writer

Living a Life of Social Acceptability (#fiction)

R. Horton
woman sitting on ground
Photo by Thaís Silva on Pexels.com

I really don’t think you’re in any position to judge. I mean, she had a hard day and you don’t know what she’d been going through. For that matter, you don’t know a damned thing about what her life was like. What she’d already been through and all that. You have no idea, so what she did with her afternoons might be perfectly understandable, except to a bunch of prudes or something. I don’t know, maybe you’re not a prude, and I’m just being too defensive of her for some reason.

Whatever, she had a hard day, like most of them, and she just wanted to unwind, and unwinding meant she’d go see Jim and get a little weed, because Jim always had a little weed on hand, and a few hits off the bong would just do the trick. Of course, a visit to Jim would take most of the afternoon as he’d want to set the mood with a little Neil Young—it was always Neil Young, even if she’d have preferred Bob Marley or something, but a little Neil Young in the background is really nothing to complain about, especially if you really need a couple of hits off the bong. And let’s face it, that’s what this is all about.

Of course, after some Neil Young in the background, a couple of hits off the bong, and some time to relax, some people get a little horny, and Jim was likely to expect something for getting that cheap but quality grass and being hospitable and everything. And he wasn’t so horrible in bed, even with the bad leg and all. I mean, he wasn’t selfish or mean or anything. He just got to business and took care of himself, which is okay if you can focus, and a little pot does help to focus, so you can sort of do your own thing while Jim takes care of himself. That’s the great thing about marijuana: two people can do their own thing and take care of themselves without really feeling lonely for a while.

It’s like the self-loathing takes a break for a minute, and you can just take it easy. Or, maybe she wouldn’t have thought of it that way, but you know, in hindsight, we see things differently. Anyway, I’m sure she and Jim just did what they needed to do to get by, and it’s none of your business or mine why they lived the way they did. That’s what we’re all doing, really, just trying to get by. And I don’t know why I’m defending them, either, as I had nothing to do with any of it, but that’s how it went down that day.

That’s how it went down at least once or twice a week. Purely business, you see. Business with benefits, or something like that. Outside of these encounters, they didn’t really socialize. I don’t know how many other similar arrangements Jim might have had, but I reckon he was harmless enough, and the cops never seemed to take notice of him on account of how quiet he was, so he really presented a good situation overall. You know, for someone who just needed to take the edge off from time to time.

So she went there and got what she needed, and you can imagine that might take a couple of hours at least, so it was dark when she got home. It would probably be a good time to study, but sex and smokes can make a girl a little hungry, so she’d be starting a pizza for sure. And she would need some ice cream for after, but, wait, no ice cream, unless she could be bothered to make an impromptu visit to the Piggly Wiggly.

So that pretty much explains this particular series of events. That’s why she drove to the grocery store in her bare feet. That’s why she was being quiet but also feeling relaxed and a little friendly, which might explain why she felt confident enough to flirt with the guy trying to get some pecan praline ice cream out of the freezer. At that moment, she just wasn’t in the mood to worry about anything, and he didn’t seem the least bit scary.

The Peace of Stoicism (#poem)

R. Horton
adult alone anxious black and white
Photo by Kat Jayne on Pexels.com

The Stoics all counsel the same.
Contemplate life and accept
Death without too much disruption.

They counsel the same when
You are overwrought, but
Flood you with a tsunami of tears
When their turn comes.

Seneca condemned his own sobs;
Confucius angrily defended his,
And I have forgiven them both.
Their failure is my comfort as my own
Tears pour over your last letter.

A New Riddle of Induction (#poem)

R. Horton

Screenshot 2019-06-02 at 08.26.47We have such unfounded confidence that
The future will be like the past that
We are constantly disappointed in the
Present. The future betrays us daily.

So I can’t be blamed for thinking you’d
Be here still—as you always were.
Thousands of observations told me
You were a survivor and, besides,

You promised you’d never leave.
My imagination has expanded
Regarding the regularity of nature,
But I still look for you in the

Morning Light.

Passive Voice (#poem)

R. Horton
silhouette of person standing near calm sea
Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Feelings were set aside.
Fists were unclenched.
Tears were discreetly brushed away.

Energy was preserved.
Friendships were maintained.
Shadows were kept at bay.

Family were not alarmed.
Nothing was committed.
There wasn’t much to say.

Energy wasn’t depleted.
The fight wasn’t abandoned.
And no one was killed—today.

In Defense of Vile Rottenflush (#poem)

R. Horton

Screenshot 2019-05-24 at 12.51.15The venerable X. J. Kennedy used a poem about “vile rottenflush”
to illustrate bad poetry in his seminal textbook,
Introduction to Poetry.

The poem, he explains, was submitted to the equally venerable
Paris Review, but he does not credit (blame?) the author.
The poem about vile rottenflush, he clarifies, is too personal
and subjective to speak to anyone other than the person who wrote it.
He says, “the author has vented personal frustrations upon words,
instead of kicking stray dogs.”

Who am I to question the wisdom of someone
as accomplished as X. J. Kennedy?
I only know that I remember the phrase “vile rottenflush”
four decades after first hearing it. Also, I think the author of “vile rottenflush”
had witnessed a death of someone much loved, and anyone who has watched
the most cherished people in their lives die might understand the poem, after all.

