Dealing With That Thing

   

—Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England   

—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain

CHATTER
 
Your voice, too fast, chattering,
clattering against my Self,
breaking into my thoughts,
as I try to remain inviolate.
Your voice, violating my own stream,
teeming with your own life and
every feeling you’ve had this week;
weakening my resolve to think as
you think your words have a right to this space
and you fill every last bit of it until
it hurts behind my eyes
trying to hold my mind separate,
apart from the invading noise
of what he said and she said and he did,
and did you know and I did this
and this is me.
You leave no space for your friend to
apply herself to the conversation,
let alone anyone else here,
held hostage to listen,
even several tables away,
Even several mindsets apart,
because he was like and it was like and I was like
and I was never likely to blank it out,
outside wearing earplugs,
outside feeling comfortable
in my own Self
and with my own words
that somehow always shrink away
To leave room for You
To speak as I cannot.


(prev. pub. by Short Édition)

 

 

 

 

 
A VALUABLE LESSON IN BEING A BOTHER
THAT RESULTS IN ME STILL BEING HERE
    
I was not meant to be a bother.
Even though the black water dripping from the cubicle’s tiles,
After the activated charcoal,
And the heaving,
Make a lie of my promise.
But the point remains,
As the nurse mops the floor,
And says it’s no trouble,
It’s what he does,
And then asks the dreaded, “what do you do, anyway?”
Which is surely not meant  
To prompt the obvious response.
“Why, I sit here, feeling sorry for myself
Because I’m sitting here feeling sorry for myself.”
No, the nurse, and he’s a nice man, even when he’s not mopping up my bile,
He means it kindly,
He means “what job do you do?”
Because that’s what they always ask,
And last time I said, “Banjo string repair man”
Which had followed “G-string cheek flosser”
And, before that, “MST3K binge-watcher”.
None of which the man with the mop deserved,
Because the smile was so genuine,
So I told him what I had done,
And what had led me here,
And he stops to lean on his mop
And he shakes his head
And he says the thing:
“That’s such a good job.
Why, you’ve got so much to live for.”
And we’re both in the cubicle with the dripping tiles,
And nothing has changed about the situation,
And I’m still wretched and white with the bowl on my lap.
So I could give him the sarcasm.
I could say, “You think? You think that’s escaped me?”
But I don’t want to trouble him
With thoughts of what that job was really like.
At least to me.
That was, after all, the point.
I was not meant to be a bother.
And if I can’t do it for myself,
Then he’s a nice guy—  
I can at least be no bother for him.


(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk) 

 

 

 

 

 

PRE-RELEASE FEVER ON THE DVD FORUM
 
Pre-release
 
"Pre-order is £39.99 on Amazon!"
"You can save £1.40 on Flubit."
"I’ve cancelled my Amazon pre-order, moved to Zavvi to save 49p."
"They'll never honour that, mate. Must be a mis-price."
"Ooh, dispatched!"
"Me too!"
"Me too!!"
 
Release
 
"Should arrive today!!!"
"Mine's arrived."
"Mine hasn't! What are Amazon playing at? It's so unfair."
"Mine's arrived too! But it's a rattler, going to return it!"
"Postie left mine under the wheelie bin."
"Mine's arrived! No time to watch—it’s going on the pile."
“Watched the first one. Not much cop.”
"Someone's already horsing these on eBay."
“How much for?”
“Amazon have dropped it to a tenner.”
“Nah, it’s not worth it, mate.”
“Why didn’t you guys warn me it’s black and white?”
 
Post-release
 
“So, did anyone watch the whole series, then?”
 
“Guys?”
 
“Anyone?”
 
 
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk) 

 

 

 

 

CRASHING HIS PLANE FOR VIEWS

We Know It Was Premeditated — He Had a Selfie Stick Packed With His Parachute 
 
It is not Trevor's fault he crashed his plane for views.
Oh, there can be no doubt it was premeditated.
Those cameras didn't fix themselves.
And he did leave the door open.
And that was a selfie stick he'd packed along with his parachute.
But, bear with me, it's not his fault.
If there had been any other way for him to rack up 2.2 million (times two) eyeballs,
He would most likely have taken it.
It would, for a start, have cost him quite a bit less than a 1940 Taylorcraft BL-65,
And he wouldn't have had to go to the trouble of finding the wreckage out there in the Los Padres National Forest,
And tidying it up, too,
If those 2.2 million (times two) eyeballs had just turned up
Any other way at all.
And, when I say 2.2 million (times two), I mean, well, anywhere between two and 4.4. million
Actively interested in Trevor and his pursuits
For more than the fleeting milliseconds it took those who did watch the crash
To like and then look away
In case someone else was crashing their plane at the time.
In the certainty that someone else was crashing their plane at the time.
Because this is what we do now.
So it is not Trevor's fault he crashed his plane.
But it's pretty surprising that, now he's lost his licence,
He's complaining that the aviation community hates him.
It's like he's not yet got the memo 
That hate should be his next pursuit
If he really wants to get them watching.
He's sure to catch up, though.
Just watch out for what he chooses to crash next.


(prev. pub. by The Haven) 

 

 

 

 

BLOOMING
 
Louisa assembled Mr Johnson’s greenhouse the Thursday after its misdelivery.  
He’d not marched over the road to her door to demand it back, so perhaps he’d ordered two. Or maybe he wanted her to have it.  
Thought it would do her good.
 
