Going to the Grocery Story

 

Going to the grocery store is a pleasant way to toss away your money while you shiver in what truly is a large refrigerator, looking at colorful things that grow in dirt, or pieces of animals who have offed their skin and other parts we shan’t discuss. 

 

Then there is Mr and Mrs who stop almost everyone because they think we aught to enjoy their silly conversation.  

 

The special couple, of whom I speak, caries the name of Jeles, and who’s Christian names ruined Christianity.  Perhaps you know them? Well, if you don’t, drop to your knees for your blessings and genuflect in front of the radishes. 

 

As a man who sees God as a nuisance, I don’t genuflect, but Mr and Mrs don’t know one way or another. Sometimes they ask if we are this or that, asking if my wife still wears all that stuff. What stuff? I don’t know what the heck they mean, so I just smile and say sure she does, but not on Wednesday.  That’s the day she washes her naked body. 

 

I continued to tell them, I wash only in July in the belfry, while I slosh down great amounts of holly wine until my body is red. It’s then all the men sing old MacDonald to bless the dead animals. Then we have a BBQ.  

 

Mrs turns her head with tears flowing. Mr consoled her, his arms around a body that must have driven here in the back of a pickup. 

 

I expected him to hit me. He’s a big guy.  But, he didn’t, but he did give Mrs a tissue to wipe her eyes, then released his arms from Mrs Buffalo and turned his attention toward a large collection of wine bottles.

 

Mrs Buffalo, much to my chagrin, took over the conversation. Yes, her dog has died. I heard all about it.  Yes, Hazel Bloom lived to be five years old. Maybe because his mistress ate all the dog food.

 

I’d say Mr should have ditched the wife and had the dog stuffed, or better yet, stuff both of them. Easy to do. Mrs is already stuffed.

 

Dear God, they said it in chorus. They did have the dog stuffed!  But they still bought dogfood in Hazel Bloom’s honor.

 

I suspect there is another reason. I could smell it on her lips from several steps away.

 

At that moment the grocery manager walked quickly and stopped close enough to get a good look at my nose, along with cop who also stopped way too close to the front of me.

 

“What the hell? Do you want?” I had to ask.

 

The manager took a deep breath. “Mr. Lumbinsky, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

 

By this time, the cop was right beside me and starting to drool.

 

I gave it the usual crap. I didn’t do anything. You can’t toss a paying customer out, etc.

 

“Have you been in the men’s room lately?”

 

“What of it?”

 

“You wrote things on the wall”

 

“I was trying to help!”

 

“By leaving a note to our Employes!”

 

“Oh, don’t be so picky.”

 

The manager turned to the cop. “He wrote, Employes Must Wash Their Hands Before Pulling Up Their Pants, and that’s not all. He also wrote, Be Careful Where You Step. The Manager Has Diarrhea. And there’s still more. His Wife Will Show You Her Tits If You Ask.”

 

“That’s a lie! You don’t have to ask!”

 

It was then the grocery’s manager shoved me down, flat on my back, which I knew he would. He also kicked me. Twice! Before the cop could stop him.

 

The cop had to arrest him. No choice. Second time he has appeared in court. First time he paid me a nice amount. This time, my wife and I should be able to take a nice cruise.

 

He also got fired.  You think I could get to know the new manager? 

 

Stop by.

The Hound Dog and the Toad

 

My old hound dog swallowed a big fat toad 

Why he did it I never will know

That old hound dog was dead soon as he choked 

Now that old toad frog is free, and still able to croak 

So I got a bigger dog to teach that toad a lesson 

Then changed my mind, got him frog legs at a delicatessen

Morning Carves the Sky

Morning sits gray while the soft water whispers 

Under dark cover languish silent white boats 

Quietly, obedient as a convent of sisters 

Still awaiting in hope, still silent afloat

High above, sun tries to outshine the moon 

And lonely white sea birds glide patiently by

Hoping the sun will gather warmth soon 

Still a darkish blanket covers the sky 

Delicate white birds with hundreds of eyes 

From far, far away the sun starts it's climb

 In row after row their white wings arise

While watching the sky so soft and sublime.

Where has She Gone

 

                             I sit and wonder where she’s gone 

                            That woman with the golden curls 

                            Who haunts my dreams 

                           And left me years ago 

                           To let my blooming garden wilt. 

                           So now I have a garden new

                          But the damn thing has no blooms 

                          So I curse her in my dreams 

                          Hope  those golden curls are gray 

                          And her garden’s filled with weeds.