I think this because the poem also mentions “corpseblood” and “ghastly stench.”
No one forgets the smell of a soul leaving the body.
And no one forgets what they see when life is flushed away.
Perhaps “rottenflush” was a novel way of avoiding the now
clichéd references to “putrefying flesh.”
Perhaps it is a way of reminding the readers
That our blood will cease to flow, pulse, and pump,
Only to be left to pool, drip, and stink.

The author of “vile rottenflush” might be accused of being too direct,
But not too personal. Which of us will not overwhelm
Post mortem viewers and handlers with our own
Ghastly stench, reducing them to cries or horror
As they see their fate clearly in our eyes?

On The Curious Lack of Hyphenation for English Americans (#poem)

R. Horton

IMG_0420America is a land of hyphenated identity—
A melting pot, as it were, of cultural identity.
African-Americans and Asian-Americans, of course,
And gay-, Muslim- and Native-Americans are a force.

But Americans are also Irish, Welsh, and Scottish.
We have Germans and Swedes, but no Americans are English.
Strange, the English travelled to America to set up colonies
Take the land, kill a few million people, and do business in tea.

The English brought the Africans and many other immigrants,
But not one person, it seems, became and English-American.
Today’s Americans think the English lost the Revolutionary War;
The winners were English, too, but no one remembers that far.

So the white Americans who remain are of European descent,
But they are simply called American with no adornment.
Only if they want to declare they come from the original colonists
Will they call themselves Anglo-American with a nod and a sniff.

Frequent Death and Daily Disquiet (#poem)

R. Horton
woman lying down
Photo by Hy Aan on Pexels.com

So many people died that year that I developed
A permanent anxiety about companion mortality.
Guns, cancer, fire, and water all took people from me.

After an absence of a few months, a friend once
Called just to say, “You thought I was dead,
Didn’t you?” My curse amused him immensely.

Once, as my infant son lay resting peacefully, I went
Over to check his breathing. His older brother
Reassured, “It’s okay, Daddy, he’s not dead.”

And you apologise for keeping me awake with
Your fitful sleep, but every cough, sigh, snore, or
Fart only reminds me you are with me awhile longer.

Ever since the change from that time of life,
You have thrown the covers off your body as
If they were on fire, inviting damp coolness

On your skin. As the sweat evaporates and
You slip into a sounder sleep, I touch your
Cool and immobile body with trepidation

Nightly. I don’t want to wake you and disrupt
Your peace, so I lie awake, fretting and alone, to
Ponder this nightly act of solicitous love.

 

Petty Fascism in the Clerical Underclass (#poem)

R. Horton
man desk notebook office
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You sit behind your desk with all the power in the world
That can be contained by these four walls.
You can humanize the experience for whirled
Emotions or you can pretend to be master of laws

You take the latter approach, of course.
Without making me miserable, your life has no meaning
Feeling small, you mount a high horse
And squash any dignity you see gleaming

You’re perfunctory, it goes without saying,
But must you also be so sanctimonious
While you are pedantically conveying
Your need to make this acrimonious?

You have the power over me now, it’s true,
And you know I can’t answer back.
For the time being, I have to eschew
My insults, but I plan a counter attack.

When you get home, you have only the dog to kick,
But you’ve joined me with the anonymous masses
You needled me when I was in a state of near panic,
But we’re now on level ground, paying equally for our trespasses

You’re a one-person version of the Stanford Prison Experiment
And I understand. I’ve also had moments of totalitarian zeal
Our quiet desperation leads us to act to other’s detriment
A momentary, flickering power is all that we wield

When I look at you, I stare into the mirror
We share an existence with no real significance
In this brief power struggle, all becomes clearer
I’m the boulder to your vain Sisyphus

But outside the glare of white walls and white lights
I forget your eyes, your voice, and your power
My planned attack fades like a lost, loveless night
And I sink into the despair of light’s last hour

Someone has found a reason to love you, I imagine
And some fools care about me for one thing or another
This is all we have or will have, my soulless friend,
And that is just enough, or is it?, I wonder.

Podiatry’s Failure to Uplift Soles (#poem)

R. Horton
feet legs animal farm
Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

“Feet don’t fail me now”
Is a mildly amusing witticism
Until your actual feet begin
To fail in the most literal way.

Maybe it’s nerve damage,
An old injury flaring up,
Or the onset of degenerative
Disease. One thing is certain,
Though. You’ll soon join
The ranks of the aged and
Vulnerable. You’ll soon be
Reliant, dependent, despondent.

Your vanishing vitality is fuel
For the fortunate who have
Not realized mortality stalks
Them in the shadows. Their
Optimism will carry you a bit
Further.

Green as the Sun (#poem)

R. Horton
art beautiful bloom blooming
Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

In my first attempt at this poem, I said
His eyes rose like a green sun,
But I don’t know what I was trying to convey.
Of course the sun isn’t green, and can’t be.

I guess I only meant that his eyes,
A lurid colour of green,
Seemed to burn just above the horizon.

I just wanted to indicate that his eyes were glowing,
Or that they appeared to glow.
And they rose to meet mine,
Just as the sun does,
And that I can’t bear to look into them
Any more than I can stand to stare into the sun.

I think that is what I was getting at.
I meant that his eyes made an impression,
And I will never forget them.

Even after they’ve descended in the western mist,
I will still feel a bit overheated and overexposed
From spending too much time in their glare.