I know I haven’t posted a spoken word piece in forever, but it looks like I have some new motivation. First off, I set up a monthly gig with a local coffeehouse to perform a combination of Jazz (with some friends of mine) and spoken word. The first event was packed, so I’m hopeful we’ll start a new cultural trand here in little old Pueblo.
Second, I’ve hooked up with a literary agent who is helping me shop some of my projects to publishers. So far, the spoken word book is getting the most attention, with two or three publishers showing at least cursory interest. So all of htis is to say I have the necessary impetus to get on the spoken word horse again, and to kick it off, here’s one of two pieces I’ve written recently.
And yes, before your write and ask, I talked to Amy baout htis one before performing it live. she understands both the humos and the core of truth in it!
Marriage and children have taught me
Two truths, brought me from youth
To man, shown where I stand
In the master plan, which is
At the back of the bus.
Truth number one:
Let’s face it son, the relativity of time
Is not some just sublime paradigm,
Snatched from the mind of Albert Einstein.
Time’s relativity hinders my proclivity
You have relatives or you have time,
But never both.
Truth number two:
I will be late to everything,
Every day of my life,
From now on until I die.
It’s not that we don’t try,
And there’s always a good reason why,
But traveling in a pack of three or more
Opens a door to a kind of late
You’ve never seen before.
No longer controlling time’s unfolding,
The clock’s constant clip is molding me,
Holding me hostage, in the form of –
In no particular order –
Time for the naked dance,
Fingers in the makeup,
Thirty minutes to wake up from naps,
A kid who craps himself,
Then yanks books off the shelf,
Goldfish crackers up the nose,
Fingerprints on windows,
And a body that grows
So pants that fit yesterday
Now look like leggings
And no begging is stronger
Than a wife’s will to take longer
Getting ready than God took
To create the friggin’ universe.
The inside of her purse is worse
Than a hazmat site.
If you need a light to find crap
Shoved to the bottom of that
Black hole you carry on your shoulder,
While I’m getting older by the minute
As you dig around in it,
Searching for the midnight blue eye shadow,
Just like the kind Cameron Diaz wore
At the Oscars three years before,
Instead of the seventeen other shades of eye shadow,
All of which look exactly the same to me,
Right there on the shelf…
Well, then it must be very important.
I’ll wait downstairs.
Twenty minutes tardy
To a friend’s surprise party
And I finally have one foot out the door.
Then comes the voice: “Honey,”
“Did you remember the sippy cups?”
Back inside, cupboards bare, no clean cups,
I dump out what looks like milk
With green hair on it in a pooh bear cup
Rinse it quick, fill it up again, and back to the door.
“Honey?” Then the dreaded pause.
“Don’t forget the Lovey.”
What the hell is a Lovey?
I’m afraid to ask, so I grab something
That looks Lovey-ish to me,
And I’m back to the car when she looks at me
Like I’ve got teeth
Growing out of the back of my neck.
“That, in your hand. What is it?”
“Ummm, a Lovey?”
Bad father trip beginning in three…two…one…
Back to the house for the Lovey,
Why didn’t she call it his blue blanket???
Smells like pee, but far be it from me to
Come back free of said Lovey.
“He just threw up, all over his clothes.
And the back seat.
And most of the front seat.
And little on the dashboard.
And on the map to the party.
Can you grab some wet wipes and a new set of clothes?
Oh, and you’d better print some new directions too,
Unless you want to try to do it from memory like last time.”
Yes dear: The words of a defeated man.
The sound of a masculine plan emasculated by
The machinations of maternal malingering
And child-borne chaos.
I’m not above help.
Step one: admit you are powerless over lateness
And that your life has become unmanageable.
“Hi, my name is Christian, and I’m late again.”