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Dysfunctional wife, mother, loser of stuff. Making sense out of chaos.

A LOVE STORY

Her ass his chair

Photo by mahdi rezaei on Unsplash

A man sits in a chair by a window in a darkening room. His face brightens when he’s reunited with his wife’s ass bearing down upon his lap.

MAN: Hello, dear. I’ve missed your ass.

WIFE: Ah, the chair speaks.

MAN: How was your day?

WIFE: Just lovely. Packing boxes, breaking nails. And your day?

MAN: Just sitting and thinking. More sitting than thinking.

WIFE: Did you look out the window much?

MAN: Yes, before you got home, I was watching the buds on the trees grow a brighter shade of red.

WIFE: Ah, how lovely. You’re such a talented…


For a dip in the breezy hot blue

Summer clouds floating over a lake.
Summer clouds floating over a lake.
L.Salkin-West Lake Reservoir Dam

Breezy hot sunshine flickers
on the perimeter of an outdoor dining island,
as shadows drift by my socially distanced table,
with neighboring wisps of conversation.

Clouded faces float in another world that circles mine,
strangers sharing stories in the company of others,
shielded by a fortress of chairs
behind a dark wall of indifference.

Though a distance apart,
we’re proximally together, serving life sentences.
All prisoners of time, spending seconds in repentance
while planning our escape.

As I wait in limbo between rides, a downsizing dilemma of a one-car family house, I try to find purpose in the twilight years…


Should I jump in?

Photo by Nicholas Sampson on Unsplash

Shoe tips point to slacken sky,
as passing storm clouds thunder by.
One more step, off the cliff I go.
Should I?

I know the gloom that looms below,
the family gene pool, a place I know.
In stagnant waters,
my mother, father, brothers float.

The pool looks dark from where I stand.
Should I observe it from a distance
or jump in?

One step forward into a rush of air
falling, scraping, scraggy hills downward,
life on a roll tumbling toward darkness below.

At the bottom, dysfunction waits,
in swirling bits of genetic waste,
for another soul to claim.


Amy Coney Barrett’s very bad judgment

AP Photo/Susan Walsh, Pool

It’s as clear as a handmaid’s complexion that Judge Coney Barrett has very bad judgment.

Her decision to accept the nomination before an election in which millions of Americans have already voted belies good judgment and common sense.

Her decision to dismiss Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s dying wish for the next president to appoint her replacement disrespects RBG’s legacy and shows Judge Barrett’s disdain for the democratic process.

During the years RBG served our nation, she never put herself before the country as Judge Coney Barrett does, along with complicit Senate Republicans, as they rush to confirm Barrett’s nomination just days…


Navigating uncharted terrain.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

There’s no doubt we’re living in strange times, confined to our homes away from others. — Not the best time for a change, and yet change is in the forecast for us, as we say goodbye to our house and 19 years of memories.

Between COVID and moving, life has diverged from the normal we knew.

Still, we try to hold onto some semblance of normal in the routines we follow, which deviate from routines of the past: a daily shower now a washcloth soaping and a powder, a daily commute to the office now a walk up the stairs.


Photo by L. Salkin

The green things go
and then come home
on wispy clouds cozy in blue

birds flap and glide on winter’s drift
seeking shelter on sprawling tree limbs
where promises are found

around the garden spring sounds simmer
trilling bird songs
a quiet timbre in my ears

resonates
amid fragrant budding tips of green
butterflies hover to quench a thirst

fluttering in shifting shades of light
from morning till evening
they thrive then perch

as shadows gather at different sides
the day wanes
in a crescendo of afternoon goodbyes

awash in a yellow splash of light life reclaims colors lost before…


Waiting for the hour hand to strike normal.

via Pixabay

We’re all in coronavirus limbo, waiting for time to click by in slothlike increments.

A day feels like a week, a week like a month.

We try to find our footing in a world that looks familiar but is inherently off.

Every day we try to do ”normal” things: get out of bed, get breakfast, get the mail, all in the desire to circumvent the truth: that there’s nothing normal about our day.

We’re living in unusual times. A truth we try to forget in moments of deluded exuberance, a luxury short-lived. It’s hard to avoid the truth for too…


Thoughts of my father.

Photo by Viktor Talashuk on Unsplash

I see my father,
but he isn’t there.

He stares out the window,
slumped in a chair.
His thoughts drift with the clouds
to a forgotten place.

His smile,
a shiny ornament on his face,
deflects the fear his eyes betray.

Burdened by knowing just enough,
he wants to get up
but can’t remember why.

Was it the bathroom?
The kitchen?
Outside in the chill of the garden
where he likes to walk?

For minutes or hours? —

Neither of which matters.
They’re both the same.

He leans forward into sunlight
and hesitates.

“Get up!” Someone nudges him from his…


Or, sit on it for a while?

Photo by Sergio Briones on Unsplash

My toilet and I have always had a working relationship. I do my business and walk away. But recently, I realized that I’ve been taking my toilet for granted. Forgotten how it’s there for me whenever I need it, like a friend or family, and should treat it as a peer.

That’s why I decided to give my toilet a nickname: John (🚽) — Lav (lavatory) — Hedy (head) — or Tyrone (throne).

It’s the least I can do for the most underrated fixture in the bathroom, dwarfed by the allure of the sink and shower.

Toilets are more than…


Birthing a mentally disabled child.

Photo by Kevin Jesus Horacio on Unsplash

My parents are dying. Actually, they’ve been dying for the past 92 and 88 years respectively. My father is 92, my mother 88.

In their waning years, my parents are closer to death, and with it, the unspoken shame they keep close to them, like a secret. My father’s shame: dementia, my mother’s: birthing a mentally disabled son. Now a 64-year-old man child lacking emotional intelligence.

My mother doesn’t listen when I tell her, “His disability isn’t your fault. It wasn’t the plane trip you took in the early months of pregnancy. It wasn’t the medication you took.” …

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