Visiting the Optometrist

My Eyes Just Came
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Life is full of happenstance joy pebbles. You just have to know where to look. And knowing how helps too. Like airborne everything, greatness is all around you if you look at it right. Or left. Or refracted-like. This morning for instance, I looked left and saw Phil Lesh strolling down the sidewalk. Lesh circa 1972, mind you.

And yesterday, I looked right. Right into a thrift store where, upon entry, I was not stench-steamrolled by mildew horror and where the audio cherubs were one step ahead of the game. Lennon was imagining one set of things, I was imagining another, and the clerks couldn't be bothered. In the meantime, reality and unstables named Chapman were barred from entry. (Retail penance for bouncing flesh checks.)

Today, I looked right with my eyes covered, because memories are fluid and experience cannot be captured in snapshot lineage and because sometimes the visual is the least important part. Blindly, I looked. Without knowing, I saw. And all this as I walked into the cranial observatory, arriving at just the perfect moment. There, I watched Rumplestiltskin spin history into gold and before I could say either of our names, the screen faded to black.

As it did so, my eyes opened for the very first time. And instead of reading Fin, I saw that the final shot said Grateful. And I was. Like the gratitude flung at Sicilian grandmother cream puffs, I realized something more moving than stop drop and roll. I finally saw, saw truth and it was brown because it was whole. I saw like really saw the way you do not with your eyes but with your soul. I saw the Is and Was and my genuine fortune like never before. Doc said I'd been wearing the wrong prescription this whole time.

Reverse Robinhoods Can Suck It

1971 Never Looked So Good
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Maine is one of the few states that harbors the fugitive-esque legislative gaff called the deposit-refund system. The system came about much like a kidney stone: after repeated failures to pass the law, the legislature finally enacted the Maine bottle bill in 1978. Under the auspices of reducing waste by way of increased recycling, the law tacked a five cent tax onto beer and soft drink containers. In 1990, Augusta fat cats expanded the bill to include wine, liquor, bottled water, iced tea, and juice containers.

I can see your attention span shriveling quicker than an ill-suited not for children analogy, so let me get the point. And by get, I mean crawl. Part of the point is that yes, the deposit-refund system has reduced waste and yes, it has increased recycling. However, on the fiscal end, we run into a reality less ten dollar haircut and lollipop cut and dry. For starters, the bill has not been a boon to employment. 214 to 626 new jobs hardly constitute a boon, much less a spike worthy of notation. And in case you didn't know, statistical gloating of the undeserved variety is a fist down throat No. So the bottle bill has not done much for jobs in this employment-not-to-mention-living-wage-employment starved state. At the same time, it succeeded in increasing waste management costs while ignoring a giant loophole slash unenforceable-in-practical-terms inevitability. There is a substantial and growing disparity between the per ton cost of recycling curbside collected and deposit-refund waste. Rather than bore you with explanatory details, I'll bore you with something else. Namely the illogic if not stupidity that creates a system that requires national manufacturers to satisfy one state's exclusionary, cost-ineffective stipulations - not to mention the subsequent crowning of the state as broker between the two systems?! Interrobang that, Augusta.

What a crock. And that brings me to the real point.

I, like many of my neighbors, put my blue recycling bin out on a nearby curb most Tuesday nights. The gesture is not one of kinship or camaraderie, but one of Pavlovian do-gooding. Wednesday mornings the recycling truck comes and cost-effectively picks up our recyclables. The actual picking up is done by a couple gruff men. I don't envy these folks. Theirs is a shitty job. Enduring Maine's elements, inhaling exhaust fumes from a back bumper, lifting heavy bins of other people's trash, and doing it all before the sun one-twos the horizon? Yeah, I call that a shitty job.

