1
2
3
4
Pushing Up Daisies I coughed up a bunch of daisies. Not too bad except for a bit of phlegm and spit on the petals, nothing some time in the sun and a few paper towels won’t fix. You can put them in front of the far window. The ugliness will soon fade as water/care/light make them grow tall and perfectly crooked. Chest puffed out to the insects that wriggle and buzz through the pane glass. Bright and pretty to show off to unenthused house guests.
1
Two Weeks Notice Will I still be a cashier when you sell out? Scanning through kids clothes as your wife chases the kids down the aisle. Will the circles under my eyes recede? Cynicism giving way to acceptance, leaving her in the lurch because, let’s face it, I never quite stacked up and never would. Dust collects on a framed diploma. Spider web cracks across the thin plastic where all my frustration pressed against it. Where will $50 dollars in wadded-up small bills take me at 4 a.m.? Down roads you traveled without me, long ago, when I thought something better was around the corner.
2
Bygone Daze I move happy in loose limbed nostalgia, reds and oranges dancing through VHS haze. Weekends off the high dive toes touching the bottom of the deep end, slow motion heavy calm. Riding on pegs and sipping Moon Mist, Blink-182 reverberating through my thoughts. Reality roots it all soon after, weird nicknames and taunts, unrequited love and bruised limbs chatter eagerly, drowning out everything else. Happiness is the sound of pavement whirring by under my feet. Of the quiet the elementary school by my house held just as the sun was setting. When I could flip my skateboard under my feet without anyone telling me I was doing it wrong. Happiness is a quiet parking lot mama.
3
Words Language is open-ended free-flowing love, that every now and again hacks up charcoal black idiocy. It’s still worth it. As malleable as fresh Play-Doh or as rigid as a beam of steel, skipping along breaking concrete under footfalls. It’s unfiltered rage let loose in that letter you’ll never send, it’s those first clammy, apprehensive hands that lock after too much thinking. Strolling fancy, knuckle dragging simple, keeping us together while tearing us apart.
4
Pure Applesauce Black robbed reverence that both sides of the political spectrum take turns throwing rocks at. The hinge on which the door of history swings in reaction or revolution. Where false secrecy and pretention pomp and circumstance play pick up football games. Ones that end in bruised egos and teary eyes. History always has a losing side. One that lumbers dumb and oblivious through glossy torn pages of future text books. Stoic eyes that exert ridiculous notions that fall over each other down slick slopes of desperation. Fuck off Antonin Scalia.
5
The Fourth Some skin peeled back as I flicked the yellow Bic. My mother waited in the wings yelling “be careful, oh god be careful.� Once the sparks hissed out of the wick I sprinted back to her side, giggling to myself. A shower of colorful sparks hissed out yellows, reds, purples and blues; hopping about like pagan gods dancing some ancient jig to a lost rhythm. The sparks receded and a cloud of pale smoke rolled out into the dark, making its way through the pine needles above. We hosed it down and moved to the next one. Bottle rockets that shot up only to end in an anti-climatic pop, firecrackers under that old bucket in the garage, rattling off like gunfire as the bucket jumped about. Picked up and thrown about as is custom for the youngest in the family, bruised knees and grass stains. Driving home late, head thudding gently against the window as we made our way back.
6
Imitation Woodgrain I saw the ghosts of fallen trees copied into the laminate on the table in the break room. Pressed and sealed in quiet inanimate death. Miles from its commanding presence in a forest of other trees. At least a real wood table is honest enough to give the once tall trunk purpose. This doesn’t even do that. It just sits around until it gets too shabby or wobbles too much. Heaped into landfills where it’ll never quite break down and taunting it’s distant wooden relatives who will. Returning to an Earth that nurtured them, returning to quiet oblivion.
7
Swipe Left Modern love is perfect love. One where slight differences are huge differences a wisp of cigarette smoke or lame interest means rejection. ‘They’re perfect but they like cats…” Compromise mingles with ancient reptile bones in museums with appropriate reverent signs. Ones that’ll soon be covered in lost love proclamations, carved in deep by bored kids on a field trip.
