Because I’ll probably be busy next week, I thought I should let my inner curmudgeon out now, get it over with:
Remember: There Will Be NO “Gifting”!
“Gift” is NOT A VERB.
I give. You give. He / she / it gives.
Give. Gave. Have / has given.
Regular verb. No conjugational pyrotechnics required.
Here endeth the rant. Scrooge out. ~Mic drop~
I just need to feel OM-ish
Maybe if all the caroling stops.
Maybe if we can get back up to zero.
Maybe if I just stop watching the news…
He holds on by a thread. He’s not really sure if the thread is nylon or some other tough and man-made fiber or if—more likely—it’s only the proverbial silken spider strand, almost invisible, almost non-existent, almost certainly destined to fail, plunge him instantly into oblivion. Still, it’s the only thread he’s ever had, so he clings to it tenaciously, terrified of the consequences of letting go.
There was a time—and not so very long ago, either—when, having already depleted his pitifully meager store of resources, his tenuous grip weakened by overwhelming circumstance, he not only acknowledged the likely slip and fall, he welcomed it; welcomed it as the man on the point of an inevitable sword welcomes the final thrust.
As bad as things get, though, every time he feels his grasp slipping, every time he feels the tether failing, he recalls her face, smiling when he comes through the door at night or when he rolls over in bed in the morning and, somehow, he manages a new purchase, an undiscovered reserve of strength that, if anyone had asked him even moments before, he would have denied possessing.
Please lend me your ear a minute, will you? I know you’ve already heard that it’s been a really tough year, so there’s no need for me to repeat all the drama, is there? I guess you can’t really expect a positive outcome when you put a weasel in charge. Let’s not totally freak out, though; I’ve got an easy solution:
Impeach the dickhead.
New Thursday 13
Despite all evidence
to the contrary
“I ain’t no friggin retard,”
he says in his best imitation
of his father’s voice—
I thought about it overnight. I decided that since it was originally published almost two decades ago in a little-known (and now defunct) print journal, and has recently been republished in an anthology that you might not be able to afford (or might not have an interest in the +/- 150 other authors), I’d share this with you here.
Don’t get me wrong; I think you’ll enjoy Of Burgers & Barrooms from the Main Street Rag online bookstore if you pick up a copy. I guess maybe I’m posting this to whet your appetite.
So Much Depends Upon A Red Wig
Ronald hasn’t shown
for several years now
since he came to cut the ribbon
and open the public doors;
has only sent an emissary
once or twice a month:
eighteen wheels and a logo
bearing frozen potatoes
and placemats or paper bags.
Manager Mike pines,
longs for a simple glimpse
of pancake, rubber nose,
or a pair of two-foot long
red plastic shoes.
Holiday in Cozumel
go south along Main,
turn left into Peking Gardens
while down the block, smirking,
his arch-enemy Wendy
serves Mike’s former regulars
with a vacant and Frosty smile.
My poem, So Much Depends Upon A Red Wig, originally published in the (now defunct) Higginsville Reader waaaaay back in 2001, has been chosen and re-published in Of Burgers & Barrooms, a fast-food and drink anthology just released by The Main Street Rag online bookstore.
Edited by Jonathan K. Rice and M. Scott Douglass, this weighty (472 page) anthology contains both prose and poetry. I’ve had the opportunity to view the pre-publication draft of this collection, and have no reservation about recommending it highly.
Check it out:
Main Street Rag / Of Burgers & Barrooms