Detention

I can't believe I am sitting here at my desk after school when everyone else is either outside playing or inside petting their cats 

because 

Ms. Harrison gave me a detention when it wasn't even my fault or more accurately it was my fault but it wasn't only my fault and it definitely wasn't my idea 

because 

really do I look smart enough to come up with a detailed and overly complex idea like that or dumb enough to get caught carrying out an idea of someone else's knowing that I may get caught 

because 

the others would have to know that I would "spill the beans" the first chance I got and not the actual beans this time like last week during arts and crafts when I for all intents and purposes ruined the class project which involved gluing dried beans on construction paper to make farm animals 

because

our teacher believes in appreciating farm animals by attaching beans and other food stuff to paper with glue as well as honouring and in her case owning farm animals even though she lives in a condo

because

in her words everything can be a farm although my parents said she must be speaking sarcastically or has finally gone off her rocker even though I tell them she keeps telling me she doesn't own a rocker and wishes I would stop asking

because

according to her I "like the sound of my own voice" and "never met a question I didn't like" and "should consider limiting my exposure to glue for a while"

because

we should consider ourselves so lucky to have a seemingly never-ending supply of glue unlike some impoverished children in some far away land whose parents have to leave early in the morning to slave away day and night in some factory 

because

they must put glue on the table each evening although there is always the chance that the glue is mistaken for the white pasty food that is a delicacy in the area and that I should keep that in mind next time I'm thinking of misbehaving

because

she believes I am a good kid who just needs to think before I act and not try to impress the others.

Tell Me a Story

"Tell me a story" she asked her dad as he stared despondently out the living room window.

How she wished things could go back to how they once were.

She would climb onto his lap, neck tickled by his beard and feel protected and warm and loved and as if there would never be a reason to worry or be scared ever again.

Everything had changed.

The walls of her castle had crumbled.

The accident.

"Are you okay?" she uttered the words all the while knowing that silence would follow.

How she longed for a story, any story, as only he could tell. 

His tales were expertly and intricately woven around the truth, meant to make her laugh and think and to send her off to dreamland with another day drawn to a sweet end.

Coffee-scented kisses goodnight.

Bear hugs that would make a bear proud.

All but gone.

"Dad?" But he was somewhere far away, as if all alone on a snowy beach in the winter.

She needed him so badly, but he wasn't there.

Random memories flooded her brain and she remembered the loving murmurs heard through the walls each evening before her mom, his wife, their everything had been taken so abruptly from them.

The paper they were drawn upon had been irreconcilably ripped.

Nothing would ever be the same.

She wept.

Not That I Want To Brag, But...

Not that I want to brag, but my wife once stopped in the middle of rush hour traffic to give me a standing ovation.

If given the strength, I would carry all of my family, friends and acquaintances on my shoulders and my back wherever they wanted to go, thus saving everyone bus fare.

When I was younger, I used to drop everything I was doing and write wonderfully romantic poems of love that were rife with spelling and grammatical mistakes as I was only 7 at the time.

For those who didn't know, on weekends I often climb to the top of a nearby high hill and then I look down on some of the surrounding shorter hills and laugh uncontrollably at how short they are, because, who in the right mind climbs short hills.

I once entered the barbershop down the street and demanded a hairdo reminiscent of a cross between a lamp post and a flower arrangement so I could be that guy.

When I have a bit of free time, I don my fanciest hat and walk proudly down busy streets as regally as my chiropractor allows.

In my adult years, I have grown into the man I was always meant to be, thus finally disproving those naysaying "most and least likely to" high school yearbook editors from my past.

I am nothing, and I repeat, nothing, if not a connoisseur of fine caviars and retro kitchen supplies.

It may come as a surprise to you, but I was once the loudest, and some would say most aggressive, mime on the Western Seaboard.

People can be excused for constantly being in awe of my near-inhuman ability to excuse and lavishly reward those who are constantly in awe of me.

