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Archives

Monday, May 31, 2010
Threnody (A Memorial Poem for Memorial Day) :: OhNo789 :: 0

now that Pop-pop is gone
i took that trip      out
to abbots town
      to see Granny

when i entered
the rickety victorian house
the      slam
      of the screen door
heralded my entrance


she did not flinch
      just      sat
      at the head of the hearth
not moving
      sequestering herself
from the kids      on the streets
in the shade      of that house
      sitting like a lady
if a bit more bowed
      on the creek rock fireplace
      pushing her time-crinkled cheeks
against the cold fire
that lives in the stone

after a second      she turned
      brought me to her side      with a look
      the way the grandfather clock looked
before the pendulum gave in

      step into the fire
and take the box in the hollowed out
bit of chimney
      the one my sister and I used to hide things in
      the one in which the ladies
      of the civil war
hid their favorite      broaches

she said

i did      and      opening it
      revealed some hair
the chemo had taken      along
with Pop-pop’s wedding ring

she said      “it is time
      to go”      and
      I       understood.

Author’s note: I know that Memorial day is traditionally about all of the soldiers that we have lost, having been originally observed right after the civil war, and now, having become an official holiday in ‘71 to observe the losses of all soldiers in all wars, but this Memorial day poem is not about that. Last fall my Great Pop-pop died, and about three months ago my great grandmother passed away with cancer. They lived up in the boonies, though separate parts, because they’re from my dad’s side and mom’s side respectively. I was away in college, so I was never able to take the trip to the funeral for Pop-pop, and wasn’t able to see Grandma before she left. This is for him, her, and my Granny, who just beat cancer, and is in her late seventies. It is a meshing of a couple stories and memories coupled with a discussion that I had with my mother who was one of the last people to see my Great Grandmother. May the latter rest in peace, and the former keep on kicking.


Saturday, February 06, 2010
Poem for the Snow :: OhNo789 :: 0

Our world, covered in the hush of new snow,
stood quiet on Monday. The power was out.
Mama lit her Yankee candles around the house
so we could see - Lilac Blossom, Lavender Vanilla.
When she was done, the small place crawled with firelight on its walls.

Outside our world dressed itself in winter’s wedding gown,
and we threw on quilts instead of sweaters.
Mama, Sis and I spoke in whispers over Monopoly.
The Microwave did not ding, and the Telly shut up.


Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I Recall A Time When I Actually Played With Words :: Keith :: 0

(Originally posted November 22, 2005 on wordshadows.com, a blog that now smells terribly of mildew)


Light bulbs!  Brian called on Friday and needed some bulbs for the lights we installed, and since I’m the man, I have the bulbs.  “I’ll drop them by this weekend,” I told him, which I have to admit, doesn’t mean this upcoming weekend.  So, right there, you see I’m at least two or three days behind.

Pipes!  Then this morning, the phone is ringing again.  It does that quite a bit these days.  Ringing.  Yes, quite a bit of it.  This time it’s Luella, reminding me about her pipes.  “You’re hard to get a hold of,” she says to me.  Luella is wondering about her pipes that need a bit of work.  Warranty work, I’m afraid to say.  Yes, even the smiling Fernando makes a mistake from time to time that requires correcting, and Luella was wanting to make sure that I hadn’t forgotten.  “No, I haven’t forgotten,” I tell her, and then we reach an agreement for me to show up in the Spring, which really is good news for someone like me who has fallen so far behind on everything.  Buying time has become harder and harder for me these days, the cost of time being what it is and all.  I can hardly afford my own.

If I get poor enough, I think, I wonder if I’ll lose weight.  Or will I end up with one of those big starch bellies like you used to see on the children Sally Struthers would round up to sell sympathy?

I haven’t answered this one, but the phone display keeps showing me that British Columbia is calling, which I can only assume has something to do with the avian flu showing up the other day in a Canadian duck, leading to the U.S. ban on Canadian poultry, which can only mean that geese will soon be heading to the top of the U.S. suspected terrorist list as they continue their migration south for the winter.

I don’t think I’ll ever figure out how problems can begin and end just by something crossing over an imaginary border, but then, I’m dense that way.  Or maybe it’s called idealism.  I’m not sure.  Either way, I can’t help but find a little bit of humor in the fact that tensions between the U.S. and Canada will no doubt grow, which isn’t funny at all until you think that it all sort of began over a duck.

