Here and there

by Craig Kirchner

We all know here.

It’s there that is a mystery.

Here is usually about 2 cubic yards,

including aura and twirl,

you occupy now, this instant.

Hello there. There, there,

don’t take this so seriously.

There, I told you it was green,

you see everything as blue.

There will be a consequence.

At, or to that place, at that moment,

destinations, now, past and future.

There becomes the passage,

the next room, the appointment,

that trip to Europe, or the road not taken.

Our journey is about being there

for someone, there for life.

Time is quickening, there

are new limits kicking in,

the leash is shortening.

There’s a drive to Pawleys coming,

we’ll be there days with good friends,

the beach, the sunrise, great conversation,

and then mostly we’ll be here

musing our journey and one another.

Saudade

by Craig Kirchner

Potent layers of shared soul,

a confidence that it is you calling,

and the phone rings.

The dog beckons me to run

with her to the window,

before you turn at the corner.

You pass. We mourn. Bury.

The eulogies are priceless.

The despondence is an abyss.

An aching secret self,

a gnarled root in primal need,

slowly seeks sustenance,

grasps the thickest layer,

emerges as silk cocoon,

begs to be discovered.

Update to my dear friend Pat

who has a signature

at the bottom of her emails

~ Pat

Getting old is a thrill a minute!

by Craig Kirchner

I’m sitting waiting to see my dermatologist.

I’m three weeks removed from Mohs

and nine stitches on my Frankenstein temple,

and now need a small thing looks

like a tiny pinecone zapped.

My forehead hairline is a desert that will

now have a frozen oasis. I’m told everyone

in Florida has skin cancer—get over it.

Rolling my tongue,

like a snake curling through smooth rocks,

over crowns on three molars,

all capped in the last 9 months.

My teeth are crumbling like my joints.

Gel shots in both knees

as soon as this skin thing is over,

should keep me walking until Christmas.

I do Wordle and Soduko every morning,

not to be competitive with Dee,

or for the acceleration of getting, it in two,

but as a gauge, an alarm, I hope will go off,

will register, wake me to coming dementia,

when I can’t properly place vowels,

the numbers, and then the words

like I’m attempting to put together now.

Day after

by Craig Kirchner

When I’m gone,

the Keurig will still pop the pod,

the mirror will still be you,

you will still wash your hair and do Wordle.

The sun will break the horizon

and create a spectacular new day.

The moon will mourn, as will the ferns

but will become full and bud.

The closet is still my stuff,

the shirts are starched, the shoes have trees

but you will find things

you didn’t know about.

The books will have a moment of silence,

but then they will go back to their job

of adding intelligent ambience to

what was supposed to be an office.

We will speak, but there will be no eulogies,

just cremains, and words

in the corners, in the shadows,

whenever you turn around slow.

Plant me with a new tree

as it matures, read to it occasionally,

make sure it understands it will be nourished

with your ashes when the time comes.

Waiting

by Craig Kirchner

I’ve been not so patiently waiting

for about six weeks for a long needle

to shoot goo into my knees

which should allow me to walk

without too much pain until Christmas.

My soul mate has been doing the Seinfeld routine,

It’s almost bedtime, and you’ll sleep

through a 1/3 of it. You watch an old movie

a day, that’s another two hours,

they don’t hurt while you’re writing.

I’m listening and thinking about the big wait,

applying the formula to the big picture,

more importantly how many, how much,

until it doesn’t matter, because you don’t know

and can’t follow the logic.

I’ve been there once, drug induced, not suicide.

It was painless, the light was comforting,

like at the end of the hall inviting,

demanding, mysterious, but not scary,

I wanted to continue, but I woke up.

I’m not going to snort any more unknown shit

but I’m just curious enough about that light,

that the wait doesn’t frighten me anymore.

I want to see where it leads, although it

probably just turns off and you sleep the other 2/3’s.

Perfect egg

by Craig Kirchner

Poetry is nonsense that happens

when I can’t stand it, more to the point,

can’t stand up, can’t stand the nothing going on,

sit down and put words around it.

I used to have a drink, two, with a joint

or a psychedelic, maybe a quaalude

now AFib doesn’t allow for such foolishness

I’ve slowed the journey down with age.

Plump green beans slow cooking in the stock

from a ham bone, getting soft, soaking up

flavor, losing the toughness and stringiness,

developing into edible, to savor on the side.

A line walks in, all belligerent and confident,

never says where he’s from, just that he’s staying,

wants, needs company, is seeking an ending,

thinks I can help, especially with the middle.

We sit and talk, he’s a shitty conversationalist,

keeps repeating the same phrase. I check the beans.

He says he hates beans, fulfillment isn’t slow-cooked

it needs to happen right away, minutes not hours.

He has an appetite, orders a fried egg, yolk for dunking,

edges just curling with a tinge of color,

almost levitating off the pan, perfect sun yellow,

white frame, says he can’t eat it till it’s perfect.

Remodeling

by Craig Kirchner

If I am to write anything, it will have to be about

the past. Yes, I’m going back. I must. The here and now

is crowded with clowns, I’ve always hated and feared

clowns, and they are never held accountable.

I could be speculative, write about the future,

but I’ve done enough dystopia: any not-too-distant

forecasts would be like humans in a zoo or circus,

being cheered on to destruction by every other living thing.

I’m seeing me in the Wayback Machine, recalling

days in the park, teen years, young love, firsts,

seconds, all those things that got me here, including

the traumas, pains and exhilaration of growing into life.

I’m going to lubricate this time travel with strong

vanilla flavored coffee, but start out not going too far:

last night’s dream was fun, remodeling a liquor store,

something I have some experience with.

I’m observing, the store is the size of a football field,

with a dirt floor covered with peanut shells or dried turds.

A skinny guy behind the counter, could be me except

for a ridiculous wig, like he’s holding British court.

The counter is all the way in the back endzone. I tell

the barrister this will never work, this should be a beer box,

you need to move the counter, the well of this court,

up near the door, the witness stand, and you need kids.

Think of me as a judge, you know about my age,

coming in for a case of Pabst, and there is no kid here

to help, am I going to struggle through ninety yards

of bourbon, wine and clown shit to get out of here.