Rabbits, Poets & Puppets

the cabinet the cabinet above my sitting room fireplace is the smallest space in the house yet I check it nearly every day. Sometimes a smell foreign or foul begins in that room and I'll immediately check the cabinet anticipating a mouse, a rat, or maybe a dead bat- something that made its way through the center stack chimney. It could even be a wet spot from rain drops that eventually let gravity lead them to the first floor. Sometimes it's only habit. I'll open it and forget the reason for bothering the antique hinge. But I'm never sorry regardless of the discovery simply because it's the least complicated part of my home. A crooked square full of fascinating detail and more mystery than a book what will you accomplish within one year from this date? "things to do tomorrow," he thought. "things to do tomorrow and the day after that. things to do forever. which is fine," he thought, "so long as I want to do these things as badly as they need to be done." a smile accompanied the thought and eyes lit up. overhead loomed thin crooked branches weighed down by apples. one apple in particular stood out, it was not the worst looking apple nor was it close to perfect but this apple seemed closer or more real next to the other still delicious apples each hanging ecstatically, bouncing as he tugged softly on just one... cotton candy the smell of cotton candy- blue & sticky- sweet like the suckers who will pay a few extra dollars for the ring toss the beyond-oversized turquoise teddy bear that the wrong-for-each-other teenage crushes will win... the trampled green grass and garbage cans overflowing, spilling well over everywhere thousands of sodas sold & pizzas sliced fried dough & a carnival will attract all walks of life- the elderly couple holding hands, a panicking mother momentarily separated from her 6 year old the hobos looming like the Ferris wheel scratching the nite sky, scraping the walls of 10 ten o clock in july If he only knew I googled you, Grandpa and saw the State Street Hardware store from satellite in a blurry blip lust like my memories of our times together in your apartment. The biggest mistake The biggest mistake was leaving my wife in charge of the fire. And now I've got something we like to call character permanently burnt into the hardwood floor. It isn't something I can easily hide or repair or buff out with some wax. Instead it's become our own natural piece of art that takes on a new meaning depending on how much wine I've drunk. Oh, it still gets me every time I open the door like a cow left one of his spots in the open space of my kitchen except it's fucking ugly and dark and depressing when I'm sober. But as the evening progresses and I loosen up I see an elephant trunk or a cornucopia or even the shape of my penis right there in front of the stove in front of the hearth in front of my face each time I reload. Shoes Rumored protection Fashionable cages In which we Unnecessarily Cram our feet As to separate us From the animals The way a classroom Is strapped like a helmet Onto the mind of the child Who would otherwise roam free windows, bridges and doors: not enough bridges being built with stones these days- stones dragged for miles to create a safer passage... stones would certainly make it much harder for the fool to burn bridges... doors are good for secrets and such- keep skeletons inside of their closets, keep locksmiths in business doors certainly provide us with more room to hide ourselves in than the treasure chest ever did windows- so easy to look out and see in to... the eyes of the home the bridge to the outside the door i never with curtains close when it snows lawn chairs in winter Oil prices have gone through the roof and so does the heat with temperatures down and thermostats up. What the fuck? I've had to keep that little round dial set at sixty with a freezing child and a freezing wife a freezing pantry and freezing pipes. I'm feeding my stove log after log, after log, after log and waking at heinous hours in the morning to keep her going because the goddamn kitchen has no reliable source of heat. And to top it all off the shit hit the fan on the eighteenth of January, after a long day of work, I can home to find the bottled up dogs had bottled up bladders and all of their shivering must have caused them to explode and the piss traveled with gravity across the crooked floors and found its way underneath chair legs, underneath the base of the cabinets, underneath my daughter's plastic kitchenette. I stepped in it. I swear the terrible mess was on the verge of congealing. I think I saw crystallization. The floor was an ice cube. The fire was out. And the groceries I lugged in were carefully placed on top of it all. I did the next best thing. I threw out the groceries in a heated rage wasted an entire roll of paper towel sprayed a gallon of Windex and ordered a large bacon and olive pie. The familiar beep of the kitchen door alarm went off and so did my wife's mouth and so did my daughter's leg and in a flurry of activity one of them said, "What's wrong, Daddy?" After three fast glasses of red wine, a near record spike in my blood pressure, possible frostbite, and palms covered in dog piss I cordially responded with a believable, "Nothing."