In Venice, even the drug dealers hug. (Prose Poem)

In Venice, even the drug dealers hug.

Jessica Bennett. NYT. 

I always hug a man before I kill him.

Although I haven't killed anybody yet.

I'm still waiting for the right assignment.

You know, one that means the saving

of Western Civilization.

So far, I've only been offered 

a few jobs bumping off meter maids

and assorted in-laws. 

So I wait, and hug people at church,

at community sing-alongs, when I attend funerals,

and so on.

I am always impeccably groomed and discrete

with the Lilac Vegetal,

so very few people object to my 

hugs. Some really enjoy them.

Perhaps if they knew I was an 

embryonic killer, they might 

feel differently.

I was responsibly sourced

by good parents,

but I turned to the bad

at an early age.

The imaginary film noir.

See, I went to school, did my homework,

and became an accountant, with no

hint at a violent side.

Yet I dreamed in film noir.

So one day I simply walked away

from my QuickBooks to look

for bad things to do.

Can I help it if I look reliable

but harmless? 

Honest and substantial work

is all I can find.

Being friendly and helpful to everyone.

One day . . . one day . . . 

I'll be known as the Hugging Hit Man.

Or my name isn't Fred McFeely Rogers.

Ten Cucumbers (Prose Poem)

MORIA, Greece — As night closed in on the migrant camp, masses of people made their way to their makeshift tents, climbing hills of denuded olive trees, carrying dinner in plastic bags. Lila Ayobi showed her family what she had waited three hours in line to collect.

Ten cucumbers.

Chico Harlan.  Washington Post.

The Ten Cucumbers League

is dedicated to the proposition

that everyone needs plenty

of cucumbers in their daily 

diet.

Low on calories and sugars,

high on potassium and fiber,

one cucumber can sustain an adult for 24 hours, or longer -- if he or she doesn't

move around too much.

We began as a local food shelf in Rancho Cucamunga

out in California -- where the cukes grow to the size of

Piper Cub airplanes. 

When we became overwhelmed with

donated cucumbers, we

decided to reformat our

charity, so that every man, woman, and child in the world could have at least one cucumber a day.

Especially the poor and displaced.

Today we have cucumber drops in places like the Aegean Islands, Afghanistan, Myanmar, Laos, Guatemala, and the Kamchatka Peninsula. 

We are very proud of our work, and hope you will feel the need to donate to our cause.

We accept cash, property, checks, bitcoin, and Burpee seed packets. 

The fatness of thy house

They shall be abundantly satisfied with the fatness of thy house; and thou shalt make them drink of the river of thy pleasures.
Psalm 3:8

The Lord of hosts fills to the roof

each humble home with loving proof

of his design for our success

when from his laws we ne'er digress.

And pleasant waters we imbibe

when to his words we glad subscribe.

True satisfaction comes to those

who in the Lord their trust repose.

Baking Rage. (Prose Poem)

The book was meant to celebrate anger and activism in the kitchen. While it may do that, it also ignited a conversation on social media about race, appropriation, feminism and marketing.
Tejal Rao. NYT.


Baking rage is a real thing.
I have it all the time.
In fact, I'm approaching a rage right now.
I'm making chicken curry with eggplant 
and turnips today.
A big pot on my stove, with a Japanese
paste from the local Asian market
for the roux.
Also a cooker full of rice.
And kimchi and peach jello on the side.

Sunday afternoons are so
tediously unfair.
There's nothing to do
after church.
Not for an old single guy like me.
So I cook. I bake. I fry.
Trying to recapture memories
of when I was married 
and we had eight kids.
I made a lot of casseroles back then.
 The kids ate everything I made.
Today, they're all on different diets.
Organic. Keto. Paleo. Vegan.
Bah!
They never come over to eat 
at my apartment.
So I cook for all the old ladies
in my building.
Serving it up in the community room
on card tables.
And today I'm making the Japanese chicken curry
as spicy as hell.
That's how I vent my towering rage.
I make their eyes water.
Their tongues wheeze.
Their blouses turn dark with sweat.
And still they come.
They dearly love a free meal;
one they don't have to cook themselves.
And they call me a great guy.
And they bring me canisters of oatmeal;
bags of long grain rice; and boxes of brownie mix.
So I feel obligated to make more meals.
It's a vicious simmering circle.

I'm saving an open box of ginger snaps
until it's as stale and hard as concrete.
Then I'll put it out 
to watch 
them crack their dentures.
And I will find peace 
at last. 

Forgetfulness, (Prose Poem)

 Over the past five years, “mindfulness” programs have exploded in popularity. In Grand Blanc, Mich., first-graders are breathing to the sound of Tibetan music before class. In Albuquerque, second-graders sniff and speak about raisins before eating them. In Yellow Springs, Ohio, students can choose yoga as an alternative to detention.

Hannah Natanson. Washington Post. 

I'm having a good day today.
That's because I've forgotten who I am.
And where I'm from.
And the purpose of my existence.
Instead, I float along on a gentle stream
labeled HUH?
So very pleasant and refreshing.
And this is what I'm teaching 
my fourth graders to do.
To forget. 
To let go.
To stop existing as an individual
whose head is crammed with 
facts and thoughts and emotions.
To be an empty balloon,
allowing the breeze 
to send you anywhere.
Anywhere at all.

I became a convert to
forgetfulness
about five years ago --
of course, I no longer
really remember the date or the process
of conversion. 
But I remember, in a vague sort of way,
that I wanted to forget everything
and start each day over again
with a clean slate.
Once I started doing that
my back pains went away.
If I ever had any.
My paunch shrank.
The arthritis in my knees -- 
what are knees, anyways? --
disappeared.
And my breath became so sweet
that humming birds circle my head
day and night. 

