Nick’s Badass Truck

Were Nick a believer he'da said,

out loud,

Thank God for the truck!

He would'a said it were someone in the truck

with him, someone who knew he attended church

religiously.

Alas, germ-panicked social-distancing prohibited

passengers, and, if nothing else, Nick

felt obligated to keep up the appearance

of abidance—even to the extent

of forbidding the wife of his richest client

from nesting her sensational ass

on its obscenely accommodating

Moroccan leather

seat.

And with the panic postponing not only

court sessions

but client visits to his office, as well,

no way would he display himself

prancing on Main Street with some pussy

mask--

at least not until the Darth Vader silk one

he’d ordered from Amazon TWO WEEKS AGO

came.

Meanwhile,

all he had left with which to reassure himself

of his indisputable superiority

over every other living creature on Earth...well,

save of course Judge Cornwallis,

was

the truck.

The truck he took in lieu of his kick-ass fee

for getting Robbie Bob Bidet’s capital

murder charge

reduced to involuntary manslaughter--

yuk yuk--

was a kick-ass toy for this big

boy.

Power stroke ‘06 Diesel Bomber without

a muffler, so dayum loud, Robbie Bob said,

yew kin heah me shift into sixth a couple miles

down the road... n’ when ah pass someone, n’

ahm doin’ 2400 rpms n’ mah tailpipe hits theah

doh’ they gon’ shit theah britches, Mr. Nick!

Inside now, behind the darkened windows,

he changes into his Kerouac lumberjack Carhartt

shirt, with the scarlet MAGA cap concealing his

signature slicked-back thinning

grease-soaked hair, and breathes deeply,

checks his lips in the mirror for signs of blue,

breathes deeply

turns the ignition

pumps the gas…ignition...again...

SHIT!

                                                                                                         m.d. paust

Come Monday

He was in his usual spot, in the shade of the portico, reclining on his cushions. He kept the chest close to discourage thieves seeing him in meditation and thinking him asleep. As it was, only Hiram, his man, dared approach at any time. He watched Hiram now, wending among the tables, collecting the skim, speaking longer with certain vendors, working his way to the chest.

 

“They are eager,” Hiram said, hefting the goatskin purse before emptying it into the chest. The rain of coins gave a comforting sound. “Syrians,” he said.

“They behave well, but they know we are well guarded.” The two shared a grin. “Have the cousins arrived?”

Hiram turned his head, scanned the courtyard, leaned in, whispered, “Simon says they are on the road. A day out.”

“It is good they are not here now. I hate fighting on Sunday. The angry one with them?”

Hiram nodded. “But surely we have nothing to fear. We are well guarded, and no one is quicker with a blade.”

“I fear not violence, Hiram. The angry one has a way.”

“As do you, Master. I know of no man who can withstand the look.”

“Bah.”

“Master, your look melted the giant last year. All still speak of it.”

“Bah, the look does not work on the angry one. His look melted me last time.”

“That was three years ago, Master. No one knew. We were not prepared. Draw your blade. That will tame his look.”

“I tried. My hand would not move. His eyes held no fear. He saw everything. Saw into my heart. Froze my tongue. It will happen again, but this time it shall not pass.”

“We can have him arrested.”

“Let him come. Let him do what he did last time. The guards will see. The priests will see. He will be arrested. Then it will end.”

                                                                                                                                         m.d. paust

Our Skinks During Pandemic

I saw on Facebook this morning

something about every human

domicile

everywhere in the world having

a resident skink.

I Googled skink, just to be sure

I knew what it was,

and sure enuf, Wikipedia confirmed

my suspicion the little alligator

that creeps quietly into view wherever I am

in my apartment

once or, if I'm lucky, twice

a year

is a skink.

Memory then kicked in and reminded me

my skink has appeared only when

I am least expecting him/her to do so,

and I suddenly (a word Jonathan Franzen

forbids me to use, to which I say, Fuck Franzen)

remembered, too, that somewhere in some

hidden crevice of my myriad levels of

understanding, I am virtually always

expecting her/him (I’ve not gotten near enuf

to determine which) to appear, explaining

why he/she has remained concealed in one

of her/his myriad nooks or crannies

thus far this year.

But then (another Franzen nono) THEN a

two-pronged observation surfaced into my

primary level of understanding, to wit:

(1) the strangeness of our current universal

germ-driven residential imprisonment is

spooking our skinks into super-extended

seclusive introspection, or

(2) the little dragons are planning one

helluva collective simultaneous SUDDEN

universal surprise appearance for us when

we all are virtually oblivious to the possibility

so we may all laff or shriek or clap our hands

or stomp our feet at once,

breaking our enforced singularity for one flicker

of a moment uniting us for the very first time in

hominid history, or

(3) there is no 3.

