Could Your Faded Passion Brighten Your Home?

Researchers out of Stanford University announced a breakthrough in clean energy technology. They have developed a generator capable of powering a house using the residual heat of the argument you had with your husband last night.
 
In a cooperative effort between the Stanford Woods Institute for the Environment and the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences, the study was conducted over the past 4 years in the area of your living room. Results are preliminary, but researchers are enlisting candidates for future research, stating,
“Not tonight honey, I have a headache.”
 

[ˈæləsən]

      They’re always bitching at me not to leave my till. Todd, Margaret, all of them. Always bitching. Though, they never explain just how it is that I’m supposed to know what the lady standing in front of me means when she says,
“A grande-caramel-latte, and one of those on the end”
and starts pointing her accusing finger toward the end of the pastry case.

      I mean, that latte bit I‘ve got down. I could take that order in my sleep. Hell, I could take that order and ask if you’d “like to try it with our new coconut milk” without turning my head to the cool side of the pillow.

      But I have no idea what she is pointing at. Not a clue, this being the second day of October and a whole new rotation of specials we’ve got on offer. It’s probably a pumpkin-something, a cinnamon-whatever, some damn spiced crumble etc. The lady, she is wedged into place by the crowd behind her that is raging for a cinnamon fix. I am standing, chained behind my register like a good boy, just like I promised last night, when they made me sign that employee responsibility paper. I was all, “It won’t happen again, sir” and so on.

So I stall, and ask the lady for a name to scrawl on the grande-caramel-latte. She says,
“Huh? My name? It’s A—–.“
Well, actually, what she says is,
“Huh? My name? It’s Al-uh-suhn.”
But if we’re going to get all technical, which people like to do with their names, what she says is,
“Huh? My name? It’s [ˈæləsən].”

      I mean, give me a break. Do you know how many damn ways there are to spell [ˈæləsən]? There are at least 7 if you only count the common versions. You’ve got the old stand-by, Allison but heaven forbid you use it if she spells it Alyson, or Alison, or god knows what else. I knew a girl in 4th grade who spelled it Alysen, like her parents had something to prove. So [ˈæləsən] is standing there, pointing and pointing, while I consider writing “Ellison” on her cup just to mess with her. Or, really, just to make use of my degree for the first time since I graduated. But I doubt Todd, who is working the espresso machine, would even get the joke. He doesn’t seem to have read much of anything outside of the employee handbook. 

      So, I hedge my bets and write out “Allison” but I kind of squish the two L’s together, like, maybe there is only one. I squiggle the “o” indecisively. Like, maybe it’s an “e” or maybe my pen is running out of ink. Like, maybe I’ve been using it to write the next great American novel on recycled napkins. Like, maybe I am the guy who gets her, who knows exactly who she is. Like, maybe I could tell she had a relatively normal upbringing but that her parents just wanted her to be a little bit unique. Like, maybe she knows that I am clearly overqualified for this position. Like, maybe she could tell I’ve got a master’s degree and a lifetime-membership card to the ivory tower. Like, maybe we should get coffee sometime, somewhere else. Like, maybe she will love all my jokes about Derrida. Like, maybe she’ll forgive me for messing up the rest of her order and I won’t get written up for it. Like, maybe this [ˈæləsən] is the Allison or the Alison that changes everything.

      All the while, [ˈæləsən] is holding up her resilient elbow, pointing toward whatever it is that I am about to get wrong. The moment is more or less a metaphor for my entire romantic history.

 And of course, where is Margaret now? Margaret, our fearless shift supervisor, who is supposed to be working the pastry case. Margaret who wore out her lungs from bitching at me about leaving my till. Margaret who is evidently taking a ten minute break, now of all times. While [ˈæləsən] is waving her finger toward some mystery cake. [ˈæləsən], who left her glasses at home and can’t read the damn sign. [ˈæləsən] who looks like every other damn [ˈæləsən] I’ve ever come across, like she doesn’t have the time to look at me. 

