The Switch

Let's do the logical thing. Germany has hundreds of philosophers. We have six, including Gloria Steinem. We have thousands of unemployed haiku writers. Germany has four, tops.
Let's trade.
Frankly, the bottom has dropped out of the US haiku market with no relief in sight. Sonnets are hot now. Germans want more culture? We need deep thinking, complex ideas. Bartering has always been around. Let's go for it.
Follow the market. We'll toss in bamboo furniture. Teach them about open mikes. They can expose us to serious debates on the nature of reality and relative ethics.
Knockwurst is the middle ground here.

Shackled

I can't move an inch. Arms tied behind me, ankles shackled. This gag is so tight I'm choking.
My wife is talking to someone in the kitchen. Now the other woman is speaking. I think I recognize the voice. Our new neighbor, Anastasia. Louise can't stop praising her. She happens to be an interior decorator.
I was supposed to clean out the garage Saturday. I decided to go golfing. Louise had an issue with that. She never raises her voice and that was the case this time. So I never expected to be whacked over the head with a pan this morning.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself in this chair.
I sense they are getting excited in there by the tone of their voices. I can make out one word repeated several times.
Lye.
Now I hear nothing. Except kissing sounds. Soft moaning. Louder moaning.Cries of ecstasy. Furniture is being knocked over. Never trust anyone named Anastasia.
I am beginning to feel superfluous.

Yard Sale

I carefully placed my abstract paintings against the wall at Angie's yard sale. I wanted them out of the sun, which damages oil. I expected lots of traffic on this beautiful Saturday.
My concern was whether conservative, yard sale vets would gasp in shock at the mystery and complexity of my work. What possibilities. Would they hug or strike me?
My art was surrounded by a blasphemy of used clothes, dish sets, cheap jewelry, offensively bland book ends, exercise equipment, country music CDs and an violently unstable ashtray. Please. My paintings were embarrassed. Guilt by association.
Six hours later I hadn't made a single sale. Cowards!
One guy offered to buy one so he could paint over it.
I am not distraught. When I step back and examine my work I see borderline genius. There will be other yard, garage, gate and sidewalk sales, many chances to share my vision. I am patient and can wait for the rest of society to catch up with me.
I bought the damn ashtray.

Lost and Found

I found a credit card yesterday right on the ground outside Pathmark. As I entered the store examining it, deciding what to do, a young man rushed up to me, claiming it was his. I just handed it over on impulse without asking for ID. Could I have been more careful? But he seemed clean cut and anxious. Should I have expected a reward? Of course not. Well, maybe a small one.
I recall finding a $100 bill on the floor next to a bar at a club. What to do? I guess I was feeling benevolent. I left it on the counter for the bartender and walked away. That was years ago and I still feel stupid. But if I had handed the bill to him what would he have thought? If it were a woman, you know what would have entered her mind.
I walk with my head down almost always and have scooped up lots of change and occasional bills. $20 was the highest denomination. But there is something especially thrilling about spotting a shiny quarter no one else has seen, flashing over and swiping it up and sliding it into your pocket in one motion.
I've never found any jewelry. Sometimes people leave tote bags with free samples at festivals and I'll wait for them to return. If no one comes back, I'll sift through the contents, searching for something more valuable than tiny boxes of cereal. Usually there's a pen and notepad and windshield scraper.
I wish I could find a mysterious note leading to an adventure. Or come across a lost woman with no memory and someone chasing her. We'd hide in a laundromat and plan our escape. We'd use that credit card I found if I hadn't been so quick to surrender it.
Funny thing--it wasn't signed.

Head Shot

I'm tired of getting hit in the head. The other day I was at an event outdoors minding my own business when a tent got blown over and smacked me in the noggin. I was momentarily stunned, but stayed on my feet. I got an apology, followed by indifference. They were more concerned with tent damage.
Some years ago a squirrel leaped from a tree and landed on my head. I don't think it was an assassination attempt, but who knows? Are there near sighted animals? Should we be licensing tree jumping creatures?
I have been bopped by all sorts of round objects serving as tools in various sports. People have tossed things at me, which slipped past my hands and hit my face. I've bumped my head on the refrigerator, car, cellar and closet door. My car trunk has almost decapitated me several times.
Holding toddlers resulted in baby smacks to the side, right above my ears. I've been punched in the head only three times my whole life. Each one hurt and caused swelling. I've fallen on my head dozens of times. The older I get, the longer it takes to get up.
Luckily, despite all these unfortunate head injuries I remain a clear thinking, high functioning adult.
Did I take my medication this morning?
How do I shut off this damn computer?
I can't hear you. I've got this ringing in my ears.

Hit Pause

I had a friend who needed a pause button on her forehead. She just would not shut up about her projects. I am convinced pause buttons for all of us are essential. Examples: the Lady GaGa Impersonator who stunk, wearing a white cauliflower wig that kept sliding off. Pause and regroup please. You have to pee on a stalled subway. Pause that urge.Just before you say something stupid. When you're driving past a hot person. Savoring the aroma of something just out of the oven.
Pausing the entire year I turned 25 so I could enjoy everything more would have been healthy. But no Stop button. I have to accept and deal with all the negative stuff. I would never avoid the negative because how would I appreciate the positive? Even all those who've driven me nuts have value. What would I be writing about without them?
When I am among friends or strangers in an enclosed space and feel gassy, yes, I'd beg for a pause button to avoid embarrassment. But I would not hit a Stop button. Once alone, I can't imagine not enjoying the freedom of releasing an atomic fart and all that pent up tension.

Anxiety Cafe

Sometimes I just can't get a seat at Starbucks, so I head to a smaller place a few blocks away, the Anxiety Cafe. It's not ideal for writing because the regulars are so wracked with nerves and depression it becomes contagious. I'll just shut my laptop, sit back and listen. This is what I hear:
I think one of the Barista people spit into the coffee.
We'll never get a seat, we'll have to stand for hours.
That hot woman in the corner is going to reject me.
I'm going to pass out from the excessive deep breathing in here, sucking up my oxygen.
They're purposely putting too much ice in my tea and overcharging me.
Something moved in my brownie.
Loud talkers over there ruining my vibe.
I think this straw was used before me.
The lemon slices leave a lot to be desired.
I can't write here, I simply cannot write anything in this place.
Acoustic folk Wednesday will kill me slowly.
 I only come here twice a week. Don't want them to think I don't have a life.
I am agonizing over how much to tip on decaf.
Those people over there seem more interesting than our group.
I sense that guy is going to remove his shoes.
I think their WiFi is monitored by the government.
Is that a vomit stain?
I hate their loud flushing toilet.
Where did you park? I can never get parking.
I heard a rumor this whole place is being sold and converted into a dialysis center.
My Anxiety Cafe t-shirt shrunk in the wash.