Back in the Deep-Fryer

Family, Internal Poetry, Problems, Prose, Stuff to do

“So whaddaya think of the new head cover?”

He was a sweet man.

Said,

“Right?”

often.

Always called you by the name.

A bright smile across his face with the slight corny nature of an aging man.

 

TRUMP GOLF” was embroidered, smack dab on the cover.

 

I worked for a Trump supporter today, and he took care of me.

I don’t know how to feel about it.

Reassuring words of “professionalism” ring in response,

But isn’t that an enemy in the first place?

 

After 10 years of North Brookfield tugging on my mother,

She finally succumbed towards the middle.

The TV is the lexicon, creation exists in her deft, colorful baskets

But the previous compassion has been weathered away by a decade of mistreatment.

There are good people in my life,

Blessings in human form,

Full of toxins that have deep-fried the azures and scarlets and oranges

From their souls.

I can feel my skin bubbling, and I’m submerged. Back in the first parts of home.

I fear how strong my self-interest is becoming, how it dominates conversations.

Partly because I’m afraid to ask how you’re doing.

I know you’re good. I don’t want to contribute to that rinse/repeat small talk.

But how do I engage outside of that?

I need to kick back. Open the sacrum, see through my real eyes.

Keep reading that Post-Colonialist literature.

Keep writing with the focus of empathy.

Never let the generation of entropy get you down, or be forgotten about.

That’s my code.

The Past Has A Discount

gratitude, Prose, The World is Beautiful, Thoughts, time

Red clearance space lines dot the tags of clothes past their seasonal deadline. Prices start at 50% off.

History books are written by whoever is left to record, leaving out millions of people across centuries of life.

Societally, we’ve learned to discredit the old news. It’s left to newspaper clippings gathering dust on the corner of a fridge.

The luster peaks to brilliance in the present, and dulls back to the past before one can even complete the thought.

Now replaces itself like a second-by-second refresh, and leaves then as one lump-sum identity.

The course of time is a mysterious miracle that makes me think constantly of how baffling “now” is.

The now I started writing today with is different than the now lingering at the end of this punctuation.

And the space of time we populate between “now” and “now” is full of beautiful things.

A Netflix episode? A cycle of the circulatory system. Millions of cells creating, splitting, dying, and replacing all at once in our bodies, trillions of miracles deep.

Like “now,” the processes keeping me full of the blessing of this life never stop refreshing themselves.

Like “now,” the process putting thoughts to words to paper and keyboard never stop finding new miracles to focus around.

Every function dutifully repeats itself, picking up when it falters.

And that’s why I’m a part of this miracle,

Which remains extraordinary even after the period of “now” passes.

The bad news is that it will always pass.

The good news is that there will always be a new now to marvel at.

Don’t let a clearance rack sway your appreciation of the things past due.

Cash in on the bargains, and let the love linger there.