Less Than Two Weeks To Live

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I killed her again last night. I haven’t killed her in nearly a year, so I feel like that’s an improvement. I used to kill her far more often. And in far more grisly ways. (Last night I simply failed to warn her that she was getting too close to the slippery cliff’s edge; failed to reach out a saving hand when I could have easily done so.)

This is just a reminder that I’ll be killing her again—in print, this time—in less than two weeks at Your One Phone Call. Killing That Bitch Again (one of those exorcism poems that poets occasionally just have to write) should appear on October 5th.

I guess it’s the impending publication that made me dream of letting her do the cliff-fall last night.

The fact is: she’s probably already dead. Who is she, you ask? It doesn’t matter. I know who she is. She knows who she is.

And if she isn’t already dead, I’ll be Killing That Bitch Again on 10/5 at Your One Phone Call.

Previous Calls:
EMPTIES
APPRAISAL
BREATHLESS

Brass In Pocket

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He’s a pretty big tipper, but
every time he tries and fails
to snag the barkeep’s eye,
get her to ring him up and
bring the check, he recalculates.
It’s not really that busy and
he’s got better things to do,
other places to be.
……………………..He figures
at this rate, by the time he
gets and has to pay the tab,
the barkeep will be owing him.

Six Word Saturday

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Frost Warning Just Barely Proves False

I did, however, feel compelled to break out the flannel for yesterday’s morning commute; and it’s clear that the leaves are just dying to change…but not quite yet.  Soon.  Soon.

——[|]——

Warm receptions available from Call Me Cate at SHOW MY FACE

—————[|||]—————

Student Advisory

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The semi-retired teacher (now a
teacher’s aide) stands among the
masses of squirmy and fidgeting 
middle school students noisily
awaiting their moment with the
picture-day photographer, decides
there’s still some hope for the world
when he hears the crackle of the PA
system and the Principal’s friendly
paternalistic voice:
……………………… “Attention
students! It’s Picture Day again
here at Switchback, and I’ve been
asked by the Board of Education, the
many hard-working taxpayers who
provide us these wonderful facilities,
and by most of our dedicated faculty
to remind you that—despite the
common parlance rampant in our
school’s hallways this fine morning—
there is no such word as tooken.”

Waiting For Wednesday

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I’m looking forward to Wednesday evening.  Vermont’s Poet Laureate, Chard deNiord, will be giving a reading at The Galaxy Bookshop in Hardwick. I know much of his work fairly well, have heard him read several times, and have had several brief conversations with him including encounters at both the Brattleboro Literary Festival and a reading at the St Johnsbury Athenaeum. Readings at the Galaxy are typically fairly short, but that doesn’t matter much to me in this case because I’d enjoy hearing even just a couple of poems from this particular author. He’ll be sharing the reading platform with Z.G. Tomaszewski , a Michigan writer with whom I am less familiar but eager to get to know better.

BONUS!   I work in Hardwick, where the reading will happen.  I get out of work around 3:00.  The reading’s at 7.  That gives me plenty of time to maybe take a little unwinding backroads cruise before I head on over to Main Street’s Positive Pie, for a couple brews and slices.  The pie’s always perfect, and a couple of Switchbacks after work is always a welcomed treat.

BONUS! BONUS! BONUS!  The bar at Positive Pie is one of those places where I inevitably pick up a good writing vibe and usually fill up at least a few pages in the ever-present journal.  Several of these entries have evolved into published poetry, most recently my poem All The Phones At Positive Pie, which was published back in June at In Between Hangovers.

Meanwhile,

All The Phones At Positive Pie

All the babes at Positive Pie have
phones that go unanswered, phones
that bleep and glurg incessantly;
insistent phones that flash and flash
and stab their heedless owners’ eyes
and ears and only add to the general
beer-filled boisterous brouhaha, add
to the overall overkill of noisiness
to no avail:
…………….all the babes at Positive Pie
ignore their phones. The more they ring
the more they get ignored.
…………………………………The old man
at the end of the bar, at the bitter end
of his working Wednesday, watching,
has seen the babes ignore their phones
before, has heard the glurg and buzz
and, buzzed, he works to find the words
to turn it into certain verse, to turn the
worst of sounds around, to make the
endless ringing sing a song.
………………………………….He thinks.
He finds, at last, the ink. He sings along.