Bait

image
Baiting, he says, “You’re a procrastinator.”

I ignore it a full three seconds and then bite:

“Some people have more to worry about than themselves.”

To which he replies, “You’re full of shit.”

I abstain.

“Why do you have to push everything to the last minute?  You know we had to get gas before we leave for the doctors…”

Just keep driving, eyes on the road, I insist to myself. I know he’s baiting.

I know how he deflects the dissatisfaction of an 82 year old man who needs to be driven to doctors now, and I pray for patience and composure to rise above my own self pity.

“I mean, it may be okay for you who always runs out of gas…” 

“Dad, I haven’t run out of gas…oh maybe once, but…”

“Yeah, don’t give me bullshit; you run out of gas the way you put everything off.”

Fucking traffic at 7:00 in the morning…it’s my one day off before I work tonight…

“You like living like that but I don’t like ruining cars like you do…”

“The car did not need gas; it was not even below a quarter of a tank, and your fucking neurotic obsession about insignificant bullshit doesn’t change that fact!!!”

“Yeah, sure, you know best. I’m not as smart as you. We all can’t be as smart as you.”

Shaking my head in silence, the anger spat out of me like a solar flare, scarring its landing like the faint white stitched line just below my abdomen ever reminding me that we evolve, leaving behind ancestral appendages no longer useful to us as outgrown beginnings. 

Baited, I bit. Again. Just waiting for the flip side…and three…two…one…

“But I appreciate everything you do for me. Really I do. I can’t thank you enough.”

And so it goes, we two relics, this dance we substitute for conversation underneath which lies halved relationships lost to time, decay, disorder and disease. 

Creative Constipation: Day 101

  
Belly bursting, bursting  bile,

God help me, like an Alien scene

only no interplanetary mission,

no gestation, instantaneous im-

plo-sion, ack! Not in, EXplosion.

Guts gone mad, spinning mad,

how long before the impact, the

reversal, stopper down, til brain

bit-splats paint walls splotched?

Constipated concentration cuts

in deeply, threatened blood spill,

but nothing comes, not a dribble.

Struggle, struggle, eking drops,

dripping platelets, life stuff til

death dries blood, water-plasma

to crusty nothing, like this spell-

dry, buds nipped, fount sprung-

out, nothing left but tensional

growth, crescendo killers ready to

pounce position, bow-arced-arrow

drawn, and still nerves fray-swell.

No celestrial tandos to write, no

rondos or gallyups to plug, ply, and

pen before nightfall’s dark clearing.

Expel, breathe, steam out, the moon

is pinched inside itself tonight too.

 

Beagleman

  
A man with a short face, not from chin to forehead but tip of the beaky nose to upper lip–not enough distance. The topography of his face is flat as if the effort of blooming a nose and plumping some lips was abandoned half way to finished. The eyes are photoshopped Cancun ridge of the sea blue, but paler, far too brilliant for his age in a hand’s decades, no dullness to the liquid gaze, like polished museum or Madison Avenue marble flooring–a splendorous richesse of gloss. The face is proportionate to the rest of him, distant soccer player traces of a cut angle just below the scapula, a rounded sternum suggesting the brim of a broad chest but for the expansion below that arcs convexly far more than it should beyond the belt. But the semblance of a prime physique resides, the residuals of fitness imports a belated youth to his figure. His name is Beagleman. 
A recent return from the edge of a self-inflicted, imploding dual-minded fury left him enervated and his tawny fatigued suitcase paupered.

Technology Ticks

  
Technology ticks like hiccups gone mad
torment a novice’s grip on poetry’s feast
when mind’s immersion in patterned plaid
yeans unleashed growls of a gnarly beast
 
Screaming primal tones blasted in bleeps
a machine shunts me into mental mayhem
one along shattered nerves a fault creeps
and cracks open wide calm’s cool diadem.
 
Clicking across railway ties’ smooth sound
the wood of imagination settles a twitching
and rust scented bark draws images round
deep strung in a tapestry’d poem’s stitching.

 
photo credit:  mediadpublicbroadcasting.com

The Teacher

 



A soft touch and a hard hand, the teacher speaks in incantations, dronings of esoterica to mystify and satisfy his own urges to expel. Behind office hour doors he is hand full of slick hair clutched at the scalp mummified despair leaving its traces along the spiked tufts that resist gravity’s pull to his ears, one of which is pierced with a diamond stud. Only a knock, a student’s hand, a backward glance or a shy inquiry can shift his mood. His smile smeared on with putty lips, he ogles the words typed for him, pausing long over an improper punctuation or diction switch up. His eyes’ return are shuttered behind thick dark lashes that paint his pupils dark, the velvet of brown specked with black and stroked with soft charcoal malleable leniency and persuasion. The burning does not show. The coursing rage racing up the alleys of his cortisol-laden cerebral landscape, pathways to his libidinal longings for a leg, the hem of a skirt, a bite in the pen cap, tongue caressing the indentation, remains repressed against his spine, thrust shut in his pelvic dance of storming scribblings in marker red, furiously punctilious and benignly compliant. He is grade A swallowed fear in disgust, disguised as propitious transitioning. Everyone passes through and by the teacher while he remains, steady like the axis of a planet, a cross road or dawn’s return.