Noon at the White Castle

by Michael K Gause

I write with a fountain pen, an antique, in fact.
Found it on eBay a while back. I like it, but I feel
like a cliché when people see me screwing
the top off. Who do you think you are?
Oh, you must be a WRITER. Yeah, well try a Bic.

What’s the comeback for not doing the easiest thing?

With that pen I write what I see:
Every tragedy has its half-life.

A fresh kill merits tact, but you can always wait.
In a few weeks things will calm down.
And that’s good, like for the guys down on Central
eating burgers for pennies an ounce.

It won’t be long before they’re laughing
about how the cute young thing
down the street had it coming, what with
that sassy mouth and the way she dressed and all.
They can finish their rings a little more
content with the thought that the universe hasn’t
completely forgotten about the old guard at lunchtime,
and how some people just plain, by God, have it coming.

My pen leaks sometimes. This makes writing with it
even more absurd. Why would you write with a leaky pen?
Bics don’t leak much, and they’re cheap. I know that.

“I’m movin’!”

Jess in the third booth, again.

“Can’t stand that crack dealer in my buildin’ no more.”

Jess has one dress, but she changes her hair every day
thinking it will make it look different.
Jess looks like every angry woman in your neighborhood your mother
tolerated when you were little.

“s’matter, Jess, chargin’ ya too much?”

A cough and a laugh.
Crossfire should be this good.
Suddenly, Tucker Carlson’s in my head with his nose to the glass,
sucking in a long line of white. It’d probably do that
little git a lot of good.

I look down at my paper. Blue smears into some words
looking like a verbal Rorschach. I see a bunny. I
see a scared young man with no idea what to do,
and a bunny. The bunny is getting friendly with
a line break.

What am I doing?

How many people want to read poetry?
There’s another one of those anomalies.
Everyone likes the idea of it being around,
and many even like playing with it,
but how many actually read it.
One one-hundredth of that group would actually
pay for it. Yes, Michael, spend all your free time
on that. Smart move.
Poetry, the harmless pup no one feeds.

Who wouldn’t rather watch someone get paid a couple hundred bucks
to eat a bowl of worms? It’s easier than diving into
a bunch of images held together with spit and romantic philosophy.
I’ve actually seen that on TV, the part about the worms.

The journal, then my eyes, close tight.

“Nice pen.”

Open. A fat man is standing over me with a tray
full of little empty boxes that smell like dead onions.

“My granddad used to write with one just like that.
Heh, his used to leak, too.”

He bobs his head a second agreeing with himself
before limping his stinky load to the trash. Without looking
back he’s on out into the glaring street.

Poetry, life’s leaky fountain pen.

I order some fries and open it up again.
Nothing that can’t be fixed.

Wipe it down. Grab the salt.
Start with a good pair of ears.

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~ This piece was posted on Wednesday, March 7th, 2007 and was filed under Blog, Writing, Poetry, Short Story, Featured. You can make comments on it below. ~