Subconscious Poetry. And Rescued Chinchillas!

by G.T.

Blame it on the job that yesterday’s post wasn’t posted yesterday. My supervisor had called off and one of the managers had phoned me and asked if I would like to work an earlier shift, since I obviously couldn’t work after store hours. Nobody would be there, and I don’t have a key. Grudgingly, I accepted. An extra time is at least a few pennies earned, even if only for a mere three and one half hours. Now I have the whole damn weekend to write and not have money for wine. I had mentioned this before, but in case you all forgot, I gladly accept donations of wine and expensive cigars. Just to refresh anybody’s memory. Just a thought.

Yesterday happened to be my busiest day yet, achieving 38 views. Pretty high for this baby blog. To what do I owe all these views? I’m thinking it was the title of yesterday’s post: “Puppies! Poetry!” What don’t people love about one, or the other, or both? While toiling away in retail land, I thought of some other catchy titles that would grab the attention of the readership. Tell me what you think of these possible titles:

“Rescued Chinchillas! Poetry!” – Not only do I advertise cute, cuddly baby animals, again, but these are fuzzy little chinchillas that are given a second chance. Who wouldn’t love that?

“Owls in Black Rimmed Glasses Drinking Fair Trade Coffee! Poetry!” – Here, I can nab the hipsters and environmentalists, with the inexplicable hipster adoration for owls, and for the environmentalists: Fair Trade coffee grown and roasted through small business farmers in South America, which are farmers that don’t destroy the rainforest.

Or, I could go the easy route, and attract through the tried and true shock value method:

“Pussy Hot Sex Cock Balls Boobs Tits Ass! Poetry!”

“Car Bomb in the Governor’s Mansion! Poetry!”

“Rescued Chinchillas! Made into Fur Coats! Poetry!”

“I’m Gay! Poetry!”

Actually, that last one may not surprise some people. It’ll just be a ton of comments saying: “Told ya so.”

So here is some text poetry from a guy who isn’t gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Poetry!

Jacob K. (309) – Now Jacob is a close cousin, or was close, since he’s from my mother’s side of my family. My mother’s family was close knit, that is, until my grandparents had died. For a whole number of reasons, we’ve all lost touch in that bitter, intentional sort of way, and keeping in touch is a difficult task, especially with certains members of the family. Jacob happens to be one of them, and I’ve tried getting in touch with him before, but without any luck.
Jacob, like his three brothers, is an athlete through and through. An athletic family that took pride in all those trophies and jersey numbers. Baseball, football, basketball, wrestling, cricket…well not that last sport, but if it was popular in America, they’d have probably made the varsity team. Very much unlike myself, who’s last athletic accomplishment was breaking a high jump pole in three places. In track, the point of the high jump is to clear the pole. I jumped into the pole. It turned out that I excel in stationary activities, like chess and writing in notebooks all day. At 2:40pm.

“Cyclone fences and
hot dog stands under
the white canopies of
July’s Wednesday night
lights. You and him both
sent ’em out of the park.
A heartland dynasty.”

Jacob never responded, and it didn’t surprise me. I’ve tried before, but I just can’t get an answer back from him. One of these days.

Jacques M. (312) – This man is a fraternity alumnus who was often hanging around the Delt house when I was a pledge. He’s a board game fanatic, and always brought some new, obscure game that he and other brothers would spend hours in the library playing. One game in particular had a medieval theme about it, which is another thing he likes, if I can recall. Living on the South side and fancying the feudal days. At 3:56pm.

“The calvary charge
bearing the Cadillac
coat of arms. These
roads lay siege to
semi-automatic
musketmen and
knights without a
liege. Chainmail
and Sox caps.”

As intriguing as I thought this poem was, Jacques must’ve been confused or indifferent, and never responded. I thought of sending a message in hopes of the typical, “Who is this?”, but alas, I did not.