Of course, this won’t be the first time that the two countries will have been at odds with one another over something as deadly serious as avian flu.  Back in the 1920’s, if you’ll recall your school lessons, there was a little evil thing going around that was a lot like avian flu, only it wasn’t passed around by ducks or chickens but by some sneaky guys known as bootleggers.  Now, don’t shut me down without giving me a chance to explain myself, because swear to God there’s a connection here somewhere, although at the moment I can’t possibly think what it might be.  I think it had something to do with profiteering, but I may be mistaken, because now it seems to me that it has something to do with imaginary boundaries.

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Anyway, back in 1929, March 20, 1929 to be exact, a ship of Canadian registry called I’m Alone was anchored off the coast of New Orleans, and had in its possession, or so I’ve read, nearly 3,000 cases of liquor on board, which in today’s world, might be like a Chinese freighter sitting just east of Boston with a cargo hold full of chickens.  You see the two-fold problem here, don’t you?  On one hand, you have this devilish thing running loose, which really has a bunch of people’s shorts in a bunch, while on the other hand you’re worried about how you’re possibly going to control who profits off of that freighter full of chickens, or put another way, how you’re possibly going to control who’s going to profit off of the spread of the avian flu.  So you see, it’s a touchy thing to have something unwanted sitting just outside of the range of your own ship’s cannon.

The waters around America at that time were patrolled by a growing fleet of cutter ships, then under the command of the Coast Guard, but originally created and placed into service in the late 1780’s by then Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton to enforce the nation’s bold new tariff laws, which were vital if the young government was to survive financially.  Trade revenue, for America, was suddenly more vital then ever before.

It was one of these vessels, the cutter Wolcott, that now appeared on the scene, which immediately resulted in I’m Alone to begin moving seaward, away from New Orleans.  The Wolcott approached, asking the Canadian ship to heave to so that she could be boarded and examined, and when the I’m Alone refused, several shots were fired across her bow from the Wolcott’s single three-pounder.  The Wolcott’s gun jammed, however, forcing her to call for assistance.  The cutters Dexter and Dallas responded, the Wolcott continued to pursue the I’m Alone, and later that evening, the I’m Alone hove to, allowing an unarmed officer from Wolcott to board her.  The Canadian skipper, Captain John Thomas Randell, refused however to permit a search of his ship, the officer was returned to the Wolcott, and the chase continued.

This, I suppose, we could compare to some Canadian honkers touching down just outside St. Louis for a short rest and a bite of grass, but taking off before anyone has a chance to test them for avian flu.  Imagine, if you can, a band of frustrated CDC scientists, shaking their fists at the birds and jumping into their vans, vowing to hunt them down.

By the following day, the cutters Dexter and Dallas had arrived to join in on the pursuit, and it was the cutter Dexter that ordered the Canadian vessel to “Heave to or I shall fire at you.”  Captain Randell refused, claiming that he was at that time on the high seas, 14 or 15 miles from land and well beyond the legal limit of 12 miles, to which the Coast Guard cutters responded by issuing a continuing volley of gunfire, interrupted by repeated demands to “heave to,” which was continually refused by the Canadian skipper, until finally the I’m Alone, having grown tired of the entire business, sunk.  It was March 22, 1929. 

The entire controversy surrounding the incident dragged on for many years, with considerable legal and diplomatic bickering between the two countries, but was eventually settled by arbitration.  The Canadian ship, it turned out, while certainly a British ship of Canadian registry, had been in fact owned, controlled, and at the critical times in question, managed by citizens of—care to take a guess—the United States.  Further, it was found that Captain Randell and his crew had been acting in good faith, and that none had been a party to the illegal conspiracy to smuggle liquor into the United States.  The U.S., it turned out, had once again been fighting itself, rather than Canadians, as had been originally thought. 

The United States was ordered to compensate Captain Randell and his crew the sum of $25,000, which was divided as follows:

  • Captain John Thomas Randell: $7,906.00
  • John Williams, deceased: $1,250.00
  • Jens Jansen: $1,098.00
  • James Barrett: $1,032.00
  • William Wordsworth, deceased: $907.00
  • Eddie Young: $999.50
  • Chesley Hobbs: $1,323.50
  • Edward Fouchard: $965.00
  • and for Amanda Mainguy, as compensation in respect of the death of Leon Mainguy, the only crew member of I’m Alone to die as a result of the fight, for the benefit of herself and the children of Leon Mainguy (Henriette Mainguy, Jeanne Mainguy, and John Mainguy): $10,185.00


And that, my friends, somehow explains why I need to get in my work van this very minute and drive over to Brian’s house and deliver some light bulbs before this whole thing turns into an international incident somehow. 

