The Way of All Flesh (Giant Thrifts)

The Way of All Flesh

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I was known for my tragic love life. She had found another man, a backwoods man, living on the land but not above a night on the town, who according to her would wipe snot on his pants, a statement of poverty or thrift or anger against the niceties of society. All of us heated our hovels with wood but only the rich burned hardwoods, me and probably this guy were softwood gatherers. There were few aspects to my life. First, I can remember a nook in the kitchen of the house I shared with a beautiful faceless woman who wore a ring in her nose where I wrote and watched flocks of unidentified birds comb a tree for seeds.

This particular day the sky was blue with clean pillowy cumulus clouds floating toward Puget Sound. I believe all the poems written in that nook have been forgotten by their author. Nights, for entertainment, I would wander the aisles of the supermarket, admiring everything and buying nothing. I had no money.

The fluorescent lighting, clean straight neat shelving and floors, warmth and the fact I could identify nobody attracted me. I lived on cream cheese and honey sandwiches eating them leaning against the kitchen sink. Thinking go back to New York City which is what I ultimately did. Drove cross country nonstop three days and three nights seeing and feeling nothing. This was during the Reagan recession inherited from Carter.

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I'm unclear how presidents affect your life but good or bad, democrat or whig, alive or dead you've got to get a job, which I did. I supervised the living arrangements of developmentally disabled adults in what I thought were humorous contexts that gave no offense. Normally harmless they'd sometimes have altercations with their neighbors.

I balanced the checkbooks, paid the bills. Supposedly teaching living skills, I had few of my own as evidenced by my sleeping on the floor, I had no bed. One mature woman colleague judged me a short-timer living a useless fantasy about big cities. Still lost in my own history, still didn't know the calculus. My homework comes to me in daily disconnected increments.

Shade lived in my gray van, a Dodge slant six, which I could never afford to fix. Once the driveshaft disconnected from the rear axle and I tied it on with rope.

Drove 60 miles on a knot. Shade was hyper and sad, both. He smelled bad but was a good dog with a lonely heart. When my wife who wasn't a wife finally found a boyfriend who wouldn't wipe snot on his pant leg they took Shade to British Columbia where I believe he runs free on a vast estate by the sea.

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I once beat Shade like a slave because he attacked a small dog out of frustration and loneliness and until I had kids and started saying and doing things just as bad to humans it was the lowest meanest moment of my life. The farmer who saw it will never forget or forgive it. Having confessed all this there's just one last fact to tell.

The mountains were cold, the waters clear, deep snow and shadows.

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Don Bouchard Aug Coffin Building. Dad didn't want a coffin. Cool and dry, His ashes, urned, Lie beneath the sod And prairie sky Waiting some clarion call, Some trill of hope, Bright, re-constitutional, Faith-affirming. Mother's wishes rise before us: No crematory, No embalmer. Just her blanket, Just a hole Dug beside our Dad. The law would let her wish be true, But her children won't. We're searching coffin plans. Reverently grim, Lovingly deferential, Dutifully rebellious, Solemn this journey be.

Pine boards to honor her thrift But smooth and tight, Rope handles, fitted lid, Perhaps a little trim, Perhaps a sheaf of wheat carved For the old farmer she was. We'll bury her, Wrapped in her blanket, Tucked securely in pine Beside my father's ashes. Like a grain of wheat she'll lie Silent in her final say Inside our final say Waiting Resurrection Day.

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Life moves forward, a conveyor belt that moves so slow, so fast, as to be indiscernible. The time is upon us. Hans Taylor Nov Susan Adele Wiggins Jul Tell me about the Ace of Wands! I ask it why? They meet. She blinks. She is Ruined.

Perhaps she will escape to Italy and die Alone in the sunshine. God bless Her.

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Nat Lipstadt Aug The th Poem: The Deepest Twist. Aaron Elswick Aug Resist, Grow. Baptized in the framework, emboldened dregs, stolen legs, having the will enabled, will stoke flares. Hope there's enough left, to capitalize and trademark, Mark. These machination metaphorics may get way dark. Witness the churn, turn barrel, pour fuel. Envision thrift in the burn. Unequivocal innocents in the thick of it learn, gun metal, flower petal.

Power is sick of our tone. They play their tricks on our young, to build a system above. We killed the sadness fit to galvanize a truthful spirit, loose beneath the masses. Wire he tapped, isn't the first, was a fiery blast. I heard the ground stir, out turned choirs of wrath.

Give baron bread, give miner shaft, and all the pigs just laughed. All the swine surrounded, founded "Freedom". Heavy quotes aligned to, "leave em lying". We declined to deify, redefine our civil vision. Truth can't hurt if you stay quiet. Truth in earnest moves the strongest. Our seeds to earth are truth in kindness. Eric W Aug Dreams of you - a person never even met. Chased around a thrift store, second chances abounded. A house promised and built at the foot of a dam, we knew better. What monstrous water should drown us in our longing, cracks shown in words and walls.

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It's like the subconscious mind knows all along and produces images of your words before they are consciously digested. How can you be found in dreamscapes and a spotless mind when you have been lost in reality. Remembered this dream last night after seeing the words this morning.

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