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.

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.

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.

Weighty piles adorned my car this afternoon,

causing me to once again wonder

why the fuck I still live where we have winter.

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.

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.

guest who will not leave the house

when the party ends.

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.

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.

and I light another cigarette.