I Don’t Believe I Am Supposed To Be Happy

I Don’t Believe I Am Supposed To Be Happy

once awake

I never know if

I’ll meet the day a

champion chatterbox

or a soft modern stoic

& since no one owns

my heart

I rise

alone

to crisp

pine-scented air

drink dark coffee

eat ripe red fruits

w/ bread & butter

& ignore willful

typewriter keys

in the other room

merry pranksters                     

            all 44

instead

I compose short

poems on long walks

the

curse

of joy

& the

bitterness

of brilliance

reveal a half

remembered

dream

sweeping my

reverie like a

clutching wind

            it appears on

the piece of paper I

found

crumpled in

my coat pocket

a little verse w/

a perilous future

            on

my travels

I find another

lone writer in wait

on a

park bench

head down

            pen moving

I find myself

sitting down beside

            him

& only

intermittent

banter

breaks our

stone silence

I

considered

shape of his skull

beneath his wooly

hat 

the gilded leaves

pinned to his lapel

& wondered what

it would be like to

trust his mouth on

            mine

I imagined

in a single kiss I

could feel his heart

pump

            inside of his

chest cavity & we’d

dance slow in a vast

meadow

            until I feel a

tear slide down my

cheek &

            acknowledge

it is only just a poem

melting into a scrap

of paper

            it is past noon

I scurry by all the day

laborers reading news

papers

eating sandwiches

out

of brown

paper bags

resting their bones

            I consider

stopping

for

lunch at

a piano bar

a sweet reprieve

to sip house wine

pry open oysters

& glug them down

            but the

arrogant furrow of

my brow forces me

            home

I don’t

believe I am

supposed to

to be happy

***

My bud sent me another prompt, this time it was the poem’s title – which I joked sounded a great deal like a new song by The Smiths. So much fun writing this and it came on a good day since I left my book on my work desk yesterday and had to be alone with my thoughts instead of Anthony Bourdain’s.  I was happy to have had a project to focus on. It’s difficult writing long poems on your phone – the necessities of creativity stop for no one, eh?

In propinquity,

Nic

On The Verge

On The Verge

linger there

on the verge of

            hysteria

& imagine this

scene

            renowned

playwright takes

refuge in his hotel

room

            lights up a

cigarette & pours

himself

a drink

of wine

lays back

& considers

a barbiturate

            binge

drunkenly

agreeable

            he intends

to

throw

back a

generous handful

            measured

out

in the

overcap

of

an

eye-drop

bottle

            swallowed

them all

one careless gulp

pills

overcap

            asphyxia

cold

self-contempt

expires

            reassurance

required

no more

            a last act of

torment

***

I didn’t know anything about how Tennessee Williams died until last night when watching an old re-run of an Anthony Bourdain show. He quipped at one point that Williams choked on a bottle cap and died. It stuck with me and so I poked around the internet a bit looking for clues. And, because I did, a poem.

There are of course conflicting reports about the cause of death and whether or not it was accidental or intentional. Some speculate they used the bottle cap story to preserve his reputation. I don’t think it would much matter given the brave work he put into our world, rich characters of the lost, sensitive, defeated, deviant, peculiar, and invisible. His stories stand the test of time, my dinky poem likely not so much.

Oh, it’s Friday! I’m in the homestretch of a work day and looking forward to loud music tomorrow night with my best bud. But, until then, I’ll work until the supper bell rings and carry on home with my nose tucked in my book until I’m home with my cat and can unwind.

