Cindy at the Redbird
The headline:
dead infant found in quilt
in Rhode Island slum.
A stranger
in a crowded student union
walked up to me and said
“l
hope you die.”
In the backseat of a Honda Accord
I slapped my nephew
for giving my year old son marijuana.
I’m waiting tables.
There’s no raisin toast.
We’ll just have to do without.
In a natatorium
a man lifted a stroke victim
out of water
into a wheelchair.
The stricken man breathed deeply.
Declawed Cats Shouldn’t Live Outdoors
Put on an optimistic face.
It’s the only way to meet oblivion.
Put on the blue T shirt
that says Optimism.
No one wants to sit in a cyber cafe
thinking about oblivion, or in the movies
before the coming attractions.
Optimism is the only way to meet oblivion.
Wax a Chevy pickup.
Buy a bag of Cheetos. The cashier
puts silver coins in your hand,
your hands briefly touch.
It’s so quick, almost subliminal.
Read her name tag,
get a piece of chalk and write her name
on a wall.
Either that, or go to Walmart
or into Our Lady of Fatima Church
and dip your fingers in holy water.
There are many things I cannot do
and even more that I can.
I can have a cat declawed.
I have the strength to peel an orange.
It’s no crime to think about oblivion.
Just don’t think about it too much,
don’t let it consume you.
If you do, you won’t be popular
though not everyone wants popularity.
Sometimes you might want to sink
into the woodwork, go unnoticed
in the peanut crunching crowd,
who are walking and talking, or maybe
an audience watching Twilight
or patients sitting in a clinic,
waiting to go in to see the doctor.
Some suggestions for optimistic acts:
Polish your shoes.
Go out on a date.
Ride a rollercoaster. Scream.
It won’t be the scream of oblivion.
The Note Said
Spend part of each day doing something
you want to do.
Build a bridge, bat an eyelash,
wash spoons at a kitchen sink.
Bowl at the Fiesta Lanes.
Roller skate with a soil scientist
at the Lights Out Rink.
I spend 5 minutes in the Tunnel of Love
with Barbara. “Kiss me,
Someday we’ll be no more than dust.”
I spend 30 minutes shining my shoes,
15 at a mirror combing my hair.
I haven’t helped any earthquake victims
or built a wall around my feelings.
Intimacy is possible, with Barbara
or Bob, the soil scientist; or Glenda
from Sunday school,
who saw me browsing with 23 year old
Barbara in the lingerie department
at Wessex, our local discount store
which sells everything
from snow shovels to cold-cream.
I want to sit under a willow
on a riverbank,
munch potato chips, sip cola, and read
Tillich’s The Courage to Be.
I wouldn’t want to go there with anyone
but Barbara.
I’d wish for clouds above the river.
I’d do what I want to do
as opposed to what I must do:
open one door after another,
see myself in one mirror after another,
tie and untie my shoelaces,
eat some beef stew I don’t really want.
I want a gin martini with 3 olives,
a porterhouse steak medium well,
a baked yam and mixed vegetables
on the side. I want to ice skate
outdoors, on a pond in the woods.
Also, I’d like to attend a cremation
but not of anyone I know.
I don’t want to attend a pet cremation.
I’d rather be at a loom, weaving
a potholder, thinking about the ocean;
or pick up a National Geographic
with an article on Jonas Salk.
I have to pay the gas bill,
brush my hair, floss my teeth.
I don’t want to get out of a car,
slip on ice and break my ankle.
I want to walk to the edge of a cliff
and almost fall off.
Rising
to my feet, dusting off my slacks
I hear Barbara,
“Jesus, that was close!”
Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, The Homesick Mortician, is available from BlazeVOX books. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.
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