I really lucked out.
Somehow got the wife
I’d dreamed of.
The wife I love making coffee for
in the mornings.
The wife who’ll rub my feet
even when they stink like I’ve been
walking in a swamp.
The wife who laughs
when I fart too hard
and shit my pants a little.
She asked me the other day
if it was normal that we don’t fight.
I told her yes, it’s normal.
Probably not the statistical average,
but it’s the normal
we both want.
What I dread most
are boring conversations about the weather.
I drive people home
from Florida and Arizona
and Cancun, Mexico,
and they’re all suntanned, hungover,
tired.
And they look out the window
and comment on the snow.
Oh. I didn’t know.
You shitcock piss-stain.
I’ve only been out driving in it for hours.
The cats are curled into each other
on the couch, oblivious.
I have finished the coffee,
neglected the dishes,
skipped taking a shower,
cursed the snow,
and later,
have to go to work.
These sleeping cats cause me
great envy. They have it easy.
I feed and water them daily,
give them cat drugs,
scratch behind their ears.
I have to trudge through snowbanks
to get to work, pay the bills,
clean their acrid litter boxes,
and they just curl up and sleep.
Goddamn little purrbox cuties.
The wind is bringing more snow.
Weighty piles adorned my car this afternoon,
causing me to once again wonder
why the fuck I still live where we have winter.
I was eating a cheeseburger.
Not a particularly good cheeseburger,
but I was hungry.
An incredibly gorgeous woman walked past me,
looking into my eyes and smiling.
I returned her smile,
watched her ass as she walked away.
Petite, large bust, blonde flowing hair,
and crippled right hand that looked like a baby’s fist.
Stunted from birth,
fingers perpetually curled into her palm.
She was very careful to hold it
so it wasn’t immediately noticeable,
she was graceful and fiercely sexy.
I wondered what it would feel like
to have her stroke my cock
with her crippled hand,
thinking that she would make
some pervert very happy.
I went back to my cheeseburger,
and continued to be disappointed.
Global economics surpasses my understanding,
much like the peace of Christ.
The peace of Christ is like global economics.
I look like the caucasian Christ model,
hero of the midwestern Sunday School.
So it is that I am like global economics,
and surpass my own understanding,
hopefully on my way to peace.
Winter is the drunk
guest who will not leave the house
when the party ends.
Driving the old highway 41
north from Brew City,
the farms are disappearing,
giving way to subdivisions and
gas station food depots.
New highways carved into
what were corn fields.
They’ll bypass Peshtigo soon.
Slice through the woods
and cut off the town like gangrenous limbs
in Civil War times.
It’s progress, a sign of the times.
They’ll try to justify change
as necessary
as homes go up for sale
and sit vacant for months.
The jobs are moving south,
to Mexico, west, to China
and India.
It’s no ghost town,
but the early Californian gold miners didn’t think so either.
Who knows.
They still sling coffee in greasy spoons.
The kids are still getting knocked up
before they get diplomas.
The Thai restaurant is still kickin up the spice.
So it’s not all bad.
The sax player blasts his horn
over the conversations,
weaves like drunken snake
around caffeinated philosophizing
and agonizing homework writing.
He don’t care.
He ain’t alive no more anyways.
This is all posthumous meandering.
Magic of the recording industry.
Stay alive forever.
No wonder so many people
want to be musicians.
So ideas can outlive the bodily limitations.
Most vanish to obscurity,
where they belong,
but a chosen few make it through
extra decades and enjoy
years of influence,
years of breaking open minds.
Change the future of the musical realm.
Blow that horn, sax-man.
Keep that genius alive.
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