Doug Van Hooser | Another Tuesday_ Chocolate or perhaps Caramel | Poetry|

 

Another Tuesday

When I left the time grinder workforce, I learned all days are Tuesday, and melancholy is the name of a belled cat. Alone doesn’t mean by yourself, that is just a symptom. I read it’s not necessary to smoke a pack a day to shorten life’s calendar. Apparently, the lifestyle of a hermit is a slow form of suffocation, a way to nail yourself to a cross. I discover silence is a vacuum that grows weeds of imagination. Some flower and go to seed but most I deadhead. I still have one old friend: reading. Yes, he/she says some things that fascinate, some I disagree with, and some that slap the book shut. If and when the phone rings I hesitate to answer. Too many strangers know my number and think

they have my number. My innocence is naïve, assumes goodness is the default. Some days I take my seat on the past’s train and stare out the window. The changing scenery kneads my dough, but without human yeast I am flat. When the cat’s bell rings, I sit on the back porch beach, wait to wash out with the tide inching towards me. Tuesdays crawl now. I wonder when did I sprint? Carry the torch. Kiss the sword’s hilt. Get the girl. I realize I don’t remember my first kiss or whose lips. But I do remember the last.

Chocolate or perhaps Caramel

Today I want to resolve nothing. I am tired of tug of war. The rope slips and burns my hands. I want to watch the birds play in the bare branches, think it is spring. Walk down the sidewalk without the pain of a stone in my shoe. Trip on what I don’t expect, fall, and not bother to get back up. Follow in the footsteps of someone who shifts, shimmies, and obviously does not know where they are going. Or maybe it’s they don’t care. Or maybe they stumble away from what they do know. Be someone who does not expect frosting. That’s the problem. I want a sweet life, not one of meat and potatoes. A daily dirge that winds the clock and sets alarms. Routine’s constant tinnitus. I want to quit tacking and run with the wind. Let the sails billow and pull me through today’s sieve unstrained by do’s and don’ts. Let desire sew a down comforter. Allow me to wallow like a melting pat of butter. Build a smokey, cackling, spark spitting bonfire. The flames’ heat a lullaby. Stress fractures soothed.

Doug Van Hooser splits his time between suburban Chicago where he uses pseudonyms with baristas, and southern Wisconsin where he enjoys sculling and cycling. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Orison Anthology. He has also published short fiction and had readings of his plays in Chicago. Links to his work can be found at dougvanhooser.com