Bummersville

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Bummersville -Written by Nicholas Arthur-Edited by Jana Miller-Back Cover Photo by Kathleen Trombley-

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Blue Ruin I planted some flowers by your grave.

Patted the soil down, smooth and even.

The groundskeeper, half-drunk on cheap gin, goes through the motions at the wheel of the mower.

He hums something sad and distant, sweat covering worn flannel.

Rust covered blades lop off earnest pedals, leaving behind frenzied pulp.

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Aloha I dozed off the other day.

You were catching rain drops on your tongue, dancing through the street as the heavens opened up.

It was so real that I could imagine water weighing down my shirt, hair matted to my brow, shoes: miniature wadding pools.

We didn’t talk at all just dwelled in the quiet empty streets of suburbia.

Then it was all shook loose and I was back in my room.

Laying on my bed as frenzied Saturday night buzzed across the window pane.

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?!?!

Are you still holding together all those loose ends?

Or did you let them float off with the breeze?

These days I don’t see you as much as I’d like and that should change.

But it won’t, we’ll continue this drift and probably be better for it.

Goodbye, to anything that might have been or never was.

Broken hearted and a little drunk features light, innards heavy.

We stumble our separate ways home, hoping our paths meet again in some distant cobbled together ease.

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Helen It’s September 7th and you would’ve been 99.

I was one year old when you passed.

Too early to make memories hair still blonde, eyes still blue still trying to get my bearings.

I never got to hear that trademark laugh I hear so much about.

Never got to eat one of those elaborate meals that you would spend hours on.

Never got to see you climb a tree like it was nothing.

But that’s all right because others did.

Others who raised me to enjoy the little things, laughing loud and unhinged whenever possible.

Others who taught me to enjoy nature and things that everyone takes for granted.

Your name was Helen and you would’ve been 99 today.

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The Hands on the Clock Don’t Care Time slips between my fingers.

Speeds up when it should slow, slows when it should speed up.

Time, the subject of so much human bitching and bad poetry.

It is what it is and that’s all that it is.

No amount of longing and wishing will make the hands spin the other way.

They’ll keep moving either way.

Those bones won’t reanimate, that weekend will not come any sooner.

They’ll take as long as you perceive them, moseying along at the pace they always have.

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Carl You came from the despair of Germany after WWI. 12 year old kid, moving to Canada then the States, trying to pick up English the best you could.

Later, when you set off on your own in the land of opportunity, you tried to work in sales.

But because of anti-immigrant idiocy, you ended up a milkman.

Union man, forearms like Popeye grinning broad through black and white.

A big family in a shabby little house in South Warren, but one that you built and has stood ever since.

Endless projects and new sheds built to house them.

Sheds lost to time and new owners.

I remember you not how you’d probably want me to, by your bedside with the constant beeping monitors.

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It’s Just Part of It I’m 10 years old.

My feet are in pricey basketball shoes that’ll become ratty and discarded soon.

The ones that seemed like the center of my narrow universe only hours before.

Soon I, like these shoes, will fade from view.

It could come just as soon as the swooshed sneakers or be decades off into the distance.

I am going to die like all things must.

I felt completely insignificant and helpless in that moment, tears soaking into the detachable bench seat from the mini van.

I sobbed softly and alone, tiny echoes through the garage, lonelier than I ever would be.

Then I dried my eyes and went inside, finding comfort in the thought that every person feels this helpless and has to keep going anyway.

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Idealism When I was younger I wanted to be in the military.

Heroic and strong, fighting off America’s enemies with high powered weapons.

Weapons that made people disappear in some abstracted end.

Then I plucked Red Badge of Courage from my third grade math teacher’s book shelf.

I learned, for the first time, that many of the people who were consumed in the chaos of war were like me and I like them: Young and with many years to see.

This was the first time I saw war stripped of over-inflated bravado, sitting now in a dark corner snickering to itself withered and wealthy.

I hope every person who produces those glossy, heroic ads squeegeed clean of all gore, realizes this at some point.

That we live in a society where war isn’t abstract, but a horrific reality that we should avoid whenever possible.

