Richard the Ninth Loves Some More

Richard the Ninth trusted no one, especially himself. This led to serious conflagrations when he spent time alone and had things to say. His mouth stayed closed and his thoughts bottled up as he was always certain that the moment he spoke, the fool that was he would call him a liar and said fool, thinking himself shrewd, would think himself a liar. So the night would proceed until Richard the Ninth would fall asleep with great dissension between he and himself.

Richard the Ninth bought a pound of flour because he sought something beautiful in his life. This was another unwitting adventure for Richard the Ninth in the world of homonyms. Upon asking for flowers, he was directed by a willingly unhelpful store clerk to the baking supplies. The bag of flour was thrust upon him, which he purchased with some confusion, and then took home to place in a vase next to a print of Starry Knight, a fur air freshener, and a stuffed guerilla. He was mostly unimpressed with the flour, but thoroughly enjoyed his supper of stake and muscles.

Believing companionship to be the next vital step in his maturity Richard the Ninth stole a goldfish from a lady of smaller age and stature than he. He did not care much for the bowl in which she housed his new mate and promptly placed the goldfish in his pocket. Several days later, remembering how lonely he was, Richard the Ninth stole another goldfish from another tiny young person and, again, placed it in his pocket. Within a month, Richard the Ninth was lonelier than ever before and smelled distinctly of rotting fish.

Little Piggies

She started by counting her toes hoping that toes, more than fingers, would ground her - unless she chose to walk on her hands, which was not entirely out of the question for these were peculiar times calling for peculiar modes of transporting oneself, especially to and from work, which had been more stressful than usual this last week – so much so that she had found herself counting her toes for grounding.

She reached ten and thought that normal enough in one’s toes, but she had to be sure, so she counted again, though not before consulting an encyclopedia – several encyclopedias, in fact, for, much to her chagrin, she did not find toes in the “t” volume or piggies under “p,” but finally found the proper number of toes under “a” for anatomy.

Again she counted ten and, though she had hoped this would ground her – in many ways besides the standing on of said toes: give her bearings in life, reaffirm her ability to compute and comprehend complex numbers, prove once and for all that birth defects sometimes happen thirty years after the fact – but it did not, in fact, ground her at all for still she was flighty and dodgy and terrible at math and rife, though still rife with birth defects newly formed some thirty years after the fact (or twenty-eight to those who knew no better).

Then it was that she began to dig and, having no yard, this meant digging straight into the floor, which brought forth choices – she had found choices more and more daunting and tonight was the night to approach the ever boding level of facile when it came to choices, especially those that would ground her – choices of where to begin this digging adventure: bathroom or living room, hardwood or linoleum, shovel or spoon, choices.

Of the three major choices, she opted for the latter, the former, and, lacking a shovel and money to buy said shovel and the propensity to visit such places that carried said shovels, the latter, and within minutes was digging down into faux wood in the desperate hope that somewhere beneath her feet, this floor, the foundation, the sewer lines, and the direct route to China, she would find the true secret to grounding herself.

If nothing else, she would get a good workout from this, tone her triceps, build up hunger, thus alleviating the guilt of eating, which had plagued her for some time now, whether exercising or not, though she found that one thinks very little of eating while digging – a bit of a surprise considering the presence of the spoon, her favorite utensil for eating.

She dug and dig and digged and digged and could not decide which fit properly into good grammar, but hoped that once she had grounded herself (or perhaps grund herself) she would epitomize proper speech, good sleeping habits, excellent nutrition, and delightful conversation at parties – this last hope formed despite her previous twenty-two party conversations ending with dropped food, stained blouses, profuse apologies, and quotations from great pop hits of the 1970s.

There on the newly damaged floor, spoon in hand, ten toes across two feet, she fell asleep and dreamed of digging in all forms: machines, dogs, grave-makers, groove-shakers, giant spoons, and even the occasional shovel, though even in dreaming these confused her for they appeared quite out of context – in the question “where exactly do shovels come from?” both of her consciouses, waking and sub, allied.

She awoke feeling thirsty, hungry, too, confused a bit, though less than any of these, grounded. The digging had done nothing but reduce her security deposit. She had not reached China, she still had ten toes, and life felt flighty, especially life lived in her body. She washed the spoon, put it back into the drawer, and sat in her bed. She began counting her toes again, thinking maybe one had run off in the night and digged its way to China.

