jetta that I’ve squeezed into a sardine can spot, almost touching the concrete wall.  It’s what I want.  No one can get in from either side.  The spate of pounding grey rain outside panders to the mood.  I can watch from here.  See what passes under the showerhead streetlights.  Too much nondescript traffic pulsing, pulsing, all bleached black in the deluge.  The time window is long tonight, and I’ve smoked my last half pack.  I risk rolling down a window to let out the blue, then think shit, I shoulda left it.  It’ll last longer.  In my jacket pocket, there’s a cyanide candy for me.  A glossy gel cap, in case they come and find a way to bust the armored glass.  Quick dissolving.  There’s someone I have to find and readjust.  Tonight, it’s a She.  A needle in a haystack, so I’ve been told.  After all, this is Tokyo.  But I am secure in my own self, and I know what I can do.  The coordinates are true.  I know that the one I wait for will be more nondescript than even the rest of the floaters going by.  It’s always the way.  They think it’s perfect camouflage, but subtlety’s been my study for a while now.  I open the glove box, fumble around for more ciggies, no luck.  Until I touch a long plastic tube.  Yesss, it’s that Kanda Leaf cigar that buddy gave me from off world.  Maybe a little stale now, but it’ll do, for more blue. The things that I know about the Runners mean that there’s a big price on my head.  I have to stop her, empty her hard drives, and feed in some handy counterpoints.  Otherwise, they’re going to be successful in slipping this aberration of time into”Our” continuum.  This has been their seventh attempt, and they are here for a reason:  to eliminate a bloodline, to prevent what they see as a catastrophic event that will bring their world order down, five thousand years from our “Now”.

The house of You

Awoke were mine eyes
and tangled was i
in the webs of the house of you.

But a light had arisen
in that windowless prison
and a pathway had come into view.

The storms you collected
their practice perfected
they swarmed and they battered anew

but i busted your cleaving
and as i was leaving
another had sailed with me too.

painting by Jaroslaw Jasnikowski

Cassandra’s dream

Gerald.  My Gerald, my boy.

I seem to wake on this snowy night, and, my boy, my little boy, you are deeply asleep, but you float in my room.  You are a balloon boy on a string, and, bumbling against the ceiling, you drift toward my open window….why?  why? did I leave it so?

I grab onto your string….ah!  my little boy!…..but you are taken fast out into the night.

I climb out quickly,  something is tugging you away, away.  I hold fast onto your lifeline, and run stumbling out into the cold white.

A seething throng, out of the birch forest, all pale, all living death, all grasping with bony hands, all floating, has come to take you.  

They pull, they pull, they sighingly say you belong with them.

Gerald, your eyes open and you are in fear, my son.

How comes this visitation?   What have I done?

My dear dear boy.  My life.

***

Art by Michael MacRae

All in good time

Some days,

the sun seems to stare.

Like the Great Eye of Mordor.

A spotlight finding us out.

(I think, in the stupor of early dawn)

What has it seen? We wonders, yes we wonders.

“Everything under the sun”. So.

In its ever exploding light,

the very beginnings of time.

Eons. Ages. Epochs….ancestral.

Our scuttlings, squabbles, struggles, sorrows, and loves.

Who will witness its neon death?

Will they be gone before the time?

Star children of another realm.

Next stop in the infinite.

Sarah serendipity

I have seen her many times, now,
from March’s thaw to the heat of July.

She walks alone, even in a crowd.
None approach her, none jostle.
Her apparent path is always clear.
Is it by chance, dumb luck, coincidence?
Glances that wander to her
are as quickly turned away.

And she glides….to what business?

I am drawn,
and so I seek her suspected haunts.
Some days pass, then weeks.
She comes not, as if divining my intentions.

On a grey day I round the corner,
laden with grocery bags.
There, on the smokers’ bench,
this girl.

Several sparrows, a cardinal, and chickadees
flutter and settle next to her.
Long straight blondeness obscures her profile
as she studies her hands, palms up, on her tan legs.
A chickadee settles in one, and peeps.

Stunned, I stop and set down my bags.
Tongue tied, I ask if she is alright,
expecting perhaps a belligerent reply.

She turns her long head, and I see
the pools of her eyes.  Inscrutable.
There is no smile, but a gesture for me to sit.
In silence are we.
What will I say to this creature?

I ask her name.
Call me Sarah, she says, without an accent,
and the words seem to invade memory and stay.
Where do you live, I say.

She stands, tugs me upright by the hand.
The sun now comes of a sudden.
She tilts her head back, smiles finally with closed eyes.

Of a star, she says,
and I believe.

 

Pumping iron

When it comes to daily exercise At The Gym, a little streak of masochism goes a long way.
I’ve been told before that I like to wallow.  In pain, that is.  Could be true.  I’m no therapist.  When I made up my mind to deal with creeping chubbiness, the stoicism reared its ugly head.  I go every day, sometimes twice.  Don’t get me wrong, I am definitely not a jock wannabe.  After all, I turn 68 this year, and the doc doesn’t even know that I’m doing this.

The last time I had the flab problem, I was in my forties.  I bought a used exercise bike, started eating green peppers for lunch, and magically lost twenty pounds in a few short weeks.  Determination, ego, and Pain Pride did the trick, I think.

Now, in the twilight years, it is harder, and more dangerous.  Pace yourself, yes, keep an eye on that heartbeat monitor, make sure you go through the “cool down” phase at the end of your routine.  But boy, that pain comes on with a vengeance now.  So much more delicious.  Something you can brag about to your wife when you get home, stumbling about a little more than necessary and getting out of washing the dishes.

It’s an interesting assortment of folks that I see there.  Mostly women, and many of them put me to shame.  I rationalize this by saying to myself that they have probably been coming here for years.  After all, they have the spandex, the $200 running shoes, and the ability to jump from one machine to the next without a seeming pause for breath.  Then there are the, shall we say, folks who realize they have a severe weight problem and are starting on the ground floor to deal with it.  Gotta give them credit.  They are pushing through against pretty high odds.

All in all, I do get some encouragement from the trainers there, even though I have opted to go it alone.  Just the bike and the treadmill for me.  There is one thing I saw today that amazed me.  In my present condition, I have my doubts that I could even do one proper sit up from a prone position.  But, along comes a lady, probably in her fifties, who lays down on a machine that tilts your head and shoulders downward and your feet upward.  With your feet hooked under some supports, you do sit ups using your abs only.  Just freaking unreal.  She saw me watching her and smiled.  I said “that looks pretty hard”.
Again, the smile, and she says “I noticed you’re coming every day.  Good on you”.

Maybe one day I’ll have a rock hard six pack, as they say.

 

Salt Sea Calm

I heard that they will float you
In a sea of Epsom Salt
To ease away your tension
And things that aren’t your fault

You’re naked, with a blindfold
The water is just right
Then the doctors mention
“Do not put up a fight”.

“We’ll use you as a guinea pig
To get our readings true.
They will defy convention,
And we’ll be famous, too!”

At last you’re disconnected
From all that you can sense.
Your body’s forced attention
Is now in the past tense.

It’s only mind and ego
And the longer that you stay
You’re calmed by this invention
All troubles melt away.

picture credit to:  https://floathouse.ca/blog-archive/float-tanks-within-cognitive-science