Labor Day evening

Labor Day evening. Half the house asleep. Sitting in the yellow light of the backroom. The cat licking at her water dish under the desk in the kitchen. Stomach still not settled. Throat soar. Words fall. Days uncomfortable. Art impossible. Subjects weaving in and out. Focus lacking. Labor Day evening. Half the house asleep. The yellow light of the backroom, compact fluorescent light taking its color from the wall and the stained-glass fixture hanging from the ceiling. The cat crunching her food under the desk in the kitchen. The window behind me partially blocked by a sheet from Vaughn's art pad painted with bright animal shapes: red bunny, blue pony, red pig, brown horse, brown cow, yellow chickens, black sheep. The refrigerator hums. KC flips the page of her magazine in the living room. The goddamn cars go by outside like muffled screams. Slouching in my chair, leaning backward into fall, into might as well be silent.

Sunday morning

Sunday morning with its slow motions. The porch a frustration with its layers of dirt spit up from the road. The pressboard home going up across the street looks like vomit. Around where the picture window will go, the paper hangs down like a tear drop in a Man Ray photo, way more beautiful than Old Glory drooping over the stoop of the next house over. The 9 a.m. sun shining bright, but not on the new construction. The foundation, deep gray, in shadow. The cars already go by at steady intervals. Living in the valley of the SUVs. Almost wanting to pick up a rock and chuck it at the next one that passes. Like when I was five, and mom and I were living in our first apartment after the divorce, on Watertown Ave not far from the stadium, how I'd chuck rocks from our dirt-and-rock lot separated from the road by a steep slope and a few layers of trees, mostly pines, I think. How I'd thought I'd hit a couple of cars until finally I heard the thunk of hitting one, probably on the roof or trunk, I'd suppose later. How I never felt bad, and kept on throwing rocks, or snowballs, for the rest of the year, or however long it was, that we lived there. But of course now I just grab my empty mug and head back inside, which is good I guess.

bits

Sitting at the dining room table feeding Dash bits of peaches and whole wheat bread. Curtains drawn to shade the room. Vaughn seated at the chair behind me, working on a grilled cheese sandwich. She starts singing, "Higher, higher / the room's on fire." I ask her where she picked up that song. She says "It's from London." "From a movie?" I ask her, thinking Mary Poppins or something. "None movie," she says, "I made it up for you. And Dashiell-do."
      —•—
Took a book from the shelf, last night. Opened it to a little brown bug. Closed it back up and put it back on the shelf. Wonder what he's doing today.
      —•—
Vaughn at her desk in the kitchen, kneading a Play-Doh sky. The whistle of a truck blowing by outside, not quite as loud as summer's seething insects. Grumbling construction across the street. The rumbling stomach won't settle down.
      —•—
Vaughn: "Ow, the chair went on my toe. Ow!"
KC: "I'm sorry you got hurt, honey."
V: "Oh, when will I never get hurt, Mommy?"
K: "Unfortunately that's part of life, honey."
V: "When I die I'll never get hurt."
(Pause)
V: "Ow, I'm so saturated."
K: "Exasperated?"
V: "No, I'm so saturated."
K: "Saturated? You might say that if you were wet."
V: "No, I'm saturated that I'm hurt."

Dash is sleeping

Dash is sleeping. The cat looks like she's thinking: sitting on the hardwood floor, head up, in the sun as it has filtered through into the dining room. I feel like I'm feeling. The washing machine is rinsing. The dish washer's waiting to be run. How do we fill it so quickly? Dash is sleeping. KC and Vaughn are shopping. Sharma has now been eating her dry food and licking at her water dish. My hands are cold and typing. A knock at the door. It was a Jehova's Witness. "What turns you off about organized religion?" his response when I said "I'm not interested." "I'm letting the cold air in," I answered. "Have a good day," as I closed the door. My hands are colder. The cat is curious. Dash is sleeping upstairs thank goodness. The cat might wonder why I refer to her sometimes by name and sometimes as "the cat." "The cat" is a consequence, mostly, of the kids—she was more often "Sharma" before them. My hands are too cold—what am I anemic? Remember the wind blew the hairs on my shins—and my toes? That could be funny if properly plotted. What couldn't be funny if properly plotted? I get annoyed by distinctions between funny and humorous, comedy and tragedy, as if all drama were Flarf. I forgot what that means. I forgot for a second how my hands are so cold. They're very, very cold. And typing, of course. I feel like I'm feeling. The string trimmer next door might as well be a chopper. Motorcycle or helicopter? Either way is enough to make me forget my hands are so cold, and I was typing about something. Oh, flarf I like as a lowercase term for collage poetry based on search results or spam. Why bother with the specifics? Like when the penis winks its eye. Think of the sun outside. The cat has climbed the love seat to stretch into sleep in the passionate sunbeam. Passive I mean. Dash is sleeping. The string trimmer is singing. The song is one of constant praise. A severe praise like taxidermy. Typing has finally warmed my hands. Birdless on Grove Street, I listen for something more than the washing machine now spinning, the cars whooshing by the front of our house, the grinding engine of that damn string trimmer next door. My feet are freezing on the hardwood floor under the computer desk. Dash is sleeping upstairs. I can't see the cat anymore.