In propinquity,

Nic

Picnic

Picnic

            just so

mid-afternoon

happy-go-nutty

it was imperative

to escape the dusk

atmosphere of my

fern-clogged attic

office & step out

into the depths of

thick-muted sun

            a picnic I

thought

or a  pique-nique

as the 17^th century

gourmands termed

it gourmands who

brought their own

wine when dining

w/ friends

but

for me

alone

a hike away from

the mutterings &

spatterings & din

of the day

            just so

the sound of a slow

ticking town clock

provides a certain

            rest

to accompany my

out-of-hand eating

foregoing plastic

partitioned dishes

for a fresh deli treat

            a muffuletta

thinly sliced layers

            of

mortadella

genoa salami &

capocollo picante

mingled w/ creamy

farmstead

            Swiss cheese

sharp provolone &

a savory chunky olive

salad spread between

thick cuts of a

            Sicilian loaf

sealed tightly in wax

paper and saran wrap

            to go

            just so

my chosen park bench

carefully selected for

its quiet locale

            I regard young

folk tossing balls

flicking

Frisbees

& whirling

hula- hoops around

waists & limbs

even necks

I consider a few pages

of my book

            dangerously

funny for reading in

public & embarrassing

oneself w/ irrepressible

            laughter

so I opt earbuds & the

soft sounds of

            Tim Buckley

while I nibble & ogle

            just so

***

This morning’s prompt, a picnic. I opted for a solo show since that’s kinda how I’ve been feeling of late – solitary, observant, quiet, guarded, and even pensive – however you want to coin it. While I wrote I wished it was my reality but for now I will have to settle for living inside of a poem.

In propinquity,

Nic

I’ve Gotten Used to It

I’ve Gotten Used to It

            it’s

true

I have

gotten used to it

the blatant absence

& chaos of starlight

            it’s

            true

            I have

been interned by

a radiant seraph &

I have touched his

hands

            during an

un-hoped for eventide

a light wind rummaged

our union

            it’s

            true

            I have

gotten used to it

vanished arms & legs

the tearing out of my

heart

            I

wash

each                

            evening

with invisible water

to

fill

the

void

until

I can

find him

somewhere

else

some

other

day

***

The title of this poem is intentionally misleading for poetry’s sake. I will never be used to being without my Dad.

Ain't gonna lie, the barrage of Father's Day displays, sales, and mentions this time around is tightening it's grip around my lonely heart. I try and not let it get me, I really do. I face holidays, especially the ones that celebrate him, with fondness and love and I always try and partake in an activity or have a meal he'd enjoy. I haven't quite formulated a plan for Sunday as yet but I do have one teeny idea to incorporate. I just need a trinket and it'll all come together.

If you’re lucky enough to still have yours, be kind to him. Love him and tell him so. And, more importantly, if you've fallen out with your Pa, consider forgiveness. It's a superpower we all employ.

In propinquity,

Nic

A Compulsive Mind

A Compulsive Mind

I came across a specious stranger

w/ a compulsive mind & proclivities

for nippy jests & cataleptic ironies

plain clothed w/ gold-rimmed specs

he fidgeted while writing a princely

letter to someone I imagine to be an

attentive listener to be able to pour

over the pools of words jotted down

w/ a basic pen on unadorned paper.

He caught me ogling, leered & said,

“I am beginning with an ending. It’s a

long story to spell out in short words.

Dare I be evasive, obfuscate? Nah.”

My silence was met with a shrug of

his reedy shoulders hunched over the

table as if keeping his bustle a secret.

He considered staying soft but spoke
& revealed he was reciting rather a dull

detail

how his school lunches as a boy were

always wrapped in wax paper toted in

brown bags w/ a drab apple that left a

dent on the top of the thin bread slices.

He then blurted w/out being prompted

how profoundly he missed his dearly

departed Mother even if she loved w/

a severe tenor & skinny fingered hand,

“She was beautiful but so very brutal.”

The specious stranger returned to his

task at hand & I departed. I often think

of him now many days later & wonder

how his handwritten memorandum was

            received.

***

I couldn't complete last night's writing prompt from my pal so as per usual I pecked on my commute and in between work spurts. The prompt was to use the word obfuscate somewhere in the poem. 

Fun, fun, fun!