8
Balance Remember to give equal weight. Give those barons of exceptional thought and brawn, the same say as the vast majority. Those job creators that give us a wonderful existence. Be careful of the lazy. The ones who wait to pull out the rug from under polished Italian leathers, waving high flags of uncertainty. Be careful of words like “change,” “progress” and “equality.” Make peace look so absurd that no thinking person would ever utter it. Do these things and the bright red, white and blue graphics will never fade a bit on America’s #1 news network.
9
CryMeaBeardHipsterPoetLoser Unkempt beards from block to block on briefcase-wielding elites and hippie punk kids. Hell, there’s even one on my face. I grew one back in high school because, let’s face it, girls don’t typically go for dudes with pimples and acne scars dotting and crisscrossing their face. At 24, it’s served its purpose, but it’s still there. I still have plenty of awkward contours to hide. I have self-conscious excuses like you have bad tattoos.
10
+/Fall together into pieces. Across the great expanse of anything. Fences are always planned to be built but never are. Who needs em'. Pack up and move when things get too slow. Did I daydream a bit too long again? Pressed against the heavens in some sort of immortal completeness that always manages to slips between my fingers. Lullabies to the leaves and bark sound out through fields of wire and mechanical om. Fill your lungs with smog and say goodnight to the orange moon that lumbers heavy.
11
Daytona Beach I want to strut: sand between my toes, radioactive pink flesh, too much body hair and a little flabby. Happy, free from the snickers and stares. Speedo clad and beaming ear-to-ear. My bald spot peeling and flaking. I see slender movie star looks self-consciously checking themselves in bathroom mirrors, prepping only for it all to fall apart in a strong breeze.
12
Day Drunk Red wine dripping down my chin sun-baked and still fading. My thoughts stretch and yawn, moving through conversations a bit too relaxed. Shaking hands with awkward small talk, dancing cheek to cheek with pleasantries. Tomato-red pride talking way too audibly and stumbling way too much. Dream of swimming through cool covers far away from all of it. Wake up with a kinked neck at 6 a.m. legs hanging over the edge of the loveseat. Not enough time to go back to sleep, coffee grounds on my tongue watching the minutes lurch by until my shift ends.
13
Listen to Otis Guilt bounces around like a bouncy ball thrown real hard in a tiny room. Thrown by a bratty kid who isn’t going to look for it, but somewhere deep down wonders where it is. Remember laughing when someone was different? When a perfectly nice and thoughtful human being was reduced to a heap of ash before your tiny eyes? You don’t get those moments back. You can only add weight to that heaviness on your shoulders. Try a little tenderness for once you selfish prick.
14
Mr. or Ms.? Why should it matter if Bill wants to be Barbra or if Barbra wants to be Bill? You can see the tension fill the room. That typical hate, radiating through the chain restaurant off the interstate. Land of the limited and home of the “normal.” Where flag waving inclusion draws a line that only time and education can help erase. It couldn’t come any sooner.
15
Flag Pin Guy The red-faced shouter that graces all the billboards around town. The “us against them” guy, who builds his foundation on fear and the rest of the house on empty political promises. He stands at the side of stage tired features and caked on makeup to make a 60 year old shell look 25 again. The hall filled with hushed, eager chatter until he hops up on stage as spry as a cheerleader with the smile to match, walking to the microphone and flipping on the autopilot switch. Immigrants, jobs, American exceptionalism, regular folks, God’s will hold for applause guns, military might, the private sector, the economy, joke at other candidate’s expense hold for laughter empty closing part replicating Saint Reagan’s “are you better off speech” that leveled Carter in the debates. They still love stuff like that. Walk off stage and wave a few times, holding smile until out of sight.
16
Nostalgia Parlor Trick Drag me through the streets, skinned limbs and shirt sleeves, heavy with rain water. Chunks of moon rocks lodged between my teeth, blood on my collar. Bulging trash water veins carry out earnest nothings. Warm lamp light glows out gentle from the passing windows. Our fingers don’t lace together like they used to. Eagerly and a bit too tight, kind of like a kid who just learned how to tie their shoes for the very first time.
