A friend gave me an old handmade book as a gift.
She said the book had been in Emily Dickinson’s house, and she had always kept it within reach.
I looked at the cover… it was too stained and battered to read what was on it.
So, I opened it carefully…
It was a volume of poems I’d never seen published before.
And they were terrible. Really awful.
Completely unlike anything Emily Dickinson had ever written.
“Oh, she didn’t write this book,” she said. “She used it to swat bugs and spiders. She was horribly afraid of the damned things.”
Tag: cliche
Swoosh
Long ago, an executive at the Coca-Cola Company came up with an plan to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.
All around the world, Coke bottles were distributed with fill lines on them, and when people drank the Coke to that level, they blew across the top of the bottle and get it to resonate with a soothing pitch.
People were supposed to sing at that pitch, but long before anyone got in tune, the resonance from the bottles caused the earth’s core to wobble and explode.
The remaining debris field left a trail like the trademark swoosh.
Washed Up
There’s an old joke that nobody wants to see a tsunami hit Los Angeles because there’s enough washed-up actors there already.
Too late.
I come across another body on the beach, tangled in seaweed.
She looks familiar. Maybe an actress, starred in a commercial or two.
Toothpaste?
Shoes?
Orange juice?
Something like that.
I snap a few photos, record the location, and call for a pickup as I stick a beacon flag in the sand.
Damn. My last one.
I hate it when they’re kids. That’s just sad, sadder than adults.
Another siren. Wave coming.
I run for higher ground.
The American Dream
A priceless treasure is missing.
We’ve lost The American Dream.
Have you seen it?
Check your pockets.
What pants were you wearing last night?
Your jacket. Turn those pockets out too.
No. It’s not there.
Where did you see it last?
Everywhere. In the hearts and hopes of every American.
But it’s not there anymore.
Where did it go?
Stolen? No.
Really, who’d steal it?
Not me either.
Have you checked behind the sofa?
No. It’s not there.
It’s not anywhere.
We’d better find it soon.
Because everyone’s starting to wake up.
And the coffeemaker’s broken.
Check your pockets again.
Cries
The baby’s crying. And she won’t stop, no matter what I do.
I remember my mother telling me that there’s no crying over spilled milk, so I rush to the refrigerator, get the milk, and spill some on her.
And, like magic, she stops.
Through the silence, we stare at each other for a while.
She has my eyes, but the rest is so Jason.
I smile, and she smiles… and laughs.
And laughs. And laughs.
She cannot stop laughing.
What did mom say? Ah: “No laughing at the misfortune of others.”
What? How the hell do I do that?
Not yet written
My mother always said that “God has not yet written the future.”
And she was right.
God never writes shit down.
Oh, He may send an angel or a burning bush to harass someone, and they’ll freak out and tell a bunch of people about it. But, really, God doesn’t write anything down.
Ever wonder why?
It’s because His handwriting is awful. Like a child holding a crayon in their fist.
And he’s too cheap to buy a voice recorder, let alone think about starting a podcast or YouTube channel.
So, He created mankind. To write shit down for him.
No rest for the wicked
The Book Of Isaiah says there is no rest for the wicked.
But I know of a rest stop for the wicked.
It’s in Ohio, along the Turnpike. Just outside of Akron.
All kinds of wickedness happens there.
Children disobey their parents. And eat dessert before dinner, if they eat their dinner at all.
And I know a writer who goes there in the summer to dangle participles and split infinitives.
After Labor Day, we dress in our finest whites and parade around the dog-walking lawn shamelessly.
Not that people walk their dogs there. They poop all over!
Truly wicked!
Assistant Wanted
Remember when she said she’d gotten her dream job? Assistant to that big movie star.
No, not the one always adopting kids. The other one.
Yeah, that one. That’s him.
Didn’t even send flowers. That’s what he had her for, right? To make it look like he cared.
Never had time to date.
Never had time to settle down.
Never took a vacation.
Oh, sure, she traveled, but she never saw the world. Phone in one hand, her boss’ dayplanner in the other.
Did she schedule this, too?
Heart attack.
Die at twenty-six.
Put an ad in Variety: Assistant Wanted.
Survivors
It’s been two hours since the helicopter crashed on the mountain.
Well, not really crashed. It was a rather good landing.
Jacobs disagrees about that. “It was a shitty landing,” he says. “Spilled my drink.”
We’ve got plenty of food, water, and other supplies, but Jacobs insists that we kill the pilot and eat him.
“I’m not eating goddamned energy soy bars,” says Jacobs. “I want a steak, and muscle is just meat, right?”
The pilot tried to yell through his gag.
“I think I hear a chopper,” I said. “They found us.”
“Good,” said Jacobs. “More pilots to eat.”
The Cart
A old, tired Mexican
In a denim work shirt
and faded torn jeans,
a dirty ball cap,
and a makeshift bandage
tied around his knee
Pedaling an unmarked ice cream cart
With a wobbly left front wheel
Up a hill
Slowly
Slowly
I watch him
What is in his cart?
The big white box
With the wobbly wheel
Tamales for the day laborers
Who line the road
Waiting to be picked up
By contractors
In their big shiny pickup trucks?
I hear the rattle of metal
Tools? His tools?
Or chains?
I watch him pedal
Up the hill
And away