fiction
When my dog talks to me
I know that he is discussing
Quantum Physics
From a different
Perspective...
When he dreams
I know that he does not exist
In this world
While he dreams...
His incisors
Are perfect utensils
For cutting meat...
He allows me
To take his temperature
Rectally...
When I sing
He harmonizes
In fellowship...
When I scratch his belly
He starts his motorcycle,
And I never ask,
"What's in it for me?"...
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* I see a constant renewal in my life that rivals that of lush lands in tropical climates. I regularly amaze myself with the duration of which my existence seems to endure. There's a continual repletion of my faculties, and the human resilience innate in all of us astonishes me yet again.
When I was 14 years old, I didn't think I would see 25. At 15, I didn't think I'd see 21. At 16, it became 18 that I was certain would never come. Nor did I care. The earlier the better. I ended up coming to 18 instead of it coming to me, and it scared the hell out of me.
Every day now I see things for the first and millionth time, as I reflect on my observations about myself. Every new day that passes I feel a sense of accomplishment if I've made it through them. I'm 22 years old, and thinking I'll live for awhile longer now.
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[i]for John Sweet[/i]
God whirls around you
And you do not see him.
You are Heisenberg.
If God chose to
Appropriate your poems,
Your brittle images -
So lucid that they make
The back of my eyes ache -
Would be lost to me.
An entire universe would
Cease to exist.
You have prayers,
But God knows that
You are not yet ready for Him…
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Her first words to me were, "NUH-uh!"
And my moniker, preceded by "Mister,"
And a self-assured presumption that
The little-sister idiom "NUH-uh!"
Would stock IMPORT in my universe,
And that the wily honorific, "Mister,"
Would warm my cockles
With conjectured, chaste
Reflections of scrubbed-cheek guile,
Me and my old fart,
Pot-belly, gen-gap ways...
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"Uh huh, yeah. No, I'm listening; stuck at the office; broccoli in the steamer in half an hour; asshole boss - you said it first -; deadline at nine so no later than ten; chicken breast thaw in the sink." Mumbling on the cordless, wipe afternoon Koz-Zone cartoons out of my eyes. Mom's staccato instruction, as though it was not mantra every other night this month.
"No. I did my work already, Jesus." Homework's unblemished fill-in-the-blank Spanish 1 workbook nestles safe in the nylon nest of my Jansport. Big toe nail scrapes on the white/blue plaid gray linoleum of the one man kitchen; shuffle, shuffle through white tube sock into kitchen, shielding eyes against the halogen track lighting. First light since the last light of dusk set over the Torco building, diving behind the Chicago Public Library; jumping turn-styles at Jackson Blue Line, the dusk heads to the West-side.
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It's a matter of timing, you see,
Whether one survives. Survival is
Related to whether one zigs, or zags,
Or pirouettes perfectly, or just
Hunkers down at
Exactly the right instant
By accident.
You take Jimbo, for instance.
Thirty-five years ago a pack of cigarettes
Cost eleven cents in the Ship's Store
Outside CONUS.
That's a buck ten a carton,
Any brand you like.
Lucky Strike was the favorite,
Short, sweet, harsh.
Pall Mall was a coffin nail,
Second only to king Camel –
Shredded bullshit –
Smoked only by the bravest.
No one smoked filter tips,
Which were for pussies;
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I know that you won't get this until Monday morning, at work. Not until you get through your Monday morning client status meeting. Not until you get your coffee -- heavy cream, heavy sugar -- and a bran muffin. I think that's why I'm sitting here right now. I know that Monday morning everything will be different between us. After we meet for brunch tomorrow at Leo's there will be compromises. There will boundaries. There will not be ambiguous phone calls of formality; "How are you holding up?" Followed by tumbleweeds of silence. There will not be anymore backdoor landings, 3a.m. with a sixer hanging on your hip and six more in your gut. In it of itself, not wrong. I just can't take much more of this out(law) communication.
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[b]Monday[/b]
These two guys who work in the back of the office make noise up front as I attempt to look busy, striking the keys of my uniform computing machine with blitzkrieg precision and obvious career ambition. My posture suggests I may be lazy but the speed at which I execute the minor details of my job and the attitude which I feign defend me. The cold February draft blowing through the cracks in the window over the river result in shivers and the occasional chatter of teeth, the product of increasingly low company revenues.
I sit here at my desk, cold and dissatisfied with florescent supervision lost in fantastic wanderlust, waiting for the city to thaw. The modem tones heard through the lulls in music alternate between incessant phone rings and fax machines.
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