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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.
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.
Roafie by Craig Kirchner There
I was swaddled, seeking warmth, being scrutinized and adoringly held by my mother. I would become many things, many different things to her, but at this moment I am a new bundle of
life, with
all the anticipated fingers and toes, vulnerable
eyes and a need to sleep. It
was just another day to the attending nurse, the nursery was full, but my mother was holding her miracle, her first, carried
so
carefully for a significant part of her life. I
would have liked to have been there, or be able to remember, to have been able to have shared her awe, her unconditional
love. Now, I write about moments, most remembered,
beautiful
and ugly, but my most important moment, I
don’t know, not at all, never discussed it with Roafie. When
asked, as I was recently—What would you do differently?— I now have an answer. I would have found a moment, the time, to
discuss birth,
my birth, our moment, with my mother.
Side effect by
Craig Kirchner It’s
4 A.M., there won’t be any sleep, out
of Ambien, no deal with the Devil, just the same
game of solitaire, the same run-on
sentence, the same movie starring
me watching reruns of cable news, and
hundreds of different drug commercials. Prevagen
for the brain. Balance of Nature, Rinvoq, Dupixent,
Humira, Xeljanz, and of course,
Cialis and Viagra. My favorite though is Skyrizi,
the way it slides off the tongue, someone
stayed up all night, could have been me, thinking
of these names. I
realize how similar the messages, digesting the
news of the day, the wars, the latest fascist
exploits of masked thugs beating up,
deporting, disappearing some of the best among us, and
the possible side effects of the drugs, whose advertising
keeps the coverage going. Both
can cause nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, dehydration
and heart palpitations, risk of death or
stroke in certain populations. If your hard-on
lasts more than four hours or if you
experience any of these, call your doctor. Do not watch or
take this if you are allergic, best, would be
turn off the tube.
Tides by Craig Kirchner I
just read that every poem is a miracle, I’m
sitting at an intersection in the middle of the
desert, there is a pressure, starts at the
diaphragm, rises through the throat, seeking to get
past the ears, to the top of the head— call it high tide
in a sandstorm. Blood, pressure,
increased brain power, the possibility of
ideas, new, unique, worthy of words, and when
the tide goes out— vertigo, plastic, trash, a tennis shoe,
an old tire, plaque, vague memories of almost-ideas,
redo high school coed, finish college. Twice a day the
moon steps up— and of course, meds, the
news, the environment— to beneficently bring a
low tide, sleep, a dream. The undertow, REM, pulls the trash, the
waste out of the psyche, replaces with id desires,
some normalcy, nastiness, staves off dementia. The
sun rises; you could call it a miracle. The moon
is still in charge, as is coffee, maybe a line
of thought, some caffeine pressure, a clean
sand beach to write on, ego strives to recall the id, a
lot must happen for there to be a poem, and the light
at the intersection needs to turn green. Craig
Kirchner is retired and living in Jacksonville,
FL, because that’s where his granddaughters are. He loves the aesthetics of writing,
has a book of poetry, Roomful
of Navels, and
has been nominated three times for a Pushcart. Craig's
writing has been published in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, The
Wise Owl, Yellow Mama, About Place Journal, and dozens of others. He
houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop; these words help keep him
straight. More about Craig can be found on Bluesky, and there is an interview up at Spillwords.
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