Category: Numbered

I rescued a cat from a low-hanging branch while its master drank peppermint tea on the stoop, watching me the whole time with a blank expression. I received no thank you, not even a nod or a wink. The cat bolted into the house–quickly followed by the peculiar and stoic person–as I used grand sarcastic hand gestures to describe my disingenuous joy at reuniting the two companions. The blinds moved a smidge just a few seconds after the door slammed shut, and I continued waving my mitts, now in a flailing fashion and in no way courteous anymore.

I watch the smoker count the number of cigarette butts in his line of sight, which must be about eight or ten, and even though he acknowledges that I have emerged from the restaurant to sweep up each and every one of those butts, he insists on throwing his onto the sidewalk–as opposed to the smoker’s pole just feet away–and trudging his way back into the establishment (to a waiting beer and a fiancée who wishes he would just quit already). Of course, he avoids eye contact with me as a way of muting his conscience (similar to how he avoids looking at the starving third-world children in those charity adverts on television). To him, I’m just a poverty-stricken Congolese boy with a distended stomach, someone he can’t look directly at for fear of having to review his life choices and then contemplate his lack of contribution to important causes in this global society. Oh well, it’s just one more butt to sweep anyway, but sweet Jesus! He didn’t even step on it!

The alarm emanates from the plastic reproduction of a retro resin clock that I got in a catalog for fifty bucks on a whim–which I now regret. The alarm barely does its job most of the time; I’m a very sound sleeper and usually only wake up once a REM cycle has completed (or is nearing completion, at least). This particular late-morning, I was first roused by a bone-rattling cough coming from my roommate’s end of the apartment, but chose not to do anything about my waking state and rolled over for some more rest. Well, I was pretty much wide awake but would rather lie down than attempt any kind of activity, as is my wont (being an American and living like royalty on my days off from work). Now I’m lying stationary and regretting that I didn’t get groceries last night when I was actually up and at ’em. If I don’t do something about that soon, I could literally starve to death. The longer I wait in my bed, the weaker I’ll get, until I’ve reached the point of no return and my sick roommate will have to take notice of my extended lack of rustling about the apartment. He doesn’t typically exhibit signs of good samaritanism, but maybe if I attempt broadcasting my distress telepathically he’ll pick up on my misery. I know what you’re thinking, why not just yell for help? There’s no way I’m going to wrap myself up in such a faux pas, whining about every little threat to my existence. No, I’ll take my self-imposed punishment like a man.

The filth has followed me
and now leaves a film
on everything I hold dear.
I just want to go two weeks
without dust accumulating
on my curios, is that too much
to ask? I thought that
leaving my windows open
would circulate fresh air
into this stagnant pit,
and it has, but the dust
is still encroaching on my space
just like it always has.
Today a skunk must have
released its pungent essence
just feet from my bedroom window,
before I’d had enough of this
fresh air nonsense. Now
I’ll never open my windows again.

In harsher climates, you may find a legal document that states the importance of wearing layers and walking with the wind instead of pigheadedly skirting the law of the land and freezing off your nipples for the sake of being contrary and seemingly nothing else. Now, if you’re a man, your nipples are just cosmetic features to be risked on a regular basis–if you so choose–but once they’re gone, your days of flaunting physical features are numbered. No non-nippled man will ever be taken seriously in these parts, on principle.

A Grover Cleveland impersonator
steps up to the podium
to speak about his rights
and the rights of his fellow impersonators
of obscure historical figures.
“My dear friends, please do not despair
when people wonder who you are
and question your motives
when you’re kind enough to enlighten them.
Their ignorance needs to be tolerated,
but you shouldn’t think anything less
of yourself because of it.” He gazes out
over the crowd to see C. Everett Koop,
Randolph Scott and Percy Lavon Julian
all nodding their heads, side by side
in a brotherhood as improbable as
a yak in the Sonora Desert.

Grant effervescent praise
to the wormhole-riding quadrant jockey,
content to pirate whatever feels like
a worthwhile media experience

before stalking two lovebirds
on a picnic in Central Park,
those lovey dovey types
who eskimo kiss sans embarrassment
while the sky blushes
and burns its way into the night.