                                                                                                                                       
                                                                                                                                                       m.d. paust

Prine

The only CV death that's hurt me personally...
so far.
CV-19,
I mean.

Never met him, but caught his act
twice
so long ago I couldn't swear
to either venue.
So long ago...

So young we were.
Tom Laughlin with a guitar
was my impression of him then
with a rusty voice, and a heart
big as a Billy Jack kick.

Illegal Smile made us smile
back then
and does right now
but now with tears.

Hello In There
reached into me
got inside of me
young as we were
back
then.

He lit a fire with one
so hot and bright,
yet the title didn't stick
until just the other year,

but the chorus burned onto my hard drive
Godamighty yes!
We can only hope now
it's not too late:

"Blow up your TV, throw away your paper
Go to the country, build you a home
Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches
Try 'n find Jesus on your own."

Yeah. Even now
We can only hope
it's not too late--

Hell, it's never too late!

                                                                                                             m.d. paust

Looking Back

I argued this morning with Moriarty,

my muse,

an argument I started by implying a desire

that she whisk me ahead to a future time

so’s to ponder in retrospect the vicissitudes

of this portentous year, and what comes after.

Her immediate response was Huh? Why

should you give a shit about...what? What’s

with the big words, anyway? Who in hell

are you trying to impress...ohwaaaitaminute!

You’d better not be putting this conversation

into one of your ridiculous poems! You aren’t,

are you??

Twinning the question marks was my clue

that this was about to become one of our more

revealing exchanges of honest questions and

perfunctory insults, in which I ordinarily

come out with more questions than I had

going in. I knew if I was not careful

she would switch into her sweetie-pie mode

making it impossible for me to quote her

without losing face with my legions of

aficionados who imagine a virile

beret-wearing, macho-dude-type-yet-

sublimely-sensitive, scholastic-scoffing

conveyor of deeply mined insightful

rationalizations. I had to proceed with

prudence.

Nah, just taking notes, Dear. I was just hoping

maybe we could, you know, flutter ahead a tad

beyond the present? Couple, three weeks at most?

Just to see if I’m gonna survive these damned

enzymes or invisible paprika bits, you know, so

I’ll know if I should start going through my

boxes and things, you know, get rid of some,

umm, things, you know?

She told me to stop sniveling (not sure she meant

precisely that word), and, in a sneering tone, asked

what had happened to my grand poetic vision

to look back upon the year…bwaaaahahahaha, and I

weighed her implications with serious intent...and finally said

Yeah, to hell with it. Just a silly whim.

                                                                                                                                     m.d. paust

Us Old Farts

We're the ones

all this shit, this misery, this dearth

of paper products, this inconvenience, these masks--

these fucking Star-of-David masks!--

are all about.

Even those of you who feel safe

who wear them anyway, the masks,

you remind all who see you in them

of vulnerability, weakness, ours

and yours someday. Reminders

of the flip side of life’s merry conceits,

when it grinds down to its bitter essence,

when good-time Charlies get the blues,

when one-time divas step one toke over

the line from beauty to one too many

face lifts. When it’s downhill all the way.

Us. We. Boomers, the weak ones,

the demented, drooling, diapered old farts,

old and gray only in the way,

like me and my geriatric cohorts of the moment.

Without us, you youts will have it all,

all any of us old farts might have left

that you would want, that is, when all this

now is faded memory

of memes and gripes and jokes with

crazy sounding hahas, masks...regrets?

Unlikely.

Old and gray and only in the way.

Do not go gentle, so the poet raged.

We’re on Death Row, us old farts,

awaiting that last-second reprieve,

when the death house phone rings

and it’s the Gov. saying Wait! Not yet!

I remember one who knew there’d be

no such call. Day before he fried

he snarked in the newspaper

with his answer to The question: did you do it?

No he said, he didn’t bash the women’s head

on the floor until she was dead.

I’m nonviolent, he said, presumably

with a deadpan face. Why, I can’t even

throw old shoes away, he said, because

shoes have feelings, too.

                                                                                                                            m.d. paust

The Suspense Is Chilling Us

They're only 35 miles away and getting closer every minute,

Bogart tells Bergman, gauging the cannonade distance

while they sip champagne on their last day in Paris.

The enemy was German then. Our invaders now are wee--

germs, if irony’s what we want, which we don't, nor the

half-assed rhyme it rode in on. But the comparison is apt,

of that we can't deny, a time of don’t or die.

Our hugs are only air.

And without ever hearing a rumbling boom, we know too well

the enemy is here: shops are closed, jobs lost, paper products--

oh, the horror—and more and more masked faces of those

who dare leave the presumed safety of their homes.

Dying has moved into view from afar, now our local papers

and friends who’ve lost friends, family, and soon…

We don’t smile much anymore. It is to shiver with worry

and doubt. I made a mask from a blue bandanna and

rubber bands, which I will wear outside pretty soon.

