DRIVING

He pictures himself en route,
always. Never quite there, never
quite anywhere, really. It’s the movement
that he seeks – yes? The escape?
He is captivated by the liberation.
And
he
knows
this.
Still, he tells himself he is headed
somewhere. He tells himself that
he is pointed in a direction. He tells
himself, sometimes, so himself
believes that there is an end
somewhere in sight. And there is.
Just
maybe
not
at the next stop. But
somewhere.
After all, everything, everyone
stops
sooner
or
later.
Somewhere.
Don’t
they?

fences

there is a fence between
him and his dream
and he is the one
who keeps the pickets in good repair.
he sees between the palings
the ocean’s rush, the sky’s blue
life’s mysteries, love’s pain.
it is why he has constructed
it instead of a wall.
because: he is not afraid to see
the dream, he’s just afraid to touch it.
it is a curious thing, this demarcation,
for it both limits and entrances
without risking heart or soul
with tragedy.
he knows it is all replaced by a numbness
a suffocating safety,
a slower death.
but that seems easier to withstand.
and, so, he protects himself from himself,
and failure.
it is sad.
he knows that, too.

peanut bitter

She squeezes the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich until it bleeds, because that’s the way she does it, that’s the way she likes to do it, licking the drippings off her tiny, slender fingers. Her mother sits across from her, nursing her new baby brother with a bottle, grabbing a bite from a sandwich, here and there, while her father eats his, uninterrupted. She sips from an “organic apple” juice box not considering --- and why would she? – any juxtaposition. Mom and dad don’t get it, either, and probably never will. Grandma reaches across from another table and offers her a napkin and she’ll have none of it – or certainly not it, specifically. She is part of the New World, the one her parents don’t get and, even if they did, certainly wouldn’t acknowledge. Indeed, they’ll do their damnedest to keep her in their world for as long as they can, but she will break out, eventually, someday, and it will be painful, of course. If they are smart, they will understand her world or at least try to. If they aren’t, well, it will be their loss. Her name is Haley, and she is not alone. Neither are her parents, of course. Everyone’s on the merry-go-round. Everything is moving. And faster than any of them can imagine. Faster, indeed, than ever.

Her name is Jenny

Her name is Jenny. She’s married, the mother of three, a teacher at the neighborhood elementary school and she’s just fallen in love for the first time. She’s shopping, now, at Target, and trying to manage her mind and heart – and the guilt – and she’s not doing so well. His name is Billy. He owns a diner downtown and he kissed her last night and she still feels him, tastes him, smells him. It wasn’t a long, lingering kiss, but it was cheating, she knows that, because she wanted it so, and still does, and wants even more. She doesn’t hate Bob, her husband. In fact, it’s more that she feels sorry for him. She wants to apologize to him. Not for kissing Billy, but for the previous 17 years. Most of them have been a lie. Not a mean lie, not a vicious lie, but a lie, nonetheless. She’s not sure when she will tell him about Billy, or even if. But she knows Bob will want to make love, tonight, and she will comply, mostly because of Billy’s kiss, and she knows exactly what she will do: she’ll go through the motions and when he finally enters her she will hope that it will somehow jolt her back to her senses, back to reality, back to the way things are supposed to be, all the while knowing it won’t, never will, never can. For now, she shops, and savors the kiss to herself, by herself, within herself, and wonders if it will feel the same the second time or if it ever does. She is afraid it won’t. She knows, down deep, it won’t. And, suddenly, curiously, she feels ... free.

melting plot

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the show that never ends. Step in. There’s room at the front. We’ll start when everyone is in and can hear me. Hear me in the back? Good. Louder? OK.

“This, as you can see, is the Starbucks at the corner of Bedford and Main in downtown Stamford, Connecticut, in the heart of prosperous and, we're proud to say,
not-yet-so-egalitarian Fairfield County, USA. Let’s see what’s happening, here, on this dank, overcast Saturday morning.

“OK, sitting over there, to the left, is Rosie, one of our local, but mostly harmless whack jobs. A few minutes ago, Rosie walked up and down the aisle talking aloud, to herself, then farted unabashedly.

