(vindictive dusters: pt1)

All the signs were there. Amazing, he thought, ten years after Passage and they still try to get away.

They never do.

“The real cases, like this one, looked pretty much like, well, this one.”

He was muttering to the to the lonely ficus strangulensis in the foyer again. Note the scuffs and ring of newly-fallen leaves. Recently moved. He made a mental note to check the moisture content after they gave him the packet.

Their first stop, after the Investigator secured the location, would be the bookcase – for the Intellectuals, -cases, you know, plural. Not that he really needed to wait. In ten years, there had never been a Subject present when he arrived.

“All clear,” Inspector T. declared.

(Something like that, at least. He wasn’t listening.)

“Witness? Witness A., come on. We have four more after this and they have the pair waiting for Judgment.”

(Cut through the haze of a six hour drive and half as much sleep.)

“Witness!”

“Oh, what? Right. On to the bookcases?” (He knew the answer.)

The shelves looked like a trucker’s mouth, with gaps where books should still be. God only knows what cavity-ridden volumes were taken (Austin? Self-help? Or, gasp, Left Behind?). The slender canines of censored Nabokov and slicing incisors of black market Hemon were, of course, ignored. He removed the Witness Form and took note.

Walking through the living room towards the kitchen, he saw another mottled plant – bromeliad? – filled with hastily-scooped dirt. The vase sat on a hillock of what was missed. Another sign.

Next, always next, was the kitchen. How to describe the scent? Hints of scummed porcelain, with a top-note of overripe banana. Why, the enticing aromas of Hungry Man and day-old Nescafe practically clung to his coat!

He decided to take the inventory quickly. Cookbooks? No. Cooking utensils? Partial (ex. chef’s knife present, but no spatulas). Plates? Yes (paper).

Then he stopped. There it stood – the Most Important Appliance, Oracle and All-Around Pretty Good Indicator. Ah, the refrigerator: former home of very important personal items. That’s where the fights usually began – who gets the picture of XX at the fountain or the popsicle-stick-framed whateveritwasXXscribbled?

This particular model was a low-cost, almond-shade fridge without, he noted, automatic ice dispenser or in-door filtered water spigot. Speaks volumes, really.

The side of the fridge was splattered misted with the remains of breakfasts, brunches, lunches, suppers, dinners, and any number of other to-be-named meals. He could make out the shapes and sizes of missing pictures, notes and magnetic souvenirs, all of which he dutifully noted in the margins of his Witness Form.

(An aside – he knew this would get him Reported, the taking of notes outside the perimeters of the assigned Witness Form. For example, he added the following beside the Bookcase(s), Living Room section:

Dustless trails lead to
bookless slots. A vindictive
duster never leaves.

But, honestly, we all have our little rebellions, don’t we? For another example, he lost himself in work the previous Saturday, the clock’s midnight warning startling him midsentence. And you know what? He finished that sentence. In fact, he finished the entire paragraph. On the Holy Day.)

(a fragment)

“We need no introduction,” he says, yawning. (It’s the moonless, starless, blackless nights. Duct-tape and a team of Chinese seamstress’ couldn’t keep the curtains closed. Of course, this is a common plot point for business travelers – he’s neither.)

The geography of the place made him want to conquer something, anything really.

-

(these things)

these things,
the ones ive found lurking
on the sides of
a black-top surface lot.
these things are never real.

-

(haiku: again)

(confession)

i always seem to have
a crush. usually one-way.
and never admitted.

(unite)

something happened when
they cured the industrial disease.
workers of the world.

(soil haiku)

twin mountains, grazed,
in a flash, by joyous cloud spray.
metaphoric haiku day.

-

(haiku: chicken)

(rollin)

you were gray, subtly
flecked with silver and white.
glinting girls make me cry.

(on language)

our metaphors are angry
despite the sliding intentions.
no object. just whats real.

(a house)

never enough subjects or
objects or bright, airy words.
tangled, but not full.

(on the paperbag writers)

the angst-ridden poet
you dated in college? just a
paperbag writer now.

(hmmm. chicken.)

why are the herbivores
always the plumpest? is it
the waiting or wanting?

-

(haiku: no mas!)

(mylady)

tunnels are the loose
ladies of infrastructure. in
and out all day long.

(humidity)

sopping wet is my
favorite phrase. dont get me
started on obviously.

(me)

yes, i once liked me,
then realized no one else did.
peer pressure wins again.

(lock-step)

dont assume yesterdays
struggle will free us tomorrow.
workers of the world.

(promo)

so, in essence, your
body is the market's temple.
overthrown tables galore.

-

(haiku: leather-bound edition)

(what)

a sense of hesitant
expectation, before the
downpour comes. once again.

(powered)

in the catalogue
of different devices, are you
wind-up or battery?

(bears)

there should be more
famous bears. nothing against
yogi or smokey.

(recognition)

dont deserve this place:
gorgeous and safe and full.
might throw it all away.

(wood)

am i oak or balsum?
one will float, the other stand.
neither seems quite real.

(wool)

smokey clouds, hanging like
sopping woolen sweaters over
otherwise pleasant skies.

-

(haiku: sexual devolution)

(hmmm)

to requite: pay back,
or so some say. lusts merchant
is busy today.

(hawt)

woman in a suit.
lips gently parted. the smell
of rain reminds me.

(rock)

if i recreated
rock/paper/scissors, the laser
would win every time.

(loss)

imagine dandelion
seeds. pushed, shoved along.
never recognized again.

(what color?)

if her eyes are seas,
i can live there (despite gnashing
sharks and crushing waves).