When I do, it will muffle my voice should we happen

to meet in, say, the paper products aisle, and I will say

something trite, like,

Here’s looking at you, kid.

                                                                                                                     m.d. paust

My Voice

Social distancing has been a boon to me and my voice,
allowing us to get to know each other better and
to better understand why we haven't always gotten along.

We see it now as having been a lack of mutual respect:
my voice, who told me to call him Valdemort, actually
apologized for embarrassing me in company--

both polite and informal. And I apologized to him
for being controlling and not sufficiently appreciative
when he does his impressions, suddenly realizing

when I'd said they weren't bad, especially his
Jimmy Stewart and his John Wayne, and that I especially
liked his Kennedy, that he had taken this as patronizing.

Nor could I deny his accusation that I always quickly

extricate myself from company—especially the informal--
whenever he does his W.C. Fields and opera soprano

impressions. Stung, I mumbled that I rarely flee from

polite company at these times, and he said this is because
polite company pretends it likes us, and I found myself nodding

like a fool, and staring at my feet when he said that last part about

polite company and I muttered something I can't even remember

very well, like...something like, umm I didn't know that.

                                                                                                                                m.d. paust

Channeling Mom Nature

First of all, Mr. Paust, let us establish

some ground rules--actually only one, unless

you have a suggestion, and are

feeling exceptionally brave…

No? Good. Then here is mine: do NOT call me Mom!

Perhaps in softer times I could let that familiarity

slide by, as I am not always the harridan I realize

I’m sounding like today. It’s just that, as you might

have guessed, I AM PISSSED! (What? Three esses

and an exclamation point? Have I shaken you

that much? Wait! I see your cursor moving up to

the title. Leave it alone! Leave it for wimpy readers

whom Mother intimidates, thinking probably of

The Manchurian Candidate and one of my favorite

actors, Angela, which I—oh, for the love of...never mind.

Close the damned parentheses already!) Thank you. See?

I can be polite. Unlike the bulk of you ungrateful

hominids, WHO ARE DESTROYING THIS BEAUTIFUL

FRAGILE PLANET!! That’s better, but the redundant

emphasis, the two...oh, why did I ever summon you

for this? Man up! Just listen, hear? Listen, and take down

every word without trying to interpret! You don’t want me

to lose my patience! You know what I can do! The dinosaurs?

Got too big for their own good, ravaging Earth with their

monstrous appetites. Always eating eating eating. Everything

that grew. And bullied and ate and scared the bejeebies

out of each other and all my other creatures trying to evolve

into what I’d hoped would become a spiritually oriented

hybrid that would truly appreciate me and all of my babies

and take care of them for me, sort of be my surrogate,

learn to read and write and sing and play the trombone

and memorize poetry and…a-and love (put that in upper

case)...LOVE one another and be good stewards and

not be agents of extinction and—remember squab?--

but NOOOOO, you have to turn into selfish, greedy…

(I almost said animals) cowardly...oh, use your imagination).

and here's a tip for those of you who have read this far,
and who want to survive my latest challenge--you do
don't you?

Then WASH YOUR HANDS!!!

– Mother

                                                                                                                     m.d. paust

[This poem was inspired by a post on my friend Neeru's blog, A Hot Cup of Pleasure.]

Six Feet Either Way

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,

and the part that always made me giggle,

albeit a tad cautiously:

the ants play pinochle on your snout.

I never heard a giggle ring 
untethered at that last line

in its sing-songing children’s voice

after the worms part.

Nary a snicker

that didn’t carry the wee hint of a shiver

(a frisson, were I submitting this poem

to a contest with a $25 entry fee).

The shiver I accepted bravely this morning

while pretend-measuring the distance

between serious Dinky and his veteran-capped friend

outside the laundromat where they said the manager

had scolded them for not standing

at least six feet apart from each other

came with my silent giggle

at the horizontal/vertical implications,

both conceived to cheat death:

one from the living,

one from the dead.

                                                                                                                 m.d. paust

My Bedroom's Still Old Normal

The nighttime routine chest congestion,

I'm presuming from allergies,

is the camel's nose of worry under the tent.

But sleep routinely wins out and

while my dreams have taken on

a tad more drama, the New Normal cast

has yet to confront me in my long gone workplace

wearing PPEs, spraying Clorox on my desk, or

shooing me to stand six feet back.

I still wake up refreshed and annoyed

by the routine cackles of Clarence and Clarke

the crow twins who bicker in the pecan tree

outside my bedroom window.

Everything's normal, old normal,

when I turn on the light and roll out of bed.

It doesn't take much to jolt me awake

to the new, though,

when I leave the room

and see on the bathroom sink

the cheap paper towel roll

where the toilet paper used to sit.

                                                                                                            m.d. paust