And somehow it explains how I feel about my telephone ringing off the hook.  Like I’m Captain Randell somehow, or maybe even Leon Mainguy, and every time the phone rings it’s like another shot plunging into my side, because let’s face it, my creditors stopped dropping shots across my bow about three months ago and now the chase is on.

I’m not sure it explains anything about how a duck in Canada came down with avian flu, and that’s fine, because I don’t think that’s really the point.

And finally, after all this, I’m just left with one question that I hope someone can answer for me.  What the hell was William Wordsworth doing on a Canadian rum-runner ship in 1929?  Wasn’t he born in something like 1770, which would have made him nearly 160 years old?  With a crew like that, it’s no wonder the I’m Alone couldn’t get away.


Wednesday, December 02, 2009
So He Said “Let’s Run!” - A Christmas Mix :: OhNo789 :: 1

Dearest Friends,
Many if not all of you know that I’m a mix maker. Well, this year I’ve decided to start yet another mix making tradition, a Christmas mix. The songs, you will find, are a polite blend of your classical Christmas music, covers of the traditional stuff, and other, newer music, all of which I personally think are wonderful songs to listen to in order to get you into the holiday spirit.
If you know me even better, then you’ll know that I, at times, can’t stomach Christmas music at all, so it may come as a surprise that I even made one of these things at all. Perhaps it is because I’m away from my family for the first time during the time that this music is played. Perhaps it is because I feel that it is my duty to bring you GOOD Christmas music, because lets face it, there are one too many half hearted Christmas songs on the radio when the season rolls around. I personally believe that it is because it finally struck me exactly how important the holiday season is to me, and I wanted to do something special to show it. Whatever the reason, this is the product.
I hope to continue to make these from this year out as I amass more music. This year I only had a pool of about three hundred songs, next year I hope to have more. Now, that isn’t to say that having so little music was a hinderance, because it wasn’t. There are a good many of my favorite Christmas songs that didn’t make it on this mix for one reason or another. So, enjoy, please! This is my Christmas gift to you.
With My Love,
Caleb S. Lesher

_____________________________________________________________________________

Download Link:
http://www.mediafire.com/file/zm3k3m4mmem/So%20He%20Said%20%22Let%27s%20Run%21%22.zip

Track List:
A Spaceman Came Travelling by Gregorian
All I want For Christmas is You by Jellybean!
Christmas In Hollis by Run-D.M.C.
O Come All Ye Faithful/O Holy Night by Trans-Siberian Orchestra
Zat You, Santa Claus? (The Heavy Remix) by Louis Armstrong
Come on! Let’s Boogey to the Elf Dance! by Sufjan Stevens
Merry Christmas Baby by Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band
Lonely Christmas Eve by Ben Folds
Frosty The Snowman by Fiona Apple
Winter Wonderland by Phantom Planet
Baby It’s Cold Outside by Zooey Deschanel
Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) by Death Cab for Cutie
Everything’s Gonna Be Cool This Christmas by Eels
This Time Of Year by The Mighty Mighty Bosstones
Back Door Santa by Bon Jovi
The Christmas Song by Raveonettes
White Christmas by Otis Redding
Twas The Night Before Christmas by The Muppets


Tuesday, December 01, 2009
The City and The Town :: OhNo789 :: 0

This city sometimes
gets to noisy for people,
everything on the main street:
people yelling fire sirens blaring
horns and those cute bells on bicycles
and the planes overhead and the helicopters
and the thunder when it storms and the rain on steel
and the pigeons who roost on yours of all the windowsills,
the drunks singing, loud and proud when the bars let out at two
and the construction, oh, the construction - building to break in a year’s time,

but,  if this city is noisy, then I am noisy
when I brush my teeth before soundlessly
going to my quiet bed, for I am this city.
I am the red painted husky delivery trucks
and the steel workers conversing fifty stories up,
I am the boat’s horns, and the scores of cars,
and the people who yell through megaphones.

You, though, you aren’t.
You’re soft and quiet
like the sleepy town in PA
where I was born,
you are the morning birds
and the fresh, lush lawn,
you are dew on the lilies
and a passing bumblebee.