What is stunning is my ability to not only not sweat the details but to not even think or consider any details about anything ever.

I was raised to occasionally act smugly so as to provide others with a welcome break from my usual smug-free demeanour, as well as to hand out a free cookie now and then.

After a few failed attempts, I can now guffaw with the best of them and I couldn't be happier or more existentially unencumbered.

When stopped on the street and asked, I always respond "no thanks, I don't have time to complete your survey" followed by "animals are cuter when they are smaller which is why I only view animals from a distance" before I pull off the best damn impersonation of a human impersonating a rabbit that anyone has ever seen.

It's true what they say, I am not only a walking paradox, but I also have cat-like reflexes and I chop vegetables like it's going out of style.

Digging

Digging.

My childhood was spent digging.

At the beach, at the park, in the backyard, for scrabble tiles, and in between and under dirty and dusty popcorn kernels and ballpoint pen caps and lost teeth in the couch cushions.

I dug holes of various shapes and sizes using frustratingly flimsy plastic shovels, hands that quickly became cut and bruised and filthy, sticks and stones and broken bones and hired help.

These holes were tide pools, miniature civilizations for imaginary superheroes, houses of squirmy worms and wriggly bugs, and caves and caverns rife with hairy coins and sticky action figures from popular movies on the silver screen at a theatre near you.

Sand and dirt would fly as I dug to pass the time, because friends and acquaintances and those other kids who may someday become friends or acquaintances were doing it, because if I created a hole deep and wide enough I could hide there and escape or rent it out to some other kid who didn't have a hole of his own and I dug to dig, you dig?

Burrowing down creating crevices penetrating the planet, trying to finally get to Asia 'cause I was hungry for some take-out, looking for fossils and diamonds and buried bones to sell to dogs too worn out to excavate something to gnaw on themselves as well as other treasures from those who lived on this land before me.

My childhood was spent digging.

Digging.

You Used to Smile

"You used to smile whenever I entered the room" she uttered avoiding eye contact as she entered the room.

How things had changed.

He kicked the table leg nervously, angrily  with his foot as he sat there among the shadows.

The sun was setting in more ways than one.

She looked upon this older, tired man and tried to remember the love she once felt.

They were so young.

Rhythmic dance music emanated from the apartment above accompanied by squeals of joy.

Their eyes met.

"I loved you with every ounce of my heart, you know that, don't you?" he said heavily as his head drooped toward the floor.

She did.

Tempted to suggest trying again, righting wrongs, admitting past dalliances, fixing mistakes and yet, as they sat there at the same table they had purchased together on that sunny day all those years ago when their love was fresh and fun and powerful, they were miles and miles apart.

What had gone wrong?

The End (of my 15 day writing challenge)

15 days ago I woke up just like I woke up every morning - dry throat, thirsty and with a sense of purpose that is best described by Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle.

I was going to eat a good breakfast, brush my hair and count my freckles before venturing out of my house with the desire and thirst to make a difference and to drink some lemonade, because that is how I was raised if you read way between the lines.

Actually, I decided all of those 15 days ago to write and publish a new piece each day. Some applauded my plan (those dudes will applaud for anything though) while others attempted to rain on my parade and still others sat back and enjoyed a cup of tea with a homemade biscuit that I had baked especially for the occasion.

Yes, some would refer to me as a hero and who was I discourage them or buy them an encyclopedia to show them proper examples of heroes, while others insisted on calling me Martha. Thanks?  

As excited as I was, even I wondered at the beginning if this was even possible - could I actually create something new each day for so many days in a row? And that is saying something as I rarely wonder at the beginning of anything.

Questions flooded my brain while the tepid bath water flooded the bathroom - I thought multiple and concurrent floods would be poetic. Was I wrong? In one sense, no, and in a more accurate and bills-to-pay-way, yes.

Would I have enough time to write when I barely have enough time to groom?

