December - Poem 30
James Joyce’s Eyesight Improves Markedly, and He Gets a Job Writing Catalogue Descriptions for a Window Manufacturer in Pennsylvania / Kate Bowers
For Val
“I have met with you, bird, too late, or if not, too worm and early” said Jim Joyce as he entered my office.
“Thanks for coming in mate. Now about this recent set of drafts you turned in for the catalogue:”
If the home improvement store is a nightmare from which you are trying to awake, then look no further than Finnegan’s Windows where the supreme work of the life of a windower is to make the aperture dance like a cork upon a tide. Take for example our latest window—
The Bloom NB-20 Double-Hung:
Constructed from cellular PVC, the Bloom NB series utilizes a block and tackle balance system for ease in opening. AAMA Certified and NFRC rated, the NB series with its super warm edge technology provides outstanding energy efficiency and transsubstantiation of the host when lifted up. Compression balance window units, compression primed wood sash units, and fixed units are available —every one of them inviting you to lean out.
Leave your book.
Leave your room.
Come and see us very soon.
“We’re all good with that. It’s quite striking, actually. It’s this next bit.”
So weenybeenyveenyteeny is our dissatisfaction rate that it is practically nil.
“Jim, lad, some days are Wordle and some days are not. Most days for builders are pretty wordless entirely. So this bit is going to have to go. Also, now that I look at it again, that transsubstantiation bit if you please must go as well. This is an ecumenical workplace. Also, what about these prepositions at the ends of these sentences?”
“Mistakes are the portals of discovery,” said Jim.
“Haha. Very cheeky. Quite good then. Now moving on to this next bit.”
Extrusions forced to meet the die requirements, all the enclosed voids party to same make the Ultra Thermal 4445 series a clear choice for fixed, double-hung, or sliding with optional dual interior/exterior finishes. To wit, unparalleled or grammed is the Ultra Thermal sang Buck Mulligan having commandeered the Fort Pitt stockade for rented rooms free of charge. The Pointe being baptismalb’nthat.
“I know Buck trained you and letting him go was unfortunate. But so is jumping on the company president’s desk while wearing a Statue of Liberty hat and reading our specs for those windows in the observation tower in French at the top of one’s lungs, Christmas Party or no. So there is no saving him. And a catalogue of window specs is not the place for speeches of praise, unless they’re speeches about windows, which this is but kinda sorta more obviously is not. Think of your future, man.”
“Glints in glints out,” said Jim.
“Exactly right. Now get back out there and show us what you’re made of.”
Our administrative assistant saunters in after he leaves. “I think we all know what he’s made of—pure palaver.” She hands me the note he left on her desk.
“I heard you singing
Through the gloom.
Singing and singing
A merry air,
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair.”
Face palm. I sigh and look up. “Ask the H.R. director to call me please.”
Thinking silently as she leaves “He’s such a good writer.”
And also, “Why am I speaking to myself in rhyme of a sudden here?”
Then calling out after her “And what have I told you about singing in the office!”
The Bachelors / Katie Collins
Drown in the waves of uncertainty
Curse fate when it casts you aside
Dig deep in each bout of the unknown
Meet me here
Here we will build our lives
In an ever-changing world
Side by side
Because whatever fears you have
Are mine
3 pm Tickets to the Rockettes / Ellen Ferguson
"Stella for Star," I said to the girl
In the row past the very last one
"Stella for Star," she looked at the wall
"What's your dream? Share your dream, it's your turn!"
She looked round at me
Thick glasses, odd jaw
She looked rabid, I feared she might bite
"To be a Rockette," Stella said with a slur
A small kick to her shin from the right.
It's a dream for a song
Not your dream
Not your song
Blur the edges a little for me.
Think of Stella the Star before you say no
Every kick to the sky should be seen.
Somewhere in the world / Chris Fong Chew
The falling of a ball rings in something new
as the sound of horns and confetti fly
And in a room in a building somewhere
a man is crying tears.
A drop for a loved one
who did not make it to the new year.
In the room next door, a woman
surrounded by raucous noise,
of confetti and champagne
in the company of those held dear.
Up a floor a family sits
together around a table.
In prayer hoping for peace,
And happiness, maybe even some cheer.
Outside someone huddles
wrapped in blankets to keep in heat
some passersby gives coins
hoping they may find something to eat.
Across the way, a couple is arguing
over something trivial in the world
perhaps they will find resolution
as the conversation unfurls.
And across an ocean a child awakens
in a year reset anew
his journey in life is short thus far
with many years to grow.
And on another continent, somewhere in the world
An elderly couple walks slowly
Counting the days they know.
Somewhere, somewhere out in the world,
someone is feeling joy feeling sadness,
feeling cheer, and more.
Someone is feeling all the emotions
bringing in a new year.
What we see in the moss-mirror / Davis Hicks
The thrum of beating wings
thrashes their threshing-floor tempo
lighter than any thought we could find.
The many making themselves known,
each part of the flock-flight
as vital as any other-
only interchangeable to the outsider,
only unnoticed by the blindness of the public.
It does not haunt as the sounds of the Coyotes,
that gaunt-grunt of the adaptable,
the genuine struggle of the least concerned.
Those sounds do not get called song,
though their lyrics are often sharper and more real
to us than the bird-beaked melodies.
There’s an honesty in barking,
a truth in opportunistic scavenge-scrounging
and with it,
perhaps between the mud-scraped clawmarks
and the barred canine teeth
stuck with sinew and marrow,
we can remember how close
they really are
to our best friends
At Last / Victor Barnuevo Velasco
In time, we will meet again. Perhaps on
a wintry night, along the highway cutting
the Badlands, when the ground is a cathedral
of darkness, and distant cities glow fainter
than stars. Your hand will linger on the back
of my hand. Your fingers will trace my knuckles
as if they were spires and ravines. I will make
a fist. You will enclose it in your palm. We
will grasp the speed of tumbleweeds, at last.
Or perhaps you will be fixed on crossing time.
You will read the sharp-knife ridges as exit
signs. I am decoding the layers of silt and clay
and ash, compacted by epochs of silence.
We will meet -- yes, briefly --and miss each other,
again.
The End / Jen Wagner
A third cup of coffee.
And endless longing.
I don’t know who I am right now.
This woman in a swinging chair.
Breathing deep.
The cool, balmy air.
I can hear traffic in the distance and crickets beneath my bare feet.
I smell honeysuckle and rot.
I don’t say what I want because I don’t like this place anymore.
I promised myself to move forward.
Only forward.
I think this time when I head east once again.
I will leave her here.
To sit.
And swing.
And fret.
And long.
And rot.
No more balancing on the knife’s edge.
No more hanging on by a thread.
Swan dives in the hope that I can learn to grow wings.
And begin to live again.
Things I Say to My Daughter That I'm Trying to Hear for Myself / Stacy Walker
I hear you, sweet girl,
This is hard.
You’re allowed to have those feelings,
They are real.
I love you no matter what,
You are safe here.
It’s ok to make mistakes,
I believe in you.
Do you need a big hug?
I’ll hold you.
We can take the day off,
You can always listen to your body.
It doesn’t have to make sense,
You can trust yourself.
You don’t have to have the answers,
Just breathe.
You are not responsible for everyone else,
Care for yourself.
Whatever you have to give is enough,
There is no such thing as perfect.
I love you more than you can imagine,
Just because you’re you.
