Tentative.
She grins over her shoulder at me,
and I run my fingertips over the abrade skin of my knuckles.
I listen as she talks, noticing how she speeds up to accommodate the bush spilling onto the sidewalk for me to pass, just to slow for me to catch up to her.
She smiles again- blinding and unassuming. Sweet. Youthful. Rain beads on blonde curls, long eyelashes and roll across freckles into the collar of a sweater.
I wonder if she smells like pumpkin spice, or vanilla, or something equally as comforting on a dreary morning.
I blink, running my finger to one of the rings I wear.
I feel wholly uneven on the ground I walk on, her gaze always on me, her feet sure on the terrain. I wonder why she stares. Why she grins as she probes into my life, asking about dates and if im searching.
My nail digs into the open wound on my hand when she suggests she's looking. too
Refill
dropped
the keys
to the Largo
at the high bar
had to refuel
and the waitstaff
had a nice smile
clicking the notepad
with French manicure
checking her feet,
matching Pedi, too
anything special?
in appropriate drawl
as false lashes drew
attention to the list
on the wall
stuck to my metal
swiveling chair
and shook, no
that's not me
something plain?
well then
she added
off the wall
we, still, have
that pink
lemonade
09.13.2024
I feel in führer rated and envious...
entrapped within webbed wide world
weft as a rump pulled stilts skein
at warp speed exhibiting
my heroic trumpian wiles
cuz he (johnny come lately) a then
exemplary hedonist, narcissist,
and polygamist dons
comical, farcical, illogical, lunatical...
offal dolled up endearing guise,
when inconvenient truth broached
particularly determining paternity,
no matter countless progeny sport windblown
swiftly tailored mimicked
matted coiffure of mine
resembling hirsute trademark
of appalling though
revered forty fifth president,
nevertheless harried hair styles
in tandem with fabrications riles
the madding crowd - myself included
into frenzied orgasmic state,
no matter yours truly upholds
voluntary penitential platonic
marital modus operandi
suddenly as one celibate sexagenarian
absent physical intercourse
intolerable as hemorrhoids or piles
analogous to flat footed
yardbird schlepping miles
joining the long line of exiles.
Vice president of United states
gifted with maiden name Harris,
whose surname same as mine
one I feel like a proud boy to profess,
cuz ma late polymath
papa jack of all trades
self taught handyman skills
as an A1 roofer who repaired
and raised the entire roof
from stem to stern
never contracted shingles,
nor did his prodigal son - yours truly - me
experience the bane of painful rash
that can appear as a stripe of blisters
that wraps around the side of the torso
and caused by varicella-zoster virus (VZV),
the same virus that causes chickenpox,
hence Preparation H
best over the counter ideal balm
to ameliorate painful rectal itch
and thwart bummed out uneasiness,
enjoying consummated adultery
avoiding using uncomfortable prophylactics
(prickly prohibited topic dejure)
though riding bareback
doth severely aggravate,
complicate, impregnate, and vitiate
surrogate domestic policy
putting a modern spin
on Anna and the King of Siam
with intent to create aery vision of utopia,
where videre licet barenaked ladies
essentially gamely frolic
in the autumn mist
fomenting one after another
to tease out rock ribbed ready erection
with premature ejaculation for excitation
Harum-scarum fidelity be damned
bordello supplants "city on a hill"
buzzfeeding playboy bunnies
with fourteen carrots to squire
then politely escort each
to their respective boudoir
in a blatant, explicit effort
to foster and grow caliphate
at the expense of electorate qualm
impossible mission to keep
brood of squired earthlings in the balance
portends especial ominous nightmare
if Project 2025 implemented
also known as
the 2025 Presidential Transition Project,
constitutes a political initiative
published by the Heritage Foundation
that aims to promote conservative
and right-wing policies
to reshape the United States federal government
and consolidate executive power
if the Republican candidate
garners majority of votes
making first day on the Somme
feel like kindergarten tussle
as anarchy rears up across
United States of America
pitting (olive him nonetheless) despicable
unnamed despot wannabe
analogous courtesy unsettled Leviathan
surfacing from the deep cyber sea
against cherished inalienable
constitutional rights buoying
the land of the free
and home of the brave
renting the country asunder,
with incendiary vitriolic rhetoric,
which similar fate befell Vietnam
thanks be partially
to hydrogenated, and promulgated
American foreign policy.
as highlighted below
to re:captcha wretched colonialism.
