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Recent Poetry
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JIM’S MEMORY OF THE WHITE PICKET FENCE

– January 27, 2012Posted in: poetry

I remember very little about that day. There was a fence that ran along the street all the way to the edge of the town. I remember that as we walked along the street we laughed like village idiots. Hell, we WERE village idiots. It all seems like a dream. It seemed like a dream back then too. We were lucky to survive that day. I have only been drunk in my life twice. Why does that white fence jump out in my brain with a jagged texture, searing into my memory with a palpable tearing sound? It is like gravel being swished in a plastic bucket, the sound amplified by a very sensitive microphone hooked up to a very large amplifier.

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JIM IS THE MAIN TOPIC OF CONVERSATION

– January 22, 2012Posted in: poetry

Jim was upstairs. I heard him rummaging, or maybe he was at his desk, looking at his damn stamp collection. When he came down, he walked through the dining room where we were all sitting without saying anything. Typical Jim. He wasn’t lost in thought or anything. He was just being unfriendly. Didn’t say goodbye. Just went outside and got in the taxi. I yelled to him to leave the door open on account of it being hot and a shaft of bright sun fell on the hallway floor. After he left we didn’t say much, but everybody was thinking the same: What’s with Jim? It seems he was always the main topic of conversation even when we weren’t talking.

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