Who Am I?

In the morning I call a name 

Names bounce through me, all seem strange 

Lost in a whirlwind of passing age 

And those I knew have passed and gone 

They know me no longer, I’m alone 

Clothes sodden, no longer fit my need 

 In my garden no longer a rose, I am a weed 

Blowing by me a ghost of a younger self

I'm just a cracked, broken cup on the shelf

Close my cupboard, cast the cup aside 

I am no longer here, only drifting in the tide.

Who could this be,  this name sitting here

And where are those who now are lost?

I see them now, a cast of smiling ghosts. 

Oh come now please those so long lost

Please come to me at my behest

Please linger a while and let me rest. 

Cherish The Wind

 Such a fickle friend, the wind, that chills the night

With snowy thoughts gathering, though sun is bright 

And offered passing kisses to throb the heart 

Oh yes you know it well,  passing night then departs 

And goes on sweeping through our broken hearts

Yet whispers hope in a chorus of green leaves 

Though fickle winds are never what they seem 

Oh yes it chills the soul when not a friend 

But offers smiles, and becomes a friend again. 

So let it blow oh let it blow to a new tomorrow. 

Love the wind, friend or foe, cherish it, let it blow

The Motorcyclist

 

 

My wife wrote some damn thing called Down the Stairs. I read a few preposterous pages. And yes, the publisher, another woman of course, managed to get it in several bookstores. But these days female writers could write The Maid Who Stole the Cat and it would make it on the best seller list.

 

The sadist part, it’s not the women. Middle aged men haven’t lifted a book since high school and only then one of those paperback ‘read it quick scams’ that can explain Crime and Punishment before you finish your beer.

 

 But, do I get my novel punished? Let’s not get into that or the reasons, nonsensical reasons.

And as I sit at my desk taping on the key board, a damn motorcycle jerk kills my concentration with a blast, thinking everyone loves clouds of nasty, loud, stupid so-called music. 

 

If I could get away with shooting his tires, you can bet that his damn life would end. But then a sweet note of success scurried through my mind.  

 

The next time, I’ll put a big heavy board in the street in front of my house. Let him choke on that.

 

I walked out my front door and yelled quite politely for him to quit the noise!  His response was a middle finger wave.

 

When I came back inside, my wife asked me, not so politely, to do something to stop the noise.

 

“Sure, I tell his wife on him.”

 

She threw up her hands and went back in her cubby and slammed the door.

 

Next day, Mr. Motorcycle waited until night fall. How clever! What a jolly fellow.  At least I wasn’t writing, and the noise was a relief from sitting at our dinner table suffering through my wife’s cooking. I raced out the front door, but he didn’t see me when he came roaring back.  I’d forgotten to turn on the porch light.

 

My neighbors were still gone on some trip. Who knows where. Probably it was somewhere to watch a cows’ annual milking festival. Joanne and her husband, Fred probably thought the cows were relatives. Joanne was their size, and Fred’s voice sounded like he was mooing. Maybe he had to moo to get his wife’s attention.

 

The next night, same motorcycle. My wife offered me her shotgun. I’m not allowed to have one after what happed to the couch. She was sitting there. Her hearing will ever be right.

 

I stood on the porch, with the light on, the shotgun braced against my chest. He roared by, then turned and came back again. Good thing I didn’t have any shells. I should have run to the road and let the stock rearrange his teeth.

 

Why do Motor-jerks have to be jerks?  They’re already stupid. That should be enough to stop them from voting.

 

Nothing happened for the next night or the next. Are we in luck? Had the man on the motorcycle dueled with a train?

 

Finally, once again; he must have recovered from the train tracks.  He raced by, making angles shout from the heaven. I looked out the window as he blazed by, giving me the middle finger salute. I thought he was on a one shot try, but he came back.

 

He skidded and flew over the handlebar! I ran to the front door. He was still in the street. Not moving.

 

Fred was standing over him with the motorcycle looking a little strange, with a rather large log beside it.

 

Damn! I didn’t know Fred had the guts! 

 

Didn’t know they were home!

 

An ambulance showed up. Don’t know what happed to the bike.

 

Cops came by. Fred blamed it on some tree harvesting yesterday. Good call. Lots of various logs were all over, but only one in the middle of the street. Hooray!

 

I shook hands with Fred twice and invited him and his wife to supper the next day.

 

My wife did the cooking. I didn’t really didn’t want them coming back.