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Waving from Below “Where’d you get those wings?” they cackle amongst themselves from jungle gyms that never quiet disappear with passing years.

Their wings: white as the driven snow fluttering out majestic graceful.

Mine: the color of snow by the expressway, timid embarrassment to good social graces.

Over the years I’ll tell myself “Hey, there really aren’t any good places to fly to anyway.

Maybe I’m better off with these wings.”

And then years lurch by, wings getting used to staying in place, feet firmly planted.

Meanwhile others soar to better things or crash and never quiet fly the same again, but at least they got that chance.

That chance to glide gracefully amongst the clouds leaving it all behind, while I put on my best smile and wave from below.

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Great Grandma I remember the sketchy nursing home.

Grimy beige walls, dim lighting and far off moans.

I remember the look in your eyes when they wheeled you out.

100+ years old and hunched over, speaking half Swedish, half English.

I wish that memory were crowded out by other ones, better ones, ones I hear about in stories.

Ones of you strumming the guitar, fingers flying across the frets.

Ones of you skiing to school, avoiding the wolves that lurked behind trees, creeping through the Scandinavian snow.

The legends spun for me sadly aren’t as real as that nursing home or that far off look in your eyes.

I’m still happy we met even if we weren’t able to know one another.

Better than nothing I guess.

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Um When I open my mouth it punctuates my thoughts and interrupts them in equal measures.

Detracts and derails eyes to my tennis shoes nervous execution.

The simplest interaction: a few firecrackers a bit too close to uncovered shins.

The large social event: standing too close to a professional fireworks display immersed in frenzied panic.

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Breakfasts with August I’m stuck in this room, nose running non-stop surrounded by mountains of Kleenex.

My little fingers flip through dusty pages about alchemy, misery and absinthe.

We’re related and this is the only time we’ll get to spend together, spanning chasms a few hundred years wide.

The sunlight that charges through the curtains seems like some weird sort of joke as I read exaggerations about your life falling apart on dirty Paris cobblestone.

We probably wouldn’t agree on much if we were to have a cup of coffee.

Still, I feel some strange sort of connection.

One that perks the hairs on the back of my neck, knowing that somehow we’re related.

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Posthumous All those words, eloquent and raised with time and reverence.

Stoic black and white photos to match, photos that hold some depth inaccessible to the rest of us.

They don’t.

They represent unmet potential cut short by a disease that moves methodically and quiet on those lonely nights.

It creaks out of the floor boards just to talk about goodbyes.

Death is final and complete.

All those potential words as idiotic or brilliant as they might’ve been, are scattered to the wind.

Words only read by the trees and plants that keep on growing anyway.

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A Lot of Ideas, Poor Execution I race to the finish before an idea fades, disappearing into oblivion.

The paint drips sloppy, grammatical errors pile on top of one another, but it’s done.

I can leave it be.

I can move on to the next frantic idea that floats out, awkward and not too bright.

Dragging its feet on newly waxed floors, others stepping forward with a self-assured natural spring.

Their loss not mine.

Because never-ending perfection can quickly bunch up into tedium.

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Furry Little Ghosts Little foot falls move across soft carpet at 3 a.m.

Little foot falls clack claws against tiled floors at 3 a.m.

Peachy, Gypsy, Mayja and Angie wander through small suburban halls.

Wander around superstition and lonely, wander around memories more good than bad.

Waiting for me when I’d get back from grade school taunts silent and listening to my whining for better or worse.

Waiting for us to go to sleep so they could jump on all the furniture sinking claws deep into the upholstery, free from scolding tones.

I’ll never know what they thought, but I know that they were always there for me when no one else was.

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Context My little agonies are much different from the acute problems that are experienced by the vast majority.

Yes, yes this sounds like the annoying book-learning whipper-snapper talking about things he knows nothing about.

Point taken.

But I’d rather be annoying and still care about things, than be jaded and content letting them continue on.

I’m not one of those youngsters who wears Che Guevara shirts to get laid, or talks about cultural appropriation to feel better about themselves.

But I still don’t see myself trading in social justice for an RNC membership card.

Although, I’m sure all those people told themselves the same thing at my age.