So I do my best to help these guys out. I clean my bottles and cans, I separate the cardboard from the lighter weight paper, and I place my bin right on the curb's lip. And in this spirit of consideration, I also keep in mind the indigents who roam the streets on Tuesday nights and Wednesday mornings collecting items covered under Maine's Bottle Bill. For the indigents, I separate too. Sure, I could horde the treasures and in a few weeks, I'd have myself a bar of soap or a gallon of milk. But I don't use bar soap and I don't drink milk. Plus, I figure if my alcoholism can help a sweet old woman pay her oil bill, I'd be an alcoholic and an asshole if I didn't contribute. Now comes the real, real point.

Tonight, I spotted an asshole shithead fuckface cutting in on indigent ground. An interloper with a truck and a pair of dirty as sin eyes. This guy drives a respectable looking vehicle around the West End, stopping at blue bin curbside mounds then taking the bottles and cans that indigent immigrant ladies depend on to buy their diabetes medication. I came out tonight to place the last of my cardboard stacks in my recyclables bin and this asshole has the tail of his truck pulled into my driveway and is grabbing the bags of bottles I'd saved for the immigrant ladies. This asshole then has the gall to tell me "Oh, I'm just taking the returnables."

I stared straight into the shallow pools of guilt he calls eyes and god, how I wish I'd called him the piece of shit that he was. But being a small woman, alone, on a dark sidewalk made me reconsider and side selfishly with personal safety considerations. Instead of throwing expletives his way, I just told him he was stealing from the mouths of newborns and homeless people who don't have money for food, much less funds for a nice truck. He looked ashamed, but not enough to stop taking the bottles. I looked pissed, but not enough to take my bags back.

When Double Entendres Hit Perception's Wall

Whitetrashing It
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

You try to be coy,
clever,
clandestine
But just enough
to ring cognizant
You try and
sometimes you fail
And in such instances
all you can do is laugh.
Actually no, wait a second postman,
Because no
you can do a theoretically infinite
number of things
But laughing seems
the most cosmically neutral
PH balanced
for the rain and
its green galoshes

See, it's what happens
when you come to work hours late
without the threat of detection
It's what comes from meetings
that go your way and then some
It's the byproduct of gray skies
and heavy clouds
that leave you soaked
embalmed in fabric
tissue clinging to skin
with saran wrap tautness
It's when your Christ complex finally makes sense
more so than saliva droplets
on pillowcase mornings
It's when the neighborhood
corner booth feels
more homespun
Than mother's cold
gestures and family recipes
that smell like war.

If your intent is lost
on some
maybe that's just god's way
of telling you
To stop
taking yourself so seriously.
Maybe it's a reminder to bring an umbrella.

A Beacon of Responsibility

Stepping on Cracks
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

The plan: leave class; pursue an afternoon of making the liver earn its keep.

This, after a four Guinness morning and a week of corporation-fueled frustration, seemed the best way to usher in the post noon hours. Perfect answer to a four page long to do list. An ideal mechanism for avoiding cunt of a boss thoughts.

A little walking, a little talking, some drinking and library book returning, then napping and introspecting, and before you know it, it's time to squeegee the Third Eye.

We could all use a little of that from time to time. And what better time than the anniversary of Jesus' death? Christ, how morbid. Almost as bad as that time in New York City with a thirty year old teenager and the blood of the lamb.

God, was that awful. And rhetorically so.

My Retarded Uncle

Sipping and Giving Lip
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

You wrote the word retard
And it hurt my feelings,
my feelings' feelings,
And my tear ducts' feelings
And now I have to wipe
my tears and their hurt feelings
And blow my nose
into a tissue whose feelings are hurt by proxy.

Retarded is not a word to be used
By just anyone.
You have to pass a test. Professionally proctored
Because it's about time people
Start respecting
Retardation's linguistic protocol,
Stop taking it for granted
And offending people with unsanctioned
Conjugation.
That's how feelings get hurt.

Retardation is sacred.
Sacred
Like Catholicism's trombone
An instrument sanctified,
held captive for its chromatic charm,
And blasphemed by a heathen symphony.
Number five.
Guess Beethoven should have known better.

