The Spirit of Angst-Giving (Past)

It was almost too smooth. All logistical hurdles were cleared with impressive efficiency: first, the gathering from three different states; then the return home.

There was a calculated effort to avoid a confrontation with the New York element. This was a success, in so far as an anticipated loss could be considered a success.

I anticipate loss. I expect delay. Does this soften the blow?

The denouement lingers on.

on-time departure —
my daughter doesn’t see me
wave goodbye

The Spirit of Angst-Giving (Present)

it wasn't everything I expected—which is to say that it's been pleasant and largely void of controversy.

thanksgiving —
my vegetarian daughter
passes the turkey

on the other hand, I'm still in a state of garage-induced bliss, having just purchased "Never Been Caught" by the Mummies. exquisitely nihilistic—even more so than life itself...

The Spirit of Angst-Giving (Future)

There's always something about the Holiday Season that saddens me. I realize that I'm a mutant for feeling this way, but I am filled with melancholy, ennui, and a number of other foreign words that mean roughly the same thing. By January I will be thousands of dollars poorer than I am today, my five children will be scattered to four different states, and my professional life will go back to being an infinite procession of Excel spreadsheets punctuated by the occasional PowerPoint presentation. Is that all there is?

But wait, there's also the life-affirming breath of angst. My ex-wife has decided that my two youngest kids won't be spending Thanksgiving with us this year and there isn't a damned thing I can do about it.

Well, there is haiku. Here's a hint: when you read a haiku of mine and it mentions a greedy scavenging rodent, it's not exactly a nature poem:

late November —
chasing a fat squirrel
away from the pumpkin

Touchdown!

It was a grueling weekend. I woke up at 3:00 on Saturday morning and drove 135 miles through blizzard conditions to Bridgeport, slept fitfully on the ferry and pulled up to my ex-wife's apartment at 9:00. The fact that she wasn't there made it a mostly pleasant visit. The time I spent with my sons was much too brief; and the time it took to get there and back was much too long. On the plus side, the storm ended shortly after I got to Long Island, and I left early enough that most of my return trip was in daylight. Once back home, I couldn't get to bed soon enough...

snowy night —
my son scores another touchdown
in my dreams

Dayquil

Daddy's Little Helper has replaced the congestion in my skull with a spaced-out self-awareness of The Vacuum. Therefore the oscillation of the Vick's Vaporizer is taking on tones and melodies that were probably not intended by the manufacturer. I've decided that one of them is the National Anthem of the country that will be created when a few like-minded hamlets secede from the United States of Bush. It features a theremin, bagpipes and at least one Tuvan throat singer. I hope he doesn't run out of cough drops.

(never) too much caffeine

I am slowly digesting myself
in an ever-tightening
recursive loop.
The fluorescent lights
hum and shimmer
in patterns
only I can see.
I am running out of space
in this cubicle I call home.
I am losing my perspective
in a haze of recycled air.
I am afraid
of being utterly fearless
of being unable to retreat
from the ledge
from any semblance
of common ground.
I am doing this
because there isn't enough love
at the bottom of a cup.
I am doing this
because it hurts too much
to say goodbye.

frost on the windshield

Murphy's Law insists that the first time I have to scrape frost from my windshield during any given fall-winter season must also be a day that I am in a rush to catch the train. So with the minutes ticking away, I am violently attacking an impenetrable layer of ice with a scraper that resembles a plastic butter knife. I'm wondering for the millionth time why I live in the Northeast instead of some warmer, gentler climate (have I mentioned Belize?), and then I remember...

frost on the windshield
I remember my son's
first steps

The Waterfront Revisited

the look in your eyes
when you almost drowned.
I knew enough
to jump right in
clothes and all.
panic didn't set in
until years later.
this is why I shiver at night.

another swimming pool, much more recently.
five pairs of brown eyes smile at me.
this time the water is shallow
and therefore far more dangerous.

I should always

I should always
be drunk enough
not to feel
the pain
of drunkenness
the unbearable lightness
of being
beyond
any pretense
of control.

I Sing the Body Elastic

I can't believe it's not leather - the way it hugs your hips like a long-lost lover. I wanted to kiss that smile right off your lips, but you knew every word to every god damned song.

You told me you were genuinely touched when I cried at your grave. And who was I to argue, lying right beside you.

There's got to be a morning after...

Election Wednesday --
a homeless man sleeps
on campaign posters

Any World I'm Welcome to

...is better than the one I come from. As sooz deftly noted, now is the time when We the Disappointed choose our preferred country of exile instead of digging in for a lengthy struggle. Why should I be any different? Canada is much too obvious - I choose Belize. Aside from its sub-tropical climate, the country's official language is English. Better still, Belize has no extradition treaty with the U.S., which means that when I slip a mickey to the Bush twins and tatoo a big red “M” (or an upside-down “W”) on their foreheads, I can find safe haven amongst the white collar fugitives that patronize every seaside bar in faded Hawaiian shirts and Birkenstocks. Sometimes it's easier to hide from the IRS than it is to hide from yourself. For you, there is only one prescription: take six Belikins and throw away your cell phone. Shall I charter a plane now?

El Dia de los Muertos

The Day of the Dead --
our Nation
elects a President

late for the bus

If only I'd had a camera. Fortunately, haiku is the next best thing...

late for the bus
the sour-faced girl's t-shirt
reads “Angel”

Idle Speculation

The bus driver is going to kill us. Behind his mirrored sunglasses are two dilated pupils framed by sore, throbbing veins. He hasn't slept in eleven days. He is kept alive by a steady stream of double espressos and non-prescription allergy medications. He smiles while the crazy lady goes on and on about her brand new kitty, but he's not listening. All he hears is a sold-out Fenway Park, drunk with rage, shouting in unison: “The pain stops now! The pain stops now!”