Monday, November 9, 2015


Teeth can be terrible things; ungrateful, painful things.
We shelter and house them, clean and polish them,
Doctor them through X-rays, poking, and prodding.
We fill and forgive them so often we lose count and
Then we whisper soothing words around them,
Treat them to our best moments, food and drink
Enough to chew and bathe in -- hot, cold, tender to
Tough, we help them along, bite-size, careful sips,
We cut and pour with only them in mind; we click
And chatter them in the cold, grind and growl them
To fit our mood, and so often we bite off more than
They can chew, literally and figuratively, gnaw on that
Why don’t we, why don’t they. It should be so simple,
A lifetime relationship, give and take, a peaceful co-
Existence, but things breakdown, treaties are broken,
And then one day I find myself in a chair, tilted back
Almost relaxing, while that pesky upper molar, left side
Is yanked out, grabbed, pulled on, then there’s a terrible
Cracking noise, it breaks into pieces, can’t get along even
Now in its last moments, refuses my last request of it,
But force, persistence, a couple of stitches, a bit gauze,
A little blood and a few painkillers send it on its way;
Teeth are terrible things, ungrateful, painful things.

How Reality Really Works

We conspire with some,
Placate others,
Pull a few fast ones
To get by.
We browse and select,
Undermine sometimes,
Triumph if we must.
We find out, sort out,
freak out, and finagle.
We shred documents,
Buckle up, batten down,
We keep safely neutral
On most things.
We pace ourselves,
Disgrace ourselves,
Then we distance ourselves
From any results.
We mess around, clown,
Muck up, fuck up,
cheer up, and cry.
We ask too many questions
Then distrust the answers.
We make time and room.
We charm, and we harm.
We know better -- but still,
But still we will without
Shame  act just the same.

 Parking Garage
They stack us now
Row and ramp
Seven levels high
They sort us, draw
Lines, create groups
In our midst
Reserve spaces for
Handicaps and
The employee of
The month gets
One, of course
Then service vehicles,
Vans and bikes
And pickups aplenty
Easy solutions and
Easy access, every-
One in their place
Easy categories for
The passive and
The privileged
They stack us now
Seven levels high
Reaching into the sky
Reaching for heaven
Through clouds of
Concrete we contrive
We battle with the gods
Of energy and efficiency,
Our gods of time and space.
J.K. Durick