Only after passing a test
Can you use words like retard.
Only after bringing civil rights
into talk
of conditions that medicine and the
high court commit to print
Can you add retard to your vocabulary.
And even then it's risky.
Better slap an ed or ation to the end
Just in case.
You never know whose feelings might get hurt.

Maybe babies should have to take a test before we let them speak.
They're liable to offend everyone, hurt everyone's feelings
Being new to this world and
Not yet mouth broken.
Say what you will about meaning and context
that counts for nothing
Or leaves you in the red,
A deficit of meaning because
Particulars are irrelevant
And oftentimes offensive.

Using the word retard is not a right
It's a privilege
And your misuse offends me.
It's almost as bad
When you use the word blue.
And Jew. And holocaust
And sunshine.
It really is so inappropriate.
Especially when used in art.

The dictionary offends me.
It's worse than that time
With Jesus and Lennon
And that was quite bad.
Let's burn all the dictionaries,
An exit from access
Save all those words from savage cold hearts.

I have an uncle. His name is Sasha.
He has Downs Syndrome and I love him a lot.
We watch Russian films
And listen to music
from his collection,
then we'll take a walk.
I said the word love and now I'm offended.
Offended myself with
this savage cold heart.

Making Misogyny Cry

Watch for the Bushes
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

If Time was a woman
She'd be a stingy bitch,
A grandmother crabby
Always awaiting two pennies change.
She'd read receipts and do the math
On pocket calculator, then check it twice.

If Time was a woman
She'd be more fickle than soup
called Sweet and Sour,
More stubborn than mathematicians
proving zero.

If Time was a woman
She'd be a feminist movement all her own,
Third Wave would look draconian
And independence would be set free.
Semantic shackles, syntax, and all things context would dissolve
while definition drowned in morning coffee.
Light and sweet and gender neutral.

If Time was a woman
She'd be a guideline gymnast.
She'd take this and turn it into that,
limber as a toy
Plastic and not afraid to break.
No bones, restrictions,
No one right way.
Just a lifetime warranty and a big gold star.

If Time was a woman
She'd knit thick sweaters from
Spools of Past and Present.
Perfect attire for Future's bat mitzvah.

If Time was a woman
She'd be in state custody.
That's what they do to multiple personality disorders
Who refuse
Medication, and
Time
don't take no pills.

If Time was a woman
She'd always be well-armed,
A walking armory,
Because you never know
And neither does she.

Spring is a Mannequin

Spring is a Mannequin
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Spotted. The first signs of Spring. Printemp's little green spikes caught red-handed. Apprehended while hiding beneath chlorophyll's cover and last year's mulch.

Despite its many talents, Spring does not have a gift for stealth. Instead, it has a gift for being caught wearing that trademark smile. Bright-eyed and facetious, it is a smile that taunts Winter's wickedness. It is a double dog dare smile begging to be taught a lesson. Green shoots tempt heaven's snowmaking machine. They threaten to turn blue skies and balmy breezes into runaway teenagers and deadbeat dads. On the lamb and in search of parking on Easy Street.

Green shoots are Spring's toes, freshly painted and testing the Sea's temperature before the big plunge.

The shoots climb toward a dying star, toward genetic mandates, toward death by bouquet. Within days, these burgeoning bulbs will be the season's It Girl. At least for a few weeks. They will wear last year's pant suit, just back from dry cleaning and winter hibernation. Within days, area housewives will have something else to Ooooh and Aaaah about and salesmen will regurgitate more seasonal clichés. They'll try to sound unrehearsed, natural. But they will sound like dead horses being flogged. Familiar.

Meanwhile, water coolers will roll their eyes. They're sick of tradition, having binged one too many times on all things Spring. These days, you'll find they've switched to an all beef diet and have given up clocks and calendars. They've even developed a fondness for salt. Guess it's fair to say office gossip will never be the same again.