You, you are why I mistake cars for wedding bells
when I’m sitting in my room, stereo all the way up,
because wedding bells are soft and sweet, and maybe
maybe I need something soft.


Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Butterflies :: OhNo789 :: 0

Alarm clocks were going off all over the city, each set to basically the same time, if, perhaps, with ten, maybe twenty seconds difference from the others. Coffee pots would soon be turned on. Hair straighteners would be plugged in, and morning would soon begin, but right now - right this minute, give or take a handful of seconds, this was the minute for “fuck, it’s mondays,” for the slamming of fists on the snooze, and even the polite acceptance of the weekend’s finish, and the rare will to just get today over with, because after today is practically Friday, right?
Michael’s first thought upon hearing Jim Casey’s low booming voice was to walk the couple of miles to the radio station in his slippers and dressing gown, and punch the way too early bird in the face, but he restrained himself with languid ease, and was just able to swing his feet out over the side of the bed, opening his eyes with difficulty, and surveying his small bedroom with the same sense of sleepy wonder that a baby might have for their cradle
Light tinged the horizon as it always was at this hour before november, but one hardly notices such things before a ritual cold shower, and quick breakfast, so Michael went on about his day as normal by cracking his way to a standing position, and wobbling down the hall, groping for the bathroom door knob in the darkness. The morning birds who had not left for the season were arching their backs and opening their beaks to throw their song into the cool damp air outside, a pleasant sound to be sure.
Dressing came after the shower as it is the most practical thing to follow with quick measured movements, the twelve buttons, the quick tuck, and, always a crowd pleaser, the whip and flourish of tying a full windsor. Work time. Michael thought as he pulled up his sock, and slipped his foot into a decently polished glossy black shoe with a thrust downward.
His clock which only a little bit earlier seemed to be possessed by satan itself seemed to smile six thirty, which was in that household the universal code for toast and a thermos full of steaming morning medicine, or if he was feeling a bit more decadent, a bagel with Philadelphia cream cheese circled on top with the sterling silver butter knife that wasn’t scratched on the handle.
The paper was missing from his doorstep Michael noticed as he half-jogged outside with the last bit of bagel between his teeth, but he forgot it soon after as he left for the train stop.
Yesterday was the end of daylight’s savings when you move an hour of day time into the morning for the supposed purpose of saving energy. Really, the DST monster just lives for the Monday after to attack a couple hundred unsuspecting saps city wide who for some reason just did not get the memo, or did not yet convert to clocks which automatically changed. Ah well, most would figure it out before they left the house when they turned on the news to faces they did not recognize, some would even be reminded by a spouse if they were lucky, but Michael had no one in that small house of his, and was not the type of man to watch the Today Show, so his day was happening as it always did, just a little bit earlier, that’s all, and he never even noticed until a pretty girl sat next to him on the train.
“I never see you here,” said the girl through her painted red lips as she confidently lowered herself into the seat beside Michael which was reserved for the “don’t sit here” specter. See, when you’re taking the train into the city, normally every one rides the one at the same time with, by and large, the exact same group of people who rarely mingle, but are to some extent aware of each other’s constant existence. If she hadn’t mentioned it, he wouldn’t have known, because the simple changes in that morning were as subtle as a butterfly’s wings on the weather pattern.
Goddamn, I woke up an hour early, he thought to himself, but said with a smile which betrayed little, “yeah, I certainly haven’t seen you before.” When DST hits you, it does so like a ton of bricks while you have your back turned. Son of a bitch, what am I going to do for an hour?. Then it hit him, this girl was pretty, and was waiting for him to say something more. “I figured I’d go in an hour early,” he lied, “I’ve got some extra work this week.” She laughed, and goodness was she cute, her hair fell around her shoulders in wonderful little circlets, and she wore a dress which hardly fit the Morning atmosphere.
“I see,” her polite, and was that flirtatious(?), chuckle lead her to say. She extended a soft hand in a perfect spear, confidently. Everything she did had meaning and purpose which seemed to spring from somewhere deep down where it could take hold of her few pieces of jewelry which only jangled with purpose. Even the air around her form was taken over by her control. Michael took her hand, and that was it. There was no space between thoughts in his head as his feelings jumped from a polite reserved feeling of wonderment to a soft sweet infatuation that would far outlast its time.
When she left after forty minutes of what can only be described as all out conversation with all of the normal signs of mutual attraction you come to learn from high school, the hit, the whisper, et. al. It was near perfect, except for, well, when she left, and took perhaps all hope of something happening out behind the garden shed like old yeller.
“Well, this is my stop,” she confessed, the smile leaving her face for a quick flash of a second as she grabbed the railing to leave. Michael could say little by this point, having been lulled into the thought that this would never end.
“It was nice to have met you” he sputtered standing up as well, but she was gone as if she’d never shared that train ride with him. As he fell back into his seat, Michael noticed that one of her earrings was laying in the seat beside him, and before he knew what he was doing he took hold of it, feeling the cool metal beneath his skin, and vaulted towards the door as the recorded voice said “doors closing.” He didn’t make it, and as in a romance movie, the girl walked away into the crowd as the train sped away.
Michael woke up early the next day, and went about things as his routine suggested, though he added a step near the end, that of putting the earring in his pocket, just in case. She wasn’t there. See, she had been running a bit early herself, and when she sat down she said “I’ve never seen you here before” with a small sense of self irony, so while Michael’s life was being lead an hour early, she decided to start going on his train which left half an hour later than her usual. After a week or two getting up early or late respectively would become the norm, and even after they settled down, and found themselves families with spouses they truly did love, they still went to the station at a different time from the one they’d started, even long after they’d forgotten why. One day neither would show up, and the winds kicked up by a butterfly would die down, just a hair.


Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Kraftwerk Fans :: Keith :: 0

Oh Kraftwerk, why was this sitcom never produced?  I would have watched every single episode.



We make robot snacks.

 


Tuesday, November 03, 2009
“Right?” :: OhNo789 :: 0

Thank God I put my tea down, and brought her through the sleepy dark family room where the rest of my family reclined as they always did after their meal. The dining room had become stifling in the late afternoon sun which cut through the windows, shading the room the same color as the butter lying dormant by the now small stack of corn on the cob at the center of the now messy, empty table.
Earlier, I remember, Aunt Peggy stood above us and reached as only Peggy can, towering, her fleshy arm unfolding, breaking the perfect square of our plates and silverware and sweating cups of iced beverage, as she leaned forward, one hand digging groves into the wooden arm chair for stability, hand wobbling towards the ladle stuck firmly in the gluey potato salad. A bead of sweat dropped down her nose and into the dish where I saw a fly, struggling in the paste of Peggy’s favorite dish.
No one noticed him there. He struggled, and faces aged young and old around the circle held the dimples that come with wakes. I did not understand, just gripped my silent girlfriend’s hand under the long table laid with burgers and watermelon who all agreed with me. Well, in any case they didn’t speak ill. I mumbled to the table for some ketchup, and was met with Grandpa’s sunspot-ridden hand which folded around the glass bottle of Heinz as I had seen it hold his wife, my grandmother’s, hand on that hospital bed as she babbled to the ceiling about giving me a shoot of her ancient lilac bush for my own garden when the time came. Then, the heart monitor flat lined, and Grandpa, still holding her hand like the ketchup gave her a kiss.
He gave me a smile, but I could not understand it. I could not whisper thanks, just pried the bottle from his fingers like, well, the kid I was, sick with loss at a table which, except for Magdalynne who gently stoked my hand trying as hard as she could to comfort me. They all must’ve understood something I did not. They used the ladle to grope around the dying fly with bitter nonchalance, some letting a belly laugh escape their beer guts.
I did not know then that all the sounds were tinged with grief at the height of the wave’s crest, and at the end of every sentence and story was the question of their own mortality along with the ever present “she’s in heaven, right?”
Turning to me, Magdalynn and I bumped foreheads, she in her plastic folding seat at the end, and me in the straight-backed wooden one. She did not know what else to do, and throwing away all thought of PDA like mom would your untouched baked beans, Uncle Paul’s secret recipe, into the trash can, she kissed me passing the salt of well hidden tears into my mouth.
After some time, the rest of the family retired to the living room on the other side of the kitchen where the race was on, and drapes made it always sleepy and cool, even during the indian summer. Aunt Sherry would be laying stomach down on the carpet, she believed that it helped her digest. Her husband took the couch, and talked with his hands. Mom, after doing dishes alone as if for the first time at the sink would take the footrest, Grandpa his recliner where, despite ritual, he wouldn’t fall asleep this time. All the rest sprawled across the room as best they could. I could hear the raucous group talking about even more memories than they had at the table, some now a tad bit intoxicated. The dinning room was facing west, and in the tired late afternoon light we sat shaking.
Thank god we abandoned our glasses of tea, and let them sit on the wooden table by the empty bowl of potato rolls off of their coasters to erode a ring in the the cherry-colored varnish, because if we hadn’t, if we hadn’t forgotten what was, then Magdalynne would have never leaned in and said “I love you” for the first time, speaking more with her lips against my ear than she ever had when we’d roll around like teenagers do. The confession came in a whisper, hesitant during the I, but gaining momentum through the o in love, and finally exploding in a soft sweet chorus at the u.
I loved her too, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it, not then. Instead I took her hand, and lead her over the cold tile of the kitchen and the lazy carpet on which most of my family was sprawled, finally to the back yard and kissed her, like mom’s hand had kissed the dishes with that sad longing for Grandma to be there to hand her the plates, old fingers purpling because of not quite scalding water, and I held Magdalynne like Grandpa onto the bottle of Heinz, never wanting to let go, because that would mean losing that too because his grip was not strong enough.
We rolled like Peggy’s unfolding arm with that same nonchalance which had bittered my heart only an hour prior. We scooped around that dead fly, but we felt its presence in our very bones, and in all of our awkward movements, ever asking the same question, “she’s in heaven, right?” We stained her yellow Sunday dress the green of the grass, the same with my slacks, and when we were through with our desperate kisses we each rolled over on our stomachs, because Sherry was right, we found. Sometimes it is easier to digest that way, with a belly laugh, burgers, watermelon, and the soft kiss of a memory while life forces you forward, to forget your perspiring beverage and live on, words ever tinged with grief at the crest of every sound wave.


