Thursday

A story about a day on Earth when nobody died.

Wednesday

They have no idea that I don't even work there.
I just walked in the building off the street.
I just picked out an empty cubicle and sat down.
I find somebody every Friday to sign my time sheet.
I tell people my boss is out of the office a lot.

Thursday

Maybe a couple out of the group would attain
some kind of glory on the pool table or on the dance floor.
Chris had the best chance of walking out of the bar
with a new lover.
Some unwary thing who could not decipher
the disaster palpable on Chris's person
would stagger out into the night with him.
Chris would be gone for hours, maybe days.
He would turn up eventually with wounds,
like slices about the wrists
or scratches on his face or a black eye
or with a brand new set of clothes.
Or he'd come up to somebody and say,
"Come back to my place,
I gotta show you something,"
and there would be a mural
or an entire wall of his apartment
painted in such a way
that all a person could do
is just sit down in front of it
and take it in and try not
to go immediately insane as
Chris walked around sucking desperately on a joint.
He would pace behind nervously,
like he was pacing next to the body of person he'd just killed.
two words

Wednesday

always some detail prevents the situation from being perfect
a rip in my shirt
a rash
a person in the room I have yelled at
or had miserable sex with
some weird smell
I do occupy a seat on the bus
and one on the subway
and I do have a desk where I sit at work
and an ambulance will be called for me atleast once
and when my time comes
you will find me in the back of the place
at the last pool table before the kitchen
with a dim light glimmering on my pallid cue ball
It was a weightless,
light bending vacuum
that sucked the air out of our lungs.
Jen sat on the floor of the van Indian style.
She leaned back on her palms
and laughed.
I slammed on the brakes
when we reached the bar.
We jumped out.
Everybody outside of the bar
looked at us like we were crazy,
and we liked that.

Saturday

there will be times when I have a car
and times when I have to walk
when I have to walk maybe
I will finally finish that poem of mine
about objects I see laying in the street
some broken eye glasses
a lug nut a woman’s shoe
a withered glove curled up
that looked like a dramatic hand
shell casings
dead things
a baby carriage with one of the wheels missing
the missing wheel
a toy car
woefully out of proportion
to the grand human sized road I walk beside
and also somebody’s notebook
that had fallen apart
or had been ripped apart
the pages were strewn
up and down the street
some of the pages were
stuck by the wind
in this chain link fence
I walk beside
some lay in the gutter.
I never read a single word off of any of the pages,
I just look at
the shape of the paragraphs
on each page
as I walk down the street.
They grow more and more faded
every day that I pass them
these pages from someone’s notebook
maybe ripped out in a fury
with tears and curses
and then the poor person
just gave the thing to the blowing breeze
and here they all are the pages
and I wonder whether the poor person
has to travel this way every day
and has to see the pages strewn
up and down the street
and I’m talking a good half mile of Duke Street
strewn with notebook pages
does the owner or ex-owner
of this notebook travel this way daily
does the owner laugh about it
and tell people of that crazy day
beside the road
or do they cry every time they see it
or even think about these pages
this disemboweled opus
or journal
or was it a really long suicide note.
Maybe it was a book in progress
where the author just could not reconcile
the main character’s love of this
with his hatred of that so
he just ripped it apart
and took up a course of study in accounting
with a minor in psychology
so that maybe he could straighten himself out a bit
or maybe some strange person
walked down this street one night
and carefully placed each page
in its place on the street methodically measuring
the distances between each page
maintaining pensive intervals
and maybe he would soon take up courses in psychology
this strange litter bug,
this odd propagandist,
this freak of the night would take up psychology courses
or just do a bit of reading about psychology
like I sometimes do
I would read psychology
and realize the problem
and go about fixing it
just like those books
that tell you how to fix your car
just replace this
and lubricate this other
but then I got bored
and craved my old neuroses
and niggling pathologies
and go back to writing glib poems
using a lot of alliteration
because I just read words straight out of the dictionary
Guys who would sock me in the stomach
but give me a bite of their sandwich.
Guys who would throw a
Slinky in the fan belt of my friggin car.

Wednesday

I remember when that garbage truck went through
The Downtown Tunnel
With its hydraulic forks up and got stuck.
Imagine the terrified driver.
Rolling along fine then
Suddenly he hears
An eardrum destroying sound of
75 mile-per-hour steel
Gouging through tile into concrete.
He lurches face-first into the windshield.
"What the motherfuck?!?!"


Saturday

I suddenly knew exactly how this complete stranger
would react to the news that he only had a month to live.
I could picture what he would look like crying.