“I am getting a half -Van Gogh,” I say over the phone.
“A half -Van Gogh? What is that?”
“You know how Van Gogh lopped off his left ear after a fit of madness, or so it’s claimed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m getting half my left ear, the lobe lopped off.”
Silence.
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“It’s cancerous.”
“Oh dear.”
“You said you would love me even if I had half my face missing.”
“I know but …”
“Hello. Hello…”
Ring tone.
I am outside late at night
Writing poems
About the poems
I have not written
The ones I’ve turned away from
Because of embarrassment
Or timidity
Or fear of shedding my jovial persona
and find somewhat alarmingly
that the poems I have not written
far outnumber the ones I have.
“No rest for the innocent”, she sighs —
As she looks out the back door.
“Looks like he’s raping her again.
He’s as randy as Harvey Weinstein”.
.
“For fuck’s sake, they’re blackbirds,” I say.
.”How anthropomorphic can you get?
And anyway, all things being eventual.
The act might well be consensual.”
I can hear trouble brewing
I can hear it in the leaves
I can hear it in the murmur
Of the apocalyptic bees
I can hear trouble brewing
I can hear it in the traffic
I can hear trouble brewing
I try not to panic
I can hear it in the boondocks
I can hear it in the city
Whatever it is it’s coming
It’s not going to be pretty
Now I hear it knocking
Insistently at the door
I pull down the shades
I’m not home anymore
But the postman’s shrill whistle
Warns me it is done
Whatever it is has found me
In the mailbox under the sun
I am about to read a book called ‘The Ninth Crypt’,
A novel I acquired for twenty dollars at the supermarket
But fear I may have made a grave mistake:
Browsing through the blurb I see mention of only
The ninth crypt, all well and good, but what about
The other eight? Perhaps the author is planning prequels
Based on the success of this volume but seeing he is
Now a septuagenarian who came to writing late,
This is most unlikely; perhaps if I dig zealously
Through the text I shall disinter enough cryptic clues
To keep me happy — but at 400 pages !!! I await
Clarification; in the meantime this tombstone of a novel
Shall stand on my shelf of great unread books.
Is it any good pleading? Thompson says.
For your life? Not really.
But you can’t just toss me aside like a dog carcass, not after all I’ve done for you.
You were more than serviceable, W admits. But you’ve served your purpose. You can’t argue with me.
Will it be painless?
Yes.
Well, get it over with then.
One minute, W says.
He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his laptop.
Finish your drink, W says. Out with the old and in with the new, he smiles, keyboarding fiercely.
And with that, Thompson is gone.
He laughed loudly.
A door closed behind him.
He laughed more loudly still.
Another door closed behind him. Slammed!
He continued. He chortled. He guffawed. He split his sides.
A text message came through.
“Will you STOP laughing, please? You’re annoying me.”
No, he said to himself. No. It’s my house and I’ll laugh if I want to.
And he laughed even more loudly.
The walls laughed with him. They too were beginning to split their sides.
A door opened quietly behind him.
The man was too busy laughing to notice.
He stifled his laughter as the cord tightened around his throat.
This was no laughing matter.