Would I be able to generate enough new ideas to maintain the plan or would I fall victim to either recycling ideas or somehow trying to reduce or reuse ideas from my past?

Would I be able to maintain the youthful enthusiasm that I felt at the onset as the days ticked by one by one forcing me to either age prematurely or fight off the inevitable slide into some sort of abyss (for all intents and purposes, I am surrounded by abysses and Oak trees - talk about your urban planning!)?

Would I take the risk of becoming a living and breathing cautionary tale for all future writers of my calibre and shoe size if I failed dramatically and tragically and covered with maple syrup as my co-workers were always suggesting would happen on a daily basis while walking around with large jugs of maple syrup?

Regardless of these quite excellent questions that I mailed away for, I was extremely excited to see where this writing experiment would take me - I, for one, was hoping for a nice walk in the woods followed by a neck massage capped off by a bowl of toasted pecans.

My plan was to force myself to break out of my pattern of long and rambling and often nonsensical bordering on narcolepsy-inducing pieces and focus just on the narcolepsy.

There were new genres to explore and I was the brazen explorer equipped with a flashlight and butterfly net - I was ready for anything - especially dark rooms full of butterflies and/or moths!

I wanted to experience everything! The world was my vertible oyster and I was going to try my hand (or hands depending on whether I was eating or petting my imaginary gryphon at the same time) at poetry and flash fiction and overly-personal, embarrassingly-honest autobiographical short stories.

By day 2 of 15 I came to realize that this task was not going to be that easy. There just wasn't enough time in the day - or was there? There wasn't. Until there was.

I had to find opportunities to write that were not previously known. Like in those few minutes before making the family breakfast (resulting in many metaphors involving burnt toast) and at school during the break between classes (resulting in work dominated by ringing bells) and while brushing my teeth (resulting in stories about the benefits of daily flossing and the wonders of enamel and how to make it work for you).

I became a writing mole just looking and searching for any free moment to take out my phone or sit by my computer and get a few words down and a magical thing happened. Since I knew that I just wouldn't have enough time to edit later on and I had such little time to write in the first place, I became forced to actually create good stuff that wouldn't need heavy editing and or censoring later on like usual.

This pressure led me to write some of my shortest, least rambling and different sort of pieces ever. The very same pressure also caused my skin to break out in a horrible rash that turned out to just be spilled grape juice. The pressure made me spill my grape juice.

I came to love the need to write and publish each day rather than my previous goal of writing something new each 3 or 4 days. Flash fiction and poems, due to their brief and often rhythmic nature, made me value and savour each word as if they were smoked salmon or a fine wine or even a mediocre wine as I savour those as well.

And then, day 15 came and it all ended. Last night as I pressed "publish" for the 15th consecutive day the weight of what I had just finished hit me like an imaginary sack of rocks or an imaginary sack that was empty as the "rock guy" was on vacation.

I felt a sense of accomplishment and something closely resembling pride or glee. I stood up and raised my arms and attempted to look to the sky, but all I saw was the ceiling that needed dusting. 

There are so many people to thank.

For all those who doubted I could do this - thank you!

Your doubt helped me in ways that I doubted it ever would.

And to my doubt - I couldn't have done it without you either.

I doubted that my doubt, which was a product of the original doubt, could have any effect at all.

But it did, as did the bag after bag of stale crackers that I was tempted by, but never ate. Where those bags of crackers came from, I'll never know (my wife keeps telling me that I bought them and then neglected them), but I still thank them.

I thank my family, especially my wife, for motivating me using ancient Indonesian methods that should probably be declared illegal except when someone is truly possessed (I wasn't).

My kids didn't really help at all and they pretty much just walked past me when I was writing shaking their cute little heads which made their pretty faces slightly out-of-focus and they always would say "stop writing and make our lunch" which gave me the energy to forge on and continue to stall making their lunch.