9 Out of 10 Drug Addicts Agree

Traffic and Triple Entendres
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

There's a new boss in town. It goes by the name Sleep Deprivation and it is this season's hottest designer drug. A healthy dose of Sleep Deprivation and you're higher than a trip to the Himalayas, wood stilts in tow. Best part is, SD skips all messy backstage drama. No bloody noses, no hypodermic needles. No rehab and no withdrawal.

No paranoia either. Just life made more absurd, more vivid. Like a new pair of shades and a cartoon snap bracelet that wears a hula-hoop in place of shoes.

And you, you might as well join the party, if for no other reason than to showcase your hula-hooping skills and your Nepalese charm. Wait, that's not you, it's me. It's me with the ring in hand, waiting for people to drink the punch and for steel rods to start falling. Waiting for the rods to escape sphintoral containment so that we can get on with things. This isn't the Cold War you know, so go have some punch. The sooner you finish it, the sooner I hula-hoop.

Simple as that. And just as quick.

Is It Over Yet?

Going Down
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Wolfowitz to head the World Bank
Because war criminals and poor strategists deserve as much.
Senate approves rape of national wildlife refuge
Because abstinence-only programs aren't catching on.
Karen Hughes handed another political reward
Because ambassadorships make great thank you gifts.
New Anthrax scares and more casualties and
Tom DeLay caught in a lie. Again. Again.

Why?
Because we are parched for scandal and
Because only blood can tame this fire.
Because people think that if it bleeds, it leads and
Because those who know better are busy
chasing a myth or hiding in bed
or desperately trying to forget.

Look. Another headline and its precious byline.
The ink confirmation all its own
that freedom is on the march,
On the march and
heading straight for the showers,
Women and children to the right,
Journalists to the left.

Is this it? Is this really it?
Or did Justice suddenly grow a sense of humor,
One that puts the Marquee de Sade's to shame?
And when did mistakes become so funny anyhow?
Was it right before the bomb dropped?
Again? Again?

Dancing with the Taxman

Hold and Pull
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Waking
Up
and down
and inverted-like
Making photocopies at fifteen cents
A piece
and crossing things
Off the list quicker than
A sponge drinks
Chicken bacteria
and junior's accidents.

Give me a refund and I'll give you
A recitation,
A Hamlet soliloquy of your choice.
I'll send a picture,
one photocopied
And folded in half, twice.
Drawing with highlighter
Aiming for a citrus grove
but growing
a weed instead
Bittersweet vine
An invasive.

Propagate it
or think of something other,
Either way I could use some juice
And the leaves,
They're turning yellow.
Good thing Taxman understands.
He's seen it all before
And reaching for ice cubes
Is a familiar device,
An adding machine
with battery dead
And glass
Empty.
Empty and clean.

Dendrite Destruction

standing
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Fudge. I mean, Fuck. Fucking new IP address and DNS routing mess and me not getting my email as a result and IMAP servers dropping the connection and backend administration being of no help. Christ.

The gem in this landfill of tech frustration (courtesy of my incompetent hosting company) is that it's led to the discovery of old writing. A small cache circa 2000. This is a scenario right out of the "server fucks you over > turn to long unused email account > discover something forgotten" book. A classic. Except that instead of a book, you find a draft folder full of five year old humor. Yes, written by five year olds for five year olds. Or like the t-shirt says: It's a post-toddler thing, you wouldn't understand.

From this newfound treasure trove, I've extracted a few observations. For your benefit and mine.

1. Eating disorders were as funny then as they are now.
2. If you're going to sexually harass, at least have the decency to give your victim chocolate ice cream afterwards.
3. Life without humor is like Jesus without the cross.

Hail Mary. See you at mass.

