Memorial Day, 2019

Hottest memorial day on record,

okay, so I’m making that up, but could

still be true. The Marine who never

really talks about it sits at the bar

he makes jokes at and posts

a poem on insta; it’s how I know

he’s there, I’m not there.

My Grandfather and Uncle and several

cousins have all carried guns for

America and lost or seen things I

never want to, at least, I assume.

There’s a lot of not talking about it,

but if the things that they’ve seen

are like the bodies in the documentaries

I’d bury myself in science fiction

and whiskey, or never want either

ever again.

Hottest memorial day week to date, well

probably not, but I wonder if I ever

have a child, will they be sent to the same

war I avoided with essays about

Pacific Northwest  imagery in the works

of Raymond Carver. A bit like

the skit about the ice cream taster

and the heart surgeon. The soldiers

I know are always the first

to tell me what I do is necessary

and usually I believe that they

believe that, and try to write honestly.

I do not know what music to

play in the bar tonight, since most

people will be making jokes

about bar b ques or anticipating

returns to different types of

drudgery. All I know is that

it’s the

hottest day in the history of days

and there are machines and technological

advances that mean I may get

to fight in that war yet, and the music

here is a bit on point: the entire

empty coffeeshop just burst out

in a singalong to “Is there life on maars?”

Don't talk much/too much to say

Haven't been posting here as much, haven't been saying as much here. Partly because I've been saying it elsewhere, and partly because I've not been saying it at all, or saying it too much, to too many people, in too many contexts.

Still, there'll be a year-end post, as there always is, in some fashion, because old habits die hard.

I really want there to be a Die-Hard/Sister Act crossover joke in there but I am too lazy to make it. Now the punchline is smirking in your brain.

Piano Manatee Ball Championship

Fuck You, Billy Joel

Last time you were in the kind of bar you

sing about, it was still classy, and fun,

and you were there with your wife

and the drinks were free
and don’t try to tell me about lonely,

I will invent it for you
brand new and bloody

right before I break your fucking fingers.

Cold Snap/Sunshine

Bill Withers on the stereo

a cold, dry November.

Just enough before work.

The coffee alcohol spectrum.

I miss everyone, but do not call.

It is okay for it to be okay

to be sad, I have convinced myself.

Time is running out before

I am legally required to smile.

It is dark inside and outside.

The lights are low because

brightness is ridiculous.

The song that played

over the credits of a fifteen

year old movie

about teenage awkwardness

makes its way before I do.

I can’t not care, and I’ve spent

so much of my life putting a premium

on detachment.

A stylized canoe hangs upside down

from the ceiling. I don’t even know

what this song

is  called.

Threads.

Woke up and finished filling the trash bag. A few shirts I didn't like emblazoned with logos of bands I did and vice versa. Another stretched hoodie I'll not wear again ever. Got the bag full enough it started to fray, threw on pants, shoes and a hat and drug the bag to the 7, hopped off a few stops later. Walked across a long parking lot and tossed the bag in a big blue bin with wheels.

It's been more than a few years I've been meaning to do a clothing purge. But I've always meant to scour the various used clothing stores of the city-- get the most bang for my buck. I've hit Bon Voyage with mixed success, Madison's with none, Red Light with maybe one shirt offloaded? A few weeks ago I grabbed the most egregious of the clothing items and let them slide down the Addison trash chute.

But today's selections were different, nearly sentimental, nearly practical, all the reasons you keep things when you maybe shouldn't. Or should, if you were actually gonna hit every thrift shop. If you were really going to take those pants to a tailor, those shoes to a cobbler. Really going to cut all those logos out and make them into patches.

Anyway, after, with some of these items, years of equivocating and procrastinating, I got rid of them, freeing up a lot of shelf and drawer space.

But it's more the psychological weight. Over the weekend and start of the week there've been a few other things that, for privacy and practicality's sake, aren't worth detailing, except for them having similiarly been weighing on me, and now I feel. . . lighter? To a degree I hadn't anticipated.

Of course, it is dark and rainy and I'm drinking an Alaskan Porter, so there's a limit to Just How Light I'll feel.

But this has already been a year of upheaval, and it seems that's a trend that will continue, for better and worse, so making the best.

We Know the Results (rough, new)

The Super Bowl is Over

and with it, speculation

as pros and amateurs alike

call in to collect their bets.

The Super Bowl is  Over

and we're all a little drunk and

mentioning our friends in Philly

and considering more cocaine

or maybe fighting the bartender.

I need to leave this shouting neighborhood.

The Super Bowl is Over

and there are so many new buildings

beckoning for retail, the suited men

look tired, these streets will not be clean.

the sports bars prepare for another

downturn and hope to live off

these profits at least until Saint Patrick’s day.

The Super Bowl is Over

and it is time to  sort my w2s.

The Super Bowl is Over

and my Dad’s best friend, laid to rest

at the Rainier Beach Mortuary in

a two hour ceremony one hour before

I work. My sister texting tears that

she can’t make it out.

My Mom’s pet dove, family pet for

thirteen years, shivering in it’s blanket

then still.

The Super Bowl is Over

and seriously fuck that one guy,

and his voting record, this can,

or has to, mean something. We

taste  his tears from TV screens.

The Super Bowl is Over

and there are buses I no longer take

pictures I’m wiping from my phone

a Cat I’ll never see again

and a line around the block

for a play I will not see.

The Super Bowl is Over

so no more guesswork. The why

it went the way it did are stories

that will change with tellers. There

will be another one next year

and after that, an occasion

for fundraisers and toy drives
and nachos and puppies

and million dollar commercials.

The Super Bowl is Over

which means there must be winners

but I am more concerned with losses now;

that corner space in the charming building
promised such potential, sits empty.

Some days

a burger with an egg on it, a mimosa, a shit ton of coffee, and an upscale coffee shop playing gutter punk are the push-pulls that lead to advanced productivity.