I also want to thank everyone who either viewed, read, read and then immediately remembered they had to go wash their hair, and those who watched other people read for a more indirect and less rigorous experience for your eye brows. Your role is harder to pin down, but you exist, and for that, I thank you. If nothing else, keep existing.

You may be wondering if I learned my lesson and I would counter that not only was this not a lesson, but it was also freshly waxed and pine-scented for your smelling pleasure. But rest assured as less-assured resting is not resting at all and more exhausted and stressful only leading you to want to rest later on - just seems like a waste of time to me. Rest now.

Would I do this all again? Absolutely! Maybe I'll change up the challenge to keep it fresh or just change my shirt more often. I felt inspired and excited and ideas literally percolated in my brain causing me to have strange daydreams where I was a giant coffee maker providing freshly brewed dark roast java for the masses.

The past 15 days were as enjoyable a 15 day period could be aside from May 7th - May 21st, 1994 which were amazing. All of my life has been trying to recapture those days of glory. This past 15 day period was close  - nice try, days.

Send in The Clowns

"Are you sure this is safe?"
I have a history of underestimating the safety of activities and have the bruises, emotional scars and commemorative t-shirts as prove.

"Yes."
It would be great if he would just let me concentrate. Oh why won't he let me concentrate! All I want it to concentrate on the task at hand and then eat a burger and then concentrate some more.

"How can you be so sure?"
I'm actually interested in knowing how he can be so sure. Like I can easily see how he'd have a certain amount of sure-ness, but to be completely sure? Wow.

"I just am."
That actually is a good question. I'd say it is probably equal parts good parenting, Vitamin C and exposure to quality news programming.

"Well, I wish I had your confidence."
Or, failing that, a similar confidence that didn't clash with my favourite lime green socks.

"So do I! Could you let me think?"
I really enjoy thinking and once spent 10 straight hours thinking until I started to lose my grasp on reality and whether something was a thought I thought or real. It was awesome!

"I'm just worried it won't work. Aren't you worried? It just seems like so much can go wrong."
In fact I am even more worried than I'm letting on. I'm so worried that my insides are twisting and turning and doing flips and cartwheels before jumping for a little while under-supervised on a trampoline with a large gaping hole in it. 

"Hey! Enough of that! We have to focus or else it won't work."
And this not working is not okay. It will work or my name isn't Frank. My name is not Frank - but that is not the point now or ever. The point is quite illusive, even though points are usually quite sharp and pokey.

"It just seems risky, that's all I'm saying."
I am actually subliminally saying so much more. I am talking about love and connection and comfort and the joy that a young boy can only find when unnaturally bonded with a smothering parent.

"You've made your point, but we are sticking with this plan. We thought about everything and spent time planning each step. It will work!"

Those hours spent planning were among the longest hours of my life no matter how many times he told me that the hours were the same exact length as all other hours and that even though they may have felt long, they weren't and that was completely a perception issue that I will need to come to grips with at some point.

"Okay. Okay. Okay."

Sometimes I just want him to stop talking to me like I'm a little child. Other times I wish he'd talk to me only like I was a little child. Then there are the times when we can't stop tickling each other until we cry. It's complicated.

"Before we leave here, I need to know if you are in or if you are out."
In or out. Simple question. Although, he could stand in the middle and jump back and forth from the in side to the out side laughing with his ridiculous grin and drinking grape juice, thus spilling it everywhere.

"I'm in. I'm in. I just need this to work, not like last time."
And the time before that and the time before that. The time before those ones worked great and I'm not sure why we deviated from the plan except that I am nothing if not an encourager or plan deviations only to regret it big time later on in the evening. I never learn.

"Last time was not our fault. You know that. Billy screwed up and messed it up for all of us. And now he's gone and can't interfere any more."
No one is quite sure where Billy went. Jail? An all-expenses paid trip to Cuba? Banana shopping? Who knows?