      The line of customers is stretching out past the door, all of them frowning, all of them decaffeinated-cranky. Here I am, alone, strapped to the register. To my left, Todd has barricaded himself behind a wall of paper cups and syrups. I can hear the espresso machine hissing and spitting, then suddenly it stops. Todd has run out of steam, I‘ve thrown a wrench into the machine. Ominous, that silence.

So I look up at [ˈæləsən], who is dangling my future off her left index finger, and ask,
I’m sorry, could you at least describe it for me?”

 

 

I was published!

My Poem “The Best Place Not To See Paris” was published as part of the HIV Here and Now project. Go Check it out:

Poem 149 ± October 31, 2015

“Who Are?”

Is it still- no,
Is that just rain still falling?
You know, dripping from the trees
still.

Yeah it is,
it’s just
what is left.

They look like they think
it’s spring. You know?
Like they are just blooming.
It’s pretty. The light really.
I mean. I hate to tell them.

God.
Is it fall already?

Not until September-
twenty first or twenty second?

They’re just setting their watch by it.

Chance encounters with old shadows.

Your wander
Loves the cobblestones
Breaks the hearts
of street signs
Forgets her glasses at home.

Where you been
hiding’ love?
Who you been
Keepin’ your secrets from?

You look good.
Reminds me
I was thinking ‘bout the moon
I should call her up.

That crazy thing
Dancing through her walk home
My, she use to stop it.
Time, that is
My,
We used to make the clocks moan.

You know, You were the only one.

I miss you. 
I wish I were there with you. 
I keep meaning to write, 
But. 

The other Monday I burst into 
A run sprint of writing,
Spent all my words in twenty minutes. 
I have been in recovery since. 
Too much distance from my muses,
It makes it hard to write anything. 
Let alone something worthwhile. 

I have your gift in my apartment
Every day I toy with it,
Contemplate
The cost of plane tickets
Hand delivering.

By the time you receive it, 
it will smell like me. 
Like vanilla 
Bread
 and poetry. 

You know, 
You were the only one 
Night stand I’ve ever had.
You know, 
You were the only one.

Somehow,
We remained in contact. 
Which maybe makes it less of that
One-night nonsense. 
In fact.
This all began on the idea 
That I am a terrible person 
Who didn’t mind your beautiful girlfriend. 
Well , I wasn’t sure. 
Still. 
It just seems so.

Spanish poets discuss the breaking of things over a meal of fresh baked bread.

Spanish poets discuss the breaking of things over a meal of fresh baked bread. They scrawl their list on handkerchiefs, carve it into the wood of the table. Let it soak in the wine that is spilled with the laughter. The un-starched shirt collars and the orchestra of silverware.

1.
I thought I might send her the postcard of Madame X but instead, I spilled coffee on it.
It sat on my bedside table brandishing a threat of pale undress.

2.
That time on the beach in Spain.
Muddled mint and sugar cane.
When he and I didn’t do enough drinking and thus decided to stop being friends.
Without the formality of announcing it.

3.
Denial is the weapon of the vocal cords
The inner dialogue,
The ache exists only after we admit it

4.
I never used the shiny things you bought me.
I grew tarnished, spotted. I was a shining thing once.

5.
Why must you just stand there not thinking about me.

6.
You give good headache
Take off your clothes.

7.
I am more than all the loves I have lost.
My 5 year plan is to stop living in the past.

Then love calls, just to say
Please convince me not to buy an apple pie.

Love came home with a wheeze lunged smile, the exhale tumbling past it.
and I said,
You smell like sweat go wash your face 

and he said,
I forgot to tell you what happened on the way home! I was rounding the corner by our house biking behind a little girl and her dad-I assume it was her dad-but she was in a little child’s seat behind him in her little pink helmet. When I sped up past them she turned around and she was singing.
To me.