Tuesday, September 29, 2009
A Sentimental Longing or Wistful Attraction for the Past :: OhNo789 :: 0

Things had been different for a while now, but that didn’t matter, no, they were beyond the event horizon, and, well, after that all that is left is to fall. It’s quite simple, really. There are two people, a man and a woman, in one of those vinyl booths of the local diner. They are talking civilly about how it is al over. No one seems to notice them. It isn’t busy, but all the same, the minimal waiting staff simply passes and doesn’t bother to ask if they want refills. They know better than to interrupt.
See, things had been different for a while now. The former lovers each knew it. There were no tears. This was simply the inevitable place in which they found themselves, customary, polite, kind words for closure which neither needed. They weren’t in love, who cares? certainly neither of them, who had found that a picture once held would be held forever, but the cloudy sky which threatened rain, the zoo, and that day in D.C. would all leave in the end, and no words would fix that, but here they found themselves anyway, going through the motions with small smiles on their faces, and the usual in front of them.
Dave’s Diner had seen better days. The once overstuffed glossy, sparkly red seat cushions were now half-stuffed, and what appeared to be pink with a yellow glaze. The windows, too, were a little bit grimy, but Not in the normal sense. The diner itself was completely sterile, but given its age, you could hardly tell that the current owners were neat freaks. The white walls were greying, though fingerprints or skid marks could not be found anywhere, you just know by looking at the place that every inch has been touched by dirty grubby paws, and other various appendages.
Memories are written on the walls of Dave’s. The thousand moments that lead to this one. The stuffing of the seats did not simply disappear, it left with the night shift mothers in the morning as they walked sluggishly to their cars and home, with the men and women who snuggled on the same side of the table, and with the large raucous groups of kids, among others. That was one reason the place was so dingy, the memories, or, so Dave’s grandson, Jonathan, who now ran the diner liked to say.
But, then, it could have always been that the business was beginning to go under. The lovers were the only ones in on a Saturday night. Of course, as Jonathan would say, that was hardly telling, because people “always came for breakfast, anyway.” He wasn’t completely wrong on either account. They had the best omelets, waffles, french toast and pancakes in the county, and nostalgia certainly seeped from pores of the walls, unseen, but it was there, pooling under the seats, dripping into the circuits of the jukebox, mixed with they syrup and gravy, clinging to every piece of neon in the place, somehow magnifying the harsh gaseous light.
⸐
Rebecca and Michael walked across the gravel. It was a Monday morning, and, though both didn’t know it at the time, that spring day would become the first of many dates, but, at least while the parking lot crunched beneath their heels and sneakers, respectively, they were joyfully oblivious. Unlike most, they were Monday people, and that was all the fault of the so-called “Case of the Mondays” special, which, again unknowingly, they both came for once a week to take with their bitter coffee, eggs and toast like a tonic for the upcoming week.
They reached the front doors at roughly the same time, Rebecca first, but that didn’t stop Michael from taking two quick steps and taking hold of the stainless steal handle, wrenching it open with a quick, measured tug. That was their first meeting, and for perhaps the third time in his life, Michael would get something out of his door-opening habit than he’d ever imagined, and he could imagine a lot as he was a poet by trade, but a male secretary by day. The first time an older woman shook his hand, palming him a sweaty ten dollar bill with a wink and a smile. The second he opened for another woman who, it would seem, had a very jealous boyfriend. This, the third, would have latent effects. For now, Rebecca simply flashed him a smile, and looked him in the eye for a solid two seconds before walking through the door, waiting to be seated and ordering the special, a stack of chocolate chip pancakes without looking at the menu.