"I hope you're right."
A small part of me misses Billy. A really small part. It's only identifiable under a microscope. And Billy conveniently took my last microscope when he disappeared or vanished or was taken. My money is on vanished.

"Aren't I always? Don't I look out for you?"
I also have thrown in looking in for you, around for you and under you at no extra charge!

"You do. You always do. Sorry I'm so stressed."
I need to unwind and nothing helps me unwind better than a nice hot tub. Not sitting in the tub, just being around one. I need to get there early, as I almost always get asked to leave by the staff for, what they call, lurking around the hot tub while everyone else is relaxing inside it.

"It's alright, buddy. Are you ready? It's showtime!"
Could I sound anymore excited and late-night TV show announcer-like? I'm just hoping there are talent scouts out there who are either dazzled by my talents or easily bought off with day-old doughnuts with the promise of fresh doughnuts at a later date.

"I'm ready. Thanks, you know, for everything."
I'm contractually obligated to thank him for everything a minimum of twice a day. Damn fine print!

"Of course."
I am happy to help him. He's like a brother to me, while I am more like a distant uncle to him. An uncle who shows up at birthdays and gives a perplexing present that makes all gathered a little bit creeped out.

"Now let's go give those kids the best clown show they've ever seen."
It was the part I was born to play. Seriously. I am badly in need of some professional help. Thanks mom and dad.

Climbing

Climbing
and climbing
and climbing to the top
of the mountain
of clothes on the bed
is less tiring than
climbing the mountain over there
yes, that one
it's so tall
and rocky
"quit showing off up there"
I yell
until someone or something goes
"okay"
it's time to sleep.

Climbing 
and climbing
and climbing the big hill
like ants and aunts
and uncles 
after a large picnic
once on top I
admire the view
and you
and
will either hurt myself 
or slide down
if there is snow
when asked "why climb?"
I grow quiet
and long for
some wit.

Climbing
and climbing
and climbing the ladder
to your window
is poetic
romantic
and dangerous in that order
I hope
once there the wind
rustles my hair
gives me shivers
while you can be seen
down below
shaking the ladder
laughing
so I do too
to fit in.

Climbing
and climbing
and climbing like a vine
going 'round a tree
except you're not a tree
at all
I want to hug you like a vine
hugs a tree
a little less tight
and
suffocating
but
heads up
I have no leaves
am not green
and often smell of 
pizza.

Climbing 
and climbing
and climbing the stairs of the tower
of the castle 
with the dragon
and his mom
so cliched
yet I will always
be 
your shining-armoured knight 
at night
I will always rescue you
on cue
only asking for 
chocolate cake
on a plate with a fork
in return.

I'm A Lucky Dog

When I stop to think about it, I am a lucky dog, but not just any dog - we are talking top dog here. People are often telling me that too and usually before slapping me on the back or on the front, depending on which way I was facing at the time.

Before I go any further, what makes a dog so lucky in the first place? The furry coat? Dog houses? Is it all of the dog treats? It's got to be the dog treats because it certainly can't be the access to squeaky toys, or old hairless tennis balls or tick medication. And I should know. Believe me.

Anyways, I am lucky. I do know that and not just because I had some commemorative wall hangings and place mats, made that said as much because I had some unexpected free time when my chiropractor abruptly cut our appointment short, declaring my spine "beyond reproach" although he did have his bags packed for Hawaii.

I do recognize that others may not be as fortunate as I and that they may also find my luckiness "grating" and not the kind involving a nice sharp cheddar. I really don't want to come across as cocky or as a braggart, although if I had to choose, I'd go with the later because it is an underused and mostly misunderstood word in my neck of the woods.

I'd love to share the wealth and help others be luckier too. And, just to be clear, I don't mean any actual wealth as most of my wealth is either fictitious or tied up in avocado futures. But, if I can help, I'd like to as maybe this is one of the few good things about me that is contagious. You never know unless you try. No need for a quarantine here! At least not anymore. Progress!