James M. (847) – While living in the fraternity, I had a tendency to play my rap music a bit too loud for the taste of some of other brothers. James, or Jim, had a way of dealing with types like myself. He would sneak up to whichever room the music was blaring from, and wielding a spray bottle filled with water, spray you repeatedly in the face, and run away. It’s funny looking back on it, but the moment itself, was, yes, quite irritating. Jim was an electrical engineering major. I wanted to write a poem that was rooted in electricity, something alive, but finite and liable to lose energy, only to potentially be transformed into something else. Another power of sorts. At 7:03pm.

“Electric heaven and
clouds of neon gas
illuminate the eternal
welcome sign. Always
open for business; the
customers grounded
beneath rusted
metallic coils.”

7:07pm, James: “Cool, who is this?”

7:07pm, Me: “Gamma Beta’s Poet. Death and afterlife experienced through voltage and the flow of capacitor wires. Trippy, no?”

7:08pm, James: “Dmitry of jeff?”

Pssh, they wish.

7:09pm, Me: “George.”

7:10pm, James: “Mormonn?”

Well, it’s ‘mann’, however, he remembered the second ‘n’. Nobody ever remembers the second ‘n’. Props, James. You don’t know how much that means to me.

7:11pm, Me: “That it is.”

7:12pm, James: “Cool dude how have you been? Long time no see!”

7:14pm, Me: “It has been a long time. I’m doing well. How about you?”

7:15pm, James: “Not bad, I’m just a working man now. What are you up to?”

7:19pm, Me: “No shame in that. I too am working. And writing.”

Not only am I actually writing a lot more these days, it works as a good distraction from that work topic.

7:19pm, James: “Nice where are you working?”

Damn! I’ll say this much: nowadays, it feels a helluva lot better to tell people that I no longer work at Wal-Mart. I swear that I everytime I said that I worked at Wal-Mart, a hundred rescued chinchillas were made into a coat that Jay-Z wore and rapped about.

7:23pm, Me: “The paying job is a Home Depot. the not quite money making job is a developing comedy show. Hey, it’s a start. Where are you working now?”

7:26pm, James: “Sweet deal on the hd job and good luck on the comedy show. I’m an engineer for ComEd.”

Double Damn! For the first time in my life, my job was totally superceded by a friend’s. I’m not all that surprised, though. Having the jobs I’ve worked, it’s an expectation. I’m happy for Jim. One of the few I know, and may ever know, who’s actually doing something he wants to do.

7:33pm, Me: “Good deal. I had an uncle who was an engineer for ComEd. I’m not sure what he did. Hey, does this mean I get a discount on my elec rates? Kidding, of course.”

Actually, Jim, what I meant to say was, stop shutting off my electricity. It scares my fish when their light and bubble stone stop working. Doesn’t ComEd have a writers-who-make-no-money-off-their-craft discount rates?

7:34pm, James: “Haha I don’t even get discounts. Does your uncle still work there?”

It occured to me in the last text I had sent him that I had written Jim a poem about death and the afterlife through a lens of electricity. Jim works for ComEd. My Uncle Ray worked for ComEd. However, my Uncle Ray died a few years ago. I never even thought of my Uncle Ray while writing that poem. And here the poem goes to someone who basically does my deceased Uncle’s job, if not, similar duties. Could my subconscience had inspired me involuntarily? That is a weird yet interesting thought. However, I felt really awkward about telling Jim, who just received this slightly morbid poem, that my Uncle, who he is somewhat like, is now dead. Do you see the discomfort in that?

7:39pm, Me: “No, that was years ago. He left in the nineties.”

7:37pm, James: “Cool. That would be cool tho if we were co workers.”

No, no. Not really, Jim. This happens everytime I write darker things. How they resonate with us in so many ways. That is why I cannot write anything but.

7:39pm, Me: “And I could say it was a small world, but it’s bigger than we think.”

7:45pm, James: “True Story. My wallpaper is a picture of the globe and your message showed up on it. Very cool.

Totally meant for that to happen. You know how I do.

7:55pm, Me: “I love when that happens.”

And with that, I clocked in at work a few minutes later. More customers asking me for advice that I don’t have. More cuts in my hand from a chipped, rusted boxcutter. I know I have extra blades somewhere, so why buy more? What a state of mind I find myself in sometimes.