Constantly reoccurring

Constantly reoccurring sound of cars surging by outside. Hounding sound of morning breaking sleep, not unlike the cracks of sunlight through the vinyl mini-blinds, sound and light breaking sleep open. Half-reluctantly I kick the sheets off, stand up, and half-stumble to the toilet bowl, lift the seat, aim, and shut eyes for not a long while. Step downstairs, into the morning routine. Heart to Heart and Silk, read the headlines—news helicopters crash while following a car chase in Arizona, a suicide bomber is sought in Pakistan, a dubiously convicted man is executed (twenty-seven years later) in Alabama. KC upstairs getting Dash to sleep, Vaughn insists on playing. I pour hot water for tea, let it steep, sit down with Vaughn to play Candy Land. She asks me, "Which one do you want to be: blue or red?" "I'll be blue," I say. "I go first," she says, which is true, the rules clearly state the youngest player starts. She gets sad when I land on the Rainbow Trail shortcut. "I never get to take the Rainbow Trail," she whimpers. I remind her that she's landed on Gumdrop Pass many times, but she insists she "never gets to land on the shortcuts anymore." "I want to win," she says. And she will, as she always does when we play, except for a couple of times when she was happy not to win, preferring instead to hang out around Peanut Acres or Lollipop Woods. Game over, back sore from sitting on the floor, tell Vaughn I need a break, let me finish my tea. But she wants to play something else. Sitting on the sofa in the living room back to the east-side of the house, I see all the way across our main floor, to the back room, Peterson's Field Guide to Eastern Birds facing out on one of my bookshelves. I point to it and ask Vaughn if she remember the three birds on the front cover. Excited she runs over, grabs the book and brings it over to me. "Read all the names of all the birds," she says. I ask her to first identify the ones on the cover. She knows the Cardinal, that's a given, doesn't remember the ones we learned last time—the Rose-Breasted Grosbeak and the Evening Grosbeak. When we get to the Great Auk she remember this is the one that "has extinct." And when we get to the Carolina Parakeet and the Passenger Pigeon which appear on consecutive spreads (I typed "spears" at first), she asks if they're the only ones that have extinct—for each one she says "has extinct," I tell her "is extinct, is extinct," she says "ok, is extinct," but then goes back to "has extinct" next time she says it—I tell her they're the only ones in this book, but there are other birds that are no more. "Which ones?" she asks, and I pause a moment before at least one comes to my still sleepy mind, "the Dodo bird," I say. KC comes downstairs, dressed for the day, tells Vaughn it's time for her to do the same. They'll be heading downtown for the Village Fair Days. I'll be staying home with Dash who sorely needs his nap. Vaughn rushes around to get ready. I bring my empty mug to the sink.

Hunter green surface

Hunter green surface of the Housatonic River. Sun not so bright on the water for some reason on this clear day. Driving south on Grove Street. Look to the other side of the street, rows of trees, rows of heavy green shade. Some guy wants to build a couple-hundred condo units on the hillside. And a convenience store. And a restaurant on the river. Makes me want to hurl the fried turkey patties, eggs, roasted potatoes and carrots I had for lunch. Not "want to," of course. Is it a privilege to want? I turn left up onto Pumpkin Hill. Good god: when's the Suburban on my Civic ass going to realize I'm not driving through the little Subaru in front me? It makes the ride that it makes the ride that much makes the ride much longer into work. I get a kick when at the stop sign I turn right onto Ironworks and the Suburban speeds straight ahead on Long Meadow, right onto the Subaru's ass as if he really didn't see the Subaru the whole time. What an ass. Driving means a lot of ass. Jesus rode an ass. I remember in third—or was it fourth?—grade when me and my friends discovered the Bible used the word ass. We went around for weeks saying ass this and ass that because "it says ass in the Bible." Proto-South Park we were. Tuning out the priest and into our stupid joys. But there's nothing on the radio for most of the drive. I settle for The Rolling Stones, "Gimme Shelter," for the last minute or so. KC's favorite Stones' song. I can never remember what mine is. It used to be "Paint It Black," but I outgrew that. "Sympathy for the Devil?" Maybe. I liked the Jane's cover a lot. Who knows? The ride started so promisingly with the hunter green surface of the Housatonic River surprisingly not shining. But even after I shook that Suburban from my Civic ass, I noticed nothing. What the heck did I think about? I take off my sunglasses, put on my eyeglasses, grab my supper bag, and head into work. "Hey" and "Hi" and "How's it going?" Computer booting up; I am shutting down.