Ah, yes, the humble clothesline.

In my opinion, the most useful appliance in the household.

Politically Correct, Environmentally friendly,

utilizes sun and wind power.

No animals are harmed by its use.

No chemicals foul streams or farmland.

No toxic emissions leak from its usage.

It works best on high electricity usage days

without taking up a single kilowatt.

A confession: I hate housework

Which is why I write

to avoid housework.

Works like a charm.

Sorry, I'm writing today.

The only housework I enjoy is laundry.

Seeing a neatly folded pile of clothes

waiting to be put away gives me a sick thrill.

Even more so than kicking cats, I digress.

The mere feeling of being productive outdoors

by clamping little wooden pins on my laundry

makes me smile.

There is nothing sweeter than the smell of

a bed sheet fresh off the line.

It is an addiction. I know.

So far there is no group for it.

No initials.

No meetings with bad coffee and stale donuts.

It may seem out of date to some.

I'll continue hanging until I can't.

Until then, it's me and my clothesline.

Skivvies swaying in the sunshine

Offended neighbors be damned!

About fourteen and a half years

before my birth,

yours truly not even a twinkle

in the eyes of his then

young father and mother

the former born April 9th1929,

and latter would be turning eleven

that upcoming November 13th.

Given the nuclear weaponry arsenal today

August 6th, 2023, our collective ability

to lay waste major metropolitan areas

would make unleashing atomic warfare

synonymous with the ways and means

to annihilate, decimate, eliminate, et cetera

avast swath of the biosphere, nevertheless...

Once again, I take momentary pause

to contemplate horrific event

regarding unleashed atomic warfare

activating nuclear brinkmanship,

hence time to trot out a poem

written initially some years ago

courtesy yours truly.

Robert Oppenheimer manned

"The Manhattan Project",

a top secret World War II mission,

which constituted "Little Boy" codename

for a uranium gun-type

atomic bomb dropped at 0815

exploded 580 metres above civilians

with 15 kiloton blast yield

reduced 400 year old city to dust

Colonel Paul Tibbets,

the pilot/ bombardier

of the Enola Gay,

(the Boeing B-29 Superfortress

unleashed nuclear warfare

seventy eight years ago today)

gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit

mentally, the annihilation,

extermination, incineration, obliteration...

when the first of

two storied Japanese enclaves

pulverized vividly underscores

how trifling my current bout

with dysthymia, hysteria, melancholia...

(from figurative northern exposure

courtesy twin peaks)

contrasted with sinister

thermonuclear reaction

malevolent evil tower ushered

thermonuclear age epitomizing

coup d'état nada so graceful

spelled maximum radiation fallout,

viz collateral military mutilation

though unwelcome vision wielded hell,

instantaneous maelstrom poised

mankind to be cured, roasted, skewered

analogous as burnt offerings

subsequent generations of victims

who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,

judicious slaughter can only

poorly be described

by this mortal with curable

bacterial/viral infection

aghast at such wanton killing, more-so

via weapons of mass destruction

more devastatingly grisly

than those "experimental" bombs

loosed upon the innocent population,

whereby 75,000 people

killed or fatally injured

with 65% of casualties

nine years of age and younger,

whence offspring of survivors

evinced excessive genetic anomalies

with fiery windy surface

(think towering infernos)

temperatures topping 4,000°C

upon terrain hallowed by ghastly

horrible deathly dominance

impressing silhouettes of victims

analogous to dark shadows

amidst razed structural remnants

ground zero birthed

sinister mushroom cloud

wickedly, ominously, and eerily loomed.

Weapons of mass destruction

defined as a chemical, biological,

radiological, nuclear, or any other weapon

that can kill or significantly harm many people

or cause great damage to artificial structures,

natural structures, or the biosphere

an inescapable fact of life

and potential looming fait accompli

as one antagonist could annihilate another

contaminating, decimating,

obliterating, pulverizing...

sabotaging great swaths

of webbed wide world

in the process.

Living? Or surviving? Are they unsettling questions, these? No, not really.

My friend (and for a short while roommate) Keith hung himself in 1987, his pretty but flirtatious wife having a baby on the way that wasn’t his, that she told him she didn’t know whose it was, whatever that implies. Sometimes life is literally a bitch.

I understood it. In all honesty, quitting was an option which had crossed my mind. Life was hard for my little rat-pack back then, as were decisions. We were young, poor, barely educated… the road ahead had an ominous feel.