Louisa bought the seeds at the weekend.  
The TV man had recommended geraniums and petunias.  
She bought poinsettias.
 
Mr Johnson wanted to distract her from the crabgrass.  
How kind.
 
The seeds grew precisely as the TV man said they would.  
Mr Johnson still did not want his greenhouse back.
 
And then the red flowers bloomed.
 
Louisa packed up and returned the greenhouse to Mr Johnson within the week.
 
This surprised him.  
Not so much what she said about this being a cruel way to remind someone.  
No, he was just surprised because he’d only ordered a garden gnome.


(prev. pub. by Dwelling Literary)

 

 

 

 

 

THE WEBSITE IS THE THING 

Except the Thing Is Not the Website —And a Noun
Is Not a Verb, No Matter What You Click
 
Shaunna and Simon were given the task of doing something about the thing.
And they settled on "raising awareness"
And providing "information"
And giving people "resources",
And so their answer to the task of doing something about the thing
Was to write a website
Because that's where everyone goes first
When they need to know a thing or two
And where better to collect all the things
Than this virtual thing
With its interactivity 
And its animations
And its hyperlinks?
Why, even a housebound someone in their undercrackers,
Scratching themselves through the insomnia
In the purpled hours before dawn,
Will be able to find out something about the thing,
And how best to deal with the thing,
By visiting their website.
 
And so that is something done, say Shaunna and Simon, when they present it
And the board gives its approval to the fact that, yes, this is something
Even before Stuart pipes up with his concern
That, having looked it up, on a website of course (where else?)
There are currently 1.17 billion websites in the world
And 83% of these are inactive,
And is adding one more to this total
Really the best way of doing something about the thing?
When the thing itself already has any number of websites that people aren't visiting,
In their undercrackers or otherwise,
And isn't keeping people perpetually on the other side of their screens
Somewhat limiting
When there are verbs as well as nouns in this world
And, if the Board still aren't getting it,
This is a thing that needs more doing about it than just following a hyperlink.
 
Interesting, say the Board, when they resume, after they have done some research of their own,
The majority of it via Wikipedia and Dr Google,
This is clearly another thing that needs to be countered.
The vast swathe of useful websites out there that are never being visited,
That are never being updated,
That could do (yes, they got Stuart's memo about the verb) so much for people
If only they could be found.
 
Perhaps Shaunna and Simon would like to take a look at that?
Take it up as a cause?
Give it a slogan and a logo and some swanky branding
For the press and the social media and —oh yeah — 
The website that, these days, increasingly has to stand for,
Has to take the place of,
And needs to pretend that any of us have time to care about,
Pretty much fucking everything.


(prev. pub. by The Haven) 

 

 

 

 

A LESSON FROM MY GRANDFATHER ABOUT
HAMMERS AND NAILS THAT RESULTED IN
MY STAR WARS FIGURES STILL JUMPING
THE HURDLES TO THIS VERY DAY
 
“I’ll get changed in there,” I heard him say in his certain way,
And I don’t know what made me do it, I don’t think it was deliberate.
Knowing how I was then (and how I am now), it was probably indecision.
I was paralysed with indecision.
I didn’t want to be walking out of the room,
Just as he was walking in.
I didn’t want the question about what I’d been doing.
Because, you know how it is, hammers and nails and all that,
I thought he’d be most interested in my activities instead of his own,
In how I’d been rearranging Mum’s shire horses again
Behind the glass that was not supposed to be opened (on pain of having my shins barked with her Dr Scholl sandals)
But it was just too tempting to play the Grand National with them
To sit my Star Wars figures on their backs and send them over the Reader’s Digest hurdles.
So, yeah, I’d just had time to take Chewwie off the back of the leading cart horse,
But there was no way I’d make it across the room to the door,
And I thought my grandfather would know what I’d been up to if he saw me
Because adults always knew what you were thinking
What you’d been doing
Where you’d been doing it
And what you’d broken on the way.
That’s what mum had taught me.
We always know.
Except, in he comes, softly whistling Colonel Bogey,
And in the middle of the room he stands.
To take off his shirt—oh, the horror—  
Because knocking up the new shelves
(Hammer and nails, remember; hammer and nails)
Is going to need the overalls.
And he doesn’t see me standing there, in the gap between cabinet and wall,
And he doesn’t see the rearranged horses
Not even—how had I missed him?—Darth Sidius on the nag coming in last.
Grandad thinks only of the shelves he’s putting up.
As the proud man changes, he thinks of the hammer,
And the hammer thinks only of nails.
And the boy realises he’s been lied to
And that they’ll be plenty more Star Wars shire horse hurdles to come.


(prev. pub. by Doctor Funny)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The truth is you don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow. Life is a crazy ride, and nothing is guaranteed.

—Eminem

_____________________

More of those charming British spellings and idioms today (undercrackers??), as Mike Hickman, our Pal from York (There was a cool poet from York…), drops in to say hello, bringing his usual witty poetic thoughts about everyday life. This time it’s social media—which is, apparently, just as wacky on that side of the pond. Thanks for these, Mike!

Don’t forget to check our (yes, whoopee, it’s back!) UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column for details about today’s Poetry Picnic in the Park in Sacramento at McKinley Park, starting at noon, and other poetry events coming up this week and beyond in our area.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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