Carla said I should furl my anxiety,
Ravel it up in a ball without conviction, she said,
Your curses can’t be creased and folded flat,
Like a dress shirt with pearl buttons and a fancy tie.
Jesus no, she said,
Stuff everything you feel into your closet
Pile it on top of your worn out shoes,
Your forgotten purchases,
And your frightening memories of your mother.

Your weakest link is concern, Carla said,
And your colossal waste of worry,
My god, you are mesmerized by outcomes,
Your pretense that life is a chess game
Is beneath insult,
Do you really think you can see three moves ahead?
There is no tidy way, she said,
To make amends with yourself,
You have dissected your life into an unfathomable mess,
The best you can do now,
Is pause…
Perhaps for a day, maybe two.

As usual I had no idea what Carla was talking about.
At least on the first go round.

I want you to walk among us
And read the story of the world, Carla said,
Humanity is desperately trying to tell you something,
Every public word, every sign, every misspelled message has meaning,
Be brave enough to stop and read things twice.

And so I went out to read the words of the world.
Words that whip and whirl around me every day.

My jam, blueberry as I recall, told me it was pure,
On every packet as bold as a White House lie.

My mechanic informed me,
He has a licensed inspection facility.
In that case, I told him
I want my government inspected
For flaws and lies and hate and deception
And of course check the tire pressure all the way round.

My gym informed me, it boldly declared
That I can burn calories,
Up to 36 hours
Post workout.
I want to burn effigies and look alike dolls
And smash the man in the face with a shovel.

My bank, the callous *****, the *****, the stain,
Told me, The more we get together, the happier we are.
And I want to get together in a march of a million angry men,
Determined to set things right, to hang the traitors,
At least by their ankles and pelt them with marshmallows,
And then smash them all in the face with a shovel.

Starbucks holds still like a library with no bound books,
The staff cling to their smiles as if they were butterflies
About to catch the next breeze and flutter away,
But their sign made my day.
Grab something good it said,
And I thought they meant an idea,
A value,
A concept,
A plan,
A truth,
But perhaps they just meant a *****
How sick and sad and stupid and insipid,
He is a monster

There were many more signs, persuasion everywhere,
Offers for my hair, my pain,
My new home complete with its own memory,
A boxing class for girls only, which seemed a bit off,
Don’t women have to learn
How to smash a man in the face with a shovel,
Why box with girls when it’s the hands and eyes,
And sniffy nose of a man that needs to be smashed flat.


Carla told me, over a glass of scotch, neat,
And a mountain man cigar,
That the world is wilting and the signs are everywhere.
Beware this one she said, he has the mind of child,
The temperament of a rabid dog
And the IQ of a Q-tip.
Yes, that’s what he thinks IQ  means, Carla said,
And downed her scotch with a frown.