Division

The Union failed today when today the Union divided into two Unions – sub-Unions, they are now called, though half-Union and Union Junior were both bandied about for some time.

Sub-Union A fought a great deal for its title, deeming its former brethren, now foe, Sub-Union B. Sub-Union B would not stand as a secondary, hence lesser, Sub-Union and brought forth the proposition that they both be called Sub-Union A.

Sub-Union A opposed the proposition on the grounds that letters, composed primarily of spiteful, bitter words, between the two Sub-Unions would become confusing and unclear were they both addressed and signed by the same Sub-Union, that of Sub-Union A.

Sub-Union A, formerly Sub-Union B, then proposed that they be called Sub-Union A₁ and the other bastards call themselves Sub-Union A₂. This aroused more harsh words, debate, and the occasional tossed sausage to the eye.

Several hours later, the floor littered with sausages, it was discovered that a row over policy had caused a split in Sub-Union A₁, thus forming Sub-Union A_1A and Sub-Union A_1B.

Shortly thereafter, internal dissension arose in Sub-Union A_1B over the designation of the letter ‘B’ and whether it was lesser than ‘A’ or not. Further division of the Sub-Union was threatened until it was discovered that Sub-Union A_1B was comprised of one man, Mr. Artemis Dunday.

By day’s end, compromise had not been reached, angry words spouted continuously as the participants made their way to their cars, and several sausages were still reported missing.

Tomorrow’s agenda for the Sub-Unions includes possible further division of all Sub-Unions, a lengthy slide show, and a lunch of pulled pork. The day will conclude with a discussion of what it is exactly that the Union represents, currently designated TBA.

Mad Man of the Special Cookie, Part I

Rather than pressing on about the cookies, she surrendered to the cake. Frosting rarely appeased her, but in this climate poor of sugar, she knew that any sweet was good sweet, even when the sweet lacked the sophistication she had previously encountered in those cookies. ‘What genius baked them?’ she wondered aloud, pink-shrouded, yellow morsels expelling from her mouth. A mad man, she continued in her head, opting for a closed mouth in sight of sweet-loss prevention. Surely not a mad woman, for no woman could understand what a woman needs anywhere near as shrewdly as the mad man of the special cookie. Only a man could hook a lady on a sweet treat and reel her back, hook her and reel her back, and on and on in a fishing metaphor that may have been apt, but only distracted from the need for sweets.

She finished the cake – a lackluster piece, if only by proxy – and yes, THE cake, not HER cake, she made special notice to call it for the duration of their time together – and still craved the cookie. What divine powers in a so minor a treat, she noted in her head, her mouth now gaping wide from want, from need, from utter lack of regard. Her eyes held on the plate of cookies settled comfortably beneath its domed, glass shelter. At the sixth minute of staring, the HR temp walked by and, without hesitation, lifted the glass. With great stealth, he snatched a cookie, replaced the glass, and was gone. The cookies screamed silently at the loss of brethren.

“Oh!” she expelled. What impudence he had. How jealous she was. Did he not appreciate the ethics of the clear glass lid? A trailblazer. Once the lid was lifted, then – and only then – could they take up cookies into hands. If only she subscribed to such blasé lifestyles as that damnable HR temp: moving from job-to-job with no regard for pension; taking cookies from whatever plate, no matter the indication of its covering. He passed and took another.

“Bastard!” she squeaked. We must regard the sanctity of the glass dome, she thought. Otherwise, there will be no cookies left when the dome is lifted. Already the plate looked lonelier, less and less inviting. She knew this to be an illusion, however. So many others around the office saw a plate diminishing in population as a plate diminishing in quality. She knew the opposite to be true. They would scramble for a plate teeming with cow pies for the mere fact that it was teeming. She still saw the plate for cow pies. Perhaps the HR temp was helping her in this regard. The more cookies he took, the less valuable the plate would be to others who had not tasted of said cookies, and the more cookies would be left for her. Perhaps, in a coup of resounding joy, she would be able to take one home. How splendid this Tuesday had become! How wonderfully life could change in the span of several minutes staring at a plate of spectacular cookies beneath a domed, glass lid!