And I'm always being reminded by random pedestrians, forensic investigators and my mom to count my lucky stars and I keep saying "yes" followed by "how do I know which ones are lucky" followed by my wondering if they are just attempting to keep me busy while they clean me out of cookies and then I inevitably try to start a rousing modernized version of Twinkle Twinkle only to be booed off the stage.

I do not have a good history with dogs either. Dogs usually want to slobber on me and bite me - usually in that order. And I have always wondered why? It's not like I want to bite them! Really, I don't. Not in the slightest. If anything I want to stay as far away from dogs as I can, mostly due to the fear of being bitten and having them read my mind as that just wouldn't look good for me or my sieve-like brain on a resume.

So, when others tell me I am a lucky dog, I'm not totally sure how to take it. Should I sit? Should I dance a happy dance? Do they mean that compared to all other dogs, especially the homeless and mangy, I am lucky? Or are they saying that if I was a dog, then I'd be one of the lucky few - call me a king of the dogs?...I could see that. "Dog King reporting for duty!"

Sure! I'd start out with a groundroots campaign. Get my hands dirty, kiss babies (dog babies), dig some holes, chase some cats and eventually rise through the ranks and finish as a benevolent dictator. The best benevolent dictator the dogs have ever seen and there have been many, based on my very sketchy understanding of local dog politics. I'll be honest - I have no idea what they are doing on the other side of the Pacific.

I am always very appreciative of praise of all sorts even the type that makes me want to get down on all fours and bark at the speaker. I have learned the hard way never to look a gifthorse in the mouth. Never. It's disgusting. But, I have to say that the next person who says "you lucky dog" better be really attractive, really funny or, hopefully, both or else I may just give them a piece of my mind. Figuratively. Now, if you'll excuse me I must go to bed, as I am as sick as a...how's that end again?

The Man in The Mirror

I stand in front of the mirror this morning like every other morning and take a deep breath. No time like the present to check myself out and see how things are going. After a quick once-over, I am transfixed by the haunting eyes that stare back at me. I remove the mask as Halloween is months off and I have sworn not to "freak the kids out before breakfast" any longer. Damn fine print. 

While my face leaves a small shopping list of things to be desired, the mirror is impeccable and it is a lasting tribute to the mirror craftsman who probably worked two jobs while supporting a family just to go to school to learn to make mirrors such as these thus fulfilling his deathbed-promise to his grandmother. She lived a long full life well after this promise despite her family giving her bed such a morose moniker.

When I look at myself, what do I see, aside from a missed opportunity to shelve pork products at the local butcher? I see a man, although that is arguable according to some well-written and painfully-descriptive pamphlets I had thrust upon me at the mall. I just hate having things thrust at me any time unless those things are either frozen or rent-controlled. 

Yes, I am a man, but notice I didn't say all man as that is like an oceanographer declaring the ocean is all water, marine life and rock formations. I am at least 2% marine life. Guess which parts! It's quite the surprise! 

I see in front of me dark baggy eyes befitting a person who has just waken after another poor night's sleep. Do I suffer from nightmares involving bogeymen and the bogeywomen who love them? Do I lead such a stressful life full of life or death or some sort of waking dead decisions? Am I just overly anxious to the point that I have gnawed all objects made of wood in the house gerbil-style? No. I do have allergies though and despite my best attempts, these allergies have begun to define me. Quite the bright allergies!

I have my shirt off and fight the temptation and male conditioning that was part of my elementary education to flex and kiss and attempt to flirt with my muscles. I don't look half-bad I think, and while that leaves me somewhere between 0 and 49% bad, I like what I see and I just know I'd be highly coveted as both a mate and a street performer if I moved to the gorilla colony I read about on line the other night after consuming too many cashews.