In propinquity,

Nic

His Grubby Secrets

His Grubby Secrets

he

jaws wide open

savored them all

all w/out apology

his grubby secrets

            he was all

thump & thunder

a well-heeled rover

a licentious guzzler

            a brazenly

loudmouth savage

intravenous investor

a ribald raconteur

            he

could be found

anywhere

in a small dingy villa

under monsoon clouds

at a sidewalk cook-fire

curved over a bowl of

springy noodles soaked

in a pungent consommé

            he

punk bones knee deep

in

parts

unknown

not

of

this

world

the world

he swallowed

            whole

& disappeared

from

***

I gasped when I heard the news of Anthony Bourdain’s passing this morning. I’m not sure any other public figure saw as much of the world as he did, tasted it, inhaled it, and wrote about it so that we could be there with him. He was a visionary. A culinary rock star. He was human. Painfully so. Despite all of his blessings and accomplishments, the darkness got him. He didn’t deserve to die and we didn’t want to lose him. I hope he’s found the peace he wasn’t able to find in his physical life.

In propinquity,

Nic

Crossword - A Short (Poem)

CROSSWORD – A SHORT (POEM)

OVER BLACK

Silence.

Then the whine of an old screen door.

FADE IN:

INT. COZY SUBURBAN KITCHEN – DAY

The well-used dining room is littered with art supplies and evidence of a buffet style breakfast; the sideboard is stacked with books and piles of mail and an old tape deck set to CBC, the reception crackles with the movement in the room. Emmaline sits at the dining table hunched over a folded section of newspaper, dull pencil in hand, the chain of her glasses dangling, almost broken. She doesn’t look up when the door sounds and Felix enters removing the leash off of a small black and white pup. The dog plunks himself down on the cool floor and Felix rolls up his sleeves and addresses a sink full of dishes.

EMMALINE

Hey love, what’s a seven letter word for ostentatious expenditure?

Felix weighs the answer, counting letters out on his fingers. Emmaline stuck, crinkles her nose and drums the eraser end of her pencil on the crossword puzzle and stares knowingly at her partner.

FELIX

Splurge.

Emmaline counts it out before she pencils the answer in. She smiles. Felix dunks his meaty hands into the sudsy sink. The dog lets out a sigh of relief.

FADE TO BLACK.

>THE END<

***

I’ve been playing with this poem for a about a week. Adding, subtracting, re-adding. As far as I can tell, it’s still a work in progress while I await my scripty pal to weigh in. It was fun though. A short in a poem.

In propinquity,

Nic

Little Affinity

Little Affinity

whether by fluke

or cause & effect

our inspired oath

frittered away in

slow

motion

I have

little affinity these

days for the frothy

tales of unmoored

minds & the cold

wisdom casually

flung in my track

in direct reference

to the funny-sad

stories I am trying

to tell

whether by fluke

or cause & effect

our stirred pledge

perished

            one

            day

            at

            a         

            time

I have

little affinity these

hours for busying

myself alchemizing

            fool’s gold

***

My bud threw ‘fool’s gold’ at me late last night.  I slept on it and came up with this poem for today’s writing exercise. Pecking on my commute is fun.

In propinquity,

Nic

Heavy Metal Summer

Heavy Metal Summer

wearing a fitted blazer

& horn-rimmed glasses

in a bustling downtown

teashop I busy myself

scribbling poems in a

new Moleskine jotter

desperate to be an artist

capable of capturing the

madness & appetite of

my heavy metal summer

each verse a light parody

of something conjured

up in a 80s fever dream

at first glance I could be

confused for a bit of a

elitist artsy fartsy prig

you’ll be surprised to

learn that I made art on

my bare chest up against

many a cold concert rail

unencumbered by the male

centrism of rock ‘n’ roll

I may now sit & work at

a mahogany desk inlaid w/

mother-of-pearl but I was

once a listless daughter

product of a broken home

fond of strange courtships

shouting at the Devil w/ a

pint of vodka shoved down

the ass of my too-tight jeans

in any given parking lot

leaning on some random car

on any given summer night

in

nineteen eight five

***

And, another successful writing exercise in the can. The writing prompt was 1985. I’m pretty sure the documentary the accompanying photo is from came out a year or two later but for some reason the year conjured my first viewing of ‘Heavy Metal Parking Lot’. It was awesome and I still enjoy seeing snippets of it now and then.

This poem is kind of resolving past with present, fact with fiction, and plain old fun-with-words.

Happy Friday!

In propinquity,

Nic