17
Etc. I have a notebook filled with uncrossed lists. A thin layer of dust covers its light green cover, water damage warped, curlicue wire spine unraveling a bit, but still pretty much (like) new. It sits in a shoe box, patiently waiting on me to get back in shape again or to record that album of field recordings I never quite go to. I won't ever throw it away. Those dreams still thudding around in my cranium like wet clothes in the dryer. One day I'll take them out and they'll be crisp and warm, slightly smaller, but generally okay.
18
Suburbanites in the City A brightly lit haze of social graces, zig-zags through drunk back slapping good nature. A saxophone bleats out from the corner as rain drops scatter, then pour, drenching sports jerseys and haggard well-meaning beards. A night on the town caves into soggy ruin. Back to SUVs where you can alter the temperature from deep chill to sauna swelter with the flick of a wrist. Careful to not make eye contact with cardboard carrying freaks. Their Sharpied pleas for help running together in the down-pour. Anxious wheels inch forward against a tide of red lights back to the expressway.
19
Re-Living I gulped down razor blades to cut away the cobwebs in my throat. NEW VOICE: Confident and slurred howling at the fingernail moon that hangs fragile. Do you want to skip class with me tomorrow? Eyes red and glassy twins holding hands as we fall in place. I want to fall asleep next to you again, still not knowing you’d decide to leave me the next day. Scratchy-throated longing and bullshit whining yet to happen. I wish I didn’t have to be embarrassed about being 18 again. But you don’t get to do that and what a relief it is. It’s certainly better to figure it out then than to live it out at 24.
20
Tossing and Turning I thought my nose was whistling, but it was only the birds outside my window. I remember when my thoughts used to open up veins like red apples tumbling fresh from the crate. When things seemed a whole lot bleaker, hinging on whether you were in my arms instead of his. Imitation gold wishes floating away into oblivion. I remember what it was like to think people would never let me down and that I’d never do the same to them.
21
$45.00 Placed neatly under my driver's side windshield wiper, erasing one day's worth of pay. Moving my legs back to the car and my car back down the street, back down the interstate. Rewinding farther, back to comfort. Back to my room with my records. The ones I got in the mail today, having just enough time to break them free of their cellophane, but not enough time to listen to them without being late. Back to the sounds of rain dancing on the rooftop, making conga lines down through the gutter. $45 flowing with the water through the sewer grate off to do other things.
22
Zzzzzzz I want to disappear, stoned and lonesome to that shack everyone forgets about. Stout rats everywhere, still better than anywhere I can think of. I want to be lucid as my consciousness is shook loose, tumbling down some dark staircase in the shack. My last thoughts hopping and skipping through the tall grass and rotted wood.
23
The Intergalactic Church of Eternal Happiness Inc. Laugh at death like it’s a wacky cult knocking at your door at 8 a.m. ‘No thank you, please, I’d really rather not.’ Keep the pamphlet, the one Brother Dean made because his parent’s computer had Photoshop. The one featuring stock photos of happy families skipping into unending complete happiness. That one. There’s no need to worry about it and no sense planning for it because it’s going to happen either way. That is, unless you call the 24 hour toll free number.
24
Beer Don’t be so glum, it’s only a passing feeling tiptoeing in the dark. It’ll be gone by morning, leaving only footprints across your back. It visits from time to time never staying up to talk things through. It just sits there, lurking in the corner awkwardly pretending to check for new messages. You kind of wonder if there’s any enjoyment in this. If there’s something you’re not quite getting. Maybe it only exists to write poems about it at 2 am or to keep you honest, keep you humble in some uncomfortable way. Either way, it doesn’t get any easier to keep around.
25
Daydreaming Past Third Hold onto that stare. That one that can flag down cabs in the pouring rain. The one that still turns my kneecaps into uneasy wobble, even if I haven’t seen you in a few years. Don’t lose it to age or disenchanted bitching, to sore joints and sagging skin. Hold onto it like a nervous high-schooler gripping the baton in track. I hope that stare lands on me again, when we’re older and able to look past everything. When we’re able to be friends without all the complicated things that being in love and fucking up drags across subsequent years.
