The pin fell out.
The pin fell out, so the bolt slipped,
Knocking the bottom of the arm
And the damn thing wouldn't open!
Fifteen hundred I payed — 105 for delivery and assembly,
But I didn't make space for them,
They couldn't lay it out, so they built it standing up.
The pin didn't get set right, so the pin fell out.
I fixed it. Once I figured it out. It wasn't hard,
though pretty hot, since early, the back broke the plug
and the AC died. I sweated all over the expensive wood,
Wiped it up with the towel I was just wearing
And so there I stood: drenched in sweat,
Frustrated and exhausted, rumpled and wet
Ready for my second shower in just as many hours
All because I had the audacity,
To try to go to sleep.
Fingers fall down on her hook
as we watched the dog die.
A blonde beast with eyes toward the sky,
deep bark eyes that made trees double back and look.
Rows of cosy cut fences lined in front
obscuring dog and death from us,
held breaths hung as if mist on moors
thus lingering around ‘til horsebacks hunt.
Hooves for hands fumble, tremble,
lead to the inner assembly of
organs, functions and that hidden temple-
shaped teardrop like, rains nothing quite
like the weather above.
I wonder what chocolate rain would taste like.
Would it fall from chocolate clouds?
And after it dried, would it leave a thick sweet brown coat on the world?
I wonder if my secret love loves me.
Would he ever want to hold me and caress my cheek?
Kiss and touch me as I would him?
I wonder what would happen if I lit the world on fire.
Would anybody notice?
Or think it was a new quirk of nature to ignore?
I wonder if the sun shines more dimly than yesterday.
Would it even be measureable?
I wonder how long we can last, and if an apocalypse would kill us all.
Would there not be a survivor?
Would there not be a fight for life?
I wonder if there is or was a god, and if so, for how long?
Would he create himself?
Could god even have a sex?
I wonder if this world is a construct.
Perhaps a mental image stuck in space?
But if so, whose of?
I wonder if a butterfly flapping it's wings in China truly creates geographic ruin here.
And if so, on what scale?
I wonder if what we do in this world truly affects our afterlife, or if that even exists.
Will this compilation, this assembly of words make any impact on anyone's life?
I have never been in this situation before
trying to decide which of the two girls to go after
I am a lion with two gazelles in his cross hairs
Both looking graceful and delicately desirable
But I can't have both
I would like the one who whispers into people's ears
about how she feels like an unfinished automobile
helplessly being carried on the assembly line,
moving centimeter by centimeter, towards me.
But whenever the two of us are together,
she would pretend to be miles away
Then again, I would like the other one
whose subtle glances, though transient,
are like the worms you put at the end of a fish hook
or the aromatic meat left in an animal trap
that makes you brush off caution
from the end of your sleeves
or put on the helmet and jump
It's going to be one way or the other
I tell myself as I lay all alone in the room,
one foot already over the threshold of sleep,
strange faces beginning to appear in the air
and very soon I would be pulled below the surface,
sinking slowly, towards the dark bottom of the other world
Before then there's a decision to make:
I can either go left or right
but I can't have both.
Especially when they're room mates
To strive, for recognition
An assembly point for thought
Triumphed within an open page
Paper evidence of unspoken verse
Retrieved from the place behind this heart
Do you mind?
Don’t look over my shoulder at my vulnerability
Private stance is mine
Do not mock as I turn the page
A personal preview of this unlocked memory
Back of my neck, prickling
Anticipating on the spot reaction
Young, ill at ease
Crying from the yard
Hiding the scars
Don’t rush away the memories, a deluge
When time was so limited
Force open the private recess
Cobwebbed and masked by dust
Speak clearly, not from mumbling
Mouth, I need to………….. know
I am blemished
So glad to be alongside you
Reunited, forgotten, forgiven.....now ribbon tied
Can we bury?
It would seem not......but wait and remember
Deceived by the dark
Under dressed for the occasion
Battered suitcase dragged and kicked open
Essays of remembrance
Headlines screaming for discussion
Released for a while
Obeyed and tidied
Press down and close the rusty catches
My new day transcribed here
I don’t mind, lean on my shoulder
See my vulnerability
It makes me strong
We clocked in
(Punched in the older guys said)
And sat in a circle of orange plastic chairs
Hubbed by a thin morose
Befuddlement of a team lead
“An hour, just what is an hour?” he asked to begin the weekly meeting
I wanted to say, “A unit of temporal measurement that comprises -- or is that composes? -- sixty minutes,”
But held back
Knowing the obviousness of the query had to be a set-up
The befuddlement sighed in frustration
An understudy to my English III instructor
(the one who gave me an F- on the Emily Dickinson test)
Then said, “Okay, just what can be done in an hour?”
Then the youngest kid who always kept quiet
But who had enough scars -- had to toss in a lurid touch didn’t I --
To imply that he might have more experience than the oldest said,
“Okay, then just what is that contraption on the other side of the bay?”
“An assembly line.”
“And what does it do?”
“It makes a 30centaurpower indivertible that runs on Gila monster spit.”
“Okay, then, let’s punch out and come back tomorrow. Maybe then we’ll really have something to do.”
(And - oh yeah -- putting on my hat as a frustrated teleplay writer:
Those scars showed that he could handle himself.)
On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water organ crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water organ reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.
On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.
In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.
Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.
In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.
Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.
In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.
In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers
To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.
I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.