Bad Hair Day, Revised & Expanded Read online

something is about to happen as he’s hooking up the microphone to make a record of her outraged bellowing abuse and torment, the sound of insanity.

  But the mic only gets part of the picture.

  It doesn’t pick up the mound of dog food on the kitchen floor beside a small empty dish, the sinkful of lumpy laundry with its rancid petroleum smell, the alphabet magnets streaming along backwards, z y x w v… across the face of an empty refrigerator…

  e d c b a, only missing the r and with a capital Q.

  She shouts: “Don’t talk down to me. I’m not a child,” and flings herself headlong into the wall. Not the wall Quincy’s listening through, a different wall, one bare wall in a nearly empty room except for the chaotic tangle of blankets on the floor, and the fat little dog looking stuffed beside it’s handy carrying case, and a tattered litter of questionably important documents.

  Who knows what cracks a child, what damage is done to inflict lifelong wounds of rage and frustration. She weeps. She’s slamming things that Quincy’s mic can hear but can’t see any clear notion of how who what where when why she cries out: “Why do you have to be such a bitch?” with a loud thud that reminds Quincy of a wicked step-mother who once pushed him down the stairway to perpetual back pain and then ran him out of his father’s house.

  It makes Quincy angry for a moment, but only until he remembers how lucky he really is. He could throw a stone any direction and probably hit somebody less fortunate than him, an evil step-mom perhaps, in the form of an unneighborly urchin woman, certifiably insane, screaming, banging her head against the wall.

  The certain existence of which has been sufficiently documented by Quincy’s tape recorder to suit his purpose.

  ∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞

  Hannah’s Bandana

  The breeze is gentle,

  only a little bit stressed out,

  and Hannah’s bandana

  shudders a worrisome German gust

  of some scary unknown

  something yet to come,

  and I’m looking across the table

  at this lovely young woman

  who’s twice as smart

  and diligent as me,

  and I assure her,

  “You’ll be fine, Hannah.

  Don’t you fret.

  You’re gonna be just fine,”

  and Hannah’s bandana flutters

  in Italian anticipation

  of romantic encounters

  in strange exotic lands

  where shifting beaches unfold

  adventures on the high seas

  with the wind in her face

  and some hunky olive-eyed Adonis

  right in her face,

  all sucky-faced and way

  way too cute for his own good,

  and of course she can’t,

  she won’t resist,

  and nobody can blame her

  for tossing a forsaken bandana

  into the tumbling flotsam backwash

  and foaming waves

  of a cast-away fling.

  ∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞

  Too Self-Conscious for Popcorn

  This is a date! (No it isn’t!) Oh, yes it is. (No, can’t be.)

  The film begins and in theater’s velvet darkness

  Our elbows vie for the same space on the armrest.

  I’m a little confused and having some trouble following

  (The plotline seems to be developing a circular structure.)

  As our elbows vie for the same space on the armrest.

  Suddenly my elbow, my whole arm, in fact both arms

  Are imbued with an strange newfound sense of purpose.

  Their new mission is to determine the exact circumference

  Of her shoulders, waist, and magnificent buttocks,

  (To know them as they know the exact angle for tipping a beer,

  Holding a pencil, cupping a pair of firm plump breasts.)

  My elbow and arms, and now my reawakened fingertips

  Are so motivated to learn these things that they distract me,

  And I miss opportunities to laugh precisely when she does.

  And the film ends, and it’s becoming clear to me

  I still have no idea what’s going on here.

  I have no clue as to how I’m supposed to act.

  I’m so stupid and clumsy and awkward I forget

  To turn in my seat, right at the end, and look over at her,

  And touch her hair, and wait and see if she turns

  Just so, and tilts her head just so,

  So as to give me proof that the final credits are rolling

  Over the start of something good and true.

  ∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞

  Waiting for the Green Light

  Albuquerque traffic still

  Not so snarled as LA,

  Yet I’m moving so slow

  I seem to hit all the red lights.

