That point just past panic

That point just past panic

(an epic poem of denial)

by Jason Wells

OH DEAR GOD.

OH DEAR GOD.

OH DEAR GOD.

THEY are coming straight towards US

and no one could possibly be elusive enough

to weave like a duck

to dance like a wave

to bend like a match stick

but not strike

or get struck

not even our dear god.

OH DEAR GOD.

Two by two.

Two by two.

Two by two.

But no zebras.

But NO zebras.

I ache for stripes of any color

or even perhaps a plain plaid.

A platypus perhaps?

Or at least a god damned basset hound?

But there are no stripes coming

straight towards us

no zebras

only an army of precious pale pastels

queued up like a marching band

mistakenly conceited

askew but proud

two by two

two by two

two by two

blowing their haughty horns just out of tune

pushing THEIR strollers just out of step.

So grab your shit

scoop it up into your arms or a errant plastic bag.

Grab onto my hand!

Grab onto my hand!

Grab it

and don’t worry I promise

I won’t leave you behind.

And if I do leave you behind

(and I won’t don’t worry I promise)

don’t worry I promise I will to you be

a Daniel Day Lewis-ed Sherlock Holmes.

I. Will. Find. You.

I will find you

even if I need to use a magnifying glass

or a method actor’s obsessive compulsion.

Hold onto me

because we are in this together

side by side

hand in hand

oh dear god

here they come

two by two

and with them comes the flood,

a chatting, beaming flood.

Act like I act

and also follow my every move.

Tense up your lips

so they look relaxed

but not because you are trying

to look relaxed.

Straighten one leg

but leave the other bent ever slightly

so they look ready to spring

into your motionless stance

at any moment.

Square up your hips

and whatever you do KEEP THEM SQUARED

because when this thing hits

it may feel like a tickle,

a wiffle ball beaning,

but it’s the aftershocked undertow

that’ll sit you down,

talk to you in words calm and clear

with non-threatening hand gestures

and sincere glances

all of which will thrill you

off of your feet

to that point just past panic

that just may be joy.

So let us be like the mighty zebra,

the stoic platypus,

or at least the god damned basset hound.

Let us straighten up our hips,

tidy up our stripes,

stand strong

and pretend their happiness

is as mysterious as the ocean’s tides.

I am so tired of cowboys

I am so tired of cowboys
(an epic poem of denial)

By Jason Wells

I am so tired of cowboys
and NOT
the presidential metaphorical variety.

This is no allegorical scarf tale
complete with warmth and loose ends
that I’m knitting.

I don’t need that particular category
of pressure.

How well do you think
Chaucer slept at night?

Also, I’m much too clumsy
for pointed sticks.

I am so tired of cowboys
and the way their cowboy legs
saunter through each door.

I know what they are thinking,
the John Ford movie
that they’ve never rented
flickering
in their cowboy brains.

The very same cowboy brains
balancing below their absurdly oversized
hats.

I am so tired of cowboys
and how they treat every door
their cowboy legs saunter though
identically.

Each room to them is a saloon
a despicable den
dirty and full of “friendly” cowboy faces,
luke warm sarsaparilla
and those miniature swinging doors.

I am so tired of cowboys
and their imaginary swinging doors.

Who drinks sarsaparilla
now-a-days anyways?

I am so tired of cowboys
and their insistence on
ignoring the obvious constraints
of the clock.

Who’s got the time to saunter
now-a-days anyways?

I am so tired of cowboys
and their contradictory facial hair.

Their stubble howls.

Their stubble howls an inconsistent tune
off key,
off putting.

Their stubble howls
like a flock of cowboys
up on their inevitable cowboy haunches
and down in their inevitable cowboy dumps
around their lonely fire
singing their lonely cowboy songs
about the girlie
or the doggie
that got away.

It’s a nasty mess
off key,
off putting
yet they sing out
like a mistaken middle school choir
missing the conductor
who has probably stolen a deserved secret respite
or at least a deserved secret cigarette.

How can you be so lonely
with a flock of stubbled “dudes”
hunkered down beside you?

How can a flock
of absurdly hat-ed men
who saunter so frequently
be busy enough
to lack those few precious moments
to shave their chiseled cowboy faces?

I am so tired of cowboys
and their cowboy attitude.

I am so tired
of that cowboy look
in their chiseled cowboy eyes
that’s supposed to tell a thousand tales
of a thousand fence posts,
of a thousand camps made,
of a thousand thin pieces of grass
placed firmly between
a thousand clenched teeth,
of a thousand rides
in the dirty beds
of a thousand dirty pick ups
or whatever it is
cowboys do
a thousand times over.

I know what those chiseled cowboy eyes
are really revealing,
the chiseled cowboy truth
hiding deep below
each rough and rusty cowboy exterior.

And it has nothing to do
with a sad sensitivity
that is bottled full to the brim
somewhere in their cowboy soul
and slowly seeping out of them
like a bottle
of sad sarsaparilla
that’s been shaken one too many times.

No, those eyes pronounce,
in a voice calibrated
short and stiff
as the cowboy hairs
on their cowboy faces
“I can’t wait for you
to watch me go through
my next miniature saloon door.
Also did you notice the dirt
on my boots?”

You see I defy categorization
on a daily basis
regularly
like my father used to pour sugar
on his Cheerios.

He would do it each day
two spoonfuls
brimming and hefted carefully
from sugar bowl
to cereal bowl.

He could have eaten them ordinary
one day or another
but why encourage that part of you
that might enjoy the cheerios
plain?

I defy categorization
with words so unimposing
they leave everyone feeling at ease
they leave everyone feeling like the canvas
who could have sworn there had been
no brush.

I defy categorization
like the library book who thumbs his pages
at Mr. Dewey
AND his system.

I defy categorization
and THAT’S why
I am so tired of cowboys.

The cowboys long for the tribe
or should I say herd?

They bleed for it,
they search towards it,
they dress towards it.

They walk in its direction.

Or should I say
they . . . saunter . . . towards . . . it . . . ?

I am so tired of cowboys.

I am so tired of cowboys.

And don’t even get me started
on those unnecessarily large
belt buckles.