Vapor Cries of the Steam-Powered Man

The steam-powered man with those grand hands that spanned chasms
Found himself alone no chasms to span with those grand hands
He thought to cry did the steam-powered man but the only tears to come
Turned instead to steam and vapor all heat from inside him and made him
Only want to cry more though so futile he thought it eventually
For indeed though no tears would come still the steam-powered man
Had thoughts that overwhelmed him overwrought him overjoyed him
Steam-powered thoughts he thought them when the thoughts came
With little else to show them than the steam that came and powered his name.

Earbuds and Doodlebugs

What she needed at this very moment could be found in the back of the closet just between her sixteenth pair of heels – these flatter than at least five of the others – and a plastic bin marked “Misc. Winter.” Between the two aforementioned once slipped a piece of paper marked by scribbles, doodles, a short to-do list for a short Saturday (which, if she were to recall, was made even shorter by a blot of late-morning rain), and, just at the bottom left of the paper, depending on which way she held it, was written the name and address of one Mister Maculmaney. She had never met Mister Maculmaney nor spoken with Mister Maculmaney by phone or other such correspondence, nor had she a notion of how Mister Maculmaney looked. She could not nor would not spot him by face had she the chance. For all she knew, she had passed Mister Maculmaney every morning for the last dozen mornings and paid him no heed whatsoever, pushing him into the impressionistic miasma of her morning commute – for this was her ritual and her right to focus on her music, on her book, on her cup of coffee, to let others have their mornings as they wanted while she focused on everything and nothing all at once; it was best that way for everyone.

Still, were she to be quizzed on the identity of Mister Maculmaney, she would probably be ignorant, certainly dumbfounded, possibly apathetic, and the address would confuse her most of all. What did she need with the address of a stranger? (And indeed, a stranger with a strange name: was it MACulmaney? MaCULmaney? MaculMAney? Beyond the stresses, what were the vowel sounds? Long or short? Was the name genuine? If not for apathy, she could ponder these for years.) It read as a home address, but could very well have been Mister Maculmaney’s business address; it could have been both for all she knew. Here she would have it, his address, and no notion why, had she found the paper which had slipped down into an unnoticed crevice in the closet.

She may have even found herself pleased to discover one of her own belongings that she never knew existed, particularly a direct to link to an unknown man. How serendipitous to know just where to find someone whom one does not know. If she so desired, she could go directly to Mister Maculmaney and question him: why would I know you; from where have we met; how do you say your name? Mister Maculmaney could prove to be most helpful, describing in detail the day, the moment, the swish of breeze that passed as she shook his hand, making him believe that she had a chill with in her that passed between their hands – an incorrect assumption, he would later learn, when she found him at his home many months later having uncovered his address in the remotest part of her closet and was composed mainly of warmth.

There was a need for her to seek him out, to know this man; a piece of information, a passage of music, a mutual friend seeing a future between the two of them. How that could be, though, she could not imagine, for she could not see herself allying romantically to a man who answered to ‘Mister’ anything; first names were mandatory, even in strangers. Mister made her think of elderly men, pretentious pomps, and past schoolteachers. Thus, Mister Maculmaney must be a man of considerable age, pomposity, or pretense – perhaps all three – and that is why the paper had slipped away, escaping preemptively to prevent her the inevitable displeasure of meeting Monsieur Maculmaney and his high throne of inaccessibility.

Still, she knew not the need for knowing him, nor did she remember him, nor did she know that her connection with him was lying in her closet – forgotten, forlorn, decaying – obscured by dust and winter clothes just useful enough to be called clothes, yet still packaged as miscellaneous. Eventually she would have to move and would find the piece of paper, taking a course of action (would it be garbage or recyclable?) and barely noticing Mister Maculmaney and his indeterminate address. She would not need him then in the midst of her move, it was only now that she may need him; this moment, this day, this peculiar phase of an altogether – in her view – uneventful life. What she needed right now was a mystery.

Boundless Horizons

He thought – nay – knew – nay – believed that today began the day that began his new career – the Career of the Future! Here it was the present, yet he had stumbled upon it all on his own: the Career of the Future! No more would he worry for money or time or futile tasks; servitude to others in its many mangled forms, for he had uncovered the Career of the Future! Infinite bliss upon creative stimulation upon joyful sighs upon ending his day, every day, every minute, every sense stimulated and writhing in joy, bristling to return before even having left, all in rapture of this, his joy, his newfound love, his epiphany: the Career of the Future! The past no more dragging down his shoulders, bowing his back, pounding his head with endless tedium, mindless, numb, boring, grave; dull dull dull… the past faded as he slipped upward into the sharp, vibrant, saturated vivacity of the Career of the Future!