I am often told that I don't look my age. And I always reply "look harder; I am trying!" I do act my age and I try to feel my age although it is getting harder and harder to compare and contrast in these days of "no touching". I'll let you in on a big secret - I don't cover myself in creams or lotions or ointments and I did consider it as I just love Alfredo sauce and I hate to throw away leftovers. I guess my youthful looks are a result of genetics or genetic testing both of which I am a big fan. I have season's tickets! 

In moments where I am so vain, I wish my teeth were as white as a Disney princess and that my hair wasn't receding also like a Disney princess. Don't get me wrong - I love my forehead in all its freckled and shiny and partially reflective glory. I just miss the potential to sit around drinking herbal tea and growing an Afro and all of the extracurricular activities that opened the door to. Those doors are closed now and some have been freshly painted. Even I have to applaud their choice of colours and I never applaud colour choice on principle alone. My principles are always alone.

My temples are graying. Man, I wish I had some monks to say that to! It would bring the house down or at least get a chuckle or two if the monks gathered had no sense of humour. My once proud dark-red hair is now littered with the occasional white strand who say they want to be friends but I am sure they have ulterior and sinister motives and will never pick up the cheque. My once tight curls are slowly unfurling and becoming generally loose and frizzy which would make a great, albeit slightly depressing, title for my autobiography: "Generally Loose and Frizzy: One Man's Descent From Hairiness". But it would make an excellent musical comedy or How-To book.

And what to make of my slightly golden teeth? I don't smoke or chew tobacco, I don't drink coffee or soy sauce and I have a healthy amount of enamel and enamel inspired artwork adorning the walls of my house. I have seen dentists and hygienists and even asked a girl who strangely had a shape that was strangely and attractively tooth-like - we went out on a date and I just wanted to brush her - and they all said the same things "your teeth are healthy - aren't you glad your mom stopped you from eating rocks as a baby, oh wait a second, that was me and she didn't" and "I'll trade you my watch for your mouth full of gold" and "leave me alone and let me enjoy my nougat". They are always eating nougat and never offering to share.

My legs and arms are still strong and the inevitable atrophy hasn't completely hit me yet. And to be honest I'm not that excited about that part of my future. Offer me a trophy instead and we'll talk. On good days, I feel like I have the strength of a 25 year old with the wisdom that I always heard would arrive as I got on in years but my friends always doubted would actually show up. They even had a betting pool. Resourceful and cruel, those are my friends!

My hands are not unlike those hands you've all seen before. You know the ones...right, those ones! They are weathered and calloused and slightly sun-damaged, and yet they still get up in the morning, down two shots of espresso, put on their pants one leg at a time and go to work like every other pair of hands and don't try to tell me that your hands don't do this as my hands are covering my ears right now so I can't hear you and yes it is a good question how they are doing that while I am typing this too. It is a really good question and I am the one who is here right now and I don't even know, so imagine how you must feel. I thank the power above for my two hands each and every day except for those days when I have an overwhelming desire to stand and give everyone I see a standing ovation for reasons that are not clear to me at all.

I stand in front of the mirror in my upstairs bathroom each and every morning and look at myself and wonder who is that man of mystery staring back at me before I remember he moved in last week and is always hogging the mirror. What can I say, I am a sucker for men of mystery.

  

Waiting For My Ride

So, I'm currently sitting on the bench outside my place sipping on a lemon-flavoured cool drink waiting for my ride to come

and

wondering why he's running late this time hoping I haven't been forgotten or left out like that time late last summer or was it early fall when I sat there for what seemed like hours in the blazing sun without my hat because I lent it to my girlfriend right before she decided to move far away forever instantly converting her into an ex-girlfriend

and

a hat thief in that order and I got quite the sunburn sitting on that bench without my hat while my quote unquote friend was at the beach or the park or an identical bench a few blocks away because he made what he claims was an honest mistake with where he thought we were meeting and I was told countless times not to take it personally

and

each time I tried as hard as I could but it was hard not to as how do you honestly forget someone really unless they were really forgettable or if you just had too much on your mind like if you were an important surgeon performing a complicated operation or if you had to remember lots and lots and lots of people

