Street Talk

Maybe this is just street talk, but rumor has it the local poetry group is a front for the Mob. They meet in the back room of a cafe. One day I entered, looking to buy a poem. The sign in the window hawked Poems for Sale-Poets Inside. No one was behind the counter, so I hit the buzzer.
A minute later a tough looking, middle aged woman with powerful forearms came from the back room and eyed me up and down.
"What can I do for you, fella?"
"I'd like to buy a poem."
"Whatcha looking to spend?"
"Maybe $30."
"For that you get a haiku."
"That's only three lines."
"Who sent you?"
"I saw the sign in the window."
"Watch your tone, buster."
"What can I get for $40?"
"A kick in the ass. Shut your pie hole or you'll be kissing the sidewalk." This from two gruff voices in the shadows by the back room entrance. I swallowed hard, as the woman bore a hole right through me with her blazing eyes. I quickly handed over two twenties, which she stuffed down her stained blouse. She went behind the counter and I shuddered, envisioning her popping up, expelling hot lead into my gut. Instead, she handed me a crumpled piece of paper. A ten line ode to Hudson County, New Jersey by a local pol currently serving time for embezzlement.
I shot out of there fast as my legs would move and rushed up the block, too scared to look back. I read the poem under a street lamp and knew I'd been taken. It sucked. But the image of that woman's cold glare prevented me from doing anything foolish.

Whenever I Sneeze

Whenever I sneeze a child in a Third World country gets free dental benefits and I get 25 points toward heaven. That's the deal I struck with the kindly woman who appeared at my door one day.
Well I just can't leave well enough alone. I dialed the 1-800 number at the bottom of our contract and asked if there was anything else I could do to ensure my entry into Paradise. She said a rider could be added indicating whenever I burped another indigent child would receive new shoes and I'd get another 25 points. Never has my hiatus hernia been so beneficial, not to mention my allergies.
I mentioned this deal to my friend Carl, who nodded and leaned in to whisper. My deal, he said, is every time I fart a poor kid gets a slice of pizza and I get 50 points toward heaven. Without warning he let loose a gaseous explosion that brought me to my knees. That one had extra cheese, he said. Uh oh, I feel one with pepperoni topping coming on, he gasped. But I sprinted away before that bomb landed.
I have lots of phlegm, but they actually subtract points for spitting. I hear only St. Paul is allowed to chew tobacco up there.

No Smiling

New Jersey has ordered drivers posing for license photos not to smile. Smiling disrupts the digital identification process designed to prevent identity theft. A good idea, no doubt. Who would smile anyway after waiting several hours on line?
Other situations that should require a smile prohibition:
Leonard Cohen concerts
Ingmar Bergman films
Austrian ballet
Rush Limbaugh wisecracks
Nun card games
Trampoline mishaps
Food that squirms on your plate
East Village poetry events
Garbled train announcements
Spreading ashes
Bad puns by talk show hosts
A mouth full of licorice
Groin boils
Foxhole chatter
Stuck ferris wheels
Fish with diarrhea
Starlets crashing cars into street vendors
Opera in a foreign language 

Toolbox

When ever I'm feeling insecure I go into my cabinet and take out my toolbox. I'll open it and stare at the shapes and sizes, not exactly certain what some of them do. But that is irrelevant. It is the fact I have this box and can leave the house anytime I want, carrying it with confidence and aplomb.
People are reassured when confronted by someone baring tools. They automatically assume this is a guy who applies complex solutions to complex problems. This is a man good with his hands, who can choose just the right whatchamacallit. We make eye contact--I sense respect. Sometimes pedestrians will walk right up to me and say things like, "Off to help someone, eh?" Or, "I've been struggling with a leaky faucet for weeks. Can you take a look at it?"
I'll shrug and tell them I'm cutting back, nearing retirement, unable to take on new customers. Then I'll rattle my toolbox and stride off. I don't have to glance behind me to see the expression melding disappointment and awe. I can feel it.
Someday I hope to actually fix something. Boy, then watch my confidence soar.

Spiritual Group

I do not understand how a spiritual group can be so loud. The book discussion group I attended was put in their space and I think they retaliated by speaking loudly in an adjacent space. Two members seemed slightly put off, but polite when I informed them what our group consisted of. We had 16, they only had 8, so we got the bigger space.
But the thought persisted that their discussion went deeper than ours. I thought about sneaking out to use the bathroom and eavesdrop, but our moderator is not crazy about people getting up and leaving during the discussion. We go deep, but don't deal with the whole Supreme Being concept.
If God were watching, would He be annoyed? I mean, it was the B&N employee who put us there. I did notice there were no men in the spiritual group. For that matter, I was the only guy in our group. It was a Monday night and the Packers were playing the Seahawks. You would think not every guy is a football fan. At least some might be seeking intellectual enrichment.
Maybe next month we can incorporate the spiritual group into ours. I will be leading the discussion on my book, Plowed In, and perhaps one of them can come up with a parable based on my title. Or maybe a fight will break out, which could lead to a short story, a win win situation for me.

I Remember When

I could run for a bus without losing my breath.
If someone cursed me behind the wheel I'd curse right back and flash the finger.
I could refold road maps without having a panic attack.
I could pronounce coagulate without hurting my jaw.
I didn't suck in my stomach for speed dating.
I could scratch my back without throwing out my shoulder.
 I'd gracefully exit any vehicle.
I could practice kissing on my arm without drooling.
I could open any jar on the spot.
I never missed the bowl.
Yes, I remember when I'd clear my throat and people would listen up. Now they hand me thick mucus absorbing tissue and move away.

Jesus's Wife Vents

He's out all night with 12 scruffy guys doing God knows what. Shady guys with spittle running down their chins.He won't speak to me until he's had his coffee, but he'll stand out back waving his staff at the sky, arguing with his Father about time management and compartmentalizing.
He's the leader of an entire religion which basically has no written rules which would distinguish it from the family down the block. Speaking of which, I'm getting neighborhood complaints about him not cleaning up after our Great Dane. Plus, early morning when he jogs, his flapping sandals wake up the dead.
When a salesman comes to our door, instead of politely declining whatever product he has, my motormouth savior launches into a twenty minute parable, which usually includes beggars and fruit, about as riveting as watching soap scum accumulate.
I wish someone would invent TV.
We don't communicate anymore. He stares off into space, embraces the goats and sheep, never does the dishes. He licks the plate clean--disgusting. That motley group periodically meet to discuss saving souls, but usually wind up playing cards, drinking wine and peeing on my flowers.
You'd think being the Son of God he'd be able to get the plumber to come.
His hair is attractive. I know he uses conditioner, but that's fine with me. We're still solid in the bedroom, but the sprinkling holy water fetish on me afterwards got old fast.
There's the door. Four hours ago I sent him out for bread and spread. Evidently that whole multiplying loaves and fish event was a one time deal in which he shot his load. We could've saved a bundle on groceries.
Wipe your feet! Did you get the margarine? Don't be waving that staff at me!