The (shameful – my input) about United States' foreign policy in Vietnam was shaped by several factors, including the Domino Theory, the Vietnam War, and the legacy of the war:
The Domino Theory
The U.S. foreign policy after World War II was based on the idea that if one country fell to Communism, the surrounding countries would follow, like dominoes.
The Vietnam War
The U.S. supported South Vietnam against North Vietnam, and fought in the war directly. The U.S. trained and assisted South Vietnamese forces, and conducted ground operations, river and canal patrols, and more. The war was costly and divisive, with estimates of over 3 million Vietnamese deaths and around 58,318 American deaths.
The legacy of the war
After the war, the U.S. imposed a trade embargo on Vietnam and severed ties with the country. The U.S. believed that Vietnam had violated the Paris Peace Accords and had not accounted for American prisoners of war. The embargo lasted until 1994.
Normalizing relations
In the 1990s, President Bill Clinton began normalizing diplomatic relations with Vietnam. Today, the U.S. and Vietnam have a relationship that includes maritime security assistance, and partnerships between Vietnamese universities and U.S. higher education institutions.
The United States' foreign policy in Vietnam was shaped by several factors, including the Domino Theory, the Vietnam War, and the legacy of the war:
The Domino Theory
The U.S. foreign policy after World War II was based on the idea that if one country fell to Communism, the surrounding countries would follow, like dominoes.
The Vietnam War
The U.S. supported South Vietnam against North Vietnam, and fought in the war directly. The U.S. trained and assisted South Vietnamese forces, and conducted ground operations, river and canal patrols, and more. The war was costly and divisive, with estimates of over 3 million Vietnamese deaths and around 58,318 American deaths.
The legacy of the war
After the war, the U.S. imposed a trade embargo on Vietnam and severed ties with the country. The U.S. believed that Vietnam had violated the Paris Peace Accords and had not accounted for American prisoners of war. The embargo lasted until 1994.
Normalizing relations
In the 1990s, President Bill Clinton began normalizing diplomatic relations with Vietnam. Today, the U.S. and Vietnam have a relationship that includes maritime security assistance, and partnerships between Vietnamese universities and U.S. higher education institutions.
Before concluding this poem,
I wanna hammer home,
and nail laughable
personal misperception of
suspecting that roofers
specifically plagued with shingles
constituted from the following materials.
Asphalt: A traditional choice
for homeowners, asphalt shingles
made from a fiberglass or paper mat
covered in tar and granules.
Composite: These synthetic shingles
made from a combination of materials,
including recycled materials,
slate, laminate, and wood.
Wood: Wood shingles and shakes
made from logs of trees like Western Red Cedar,
Cypress, pine, or Redwood.
Some pieces are treated
with preservatives or fire retardants.
My Dance With The Beast
The day I found 666 on my scalp, in the mirror, the number of the beast, like lightning the urges, wantonness... My life made sense. But the sixes were filled, each a mirror image, a quarter note, not the number of the beast, three quarter notes, one measure of a waltz. Like lightning the urges, wantonness... My life made sense: I was born to waltz!
Hell is Suburbia
Of this one thing I’m most certain: Hell is suburbia.
Green grass lawns manicured and mowed into illusionary perfection, stand in defense to these cookie-cutter, monoliths.
Ordinary flowers surround these monoliths, congregating in impeccably planted rows beneath the sills of double hung, front windows complete with simulated divide, whilst HOA compliant, composite, Lily-white, picket fences stand at attention, guarding facade after facade — in hell.
Sidewalks are little more than an afterthought here (in hell). A slipshod courtesy of quick-dry cement poured only for appearance’s sake.