26
# The ongoing discussion is always cut a bit short, fads fade out as quickly as they leap in. Deep, complex social unrest compacted into the news cycle doesn’t hold interest or sway like it once did. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth working at. Hold up those signs on street corners even when your shoes are heavy with water and your dripping snot is mixing with the downpour. Although that’s easy to say if you’re an armchair quarterback like me. One who’s only been to a handful of protests, who makes excuses like you make stands. Whose selfish bitching about the drag of this wonderful existence eclipses unmet potential. Where looking cool nudges aside actually doing something.
27
Fresh Paint Like opening an escape hatch and falling for hours. Where quotas fade into the background like the music your dentist cleans your teeth to. Bushes swirl in murky water and breathe life into the canvas you sunk part of your paycheck into. Carve out the empty space, little by little, as someone arranges some household objects in a New York art gallery. They net twice your income. They don’t have day jobs. They eat all the most organic and healthy things available, making sure to chastise anyone who eats McDonald’s and uses the extra money on their daughter’s dance lessons and cheap art supplies.
28
Eviction Notice They tried to carve out some of your grandfather’s front lawn for a right turn lane. Bull-headed determination and some angrily worded letters held sway with the city council, but didn’t last. Soon they’ll be propping up a highway right through our little community. Faceless concrete drone snuffing out block parties and pick-up football games. Packing us into sardine cans where boredom and desperation breed like rabbits. Where a zero tolerance policy can mean a hollow Christmas. Track marks and pipe burns accelerating despair housed in the quieter moments, kids moving in with their grandma just for now. But there’s still life here. There’s still a sense of community no matter how dislocated or misplaced it has become. It’s just hidden from the affluent gawkers who stare out of rolled-up windows, driving through, quick as can be.
29
A Vote is a Voice A suggestion box doesn’t make your workplace a democracy. It doesn’t give you a seat at the table or a say in the conversation. A suggestion is a suggestion. It isn’t a vote. It rubs shoulders with an opinion but it doesn’t mean change. It can mean things are taken into consideration, sure. But considerations aren’t commands and aren’t beholden to anything.
30
Open 24 Hours I don’t want to come back, but I probably will. Vegetables and air filters, lawn gnomes and dish soap; everything under one roof, stepping in time under heavy buzzing light. Low low prices and no questions asked. Just sunken in eyes and and never ending pressure. Hours that never shorten by a supervisor who never seems to have a good day. But here everything is at my fingertips perfect shiny clean in neat rows before bloodshot eyes.
31
Neon Exoskeleton I’m letting it all overflow, dripping over the top of the glass on the good carpet. The stupid concerns and the valid ones. Typing things out and sending them out gives some immediate honesty, but that fades quickly. It soon gives way to overexposure and a strange desire to point the car West and never come back. Where the idealism of open howling empty is replaced by identical rest stop towns. Golden arches reaching high into the vast hazy morning. Try to sleep it off and float through the warm and inviting vibes, a future where we balance everything out and slow down for a bit.
32
Skate Park Hierarchy 10 years old and terrified, head to toe covered in padding that I really wish I could take off. Covered in sweat and self-consciousness I wait at the top of the ramp for my turn. Older kids talk about exaggerated sexual encounters and drunken weekends, waking up oblivious to their surroundings. Slapping me on the back to punctuate plot twists. There was a bizarre sense of community to it all. We were all stigmatized kids that sipped soda accented by vodka and waxed up curb sides. Ones that sprayed graffiti on the walls of your corporate parks and snuck out late with your daughter. The caricature that played out in after school specials that never really showed the difficulty of the actual sport. One that never had the prestige of throwing a spear or running in a circle. Never held a candle to giving a kid a concussion on the way to a line on a field, throwing a ball through a hoop or kicking one into a net.
33
Snake Oil Blues I found some dinosaur bones in my backyard that turned out to be remnants from a 1972 cookout. I had already told everybody that they were a long lost link to a reptilian wonderland. The website was paid for and laid out in an easy-to-use format. Scientific inquiry about my findings has been met with drawn curtains. I’ve even been parking across the street more and more, digital and actual mail box filled to the brim. A dedicated few defend my findings and give impassioned defenses about my sudden disappearance. I feel for them. I wish I could keep stitching together those crazy dreams that would make our small town a bit more lively. But I’m hiding in the back room because a car is in my driveway. Curtains drawn, lights out, hoping this will all be over soon.
