Darwin

I shook the black hand of Darwin
Half-expecting his fingers to go for my throat.
Instead I found us arm-wrestling
For a shot of Jameson's and a ball of lint.

Losing interest,
I swapped in a door prop
And pocketed the lint.
What do I care from Whiskey?

where my head is

For what reason this is here, only you know. I, my friend am too close to set upon without the gulf of nothingness to shield me. I can only spit, twist my head and feign knowledge of self and presence in this fractured moment. Nothing new, nothing unique at all, save for a regional speech pattern patter of thought that I toss out like mute waves from the last skip of a stone across brown river water. We all have our hop hitch skip of a bad hip like a tongue used to avoiding a cavity. We just have different dental plans, crutches and stale breath. What's worse is the realization one's whole is but a reflection of each half, and we crawl through each day pretending or hoping one is more real than the other, yet secretly aware of the very real chance that each – right AND left – are mist reflections of the left AND right. Laugh, smile, or dismiss this as you will. I have no tangible proof you are nothing more. And defensiveness is unnecessary when standing before one sitting on a bean-bag throne.

Inspirational Thoughts

The beginning of any journey is not one end of a line. It is the center of a circle. The complete center, the absolute center, that which engulfs us like water in the ONE ocean that touches ALL shores. Increasingly, I find myself searching for center inside the handicapped washroom facilities. All shores are painted salmon, and I captain a porcelain raft through dark waters—my face lit courtesy Verizon Wireless. I like to imagine all of us together at 10:37—a Navy of Lost Souls shoulder to shoulder waiting for directions that never come, co-ordinates lost or slid under tile. It's the air-force we are hiding from. I just want a moment away from their buzzing propellers and constant motion. I hear them outside the door, obsessing over the price of fuel. Yeah, this is a start.

Sounds

That whispering you hear around the corner
Is the sound of a serpent's tongue
Whistling food from between its fangs

It only looks like some secretaries
It only wears those shoes for effect

That laughter you hear behind the door
Is nothing but a group of goats
Folding dollar bills with their noses

They only smell like aftershave
They only look like suits on a broom

The buzzing you hear below your left ear
However
Is exactly what you think it is

You get a 20 minute break
Make your calls quickly

Eulogy to Fame

I dreamt I was visited by Cary Grant
Randomly checking the state of things
In a charcoal suit that alone proved
The existence of right angles

I sat down and began to show him YouTube
Showed him video after video after
Mashup after Rant after
Crash after explosion after fan film after...

Watching Hussein swing through the floor
He quipped, "Looks like every prick will
Expect a monogrammed bathrobe
And a private locker."

"Studio independence is one thing
But this is a narcissistic orgy
With $5 whores."

"It's Archie from here on out, kid."

I think I heard him repeat
"I like turtles?"
As he faded back through the wall.

Mr. Brown

(Song: Vince Guaraldi's "Linus and Lucy". Fades, then lights up on a bald, middle-aged man in a yellow shirt with a zigzag across the midsection.)

Mr. Brown: I have been bald since the age of two. My ex-wife left me to go follow the Indigo Girls around the world with her best friend Marcie. I live by myself in an apartment that I rent from my own dog . . . who just raised the rent by the way. Good grief, is it any wonder I’m a little depressed? I feel like everything I’ve ever touched gets ruined. Or dies. If you attended last year’s Christmas party you’d understand. And before you suggest it, I’ve already tried the therapy thing. I spent my formative years in the hands of a young gifted “hot-shot” psychiatrist. And what do I have to show for it besides a compulsive avoidance of nickels? Nothing. Then there are days I feel like a blockhead for feeling this way in the first place. We all have problems. I’m sure there are things that you can’t even share with your own friends. My best friend was like that. Last year he hung himself from his ceiling fan with a powder blue baby blanket. And I thought he was the most centered person I knew. Maybe I should just accept things and try to learn from my troubles like Lot did. But the fact is I’m not Lot damn it. I am simply a man who comes into work each day and sits in a cube for eight hours seven days a week and feels the weight of his own death like a toothache swimming in lemonade. And for what? Do I ever hear a “thank you” or “nice effort” from Ms. Othmar? No, It’s just “Wmaw mwah whah” this and “mwah mwah mwat” that all freaking day long! Take a look at this. (Holds up a fist-sized rock) My quarterly bonus. Rats! I was supposed to be a big-league pitcher, not the guy who files rejected credit applications all day. I want to scream out loud, but I cannot move my tongue from the roof of my mouth because it is so swollen with presence of absence. And do you know what really eats at me? The nagging feeling that all of my co-workers, the great and the greater are nothing but a sham. Losers like me but worse, because when they look into the mirror each day, they have no problem lying to themselves. Tricking themselves into believing that they are something more than what they really are, each and every one of them…a Charlie Brown just like me.

school

i did not pay attention in school
and today i carry the guilt
like a snow globe in my
book bag

missed opportunities and absent declarations
all replaced by construction paper
cut outs
wintergreen paste

if i hadn't thought at the time
she was a giant I might have
reached up from the desk
and plucked out her eyes

moments like this are slipping by us all the time
dragging their feet like tentacles.