The Possibility of Sunlight

Of another relationship I say, maybe, just maybe. But not necessary. It is the page that draws me stronger now. On relationships I stay open, never pull the blinds to the possibility of sunlight. And while there are many whose hearts are steadfast in their desire for intimacy, few can actually live it. And that is the only landscape for my stride.

There are the array of partial intimacies, connections between two people, where, like two not quite fitted puzzle pieces, some of the edges align, and for that, anyone would be wise to be grateful.

In the meantime, I am drawn to the page, to the book, and, again, finally, to the physical. The long walks, the trails, the summiting moments, to climb back on the bike and break the hills that are like weeds in their prevalence here. And again to the gym, solitary in my task, regaining the vessel’s tone.

Then to the page, the garden, the sweet air, and always with the blinds open to the possibility of sunlight.
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The Waiting Room

It’s some sad ass shit sitting here in the General Surgery waiting room waiting for my appointment. There’s some hurtin’ folks here. People walking bent over, crooked, slow, sad stuff. The wounded and all. Staff at the reception desk are nice and fire humor like rays of sunshine. Some of us smile, some laugh, some don’t react, must be the pain.


Another thing I’m figurin’ out about these waiting rooms is there are assholes everywhere. Sitting less than 10 feet from me is a man in his thirties and his mother. He has the face of a wrinkled egg with pale moss on top and a slit for a mouth. If I was God I wouldn’t have given him any lips either.


The dude’s cell phone rings. Immediately his tone is unpleasant, nasty. “I told you I’d call you between three and four,” he snapped into the phone. Pauses. Then, “That’s what I told you. You learn to listen. I’ll call you later, got it?” He snaps closed the phone. Looks at his mother, says, “That child needs a foot up her ass.”


I hope the surgeon’s gut him.

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Calling Saw Palmetto

I have been standing in line in this cavernous shopping center for more than three weeks now and I am sure of two things; management makes all employees take Quaaludes and Saw Palmetto is proof there is God, else I would have been to the bathroom 30 to 40 times by now.

Actually, I think Saw Palmetto would be the perfect name for someone in, say, a movie like the Godfather. Can’t you hear the lines now? Yo, asshole, you ain’t got the money? we call in Saw Palmetto and it’s bye-bye knees. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down here?

Rhode Island could fit in this store with room to spare it’s so big. And there are employees everywhere, or else wearing blue smocks with name tags are in fashion and I’m more confused than I think I am anyway.

Now the couple before me is finally unloading their five carts worth of items for the cashier to ring up. But, there’s a problem with the bread.

The husband is holding up two loaves of bread for the cashier to see, one in each hand. “You got any idea how many slices in these?”

The cashier: “What?”

The wife: “We want to know how many slices.”

The cashier: “Should say on the bag.”

All three scrutinize the loaves of bread.

The husband: “Don’t say shit.”

The wife: “How do we know which loaf has more slices?”

The cashier: “Which one’s heavier?”

Now I want to call Saw Palmetto. Bye-Bye knees.
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