This day they are
Close enough
X, Y, and Z walk into a bar.
They’re sloppily singing “Now I know my A, B, C’s
Next time won’t you…”, already a little trashed up
on Jell-O shots from an event down the street, when the bartender asks,
“What would you like to drink?”
X responds, “I’ve never been addressed with such a
significant question before. I’m so honored.
That, my good sir, is drink enough.” He bows and steps aside
to reveal Y who is, naturally, a little puzzled because X,
who also spoke in a British accent that wasn’t his,
doesn’t turn down a drink, isn’t polite, has never said sir,
and certainly isn’t British. But he rallies quickly to say,
with the presentationalism of someone who can fix any awkward situation
with quantity, “I want one of everything!”
The bartender hesitates, wondering in what order
he should complete such a request. He’s trained his whole life for this.
For someone to order the menu.
Usually, it doesn’t happen in a bar – that’s more of a
fine dining wet dream – but this guy must be a connoisseur.
His friend’s even British. They clearly have money and know their alcohol.
They reek of it, in a highbrow kind of way.
In the lag of this internal monologue, Z bellows out, “Don’t you dare
cast that bifurcated spear into the belly of this whale!
We’ll all die!” and tears out of the bar, leaving the
louvre-slatted doors swinging violently and rapidly
on their hinges. The remaining cavalry hold their breath
in the dim light. Someone seems to look furtively for the
whale before remembering it would have been obvious.
In the strain for sense that follows, a song begins
on the juke box, in the style of those that seep in at the edges
of tense moments at sundown, when the golden orange
of the light tussles with the worn out dreams of dusty men
who want all their answers to come from the foam
in the bottom of pint glasses. One of the guys at the end of the bar
nods along recognizing it as an old factory song, the kind that
rang out in the warehouses at the end of the work day, warm and
dialed low, vibrating at a frequency of pain that
belts of pride but smacks of anguish. An anthem for continuity,
something to drag this glory out of that dust and rise it.
Something to hold onto on the coattails to freedom.
Something to hang our hearts on.
For as much as we know,
we don’t. & we aren’t yet free.
We aren’t ever certain, prepared, ready for the sharpened ax that falls
blindly. Those variables so wildly – laughably – beyond our control.
The feet –
lowered toward the floor. The gurney –
a trampoline above the empty pool of the past.
The musicians leave
the philharmonic of his breath
one by one – quartet, trio, duet with the wife.
On the way out he is startled to notice
that his emaciated ass has left a crimson stain on the sheets.
He’s not the only one surprised.
The silences compete before the medical exam,
the surgeon finds no hemorrhages.
Years with neither life nor death are at hand.
Then at the museum I see an installation:
Clinic’s hallway. A pale boy with averted face is trailed
by drops of blood. There is no wound.
I see my Dad.
Author: Marin Bodakov
Translator: Katerina Stoykova
(In honor of the Civil Rights movement Sit-Ins of the 1960s)
Danger.
Men and women are sitting.
Ready the hoses.
Rile the dogs.
Release the troops—
because people are sitting.
Beat them senseless with your batons.
Let the water scrub them raw.
Can’t you see?
They are sitting.
Legs crossed.
Staunch in their seat.
They refuse to leave.
They.
Are.
Sitting.
This is an attack on our moral fiber.
What kind of country will this be if we can’t lynch?
What kind of country will this be if our children intermix?
Don’t you see?
The fabric of our country is at stake.
And they—
are still sitting.
They don’t have respect for the hospitality we’ve shown.
No gratitude for the scraps we’ve thrown.
So, give ‘em life for thinking everything isn’t all white—
and sitting.
I can’t believe they’re still sitting.
The sun may be high
while the tide is going out
and you are laying in the sand
perishing in the elements
like a beached starfish
or a three-quarters dead traveler
waiting for a Samaritan
who can make a difference for that one.
But sometimes the Samaritan doesn’t come.
All you get are Priests and Levites,
Thoughts and Prayers.
Do you just lay there and die?
You can never just do something
but you must
quit that job, break that relationship;
make healing an intentional war.
Carry yourself prepared
to give up your life
for a better headspace.
Save yourself.
If it’s wrong to you, then fight it.
If it’s a boundary, then hold it.
People are so much stronger than they think
when they bear down while the sun beats down.
Because you might just deserve to die
if you refuse to live.
I’m writing
because they’ll lock me up
if I only scream
if I only scream and never shut up
because they’ll lock me up
for inarticulate rage
if I only scream and never shut up
there’s a padded dark-cornered cage
for inarticulate rage
there’s no alphabet or transcript
there’s a padded dark-cornered cage
for people the world’s unzipped
there’s no alphabet or transcript
the true story’s curdled and congealed
for people the world’s unzipped
for those whose lips are sealed
the true story’s curdled and congealed
if I only scream
for those whose lips are sealed
I’m writing
I love summer days
with blue skies and fluffy clouds
perfect days for fun
Then there are baked days
days so hot that the earth cracks
people hide inside
We need gentle rain
that will sooth the heated earth
for more summer fun
I remember Grandma Anna short and stout
White curly hair with some faded blonde
Thick glasses and small squinty eyes
Hands red and raw and well used
Faded yellow dress with flowers
A raggy white sweater
Old house shoes
Not really my grandma but
the only one I ever knew.
When I was twelve I had a dream she died
And woke up to learn she had died in her sleep.
Grandpa Izzy was also short
Small narrow rounded shoulders
Bent over with a cane
Always smiling always smiling
His eyes always smiled even when his mouth wasn’t
I adored him as if he were my own grandpa
I’m not sure he even knew my name
And I don’t remember when he died
Tho I’m sure he died before Anna
It’s been at least 50 years since I last saw Anna.
But every now and then, for whatever unknown reason
They float to the front of my memories.
I’ve spent years
using quizzes
in magazines
to diagnose my
personality.
If you were a shade of lipstick which would you be?
Flipping to stories
about pop
psychology.
Articles which claim
to help you
create the life
of your dreams
I turn to the
horoscope section.
“I’m such a Gemini,”
I say with a laugh.
But I hide
behind the headlines
and the star signs
A smoke screen for the real me.