34
Try a Little Harder “Try a little harder” they might say after they kick you in ribs. When they foreclose on your house, making you wonder where you’ll go next. Maybe it’ll be with a relative, putting more stress on their overstressed household. Make something of yourself they might say when you’re trying to figure out how you’ll pay for food this month. When it’s making the decision of whether you get to eat or your kids. Show some initiative they might say as they throw you in prison on a third strike because you stole some VHSs to feed you’re addiction to heroin. If you only tried a little harder to escape these social ills you could be the next Donald Trump. The owner of brash glitzy real estate, assuming of course you were born into the Trump family. Good luck kid.
35
Mellow Apparition #5 He doesn’t care about your bills or your new sedan. He only wants to talk about his energy that hovers through your attic. He doesn’t speak words and isn’t exactly intimidating. No bloody rags and rattling chains. He just wants that last cup of coffee that sat in the pot before he banged his head cleaning the attic. He’s the creaks and phantom footfalls above your head the distant moans that make you toss and turn.
36
Funeral Luncheon I was late for work, not enough coffee and a snooze button that was way too close. I sat at an intersection where a funeral procession took longer than a tyrant appointed by god. Once the last hiccupping sedan waved it’s orange flag through I jammed the pedal down like someone who was afraid of being fired, gunning it to beat to the next red. I barely made it only to see an ambulance careening toward me, barely missing horn and siren tumbling down the road, hollering in unison “WHAT THE HELL MAN.” I punched in a minute late and slinked out to my register throwing on the best face I could. I stood in place for thirty minutes moving back and forth once it got too painful to stand still. Watching over a ghost town of clothes racks and tables, cardboard signs hanging for no one in particular. Employees shuffling everything quietly into place.
37
Vary Superstition I am the skeptic who leaves tails-up pennies where they lie. The secularist who says “God bless you” whenever aunt Carol sneezes, bowing my head at weddings and funerals. Neat and productive, tense, but complete whenever I cave for tradition. But when it’s just me I’m all unhinged bad luck. I open umbrellas indoors when no one’s around, smashing mirrors next to the dumpster when no one is looking. All tightly bottled up anxiety coming loose and ricocheting across the room like a newly opened bottle of Champagne.
38
Copasetic I want all the dents to magically rise to their original state. The original hub caps firmly in place. Scrapes, chips and wear like they never happened. Free of rust. It’ll be sitting in my driveway like it was 1999. I want my bank account to be a little less depleted, my nerves a little less strained. But decay sets in from day one, accelerating through repair bills and sleepless nights. Until it’s with the other identical scrap metal cubes, hoisted and moved shifted, moved to the bottom.
39
Lush/Green Stumble drunk through full moon painted uneven pavement. Air doused in bonfire perfume mingles with voices and beer bottle clink, rising up through cool empty pitch black. Dog nails scrape across concrete, bike tires clack at rest. The world is all happy bends and awkward foot falls as I make my way home.
40
Goodbye Weekend I’ve got a heavy feeling in my stomach. One propped up by buzzing cell phones and missed calls. I’ve got some lonely in my limbs, heavy agitated, spilling drinks and losing food in the couch. I’ve got some clutter in my skull that makes simpler tasks fall by the wayside. I’ve got a lot of nothing without you.
41
Much Better We swam in water that felt like it was imported from the arctic. Me all awkward flailing and you graceful strokes, like you had just arrived home. After I tired myself out, I stayed on the shore and shivered it out under a blanket against overcast skies and a cool breeze. The beach was empty except for the Vampire Weekend song clanging out bright through the speakers. I watched you from the shore moving effortlessly through the waves, not jealous or lonely only happy and complete. Happy that at least one of us knew what they were doing.
42
Born Under a Flickering Sign I was born in the house next to the Citco and the expressway. Our curtains always drawn, making the best of it. It was a nice place, new siding and fresh coats of paint. The country struck me as eerie. I moved out there with a job that suited the degree pinned up on my wall. Way too quiet. You could almost hear the lonely howling out through the fields. This big house with its constant creaks and moans. Matching this strange empty that rattles on through my frame.