“Over there, yes, over there, see him, in the knit winter cap and dressed in layers, even though it is 63 degrees outside, is Hank the Homeless Man. Hank also talks to himself. And sometimes you can even hear what he says, if you care to listen. Most don’t. It just makes them nervous. Hank’s overdressed because he travels light. Carries what he's got with him. Got the wanderlust going, if you know what I mean.

“Them? Sure. Those two are Stu and Wally – though he likes to be called Walter. Young, bright investment bankers. Yes, times are tough for them, but you don’t see them complaining. Still dressed for business, sort of. Suits but not ties. It is, after all, Saturday. Brave boys, both. Kudos to them.

“Her? Patricia. She won’t go by “Pat.” Don't even try it. Fake boobs, fake ass, pumped out lips. Divorced, but not willing to settle. Fancy that kind of courage. She's no concubine, but she still wants to be taken care of like she was before the split – or at least as well as her best friend, Phoebe. God bless her.

“If you don’t mind me saying so – can you still hear me in back? -- this is a pretty good human sampler of our beloved metropolis. Sure, we got whacked-out, public flatulators. And we got more come from where Hank does. But we got Stu and Walter and Patricia, too. And we got ‘em all mixed in, together. We co-exist, here. We like to think of Fairfield County as a melting pot, circa twenty-ten. And Starbucks? It’s where America meets, eh? Sitting in a cozy, communal living room atmosphere, with Starbucks muzak and comfy chairs, sipping overpriced coffee drinks, where no one bothers anyone else -- give or take a few farts -- much less actually talks to one another.

“And if that ain’t America, folks, what is?

"OK. Take your time. Look around yourselves. We're back on the bus in 10. Oh, and if you buy an "iced mocha java too tall" tell 'em I sent you."

RICO

He stands outside the library, on the front steps, which seems an odd place to sentry because the library is such a community, social place and not only can’t he read, he doesn’t feel part of any community. He’s dressed in a gray, hooded sweatshirt, hood pulled up, but not covering his face, head and eyes up, not down so that his visage is blanked by a shadow like some are. He smokes a cigarette and in a moment will offer a drag to a friend who, as if dropping by an office, stops by to visit for a moment. His name is Enrique, his baptized name. His friends, of course, call him Rico. For Rico, the world is as gray as his hoodie. He saw colors as a boy, when he was at home with his mother and brothers and sisters, but that was a long time ago. The color did not go easily. He did not let go of them easily. But he came to a point, at a point, that it was all useless, futile. And he quit trying to see the reds and yellows and greens and oranges. His world would never, again, be bright. He doesn’t think much about it, now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t always with him. It is. Wouldn’t it be with you? In fifteen minutes – more like 13, if we’re being exact – Rico will drop what’s left of the smoke, crush the still glowing ember with his right toe, then leave his post. He will head home, such as it is, now, where two friends, Tony and Helli, wait, sleeping. They too, live in monochrome. And they know it. What they don’t know is that the revolution is coming. It won’t be their salvation. But it will return some color. If only they can survive until then.

PIDGIN CATHARSIS

you watch them, if you
might, if you
would (though most
just ignore),
and perhaps would
wonder this:
which god
(or goddess) did they
so annoy, so distress that they
would be
doomed, damned to
their
palty,
ignominious,
existence?
wandering, homeless; uttermost scavenging;
dull, muted in plume; not
soaring like hawks, but hunted,
instead, by them
(and, BTW, by most Departments
of Health);
“flying
rats,” and hunted as such;
haunted as infestations and infectations. and then there’s this:
some beliefs believe that bodies once deceased return
as members of another
kingdom, a different one.
and, say,
for example,
if it’s the animal one, what if,
what if,
just what if you return not
as
a
lion
or tiger
or an elegantly cowled owl,
but
as
a
pigeon?
do you ask
for
a
mulligan?
or do you
hunt
and
peck, as is your fate,
and
roam and
just
try to survive, or to
somehow, maybe,
one day,
teach a lesson to someone
watching. that perhaps more
of
us
are – will be – pigeons
than
eagles, chased from perch
by
beds of
nails.