Marsupial Stew

spinning
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

i want your mouth in my pancreas
pancreas in my soup
soup of mortality
steaming
boiling over into the fresh
frozen
fantasy of a dream
white, invisible
like a child's ringing cry
cry
cry
like a baby wailing
over walls of diaper rash
pancreas stew.
go make your bed.

Goodnight

Grey Goes Better with E
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

When it comes to dreams, I should take my own advice more often. Write that mother down as soon consciousness is had. Grab the pen and paper combo next to the bed and write like the Dickens.

I don't dream often, but I do dream in cycles. Those cycles are defined by months of blessed nothingness followed by three weeks of harrowing REM psychic shiver. The dream weeks are raw, painful. Like having a visceral Maglite shoved beneath your eyelids for hours each night. Intense.

Thematically, they've been consistent for decades. Death, murder, terror. Last night was no different. There was a large Victorian home, an orphanage, and a murderer on the loose. Murderer was said to be lurking around town. Reminiscent of something, hopefully prophetic of nothing.

If I die in my sleep tonight, you'll know who did it. And with death, all I ask is to be cremated and then to have my ashes set on fire. Comprendez-vous? Posthumous publication of some of my work would be fab, but primary focus is on cremation and ash burning. And perhaps a Pulitzer.

Guns, Guinness, and No Roses

Dead
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

I can now die happy. Thank you, firearms!

I never knew instruments of death could deliver unobstructed serenity. But I guess that's what you get with weapons that first rouse you from fulfillment's slumber and then tuck you into a newfound sense of experiential satiety. Clean linens and all.

Chances are, you don't know what your life's been missing until you're confronted with two handguns and the opportunity to touch them. Such is life. Full of confusion and misplaced certainty rendered null and void by cold steel.

I never had an interest in guns. And personal politics leave me at a point of impasse, torn between my libertarian tendencies and a slightly less highfalutin "guns kill" theory. That said, I was sans pun disarmed when two guns found their way into a casual night of hanging and drinking.

"Have you ever held a gun?"

"No."

"Want to?"

"Okay."

And so it went. I held both guns. One a forty-five, the other a name I don't remember. I held both guns, stuck a feather in my Experiential Hat, and poured another Guinness. No shots fired, no blood shed; a good night.

Dirty Diaper Condemnation

Confirmed bachelors make stories hilarious. That’s a universal truth. Like the idea that humans need oxygen to live, except much, much funnier. And funnier still when the story involves a confirmed bachelor, a woman, and an unplanned pregnancy. Regardless of confirmed bachelor’s, woman’s, or baby’s sexual orientation, humor is inevitable. A laughter-induced asthma attack is even possible – or probable, if the confirmed bachelor is a pathological philanderer who fears commitment more than he fears death or syphilis. In the latter case, Humor embraces Irony and the two go off to dinner with Retribution. Puréed yams are served.

Excuse me while I chuckle. And by chuckle, I mean pee myself and laugh so hard that I forget what laugh lines and comedic tears are.

While I wipe, let me also add that I’m no stranger to life’s taste for the absurd and its teddy bear adoration for surprise. However, some situations are exempt from random circumstance consideration. Promiscuous man unknowingly impregnates a want-child-before-my-ovaries-shrivel woman? Case in point.

What makes this delectable human dramedy all the more sweet is that a) I added two tablespoons of Hawaiian white honey and b) the never official couple unofficially broke-up because the woman wanted kids and the man didn’t. Thinking he’d escaped just in time, a phone call six weeks later proved him wrong. How wrong? Creationism meets Reaganomics meets fat people in spandex wrong.

Not sweet enough for you? Did that fat people in spandex image ruin it? If so, then try this on for size. And by this, I mean the ultimate prefix to any impending fatherhood announcement: “I’ve made some big mistakes in my life. Some really, really big mistakes...”

