Summer Job

"The trouble with intellectuals," Manny, my boss,
once told me, "is that they don't know nothing
till they can explain it to themselves. A guy like that,"
he said, "he gets to middle age—and by the way,
he gets there late; he's trying to be a boy until
he's forty, forty-five, and then you give him five
more years until that craziness peters out, and now
he's almost fifty—a guy like that at last explains
to himself that life is made of time, that time
is what it's all about. Aha! he says. And then
he either blows his brains out, gets religion,
or settles down to some major-league depression.
Make yourself useful. Hand me that three-eights
torque wrench—no, you moron, the other one."

-- Ted Kooser

(via choriamb)

Pas de Deux

It all began in Take Two, what with us looking at clothes.
You'd brushed against me as I stepped aside from the mirror

to let you size yourself up against a blue pencil skirt,
pinching its waistband to your waist with your arms akimbo.

I caught you taking me in from the corner of your eye
as I fingered the nap on a Donegal tweed jacket.

Nice jacket, you said. Yes? I said. Yes, you said, I love that
Harris tweed, the heathery feel of the handwoven wool.

You're not from around here, I said. No, from elsewhere, you said.
As from another language, I might have said but did not.

Though your English was perfect I couldn't place the accent
and you'd put things in such a way no native would have done.

N'a pas fait qui commence, you came to say later, only
begun is not done. And so it was we got acquainted,

as with the glow of our cigarettes we'd scrawl neon signs
to each other on the dark, the words fading instantly

as written, comprehended by the eye in retrospect
as over us a helicopter drowned conversation.

That was the kind of spin that passed for dialogue back then,
one side revolving the other's words for other meanings,

or sidestepping the issue, demanding actions instead.
It took us some time to establish our identity,

for you'd learned where you came from to choose your words carefully.
And often you'd seal my lips with a kiss as silently

under a blanket we'd struggle into one another
to end up sleeping like two naked spoons or back to back,

the second-hand pencil skirt on your side of the wardrobe,
the second-hand tweed jacket brushing against it on mine.

-- Ciaran Carson

Oh that's why

sez Zorah:

Not a lot of people get to see redemption up close, it's a gift to be allowed to.

Even when the women flail around and struggle and lose their shit, they are fighting. It is so amazing to watch. Even when they leave or fuck up or get high, they are working. Trying to sort through all the big dark bad that hits you once you start going right. It sucks that the worst happens just when people are trying to be good, but it's the leftover carnage that was never really gone, the person just stopped running long enough for it to catch up.

So it's like I get to say, "congratulations, you are doing so well your past has caught up with you and is about to bury you in consequences!"

I love it when they turn around and choose to take on the consequences. Love it.

I have been a jerk to you. I'm sorry.