The welcoming front walks gently ushering you in from street to home have given way to stamped, concrete paths leading from asphalt driveways off of standard issue, double-car garages. These faux stone passageways of course are lined with the usual flowers. Pansies, petunias, maybe a smattering of alyssum or flox to fill in the blank spaces for good measure — all of them debutantes clamoring for best in show.
Royal purple, demure pink and snowy white flowers lie low to the ground, patiently awaiting their inevitable conclusion by some kids playing in the front yard as their mother stares absently into the void hissing a curt warning,
“Mind the flowers, please.”
This sets off a chain reaction, and without missing a beat, one of her brood of brats does the unthinkable as he accidentally tramples a small patch of pick-me pansies and petunias.
It always starts with a lip quiver.
Then the sniveling.
Little Johnny, or Stone, or whatever the year they were spawned dictated they “should be” named according to the latest edition of Parents Magazine, predictably amps up as a last defense against the very predictable shift in tone from his reptilian mother. Just moments before, her voice, a barely audible, hiss has transformed to one of despair and complete disgust.
“God dammit! I told YOU to MIND the FLOWERS! And instead of listening to me, you’ve ruined them. You’ve … you’ve killed them. Look at them, they’re DEAD now and all because you just can never pay attention to me, can you?”
His sniveling gives way to tears.
Little Johnny, or Stone, or whatever the brat’s name is, begins making a sincere attempt at remorse for their transgression against his mother’s pick-me pansies and petunias: herbicide. Pansy slaughter in the first degree — an assault on their mother’s precious, pick-mes, resulting in a slight, albeit significant, tear in her false facade and carefully crafted, fragile psyche.
Vacant eyes paired with a sadistic grin spread across her face.
“WHY are YOU crying? Don’t cry. STOP crying. This is NOTHING to cry about. Please stop crying. Mommy’s upset enough as it is right now. I don’t need YOUR crying on top of ALL of this,” she says motioning to dearly departed pick-mes.
Little Johnny, or whoever the fuck, has his mother to thank for for what comes next: full on, ugly crying. Tears start rolling down his tiny, reddened face, followed by the beginnings of snot bubbling from the tip of his nose as he makes odd, strangling sounds before wailing out,
“But you said I KILLED THEM!!! I didn’t mean to KILL your flowers MOMMY. I’m sorry… I’m … sorry. I’m … so …sorry. I’m sorry I KILLED YOUR FLOWERS! I didn’t …mean to .. do it.”
Locking her dead eye stare on Little Johnny, “They’re pansies and petunias,” she says coldly.
Right on cue.
In an effort to patch and smooth any discernible cracks in her veneer, Mommy Dearest first clenches her jaw, then pats her overly highlighted, blonde hair into place and smooths her slacks before putting on a grand show.
She sweeps in, expertly, pulling her little monster to her chest. A cunning performance all her own, complete with the sweep of her little sinner’s hair from their leaking and reddened face: the world is her stage.
Her tone softens.
“There. There. It’s no big deal. Mommy can get some new ones when we go shopping later today. You can even help me pick them out. Would you like that? Would you like to be my little helper?”
A very well rehearsed smile cracks across her plastic face revealing straight and overly whitened teeth as Little Johnny Herbicider’s sobs begin to subside and he nods,
“Yes, Mommy.”
Another rehearsed and fluorescent smile, splits across her face,
“It’s okay. I forgive you Johnny.”
Bravo. You’ve salvaged your makeshift reputation as Suburban Super Mom.
Hell is suburbia, and Little Johnny is so fucked.
____________________________
I’ve always marveled at these facades. Paths of stone pavers (stamped concrete) edged by the delicate, white lace of alyssum or bright and cheerful, creeping flox, polka dotted with perfectly placed pink and purple pansies and petunias smiling up at you, inviting you inside ...
I was 29 years old with a toddler when I bought my first home in the suburbs. A tangible sign that I too had made it.
I was 33 with two kids when I lost that home, like so many others, in 2008. I felt like a complete failure. An embarrassment. I was deeply ashamed, but still set my sites on having it all again as a way to soothe my bruised ego.