So if I do get a little lost throughout the years, do me a favor and let me know before I’m too far gone.

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In for the Night Pt. 1 The moon is a creep that grins big clunky yellow by your window. “Come drink cheap wine and sleep out with the stars.

Let the insects climb, sleeping until the sun wakes you.�

But all you want are the blankets to wrap your cold limbs, missing out on whatever is going on and better for it.

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I’m the Dog Who Ate Your Birthday Cake Keep me in mind.

I’m not too far gone, still around.

I may not be as good as I was, but I’m working on it.

Staying up at night dreaming up ways of setting things right again.

Sawdust in my hair, sawdust between my fingers.

My work bench is covered with half-finished ideas: blocks of wood, nails, wires and paint cans.

One day they’ll all take shape, sitting neatly on prized shelves, high up so the grandkids won’t get at them.

For now my eyes rest and my thoughts move under me.

I dream about running far off and free, worries shrinking in the rearview.

I’m the dog who ate your birthday cake and I’ll figure something out, even if you don’t care either way.

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In for the Night Pt. 2 It’s Friday night and I’m happier than I should be.

No buzzing phone, no heartache weighing down heavy.

Alone, and better for it.

Just me and a quiet house October chill still in my frame fading slow under layers of blankets and cheap alcohol.

Watching late night TV and laughing a bit too loud at the tacky topical jokes.

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Sorry Small whispers of rain amplify to frantic shouts across my windshield.

I’m driving home from work, feeling as low as I could possibly get.

I didn’t even know the radio wasn’t on, my thoughts running sprints from one side of my skull to the other.

Only the dumb clatter of the drops thudding against the window stands out.

Heavy gray watercolor heavens open on rows of frantic metal.

Inching forward whenever possible, gunning it to 90 whenever possible.

Rushing by while I prolong getting home as much as I can.

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‘99 Ford Contour A car isn’t a person, but mine was one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

Candy Apple Red dented up, rust flaking shined up bright, buddy.

At any time of the day, when things were falling apart, it could take me away.

Creaks and awkward hums sounding out from the hood still inching forward, pal.

Down cleared out streets at midnight sun splattered country roads at dawn, anywhere I wanted with enough gas.

Those days creeped to an end, prolonged as much as possible, but I’m grateful for every one of them.

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Are You Still Coming Over?

I can feel the moments slipping by slow as Patsy Cline sings something sad and distant.

What does social etiquette say about moments like this?

Bottle it up, looking as cool and composed, even detached, as possible.

Honesty is ugly and sincerity even worse.

Keep it together you weirdo and move on already.

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Unraveling I get a bit too out of breath now to sail across concrete waves in the middle of the night.

Or at least it’s harder these days.

Motivation, to wake up early and lace up running shoes tight is in short supply.

The same motivation that makes lists about eating healthier is used instead to order Taco Bell at midnight.

The way you cope with the years slipping by starts to show in your little routines and vices.

The comforts sometimes outweighing goals for an easier existence and hopeful poems about getting your life together.

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Loss All the leaves on the trees float down, brushed away into piles, crumbling into dust.

Replaced by cold wind and piles of snow that’ll evaporate just the same.

Just the same as us.

Small moment lost in Earth’s history.

That’s where all your misery and happiness is stuffed.

Brushed away like those leaves evaporated like that snow, here and gone, and probably forgotten.

So when you’re carefully putting all your knick-knacks in a box remember that it’ll be all right or at the very least, not matter at all.

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Bummersville I remember being told about a ghost town so small and insignificant that they don’t even put it on maps anymore.

I packed up the car and made my way over, leaving nothing behind with no intention of coming back.

I passed through lively little small towns and big cities with skyscrapers that stared down indifferently.

But mostly I saw large stretches of similar looking highway.

Once I arrived in Bummersville, after getting directions from some locals, I saw it jammed full of people.

Talking and carrying on well-kept little shops and brightly colored homes.

None of the empty decay I expected, just people who heard the same murmurs that I did.

They packed up and headed over, finding each other and starting over, not perfect but much better.

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but much better.

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-Thank You-

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Nicholas Arthur is 25 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.

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