TO HELL WITH RESALE
Eleven Eleven Ninety Nine,
the day this comfortable house became mine.
It matches, first glance, all others round the block
Same roof, same shutters, same initial plant stock.
I should be ashamed, as a child of sixties fame.
They ARE made of ticky tacky; they all DO look the same.
Tho’ they’ve changed o’er these years as we’ve lived, loved, and lost.
I’ve added, for instance, more flowers than most.
More daisies, more lilies, more iris, more roses.
Bright poppies seeded for great June poses.
Even my tree, my poor suffering ash
grows against all odds ’round its cruel looking gash
where we cut out the blight caused by dastardly bugs.
The pesticide worked, ‘long with frequent tree hugs.
Yes, the yard, front and back, is chaotic, small splendor,
Like the kind you would get putting all in a blender.
Not the neat, fine order of my neighbors’ straight bricks,
rather, here a plot, there a pot, grape ivy ’round sticks.
A prickly, old rose from the ancient prairie (I did not plant it)
crowds the bargain lilac near the Hansa quite hairy (I do like it).
I planted six strawberries, back in two thousand two,
which now reach the hundreds growing just where they want to.
Inside my small castle, things are not much finer
by the standards of any highly paid designer.
I know hardwood floors are the dream of most.
I chose commercial carpet; the color of toast.
It’s dark like a floor, and comfy, and soft,
and though a bit tailored, would look great in a loft.
My walls? well they’re sad, with colors galore.
I paint was high as I can reach, then I am loath to do more.
It makes me tired, my arm hurt, that’s all I will say
It’ll all get done some fine day.
My furniture suits me…my long, green leather couch,
my Eastlake setee, where my Grands like to slouch.
The turntable ready to give the Allmans a spin.
The trolls, and the books, and the crucifix – thin.
From the cross hangs a dearskin medicine bag,
hand beaded for me, a gift from a dear hag.
(Forgive me, dear Margaret Forster, wherever you are,
it’s just that hag rhymed. YOU are truly a star).
I shall continue this analysis at a later date.
There’s work to do that simply cannot wait.
Time to head to the front “office,” with its red IKEA chair
and the bed with the red quilt. Emil Catt is always there.
SPAM FOR LUNCH
Spam! Spam! Spam for lunch!
If you try it, I have a hunch
you will love it a whole bunch!
You can fry it for some crunch!
You can eat it with pink punch!
Smoke some weed with canned Spam munch!
Tie your hair back with a scrunch,
then fix yourself some Spam for lunch!
Spam! Spam! Spam! Spam!
How I love my Spam for lunch!
Blast this gift
It calls me from the living room
Spread out in bits and pieces
Initially heaped and piled
Now beginning to fall in place
Driving me mad
Usurping my time
It grabs me on my way to the coffee maker
Pulls my eyes to that notched edge I sought for hours last evening
It was right there
How could I have missed it
This does not match the image on the box
Its colors trick the eye
Changing nobs to points
Clouds to puddles
Depending on light and shadows
From back windows
And pole lamps
It feeds my foibles
Finally total satisfaction at tearing it completely apart
And sending it to the next junkie
CATT ON STOOL
HOME AGAIN NOW AND THEN
Drove up I-70 to Georgetown
where I lived in ’85
the air was crisp,
the shops were filled,
the hills were still alive.
I shuffled through Ophelia’s
craved bone china white and blue
old books loved
toys well played
and dragon puppets, new.
The Shoppe Internationale
beckoned as of old…
Bright blue glass trimmed with gold.
Crossed the street to use the lew
in the warm and toasty library,
of sailor’s yarns,
and others made me tarry.
Drove back ‘longside the deep cold lake,
thinking of thirty years past…
but, does no good
to think too much,
can bring you down too fast.
So just there, ’round ’bout Downieville,
I turned off the frontage road
and joined the traffic
put down my punishing load.
Turned on the great new stereo
in my great new true blue Mini,
turned up the tunes
and sang along,
Made it home with smiles a plenty.
and a Fond Farewell
Thirty years ago I met a man who needed a loan from the bank where I was manager…we became true and fast friends, hiking the hills in the valleys ’round Glenwood and Aspen, cross country skiing wherever we stopped the car, eating and laughing at all “the valley” spots, even camping up past Crystal City…then he fell for a rich gal with whom he built a luxe cabin high up Four Mile… I could not stand her, though I tried, so our friendship stopped, and I married a good guy, which marriage did not last long, so I returned to Denver to live where men shine their shoes and work is plentiful…through the years he popped in when he was in town, shoveled my walks when I was recovering from surgery, celebrated a birthday now and then, held my grandbabies when they were tiny…my Jules and I watched his first parachute jump, and he and I celebrated Y2K at Julie’s house head bobbing to Prince like it was 1999…His beloved screwed around on him, forced the sale of the dream cabin, took his money, and when she couldn’t/wouldn’t find work, she’d show up on his doorstep and he’d give her a bed…the mother of his children, donchyaknow… she’s just a disgusting, skinny-assed skank, Rox… these past six months or so, he’s lived in Denver, and we’ve once again hiked the hills, explored new restaurants, attended museum openings, seen great flicks, and solved all the problems of the world and family in long, hilarious talks… I can’t say I was ever in love with him, but we get each other, y’know? which is better, to my way of thinking… and it has been lovely to have someone who knows me from way back just hangin’ ’round… until yesterday, when he off handedly mentioned that when his lease is up in December, he’ll be moving back to Glenwood, back to the house he owns up there, where she, the harpy he “detests,” lives with his 20 year old son…back to his family… they need him…
I need no one, I suppose, or so I told him when I said I’d just as soon stop seeing and talking to him while the Summer is still upon us, and the sun is still high… I’ll miss him now or later, so I’d just as soon start while I have beaucoups distractions, holidays to plan and work to do, rather than mid Winter when things are slow and lend themselves to gloom… Fare thee well, Christopher Zoot Brules Anderson Sims…has been grand, as always…we shall both be fine and well, and better for having known each other… but we’re both way too old to keep doing this, so I’m done now…and finally glad to say it….
I am kept ever humble…
whilst tearing out errant vinca vines from out the front garden, I reached down to pull up my sagging socks, only to realize ’twas the skin round my ankles drooping there
as smooth as
as clear as
as fragile as
and delicate as
and graceful as
and leak proof,
lest one drop o’ Dalwhinnie be lost
Blasted purple eye!
I meant only to arrive,
not fly up the steps
MY DARLIN’ BOY AGE 9
Maxwell Gavin Phinneas John
went to bed with his Nikes on
and his Monsters Inc tee, and his Comicon cap
he set his chess board on his lap
squinted and pondered and stroked his chin
touched his nose, gave a very wide grin
then made a move ne’er before seen
in any chess game in any known scene
he jumped his knight up two over one
then moved very quickly until he was done
check mating the queen across the board
so smoothly he moved, oh my sweet Lord,
in just two more moves, yes, check mate in three
he threw out his arms and laughed with glee
Max made major history that day weeks ago
and now he is planning another great show
…stay tuned for more from our Max!