Not Unreasonable

Thursday, December 7, 2017

It’s not unreasonable to think
that it might make sense for us to
embrace leadership principles
we can both leverage and implement
not only within our own team
but across the broader organization.

• • •
 


It’s a Wonderful Life, Alternate Ending

Thursday, December 7, 2017

In which a middle-aged Harry Bailey,
no longer a war hero and still depressed
about his older brother’s attempted suicide,
himself begins to consider jumping off a bridge
but is interrupted by an absent-minded angel
who compels him to walk through Bedford Falls
not as it would be if he’d never been born
but as it would be if he’d been born Mr. Potter’s son:
He never would have gone to war—never
would have won the Medal of Honor. Every man
on that transport would have died because he
wasn’t there to save them, but it wouldn’t
have mattered because he would have been
Harry Potter! Kid wizard, loved by all!!

• • •

[Originally published here and there in 2010]


The Transition

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

I have gone from not being able to stop
finding measuring tape—sewing kit mini,
bulky orange construction grade, basic black
with belt clip, Disney souvenir, tailor’s cloth—
tucked in the junk drawer, left next to Fourth
of July sparklers on the outbuilding shelves,
or down on the workbench (two of them)—
to needing to see if one of my hallway walls
is at least 63 inches long and not being
able to locate even one. Not one. What
is going on, God? What is happening to me?

• • •
 


When I Lament

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

When I lament and say to myself,
“You’re nothing but a great big
old Aaron Belz-shaped disappointment,”
the thought often follows,
“Well at least you’re Aaron Belz-shaped.”
And now that I’m 46 I can add:
“At least you’re a disappointment.”
Can I imagine being a huge success,
juggling those plates till doomsday,
feeding the machine of others-opinions
the way a woman waters dying plants
each day in a South Bronx apartment
not knowing that, oh, for instance,
this building will be demolished next year
and most of its once-hopeful tenants
will move back to their home towns
and become surgeons, store clerks,
boxers, talk show co-producers,
small-issue agitants and academics
or at least adjuncts. She doesn’t know,
she keeps watering, and this, I’m saying,
is how I was as a people-pleaser.
When I lament and say to myself,
“Boy, you better smile and get to it,”
I know that it’s okay to ward
off laziness with a little pep talk.
Can’t we just all do our jobs and
stop whining about our circumstances?

• • •
 


Some Sail Love

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Some sail love. It is a river,
so technically, you can “sail” it
or at least glide down it,
you paper boat. You paper,
paper, paper, paper boat.

• • •


Rumination from Hell

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

There’s a fine line between “fine line between”
and other clichés that might be less accurate,
such as “might be less accurate” which,
while it might not qualify as a cliché, does capture
a certain idiomatic construction, as does “might not
qualify as a” blank; you know, fill in the blank.
But is there a fine line between “fill in the blank”
and other ways of casually expressing variables
in conversation—or a broad one? “Let’s grab
lunch at fill in the blank” versus “Let’s grab lunch
at wild card” or “placeholder.” Seems like a broad
plank in one’s own eye as opposed to a speck
in one’s brother’s. Brothers, I expect your planks
to appear even larger due to perspective.
PerSPECtive. And by “Speck” i mean your phone case.
That’s your phone: just in case. Fine line there.

• • •


In Heaven, Southwest

Thursday, November 2, 2017

In Heaven, Southwest 

boards C60-C1, B, families/

extra assistance, then A.

• • •


Happy Holidays

Thursday, November 2, 2017

If I were your Macbook
Or even if I were not
I would let you type on me
All the weird secrets
You claim to keep
For others you,
Let’s be honest, barely
Know: But that’s
Just me, as folks are wont
To say. That’s my deal.
That’s how I perambulate.
That’s my bank note.
That’s my Ponzi scheme,
As they say. My midriff.
My erstwhile succubus
Come back again to say
“Whattup,” you know?
And if I were your iPhone
I would let you
Call your mom on me.

• • •


The Crock

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

A man came to inspect my pickling crock.
He was an odd-looking man, about yay tall.
“This crock is cracked,” he announced,
and began to write on a clipboard.
Hearing high-pitched laughter I whirled
around and noticed several boys had gathered
outside my bay window to witness this
interaction. My goodness, boys!
Go out and find someone else to bug!

• • • 


Seth (“Someone”)

Friday, October 27, 2017

“Someone,” says no-one, for who
would say just that? My boo
says “Something” sometimes
to ease the tension our Catahoula
creates by barking nonstop,
but that’s way different—a polar
bear of another stripe, as they
maybe say. “Somehow,” Mom
says, “Your dad will cease
supergluing things in the crawlspace.”
We’re all supposed to laugh,
but I excuse myself to forage
for comestibles that might suffice
for dinner-time—taste nice.
“No-one,” says someone
on the radio tonight while our
guts turn loads of Ted Drewes
like ancient satellite dishes
half-buried in Alaskan snow,
“and nothing can stop us now,”
except, I add, the zero-bears
who, white as fuck, stand
mute witness to our camp’s ill-
planned perimeter. We dare neither
exit nor reminisce too loudly
nor breathe, even, but evenly,
my boo and me, our one something
formed as on two frequencies untuned.

• • •