It would be another 3 years before my sons father and I would move back out to the suburbs. I was more vested in the dream at this point. I didn’t just want a house, I wanted a home. I wanted everything to be just right, but at no surprise to myself, I leaned very quickly (again) I would never manage to truly fit in with your average, suburban super mom because I don’t play their games very well.
They had manicured lawns with perfectly planted flowers done by landscapers, where I did my own landscaping complete with wildflowers and what I’d planned on being an eventual, lawn-free zone. They drove Mercedes and had Prada bags they’d bought on credit cards they opened in their husband’s names, and I had a KIA and whatever treasure of a handbag I’d thrifted at Savers. They drank wine and popped pills from sun up to sun down, and I made artisan loaves of bread and tried my hand at cheese making for fun between volunteering at my kids school and taking care of my home and working part time.
I was good with it mostly, or so I thought.
There’s this first line of defense meant to disarm you out in the burbs. It comes in the form of direct eye contact, a big fluorescent smile, and accentuated wave from across the street, with the well-intentioned promise of grabbing coffee or having drinks sometime. This of course matches the expansive green lawns, beautiful landscaping, and one of four to six model homes they’ve picked out and embellished with upgrades to give the home ”some character.” All this alongside nice cars and nice clothes in a neighborhood with good schools for your children.
Then you start to take it all in, taking note of things like walkways that lead from the driveway to your home instead of having one from the drive and one from the sidewalk. Or how the houses are set farther back and further apart than you’re used to, but not in the quaint way you see in rural, Main Street communities across America. You begin to realize the status quo isn’t in diversity, but in force-fed homogenization.
You soon realize this is all set up to keep people apart, even when they’re together because keeping up with the Jones is exhausting for some, and soul crushing for others.
Day drinking, pill popping and shopping addictions fueled by credit cards secretly put in their husbands’ names is as unfortunately common as their husbands having not so secret affairs and drinking problems — which then usually triggers revenge affairs, sometimes immediately followed by divorce, but more often is followed with reconciliation. At least until Mommy Dearest can find another man to support her lifestyle with the kids.
Nobody dares talk about this either. You’re not supposed to talk about such banal things. It’s seen as impolite and vulnerable. Sure, the PTA bunch will gossip about it, especially if you’re not one of them, but they don’t really talk about these things in any meaningful way that shows any sort of compassion. You’re just expected to get (more) therapeutic Botox or lip filler, retreat back to your cookie-cutter monoliths, uncork a bottle of wine, wash it down with a Xanax or two, and set out to die a slow and unremarkable death that manifests it’s emptiness in things like passive aggressive behaviors or narcissism.
No thank you.
I have found this to be true no matter where I’ve lived. I’ve lived in suburbs of Chicago, the greater Portland, Oregon metro area, the Northshore of Boston — suburbs are suburbs, and suburban moms of school age children are a creature all their own. You can either play the game, or you can’t.
But know this, whether or not you play the game matters not, because Hell is suburbia and Little Johnny is still so fucked.
A.B.K. ~ ©️08/31/2024
Mile Run
to be the one who died alone
upon the salt wood of an old and rotting whiskey bar
to be the black haired phantom
with obsidian eyes
swift and sober at the
mark of midnight
watch the ladies of the night
wear lilac white and scream beautiful obscenities
watch gamblers stumble home
to suicide
covering moth infested
memories of bankruptcy
with a mouth full of iron
to be the one who
met the devil there
only to outshine him
with a side eye of disgust
the path to wisdom
a slow mile run
Fade to black (a drabble)
She shivers when he touches her.
There’s no warmth in his embrace; there is power. His strength is concrete in a silk suit, and she's helpless to stop his hands from roaming what's his.
She is stripped one button at a time, but she was bare all along.
The pool of her clothes is a reflection of her complete surrender.
"Are you sure?" His whisper holds no promise of tomorrow, only night everlasting.
Her love for him is the hill she'll die on, but she’ll never know the grave’s cold comfort.
She becomes his crimson bride, and sunsets become memories.