Since then I have married and watched our daughter grow into a woman (and two granddaughters as well). I have had the good fortune to travel much of the world with someone I love, have lived vicariously through 5 dogs, have enjoyed success doing something I grew to love as my engagement in it increased, and I am still to this day enjoying George Strait’s music, something my friend Keith, a proud Texan, taught me to appreciate through his “western swing” singing and playing as we killed time in our little apartment way back when. I even bought myself a guitar in homage to Keith, but I never got very good with it. Playing the thing was not as easy as Keith made it appear. Sometimes life is like that. Sometimes we fail as we circumnavigate life… as we survive it.

The clock doesn’t stop when we do. So many minutes, and hours, and days since 1987, not to mention the years. So much time to do, and to be. So much joy and pain delivered in that time. So much life granted.

I’m not too proud. I’ll take survival. It was survival allowed all that living, and both beat hell out of the third option.

says that Face

across the bar

you know

like the one

in the

billboard

who has

to have

it all

the bonded

money grill

the sterling

dozen

parked cars

in his twelve

car garage

the trophy

lady seated

in the

nail salon

three kids

in attention

before the

blaring 56"

flat-screen

cinched or

clinched was

it clenched

I meant

He's selling

you something

it's in the eyes

but I'm not sure

what it is

it's hard to

hear when

everyone's

cheering for

the team,

the home

team?

no one's

asking &

you want

to Trust

somebody

but

you're not

sure what's

the fuss

over

what

game or

station or

never mind

the score

taken

you have this

doubt and

you're trying

your damnedest

to drown it

cause

what is

this

extravagant

animation

all about &

what's going

on anyhow?

You swear

you've seen this

passing by

faster on TV

taken notes even

& you thought

you'd roped

your old school

beliefs

Everything is

saying Trust me:

you don't belong

in here;

And if not,

then

where?

Melancholy offers

a free refill &

you picture

the corner of

your rented room

where Claustrophobia

has all but f*cked

you over

So you go &

you tell yourself

that you go out

to be

among people

where poetry

is written

across blank faces

and you have

grave doubts

as such

but you Trust

yourself

to fill in

the missing

details

And so

you hold

your place

and you keep

your piece

holstered

yes you trusss

you Truss

yourself

to take a

breath

and

exhale

Something

is after all

in there...

God or life

or Faith or

even if it's

only Death

...It is

there

and it

will

wait

2023 AUG 04

I took for so long…

I didn't realize I was taking my own life away.

I idealized so hard-

I didn't realize I was leaving reality.

And then I knew.

And then a mirror was cast in front of me.

I repented,

So devotedly-

I gave all my life away lovingly.

I was loyal.

So forgiving.

Even though it was not reciprocated,

Even though my efforts were cast away as meaningless,

& my love was called a lie.

I sit completely vulnerable.

I sit and wait for the universe-

to balance itself,

once again.

You leach away at the end; your strength, your blood, your dreams. They pool messily; sticky and warm as with timely spurts their muddle blooms around you. There is time to feel that, and room for it, what with the dulling of the pain.

Despair accompanies the ascending darkness, wafting acrid torches espoused with sickly-sweet odors. Who knew how shivering cold that despair could be? Or how malodorous it’s kippering as a final, unexpected, physical sense?

He is thievery, Murder, leaving moneys, keys and cards, but taking the only thing one ever owns, or wants… and you are his shame.

Scratches and words crossed out.

Roses with dew drops,

Blood on the thorns.

Deepest of shadows and brightest of Light.

~

Heavy details on the left,

Vague shapes scattered through.

But then there's still quite a bit of white canvas,

That she hasn't gotten to~

~

There's deep grooves where the scrapers went heavily.

There's some watercolor that got washed out.

But my favorites are the outlines and words in black ink, they clearly show what the artist thinks.

~

Lovely, mediocre, unfinished work~

I sat near my flower beds near my house. People from my neighborhood complimented my flowers. My flower beds had a mixture of roses, dandelions, tulips, and peonies. I softly smiled at them. Then, they asked me to take care of their flower beds, and they would promise to be friends if I took care of their garden. I glanced at their garden, and their flowers were nearly dying, almost into fragments. I had this empty feeling in my stomach, and my flowers were healthily watered already. This empty, gut feeling in my stomach, knowing that if I didn't help them water their plants, their flowers would die.

So I agreed.

Day by day, I walked to their house to water their plants, and my neighborhood friends started to hang out with me more often. They asked me for more favors, like buying more supplies for their plants so it could shine out more. I looked at my wallet. It had plenty of money. I should have enough for myself as well. So I agreed.

