by RC Monson
something is about to happen as he’s hooking up the microphone to make a record of her outraged bellowing abuse and torment, the sound of insanity.
But the mic only gets part of the picture.
It doesn’t pick up the mound of dog food on the kitchen floor beside a small empty dish, the sinkful of lumpy laundry with its rancid petroleum smell, the alphabet magnets streaming along backwards, z y x w v… across the face of an empty refrigerator…
e d c b a, only missing the r and with a capital Q.
She shouts: “Don’t talk down to me. I’m not a child,” and flings herself headlong into the wall. Not the wall Quincy’s listening through, a different wall, one bare wall in a nearly empty room except for the chaotic tangle of blankets on the floor, and the fat little dog looking stuffed beside it’s handy carrying case, and a tattered litter of questionably important documents.
Who knows what cracks a child, what damage is done to inflict lifelong wounds of rage and frustration. She weeps. She’s slamming things that Quincy’s mic can hear but can’t see any clear notion of how who what where when why she cries out: “Why do you have to be such a bitch?” with a loud thud that reminds Quincy of a wicked step-mother who once pushed him down the stairway to perpetual back pain and then ran him out of his father’s house.
It makes Quincy angry for a moment, but only until he remembers how lucky he really is. He could throw a stone any direction and probably hit somebody less fortunate than him, an evil step-mom perhaps, in the form of an unneighborly urchin woman, certifiably insane, screaming, banging her head against the wall.
The certain existence of which has been sufficiently documented by Quincy’s tape recorder to suit his purpose.
∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞
Hannah’s Bandana
The breeze is gentle,
only a little bit stressed out,
and Hannah’s bandana
shudders a worrisome German gust
of some scary unknown
something yet to come,
and I’m looking across the table
at this lovely young woman
who’s twice as smart
and diligent as me,
and I assure her,
“You’ll be fine, Hannah.
Don’t you fret.
You’re gonna be just fine,”
and Hannah’s bandana flutters
in Italian anticipation
of romantic encounters
in strange exotic lands
where shifting beaches unfold
adventures on the high seas
with the wind in her face
and some hunky olive-eyed Adonis
right in her face,
all sucky-faced and way
way too cute for his own good,
and of course she can’t,
she won’t resist,
and nobody can blame her
for tossing a forsaken bandana
into the tumbling flotsam backwash
and foaming waves
of a cast-away fling.
∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞
Too Self-Conscious for Popcorn
This is a date! (No it isn’t!) Oh, yes it is. (No, can’t be.)
The film begins and in theater’s velvet darkness
Our elbows vie for the same space on the armrest.
I’m a little confused and having some trouble following
(The plotline seems to be developing a circular structure.)
As our elbows vie for the same space on the armrest.
Suddenly my elbow, my whole arm, in fact both arms
Are imbued with an strange newfound sense of purpose.
Their new mission is to determine the exact circumference
Of her shoulders, waist, and magnificent buttocks,
(To know them as they know the exact angle for tipping a beer,
Holding a pencil, cupping a pair of firm plump breasts.)
My elbow and arms, and now my reawakened fingertips
Are so motivated to learn these things that they distract me,
And I miss opportunities to laugh precisely when she does.
And the film ends, and it’s becoming clear to me
I still have no idea what’s going on here.
I have no clue as to how I’m supposed to act.
I’m so stupid and clumsy and awkward I forget
To turn in my seat, right at the end, and look over at her,
And touch her hair, and wait and see if she turns
Just so, and tilts her head just so,
So as to give me proof that the final credits are rolling
Over the start of something good and true.
∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞
Waiting for the Green Light
Albuquerque traffic still
Not so snarled as LA,
Yet I’m moving so slow
I seem to hit all the red lights.
Feeling anxious, impatient,
I listen to the engine idle
And drift into a fantasy
About the girl next door:
She doesn’t live there anymore,
And I’d like to see her return
With her quick wit and rapid gait,
Keen brown eyes twinkling mirthful
Or brooding sadness
She’s learned to work through.
I sit at the red light
Wondering how I’d keep pace
With this high-stepping dynamo:
The girl next door
Doesn’t live there anymore;
She says she’d like to come back though;
She’s tired of California fast;
She wants to slow down,
Settle into the purpose of family
NOW
The signal finally changes
And I gun the engine, pedal to metal,
Suddenly in some kind of big hurry
To get to the next stop light,
Telling myself, “Maybe, just maybe,
If I speed things up a skosh
And she gears down half a notch,
We might go cruising together
Through mostly green lights.”
∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞
Fanciful Notions
Spread-eagle on the unfirm mattress.
My feet raise vaulted ceilings
in the damp sheets.
Our lovemaking, a primitive dance,
offers praise to high-pressure systems
and mild November mornings.
My knees are divided by long streams
of ash-blonde hair.
Her tongue, a satin serpent, flicks
across merciful teeth.
Stars dissolve in the bright wash
of a varnished dawn,
and I divide her quivering knees
with lavish attentions.
Settling into the too-easy chair
I made of my lap,
she informs me that
I’m such a big softy
I make the pillows seem hard.
My cynical alarm clock shrieks:
“Nothing lasts forever.
Better grab what you can.”
We cuddle like clumsy burglars
trying to implement quick getaways.
Erratic fits of desire separate her
from my longing to tie
our laundry together.
A hot stream of water soothes small pains
and reawakens d
eeper pangs.
Uneasy smiles seem dull
against porcelain tile;
bandages of steam swathe
our shivering bodies.
We unlock lips and my anxious heart
risks untimely exposure:
“I think I’m falling in love with you.”
In the steamy silence that ensues
her eyes avoid my (searching) gaze.
Beads of water on her nipples tremble
as they drop into a rushing swirl
streaming down the drain.
A certain bitterness lingers
after hot coffee and Danish,
and I reconsider the meaninglessness
of a shared toothbrush.
A stray bird chirps and warbles a song
of fanciful notions and angst
then resumes its southbound trek
in search of the flock that left it behind.
At the station she steps back,
saying she doesn’t want me
to wrinkle her clothes.
A peck on the cheek means good-bye
as she steps through steel gates of self-exile,
hurrying off to catch her train.
Steel tracks run side by side
as far as the eye can see.
Matching pairs of wheels divide lonely miles
of never-ending parallel,
creating an illusion
of spinning backwards.
A faint voice in the back of my mind
keeps reminding me
it can’t be so.
∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞
A Letter to Dayton, Ohio
Dear Orville,
Although I realize you and Wilbur are dead
And probably will remain so for quite some time,
I write to you for I have no one else to turn to.
I think you Wrights might be the only two
Ever to inhabit this planet
With the capacity to grasp
how desperately I need
to get this poem off the ground.
I’m down here at Kitty Hawk,
Fighting off the mosquitoes,
Observing how the birds do it,
All these years taking careful notations,
Building specialized wind tunnels to test:
Haiku box kites, sonnet launchers, multi-wing pantoums.
I’ve drafted and redrafted
Plans for my own wind-warping design.
I’ve watched narrative prototypes glide
Above the dunes to Kill Devil Hill.
I’ve calculated wing lift origami
And managed to harness a power source,
But this flimsy contraption keeps spinning out of control.
Can you and your brother help me solve this