He picked up the phone and dialed quickly, as one is wont to do when pursuing the Career of the Future . A weary voice answered. He proclaimed his discovery of his one, his only, his brand new purpose to send him – nay – propel him – nay – rocket him into the brand new space orbiting the brand new world of newness in his brand new Career of the Future. He was met with silence until, finally, the weary voice replied, “The position has been filled.”

Dog's Life

Dogs.
Dogs love to wander.
Dogs love to run.
Dogs love to push their heads between fence posts.
Dogs love to eat food.
Dogs love to eat non-food.
Dogs love to be loved.
Dogs are not allowed to be married to other dogs.
Dogs are not allowed to drive cars in Maine.
Dogs are not allowed to grow extra limbs.
Dogs are not allowed to own property.
Dogs are not allowed to write novels.
Dogs are not allowed to run Fortune 500 companies.
Dogs have food names after them.
Dogs have funny eyebrows.
Dogs have furry toes.
Dogs have places to be.
Dogs have no idea what they smell like.
Dogs have been reported to be people dressed in dog suits.
Dogs.

Shiny Bits

Everyday we find more and more glass in the backyard. At a certain point we assumed that the glass would all be gone. But still, we find more glass. The larger pieces were the first to go, as they were the easiest to see, followed shortly by the slivers and bits clear down to the tiniest shards. Still, we find more glass.

All flat is the glass. No green, round, bottle glass here, but bits and slivers and shards of flat clear glass. A massive window smashed across the yard, we think, or a tabletop tossed and dropped. It may have been an unorthodox gardening practice tossing broken glass onto the begonias. We find so much glass.

We think of building a glass magnet to carry around the yard. Every bit of glass we pass would jump from the ground to the glass magnet and done we would be with them. Or a vacuum for glass to suck only glass, but leave the flowers and grass. A glass-sniffing dog. An electronic glass detector. A flute to make the glass stand up and dance! We would lead the glass off to the river to drown down below. If glass could drown.

We only found the glass when the snow went away. Perhaps it is snow glass. Or the snow’s window pane. Or the snow’s way of giving us gifts all year long. Some snow is city snow, otherwise known as jerk snow, not soft and lovely like country snow. Jerk snow kicks people off bikes and steals girlfriends. We think maybe jerk snow would break windows and glass tabletops and go to glass factories and rob them of their glass to leave in our backyard. Stupid jerk snow – we would melt it if it wouldn’t melt us back.

The glass will never end, we think. The glass came from underneath, we think. The glass fell from the sky to burden us, we think. One day the glass will stop, we hope. Good thing for the gloves, we know. And on and on. And we just stepped on more glass.

Life Rebounds

This fish I know had just moved to the city. One day, he was out and about and got clipped by a bike messenger. It split him open pretty good sending some of his insides out where they don't belong. Fortunately for him, the paramedics got to him before the gulls descended. The doctor, a sporting enthusiast from a young age, performed a radical procedure on the fish, filling him with rubber to seal up all wounds. The fish lived on as a rubber fish. Life continued on for the rubber fish. He found a job, met a lady that became his fish wife, and enjoyed the many modern conveniences afforded all city dwellers, even rubber fish. His blissful life was interrupted one day by news from his doctor: the rubber he had used had a limited life and would erode the rubber fish from the inside out. The rubber fish told his fish wife and she replied, "That's okay. You always bounce back."

Tunnel Rats

Rainbow Connection

Cry Havoc

On Teaching

"What does 'scene' make you think of?"

"I don't know, like a... place, or like in a movie."

"Great! A movie. What's your favorite movie?"

"I don't know. I don't know what it's called... it's um... Oh yeah. District 9."

"What was your favorite scene?"

"I don't know."

"The guy turning into the alien? Something like that."

"NO!"

"Any scene then."

"Oh yeah. When the alien threw up."

"That's GREAT! Will you throw up for us?"

"No. I'm not gonna throw up."

"Why not?"

"It's gross."

"But it'll be great! Here, I'll throw up with you. On 3. 1... 2... 3."