The Garbanzo Bean and the Chickpea

It’s debilitating. Isn’t it. Narcissism.
Exhaustive. Anxiety-ridden. Too.
Often I have overheard fragments of directed conversation.
They say he. But I hear me. Cut to two hours later.
I’m white knuckling a pen just laden, damn near buried
under the weight of a thousand hypotheticals
invented out of thin air. Been on a diet.
Some time now. Full on eating clouds.
Choked down then shit out like white flakes. Just for me.
This joke this guy just told.

What’s the difference between a garbanzo bean and a chickpea.
He was so convinced without the lead up, the couple beside us,
could not be offended, that he just said.

I would never let a garbanzo bean do that on my head.

Down Hills High Speed

This peculiar work.
This lowest legal wage.
Paid to help people play.
In the snow.
Tempting gravity.
Nowhere to go.
But down hills high speed.
Not for me.

Though I will gladly take pay to keep it an open albeit precarious possibility for them.
Others.
Buried in layered flannel and rainbow goggles.
I like to imagine behind them they see the world
like a horsefly gushing by trees bristled hairs in loose whipping tails.
Ears twitch and break brittle as ice.
Hit the landing just right.
Broken wings and six shattered legs lie crumpled in a pile.
Rise from the white ashes.
Laughing.
Clearly this whole thing is no more than a peculiarity.
It’s just. They keep on insisting on calling it work.

New York: By Way of Storm

They were waiting on me to get here.
The wind.
The rain.
Soggy footsteps in dented grass.
Soldering tools.
Beer fridge.
Great lake licking shades that open by remote control.
An ambush.
A trap.
Set up in series like dominoes.
One begets the next and sets up the collapse of all the rest.
In good time.

Dog plastic clicks and floor rattles in battles against the inevitability we call gravity.
Laid in wait.
Mouth open.
Whisper breathing.
Eyes hungry and open.
As I enter a scene.
Well orchestrated and rehearsed.
All except for the part I play. Of course.
An unwitting fool. A chicken dinner.
Which goes against the oven roasted golden brown rule.

Be nobody’s chicken dinner.

If you intend to make a meal of me, you will only get thinner.
This wind blown rain spotted weather.

The long flat roads framed in soaked farmland and fresh water harbors.
Seabirds lost in lake mist and island peppered distance.
Trip wires in thinning choirs and cold church Sunday morning.
Broken boilers.
Daylight spoilers.
Cows feet caked in mud and old men with blond ponytails down their backs.

Poised.
For the attack.
Growing tired of waiting.
But now that I am here.

No one is waiting anymore.

Took New York by storm.
And it hasn’t quit since.