  Feeling anxious, impatient,

  I listen to the engine idle

  And drift into a fantasy

  About the girl next door:

  She doesn’t live there anymore,

  And I’d like to see her return

  With her quick wit and rapid gait,

  Keen brown eyes twinkling mirthful

  Or brooding sadness

  She’s learned to work through.

  I sit at the red light

  Wondering how I’d keep pace

  With this high-stepping dynamo:

  The girl next door

  Doesn’t live there anymore;

  She says she’d like to come back though;

  She’s tired of California fast;

  She wants to slow down,

  Settle into the purpose of family

  NOW

  The signal finally changes

  And I gun the engine, pedal to metal,

  Suddenly in some kind of big hurry

  To get to the next stop light,

  Telling myself, “Maybe, just maybe,

  If I speed things up a skosh

  And she gears down half a notch,

  We might go cruising together

  Through mostly green lights.”

  ∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞

  Fanciful Notions

  Spread-eagle on the unfirm mattress.

  My feet raise vaulted ceilings

  in the damp sheets.

  Our lovemaking, a primitive dance,

  offers praise to high-pressure systems

  and mild November mornings.

  My knees are divided by long streams

  of ash-blonde hair.

  Her tongue, a satin serpent, flicks

  across merciful teeth.

  Stars dissolve in the bright wash

  of a varnished dawn,

  and I divide her quivering knees

  with lavish attentions.

  Settling into the too-easy chair

  I made of my lap,

  she informs me that

  I’m such a big softy

  I make the pillows seem hard.

  My cynical alarm clock shrieks:

  “Nothing lasts forever.

  Better grab what you can.”

  We cuddle like clumsy burglars

  trying to implement quick getaways.

  Erratic fits of desire separate her

  from my longing to tie

  our laundry together.

  A hot stream of water soothes small pains

  and reawakens d
eeper pangs.

  Uneasy smiles seem dull

  against porcelain tile;

  bandages of steam swathe

  our shivering bodies.

  We unlock lips and my anxious heart

  risks untimely exposure:

  “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  In the steamy silence that ensues

  her eyes avoid my (searching) gaze.

  Beads of water on her nipples tremble

  as they drop into a rushing swirl

  streaming down the drain.

  A certain bitterness lingers

  after hot coffee and Danish,

  and I reconsider the meaninglessness

  of a shared toothbrush.

  A stray bird chirps and warbles a song

  of fanciful notions and angst

  then resumes its southbound trek

  in search of the flock that left it behind.

  At the station she steps back,

  saying she doesn’t want me

  to wrinkle her clothes.

  A peck on the cheek means good-bye

  as she steps through steel gates of self-exile,

  hurrying off to catch her train.

  Steel tracks run side by side

  as far as the eye can see.

  Matching pairs of wheels divide lonely miles

  of never-ending parallel,

  creating an illusion

  of spinning backwards.

  A faint voice in the back of my mind

  keeps reminding me

  it can’t be so.

  ∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞•∞

  A Letter to Dayton, Ohio

  Dear Orville,

  Although I realize you and Wilbur are dead

  And probably will remain so for quite some time,

  I write to you for I have no one else to turn to.

  I think you Wrights might be the only two

  Ever to inhabit this planet

  With the capacity to grasp

  how desperately I need

  to get this poem off the ground.

  I’m down here at Kitty Hawk,

  Fighting off the mosquitoes,

  Observing how the birds do it,

  All these years taking careful notations,

  Building specialized wind tunnels to test:

  Haiku box kites, sonnet launchers, multi-wing pantoums.

  I’ve drafted and redrafted

  Plans for my own wind-warping design.

  I’ve watched narrative prototypes glide

  Above the dunes to Kill Devil Hill.

  I’ve calculated wing lift origami

  And managed to harness a power source,

  But this flimsy contraption keeps spinning out of control.

  Can you and your brother help me solve this