43
The Scenic Route There are cuts on the inside of my mouth again. Ones I accumulated when I was sleeping. Roadmaps to unease with finally being okay. The frantic five minutes of ironing a crooked collar before I leave, deadlock madness as I make my way in. The fifteen minutes that I try to stretch in my consciousness for a lifetime. It’s much better than where I was. It’s not perfect, but I wouldn’t really want perfect either. All I want is for things to be steady for a bit. To slow things down and get a little comfortable.
44
Invisible Cage Welders Tension hangs heavy, ingrained deep into social routine. That neatly pressed uniform, the glow of sirens in the rearview. The ones that scolds unkempt hair and baggy jeans, the one that tells you to please step out of the car. Yes, that dented-to-hell thing that sputters down the road. The one that was flagged down miles away by a shiny new cruiser. Shivers down the spine. Time slips through fingers that are then clenched and slammed against cold concrete. Years spent for that one joint that fell between the seats. Years without friends or family, years that won’t let you get another job, years you don’t get back.
45
Don’t Be a Stranger Where excited talk about where you were going to go on vacation next flaked away to whispered voices and resumes left in the printer again. Weeds grow up tall through the now cracked and ragged asphalt. Remember when it was all smooth pitch black? When we had to park a block away while they worked on it? It was during the hottest part of the year, yellow sweat stains that served as the excuse for not asking Amy out that weekend. The smell of fresh carpet when we first moved in and the coffee stains that soon multiplied were now the roaches problem now. Brown cardboard boxes overflowing with knick-knacks as we, one by one, made our way out during downsizing. We all knew the hammer was about to fall on the last nail, sealing away this strange little shared experience. Goodnight to office parties and dumb pranks. To themed days and making fun of team building exercises. Goodnight to our lips locking together at the Christmas party. I’m going to miss it all.
46
Old Making lists is a comforting kind of insanity. Itemizing your life between lined margins, reaching out into the unfulfilled future. Goodnight happy abandon, I’ve got to slip out for a couple of drinks. Take care and rock yourself to sleep with the old hymns. I’ll be back in the morning, sandpaper voice and five o’clock shadow. I’ll see you less and less as the years run together. My spine heavy and irrelevant filed to the back of the cabinet. I’ll see you when I can, for the hastily planned weekend getaway that is more of a headache than a relief. Impending responsibility looming overhead like some phantom that doesn’t get social cues. One day I hope you understand.
47
Getting in Shape Again My gut is beginning to show more again. Weeks of running only do so much if you fall back too far into comfort. Packs of cookies start not to last as long. Three cookies a day snowballs into eating the whole row. Rewards for not messing up too bad easily slip into amazing routines. It’s weird being stuck on this ridiculous balance beam that never quite seems to end.
48
Scattered Daydreams The microscopic moments where thoughts give way to unfiltered imaginary bliss. Everyone from the Fortune 500 CEO to the single parent who works three jobs experiences it at some point in their day. Daydreams that are typically forgotten once we’re jarred back into reality. The overbearing responsibility and ever slipping minutes that crashes through, making you feel helpless all over again. But for those odd little moments none of that matters. You’re free. You’re able to live out whatever crazy notion you can sculpt out of your thoughts. There’s something kind of wonderful about that.
49
ALL HAIL LORD XENU All hail criticism that keeps things interesting and pushes us forward. Thoughts and ideas not boxed up and placed in neat lines for fickle customers. Allowing for growth and thought, for dissent and disapproval, making the first amendment everything it could be. It gives credit to everyone who made that once hypocritical amendment into a reality for the marginalized. A voice that could echo through impoverished rural communities and bustling urban decay. A voice that’s been muffled by Citizen’s United, but not extinguished all together. A voice that high-powered lawyers have trouble stamping out. All hail criticism and all it could be.
50
51
52
53
About Nicholas Arthur is 24 years old and currently lives in one of the many lake towns in Michigan. He is a Wayne State University graduate. Along with poetry he dabbles in music, writing and art. When he is not writing he can be found looking in the bargain bin at the record store, drinking coffee far too late at night, and eating breakfast any time he pleases. He has a cat named Simba.
54