ALIEN HOSPITAL ROOMMATE (Or, THE LIMITS OF TOLERANCE)

(Hey, I had to show you how he ended up in the hospital, didn't I?)


ALIEN HOSPITAL ROOMMATE
(Or, THE LIMITS OF TOLERANCE)



I suppose it’s a good thing that we’re trying to get along with them. It’s certainly not fair to deny them anything just because of where they’re from. They should be able to use the pool at the hotel, of course. If everyone else gets out of the pool when one gets in, that can’t be helped. You can’t control everybody, now can you?

But let’s face it – if given a choice, would you share a hospital room with one?

We have one TV between us. True, we each have a remote. But it doesn’t matter which button I push, when he can just flick out one of those tentacles of his, without getting out of bed, and change the channel back. So he picks all the programs. Ten hours a day of nature shows about squids and octopi gets old fast, let me tell you – and what do I care how homesick he is for a world where everyone has tentacles?

And the first time the doc needed to check his private parts, what does he do -- have the doc just drag the curtain around, like anyone else would? Oh no, he has to eject this cloud of noxious-smelling black fumes for camouflage! The staff were quick to point out that it’s harmless, that it doesn’t pollute the air anymore than an octopus pollutes the water with its ink. But they don’t have to lie here and smell it all afternoon. I don’t care how much Glade the nurses spray in here, I can still smell it. And I don’t care if he just did it by instinct – what it means to me is that in here, it stinks.

Then his squeeze comes to visit him, and they do pull the curtain around. If I wasn’t hooked up to all these tubes, I woulda been outta here. I know they were just kissing hello, but I never heard such a disgusting sound of slurping and gurgling and smacking in all my life. And the flashing red lights! You’d think he just pulled in his own private ambulance over there!

I used to be a lot more liberal, but now that I’ve had to live with this for five days, I think we need to ship them all back to Venus where they came from.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


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CHANCE LINEAGE

(Family tree illsutration by Dimaro, released to Public Domain on Wikipedia)


My Mom and Dad
Both married other people
Briefly. In 1950,
Five years before I was born,
They both got divorced.
Rose had deserted my father;
Walter subjected my mother
To “indignities against her person,”
As Court put it. Walter took exception
To Mom’s claims,
Which didn’t get him anywhere.

Mom and Dad married each other
That same year. I wonder
If their exes have outlived them.

I wish I could talk
To Mom’s first husband.
I suspect she learned
A lot of moves from him
That she would later use on me.
“I don’t blame you,’” I’d say.
“If it had been possible,
I would have divorced her myself.”

But I guess I’m glad
That Walter drove my mom away;
Their breakup spared me
From a guttural last name
It would have choked me to pronounce.
And the personal indignities
That Mom would rain on me
Gave me a lot in common
With my harried father.
As for Rose, I guess she wanted
Someone stronger.

None of us can know
Just what has vanished
In the gap between
The things we want
And what we end up getting.

-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)

LAST GOOD RUN

(photo, Who Needs A Virtual World, by Todd Huffman for Needle Exchange; from Wikimedia Commons)


For some folks, the biggest and best gamble
Is a hot vein full of snow.

Pull the tube tight. Smack the spot.
Ah, there’s that glimpse of red. Then
The blue bubble penetrated by a needle
Pops and lets out
This exhilaration sweeping you
Beyond all inhibition, this last
Reckless test of manhood.
Purple marks maybe remain, but soon
They’ll fade.

The storm
Slams into your brain
And cracks it open like an egg,
Your skin lights up; sparks
Crowd the corners of your eyes.
Impossible fullness overflows
All inner dams. Shafts of piercing cold
Poke up amid the heat blast
Rising through your throat,
Then slice between the thin walls
Of your pulsing skull.
You drop to your knees,
Embrace your optimism -–
Since, if anything goes wrong
While you’re in this state,
It’s too late for playing savior.

Then comes the sudden surreal
S l o w d o w n ; wait,
Where are you rushing off to?
Your heart hits the wall.

I wonder whether I’ve got
One more good run
Left in me, Shawn told his brother.
Those would be the last words
Anyone could quote.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)

PICKUP

(Photo, Redneck Repairs Part 1, by Dave 7, from Wikipedia)

It’d be nice
To meet a nice guy,
She thought, wandering
Down the hill to the dirt road
That passed her parents’ property.
Or just to get stoned,
Added the devil
On her shoulder.
She thought she was smart.
She thought she knew
The way the whole world worked,
Although she hadn’t seen
That much of it.
She thought she was tough --
Defying her father,
Wearing tube tops,
Smoking cigarettes.

The pick-up
Had no license plate,
But she could only see it
From the front.
The driver wore
A baseball cap,
Like everybody else.
His windows were rolled down,
But she could smell
The sweetrot odor
Of the smoke.
He leaned over,
Popped open the door
On the passenger side.
She caught his smirk at her
And glanced uphill
At the old house, feeling
A fleeting spooky twinge,
But never dreamed
That this would be
Her last look at her home.

It would be about a week
Before the local paper noted
That she’d vanished,
And a dozen men
In baseball caps
Would fan out through the woods
In search of her,
Half of whom
Had picked her up
On the same spot,
Though only one
Had done more than just flirt.
All of them knew
The girl was jailbait.


--© 2009 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)

RECITAL

(Illustration from the Dance of Death by Michael Wolgemut (1493)

A dance troupe
Stands in backlit fog;

The fog is fake,
But music
Makes it real.

The dancers move
As if they are
Afraid, scatter
Across the stage
To search
For a way out --
But no matter
Where they go,
We can still see them.

We feel their fear
And want them
To escape
From this great threat
That we can’t see;

The music has described it to us
Vividly enough –
but the fourth wall
still blocks their way.

If not for that,
We feel how far
The drums could
drive them;

Imagination
Takes its shape
From limits.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.)