Hahahaha. Yes, dear readers, that is how confirmed bachelor introduced his audience to his unborn child. And the announcement came at just the right time - “seven to ten days” before the little bugger was expected to make the journey from uterus to incubator. Perfect, because you wouldn’t want to tell people any sooner. Better to keep these things to yourself for eight and a half months. You know, in case there’s an accident. Or an “accident.” Why get people’s hopes up?

Either from eye-rolling boredom or genuine intrigue, you may find yourself wondering whether this story can get any better. Well, it can and it does, because while other stories can’t improve, this one can’t stop improving. You couldn't stop this comedic nightmare if you tried. You couldn’t stop it if you shoved it into a body bag, beat it senseless with a brick of RU-486, and shipped it to Chernobyl.

How does the story get better? I’m glad you asked.

First there were the obligatory “she planned it” accusations. Sounds like one sharp lady, for what better way to rekindle a month-long relationship that never was? Why, yes, of course! You lure him back with an unplanned, unwanted pregnancy!

Quickly outgrowing its 70% entertaining 30% itchy wool britches, this travesty turned fantastic when the bachelor lamented that if he could “get on a time machine and go back ten months, [he] would.” Ignoring the fact that time machines are like vehicles, in that you get in them, not on them --- this line is a clincher of epic proportions. This man is unapologetically suck-a-lemon bitter about the turn his life has taken, yet he holds onto a glimmer of hope that some supernatural force can still save him from long term entanglement. Impressive. I guess that’s what happens when optimism and desperation converge. It’s called denial and it’s hilarious.

Never before had I looked at parenthood as a device of retribution. I never considered it an institution capable of delivering poetic justice, much less karmic repercussion. Sure, there were lots of “Just wait until you have kids!” threats growing up, but no one ever takes those seriously. After all, they were just the miserable ramblings of a resentful mother. And with Jesus, David, and Muhammad as your witnesses, you’d never turn out like her. Never! [Feel free to insert a teenager screaming “I hate you, Mom!”]

So wrapping up, what have we learned? For one, we’ve learned that miserable people can give birth. We’ve also learned that desperation isn’t all bad – in rare cases, it can lead to increased creativity. And we’ve learned that parenthood does not mix well with commitment-phobia and that RU-486 does not mix well with healthy pregnancy.

But most importantly, I finally learned what “life’s a bitch” means. It means woman’s power is so great, it actually defines existence. Heavy. And if logical deduction is any guide, true too.

Genetic Roadblock

The universe and my genetics are in cahoots. They’re busy conspiring against my procrastinator tendencies and I’m busy pointing fingers and calling bullshit.

Yes, I know I have a paper to write and a corresponding presentation to prepare. And yes, I am very well aware of the fact that both are due in 22 and a half hours. I’ve been blessed with a memory that’s rendered me a walking chronology. Particularly when deadlines are concerned. It is a memory with capacity for recall enough to make fabled elephants look like Alzheimer'd grandmothers. And accuracy enough to make atomic clocks blush.

Take that and sauté it with a clinical case of failure aversion, and you’ve got me. So why is the universe taunting my genetic predisposition toward perfection? I’ll deliver the goods, you damn junkie, so lay off. Cut it out with the constant phone calls, and for christ’s sake, would you cover those track marks? My psychic landscape has had enough of your good samaritan slash protestant work ethic badgering. You’ve met the day’s quota - thrice.

I’m not asking for much, just a temporary acknowledgement. A hall pass. Procrastination is an art so stop staining my canvas! Just when I thought I’d mitigated my double helix meddling enough to enjoy a few more hours of non-task-at-hand related activities, you tip procrastination’s ink well. And by you, I mean a very disapproving aunt sally “you, universe, you.” No dessert tonight.