and

then you could be forgiven or excused if you missed just one but my buddy who is being downgraded into an acquaintance with each passing minute and car that doesn't have him in it has no excuse that I am aware of

and

now that I think of it he has never been all that great a friend as he is never there for me or here for me or even in the neighbourhood when I could use a hand or pair of hands depending on the circumstances and how many hands are needed

and

it is always all about him and even when it's not it's mostly about him to the point that it annoys and frustrates me and makes me wish I was somewhere else surrounded by people some of which will have curly hair and others will not

and

they not only care about me and laugh at my jokes and be genuinely interested in me and they wouldn't forget all about me forcing me to waste yet another afternoon sitting like a loser at the bench drinking a lemon soda that has not only turned lukewarm but reminded me to finally stop being cheap

and

just get my ice maker fixed especially considering my boss is coming over for a dinner of roasted chicken and he is not one for room temperature beverages unless at sea and I am trying to make a good impression so I can get that raise partially for the money but mostly as proof to my dad that I'm at least partially a success

and

I can't get over this warm drink in my hand and how it is just adding to my state of anger as well as exponentially increasing my perspiration and finally allowing me to work up the courage and desire to give my ride a piece of my mind because who does he think he is treating me like this

and

you know what he can forget about those tickets to that soldout show I promised him and I am so done with his sarcasm and perpetually unshaven look as well as that goatee that is aching to be taken seriously but doesn't quite get there although it does fit his personality which is not meant to be a compliment at all

and

I'm just going to get up now and go inside to leave a series of increasingly depressing voice messages for my ex-girlfriend that passive aggressively hint about my old hat without directly addressing it as I don't want to come across like that

and

then I'm going to sit back and wait to see if she ever calls about the hat or if he ever calls to say sorry about not meeting me then I can ignore them both for a while and then either exact my revenge on her and or treat him as if he was invisible sort of like what I'm experiencing right now

and

what do you know there he is.

I guess he was just running late as usual.

Wanting to Scream

He wants to scream

But he can't.

At least not here
not now
no way.

Anger boils up inside him like a pot 
full of water
rapidly bubbling
releasing steam
making a mess
everywhere.

Fired.

Let go.

Dismissed.

Around him the others are typing, talking, texting, tallying numbers and terminating deals and teeming with work place spirit.

Animated, motivated, tabulated, isolated, frustrated.

Punch in, punch out.

Head down, work hard.

Kiss up, laugh hard.

He did it all!

Now this.

Why?

He
had been ordered to collect his things
like a nobody
an after thought
a has been
or a piece of trash
tossed to the proverbial curb of life as well as the real curb outside the door.

Sitting at his desk for the last time, he
fights the urge to punch the wall 
or his boss
or his neighbour (who just needs to blow his nose already)
or those personal demons.

It's all their fault.

He rises
making a fist 
nails piercing skin
drawing blood
the pain feels right.

And yet it doesn't.

He was once 
the golden boy
the promised one
the t crosser and the i dotter
the yes man
and the no sir.

He was both the jack and the master of all of the trades.

He had jumped how high, and now, he had sank so low.

He wants to scream.

Just not here.

You're Never Here

"You're never here when I need you" she said as I entered our apartment after yet another long day of thankless work.

I was hoping to come home to a house full of love and warmth and dinner.

Instead, I was greeted with an anger I was unfamiliar with and completely unprepared for.

The words hit me like a brick being throw at a glass window and it shattered me into a million pieces.

"What did she need," I wondered "and what was so wrong, this time?"

Panicked, I quickly searched my memory, looking for the right words to soothe her.

Nothing.

I was desperate. "Never?" I probed.

The room was dark and cold and she felt miles away.

She looked at me with red eyes that from this day forth will always be etched in my brain.

"Never" she replied before leaving and aggressively slamming the door behind her.