Michael was seated in the same area of the diner as Rachel, ordered in the same fashion, and would later pick up his plate, drop himself into an empty seat, and start up a conversation, laughing the same, remarking the same, and, most importantly flirting as she was with him. A week or so later he would open the door again, their first kiss, and sometime after that, he’d open the door to his apartment whereupon other first things began happening in rapid succession.
⸐
Rebecca now sat across from Michael as they had years ago. She looked the same to the untrained eye, aside from her brown hair which now fell in gentle waves down past her shoulder blades. If you looked closely, then you might be able to see a couple of hair thin laugh lines beginning to develop around her mouth and eyes. To her friends she was Becca now, and somewhere hidden in the green pools of her eyes was a greater understanding of the world that spoke silently of loss and love.
Michael, too, had changed. He wore his hair a little bit shorter, his speech was slower, more thoughtful, but for the most part they were both the same people they had been, only older, and they had fallen out of love like the tide leaves the seaside, softly. Of course there was still something there, something small, something hidden, something that years later when they were alone, had a family, and were completely happy would resurface, and hit them like a ton of bricks for a minute or two, making them take a seat, a small pang of feeling for something past that would repeat itself every now and then for a long time to come. Just as a fragment, though, a bit of the nostalgia that Dave’s was famous for, a taste and smell hidden in the very pancakes, and in the vinyl seat’s stuffing that followed them home every time they left, hidden in their pockets.
They had been sitting for sometime, talking. There were tears at times, laughter at times, and both were perfectly fine. This was the end, they had passed the event horizon, and were now willingly falling, redshifted by time. Just then, the Saturday night sky was set on fire, and the conversation was dropped for good. Every one in the diner rushed for the window, and looked up into the sky where Betelgeuse, the shoulder of the constellation Orion had just gone supernova in a vivid display of colors that hadn’t been seen in this sector of the galaxy for over a thousand years.
Everything else melted away. All that existed was the death of something wonderful lighting the sky with blues and reds, and turning night into day. Until the show was done three days later, Betelgeuse shone brighter than the sun itself as it flung bits and pieces of itself out across the universe, eventually filling up every corner with the remnants of a fire once so hot and passionate that in its decline hundreds of new stars were formed, which, if they were lucky, would violently explode like this one, and would never be forgotten.
But, that’s not how life works. Some stars turn into black holes which suck up, and kill; some stars expand only to be left a cold white core. Rebecca and Michael exploded. Dave’s Diner exploded. From that a thousand new things began, a thousand moments that would lead to a new one just like tonight, something perfect that would be seen and felt everywhere long after it had departed.


Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Secret Admirer :: OhNo789 :: 0

May be the sappiest poem ever written
may find its way under your door
in the dead of night.
May be it will be scrawled on in smudged pencil,
folded and creased,
and still warm from a boy’s pocket
when you snatch it
from the floor.

Say he ran away, this boy
after doing his deed
because the tremors of his hand
lead him to rap the wall so slightly
that it woke you,
and say that you read it then and there.

And
may be he was carrying it around all day.
May be he paced in front of your door
for at least thirty minutes before
hastily stuffing
that wrinkled, slightly damp tome
under the wood of 812.

Say that you read it and
may be the sultry heat of journal page
caught you off guard.
Even though it
was the sappiest poem ever written,
say you loved it,
and by extension him.

Yet,
may be his heart will sink if,
after all of that,
you don’t say hi in the elevator,
but instead stare of into the distance,
because may be, just
may be
in his excitement
he forgot his name.


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