That's when I infiltrated
the fourth grade classroom
and usurped the teacher's position.
She was ready to retire anyways.
She left the minute I began blowing
soap bubbles at the children,
leaving behind a faint cloud
of chalk dust.
Or not. I have no real recollection
of how I got here.
So I made up that story.
Just now.
It's as good as any other.
It explains nothing but keeps
the eyes occupied while
the brain is cradled into
forgetfulness.

Today my fourth graders sit quietly,
touching their scarred desktops
like braille.
Passing over names and dates,
childish swearwords and holes
drilled in desperate boredom.
I sit at my desk, 
a soothing white blankness
overcoming my concern
about the hairy green thing
waving its tentacles
in the classroom doorway. 
Certain that I won't remember
a thing about it tomorrow.

The sound of rejoicing

 Verily, I say unto you that ye are chosen out of the world to declare my gospel with the sound of rejoicing, as with the voice of a trump.
D&C 29:4

Shake the rafters with your voice;

in the Lord we should rejoice!

Declare it with triumphant horn;

our burdens from us shall be shorn!

Declare the gospel long and loud

to the heedless laughing crowd --

for some there are who shall believe

and find in God a true reprieve!

And when this day's work has been done

we'll rest content with God's own Son!

The Sinister Hue.

Memories of art auctions, afternoon high teas, quiz nights and mahjong games all took on a sinister hue.
Motoko Rich. NYT. 

We were all at high tea when the conversation took
a strange turn.
"Why are we having high tea in the first place?" asked Hildegard, my oldest and dearest mung bean dealer. 
"Sitting here in starched dresses and sipping weak tea with little cupcakes on the side and a butler standing silently in the shadows. Sinister, is what I call it."
We all looked at the silent butler
lurking in the shadows while sharpening a machete
with a whetstone. 
"It's a way to spend the afternoon without leaving a carbon footprint" replied Rachel primly. I never liked Rachel; she liked to brag about how many scrunchies she gave to homeless women. 
I put down my bone china tea cup.
Got up and walked out of the gathering.
It was not sinister, I decided.
But it was a tad boring.

That evening at the art auction I bought a Poisson print: 'Animalcules.'
As I took it out to the car
 it began to shed tiny yellow pollen-like particles.
And people all around me got the hiccups. 
I don't know if any of them ever recovered. 

The next day my mahjong group decided to become 
nondenominational.
We gave all our hand-carved ivory tiles 
to a community college to fund classes
in bonsai.
I felt good about our decision, 
but I noticed several 
of the members kept
some of the most valuable
tiles for themselves --
while snickering in a sinister fashion.

We never did have our quiz night
because of cloud cover
and the war in Marzipan.

But I refuse to give in to
Sinisterism.
Life is more than dim hues.
Dark umbras that tepid talents
feel the need to analyze
ad nauseum.
Oh, and that butler with the machete?
He turned out 
to be a sheep
shearer.

Shall be made fat.

He that is of a proud heart stirreth up strife: but he that putteth his trust in the Lord shall be made fat.
Proverbs 28:25

The haughty seek out strife like cake;

the more they find, the more they take.

But those who trust in God grow lush

with stillness that makes proud men blush.

If peace and plenty you desire,

burn your conceit upon a pyre!

A frenzy for letters. (Prose Poem.)

If nothing else, L’Affaire Aristophil is arguably the Frenchiest of all financial scandals. The country has a singular reverence for books and writers, reflected in statues of great authors that dot Paris, and one of the largest national archives in the world. It’s hard to imagine another place on earth where a frenzy could be whipped up over the personal letters of Voltaire or autographed scores by Mozart.

David Segal. NYT. 

After the divorce, I wrote my children hundreds of letters. Probably thousands of them. Stamps only cost a quarter back then.

Who can't afford a quarter?

I'd write two or three each day.

After all, there were eight kids.

They lived in Utah.

I lived in Iowa.

Then I lived in Thailand.

And then in Oklahoma.

But they always stayed in Utah.

Until they went to North Dakota.

That was an ugly mistake.

One I never forgave Amy for.

North Dakota is deceptively flat and determinedly cold.

People get frozen in time there by the dozens each winter.

When they thaw out they are never the same again.

But somehow my kids survived North Dakota and now they live all over the place.

Utah.

Virginia.

Hawaii.

Texas.

Minnesota.

But none of them live in North Dakota.

I rest my case.

Twenty years after the divorce my kids and I reunited briefly for a photograph that appeared in the Daily Herald. I forget

why the newspaper wanted it.

That's when they gave me back all the letters

I wrote to them over the years.

There were postcards and aerograms and regular

stamped envelopes with type-written letters

inside.

There were so many that I had to buy two footlockers

at Walmart to put them in --

cheap cardboard things they were, too.

I didn't ask why they gave them all back to me.

I think they were embarrassed. 

Because they never answered any of them.

I've arranged all those letters

by date and location

and by who wrote them.

I've put them all in plastic slips.

Several of them are in frames, hanging

on my living room wall.

My kids went through hell

once I was gone.

(Although admittedly they would have

probably gone through just as much hell

if I had stuck around.)

So I'm thinking at least one of them

will turn their trauma into an amazing

success

in entertainment, finance, or politics.

Then those letters are gonna be worth something.

So I insured them for several million dollars.

And had an auction catalog printed up.

If only one of them turns out to be 

a mass murderer . . . 

my fortune is made.