Gingersnaps and warm milk are not awarded to amorphous half-matter, half-idea entities. I’d make an exception, but you make it so hard. Smug, you continue to focus my thoughts on the paper and presentation, flexing your i-control-all puppet master muscle while downing a non-copyright-infringement-just-do-it shake. I know the paper is due. You don’t have to take away my phone or all the food in my house to make me write it. Say what you will about me leaving the phone at work and consciously avoiding grocery shopping for weeks. I’m not buying it, sister. It’s all part of your paper-writing scheme and I want a refund. I don’t have a receipt, so I’ll gladly accept store credit and trade it in for a little peace of mind by way of comfortable, non-soul gnawing procrastination.

Thanks. Pleasure doing business with you.

When New England Becomes Tolerable

Driving to Job A with a Poland Spring bottle. Empty, save for seven ounces of wine. The wine? Courtesy of France's Burgundy region and a proclivity for pouring without spilling. The audio? Provided by an NPR affiliate brash enough to change its name to something other. All in all, a perfect follow-up to a sleepless night of reading, research, and first draft writing.

A gorgeous drive. Huddled beneath a blanket of twilight and street lamps, it was like passing through someone's front yard at dawn, knowing your trespass would go unnoticed. Safe. And certain. Certain that any incursion on sleep's precious ground would be excused, forever masked by a fog of drowsy doubt and dry mouth wonder.

Few cars on the highway. Little mention of destination. And winter's idyllic visage beaming in all its glory, thanks in no small part to a half bottle of beaujolais. So off I drove, on I went. What else was I to do? All was temporary, fleeting, like pieces of a puzzle yearning to put themselves together - longing to be reborn as the whole pictured on the box. Seamless.

So off I drove, with life's great mystery comforted by jigsaw sense. Serene and logical, if only for a moment.

A retard and a curmudgeon

A two hour session of electric pulse cringe.
Electric shock therapy in verbal form
less Sylvia Plath.
Stupid, stupid.

And embarrassing, but only for me because you are too dumb
to know what embarrassment means.
Your defeated brain can't process the concept
so i'm doing overtime.

You focus on fine motor skills and continence.
Maybe someday you’ll qualify for the Special Olympics.
In the meantime, pay me time and a half
and stop making Downs Syndrome look so good.
It offends us both.

Stop superpower wish wasting

Who needs the ability to fly or turn invisible
when you can freeze time?
And unfreeze it.

Try. Just once.
Or make a habit of it,
a twelve step program.
Try. Leave your molecular makeup
Out to thaw overnight.
Rub it invisible,
look through the window.

Look at the swatches of celestial doublespeak,
Galactic tombstones
Defying everything you know and don’t know and forgot to ask.

Eyes become death’s speculum,
Pry open something you can’t see because
You lost your bifocals and all interest in pap smears.

Go scale a wall or become a fish,
turn your left fin into a hook.
Reel yourself in,
into a can of white chunk tuna, but
Hold the mayo, cowboy.

This isn’t Texas. Or Wyoming.
And Andrew Jackson can go
flush himself
down History’s toilet
and America can wipe its ass on
A twenty
and go back to sleep.

No worries about waking
Because synaptic sizzle
Smells like hair burnt over reason
And foresight.

Go take yourself costume shopping
and don’t pay the bill.
And don’t steal.
You’d make a great onomatopoeia,
worth mischief night’s candy dictionary
and a barrel full of having to hear yourself speak.

I’ll save you a razor blade apple
and you keep on wishing.
Keep playing dress-up,
but I,
I have no time for games.
Too busy freezing and unfreezing
and being my own unmarked grave.

X-Ray Vision

Watching things crumble, things that are not things
Or thoughts half woven, crocheted,
Not clouds that look like farm animals or big shoes
Or a mother’s love.
Blushing, watching, watching it unravel because hem needs mending
And time is a capricious trickster and
the yarn got loose but the seamstress is sick and
Stuck. Stuck on questions not asked years ago,
Free.

Watching without knowing, it’s almost
As bad as living without thinking without
Thinking too much. Take a bow and autism’s stepmother
Will throw you a rose.
Catching it won’t make a difference.
Neither will applause or this or that.
And not that either or the ether thorn, hiding.