I went to the store to buy more seeds and more nourishment for their plants. I went back to their house and helped their plants grow. Day by day, their flowers went from dying into dust into growing into sunlight. Suddenly, more people asked me to water their plants for them since I was doing so well watering my neighborhood friends' plants. I glanced at their plants. It looked just fine, but I couldn't say no.

So I agreed.

I repeat every step. Water. Plant. Seed. More people asking. Repeat. I then carefully take care of every single flower I see, every single leaf that dies, and every single petal that falls. They're happy, right? They're glad that I got to help them. As long as they're smiling, I'm smiling too. As long as they're happy about the aftermath, I guess... I'll be happy too.

They ask for another offer. I glanced at the inside of my wallet. It's getting empty. Thousands of dollars turned into hundreds, and hundreds turned into five dollars total. I can't make them sad. I can't let them disappoint me. They're gonna hate me and they'll never ask me to take care of their flowers ever again. As I saw them through the window, watching TV, I sighed and took the car keys to drive to the store. I used the last bit of my money for seeds that weren't even for me.

I planted the last seed in their flowerbed.

They thanked me, once again. Of course they thanked me.

And when they asked for another request once again, I nearly forgot about my own plants. While their plants were thriving and shining, my plants were dying and decaying. The leaves were falling. The petals were darkening. The soil was dry. And my flowers were dead. I've taken care of so many flowerbeds that I forget to even look at my own.

But I can't say no. I can't say no, ever.

Until I did.

They looked disappointed, of course. And then they walked away from me.

Their plants are gonna die soon, but so will mine. My garden was dying, and I don't have anything left. I ran out of water. I ran out of money. I ran out of happiness. I feel angry. I don't wanna take care of other people's stuff when they don't even take care of their own things. I don't wanna help. I don't wanna help anymore.

One person knocked on the door and asked for their last request. Their last request to water their plants. To buy them seeds. To give their flowers nourishment.

I'm tired. I'm tired of helping people.

But they'll be angry. Mad. Furious at me, even, if I said no.

I don't want them to be disappointed in me. I don't want them to tell others how much of a disappointment I am and how I'm a terrible person.

My flowerbed was completely dry. By now, my flowers turned black and the only thing that's left on the soil was their remains. I want to save them, but I can't. I can't do anything anymore.

But their flowers could be worse.

So I agreed.

Leaving my garden

to dust.

In terms of ideal places to cry, the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building was truly unparalleled.

Now, it's not that the restroom was particularly nice. One of the stalls was always out of order, the paper towel dispensers often got stuck, the doors creaked, the walls were a disconcerting off-white, and the building itself resembled a poorly-kept hospital. If you wanted a more beautiful place to cry, you'd try the gardens. If you wanted a more secluded place to cry, you'd try your room. If you wanted a quieter place to cry, you'd try the upper floors of the library. You won't find beauty or perfection in the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building.

But that's what I liked. The imperfection matched my emotion, the ugliness mirrored the feelings inside. The women's restroom offered a refuge for me to relate to the building, for me to release my emotions before they suffocated me. I cannot count the number of times I sat in that restroom, biting down on my fist while silently sobbing, expelling tears of frustration, stress, anxiety, sadness, and despair. I sought respite between the dull green walls of the restroom stalls, I shattered my porcelain heart and glued it back together before opening the door and pretending to be okay. There was a certain comfort in knowing the restroom would be there for me, in knowing there was a place where I could cry without judgment.

There were moments of happiness and peace within that restroom, but I rarely visited the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building if I was feeling good. It was when I was sad, when the floor was giving out from under me, when a dark tidal wave was crashing down on me, when shadows were obscuring my senses and I was sinking into the quicksand of despair, when my throat was wrapped with barbed wire and my stomach was full of writhing snakes, when I felt the beginnings of a torrential outpouring of emotion in the form of salty-sweet tears, when the pull of gravity became unbearable and it took every ounce of willpower to remain standing, when I felt the call of the void—that was when I visited the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building.

I haven't been back to the psychology building for a long time, and it's been even longer since I visited the women's restroom on the ground floor. Sometimes, I wonder if they've changed it—if they fixed the toilet that was always out of order, if they repainted the walls, if they made it spotless. I hope not, and there's a certain comfort in the knowledge that fixing one of the less-used bathrooms in the psychology building is likely not at the top of anyone's priority list. It's silly, really, but I will be eternally grateful for the emotional sanctuary of the women's restroom on the ground floor of the psychology building.