20160731 (discards)

You want it? It's on Craigslist or I gave it away---no idiot All Work, No Pay garage sale.

I bristle when people use “tons’

In reference to concepts: she has

Tons of experience—even, it was

Tons of fun. As someone who 

Has moved several times

In recent memory and is 

Preparing to move across

The country, shedding everything

Except my pets, clothes, tools, and

Car, please don’t tell me about

Tons. The attic is clear; the 

Second floor holds only my 

Bed, a night table and lamp.

The basement is getting there 

(Don't ask about the garage).

Between what I’ve donated,

Sold, or discarded there was

At least one ton of stuff. It

Wasn’t that I was an acquirer

Who bought things on impulse,

Although I picked things off 

The street on slightly more 

Than a whim, some of which 

I’ve already sold profitably, but

I fought hard not to waste 

What already exists: if not I,

Someone else could use it.

My plan was to redo the 

House into three suites and

Rent two. Those old boards

Shouldn’t just be pitched—

They’d make great screens 

And storms—which they did.

My efforts produced more 

Than sawdust. Others are now

Using what I made or saved.

I feel quite good about that.

Now that my future lay way west

I have dispensed with careless

Lifting. The aluminum cans I

Recovered from the treelawns,

The park, sometimes other

People’s rubbish remain on 

The ground for the homeless

Gleaners. I hope they appreciate

The recent increase in pickings

Now that I’ve given up. Once the 

Kids were in college I rented

Their rooms to grad students

At Case-Western, almost every

One from China, Korea, or

Turkey. One of the Chinese and

I talked in the kitchen as I 

Prepared supper. He said to me:

“You have an ice-tea maker,

A coffee-maker, a Cuisinart,

A microwave, and a stove; I have

A pot and a knife.” Ever since

Then I’ve thought to thin things

A bit, though I’m still nowhere

As spare as he (see earlier talk 

About “tons”). Lots of things

Must change. Hopefully I’ll

Get rid of my sixty-five pound

“Inner child.” I’d like to go

Vegan in my old age. Now’s 

The time to set about that.

As for other things, that’s at 

An end too. My books will

Come from the library. I’ve 

Enough clothes to last except

For underwear which always 

Seems to come out of the dryer

Threadbare like socks. When 

I finally receive my last kiss 

I don’t want my heirs having 

To ask, “Keep this? Pitch that?”

No, by then I’ll have thinned

It all out. No grand garage sale

Of the old man’s crap. What 

A pain.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016

20160730 (withered)

This is like Marian's scrawl except hers might get larger or go south across the edge or curl backwards. Lined paper I venture would have been a challenge.

Marian has only a few teeth left.

Her skin brown from almost

Constantly walking in the weather,

Her hair gray and frizzy by age

And nature, her gait still as 

Hobbled as ever, perhaps a bad

Hip, she was making her way

From a home for indigent,

Mentally challenged near 65th

To the downtown branch of the

Cleveland Public Library for

A program or lecture, I forget,

Stunned to see her again after 

So many years. As always she

Carried a bag full of who knows

What, maybe clothes, as through 

Her life she has been uncertain

Of home. She said she had been

Homeless for a year and only

Recently found a place. Her 

Plan was to stop on the way at

St. Herman’s and again at St.

Malachi’s to rest, grab a bit

Of breakfast or an apple to

Tide her in her trek across the

Bridge. We met thirty years 

Ago or more at a monthly

Evening gathering of local 

Wannabe poets whose sole

Credentials were notes

Scribbled on paper and

An ability to read them

Musically (?). She wasn’t much

Different then physically

Except for more teeth and a 

Quicker uncertain step. It was

Difficult to tell her age. Her 

Life on the streets, even then,

Had aged her. You couldn’t

Tell whether she had just

Wandered from home or had 

Been abandoned for years.

I asked if she still wrote. “Not

So much these days.” Her style

Was likewise hard to follow,

Words of all different sizes,

Drawn helter skelter across, 

Around the page. Only she 

Knew the order which often 

Involved rotating the page

To catch a word at the bottom

Or to start a line from the side,

All imagistic with a smattering

Of social justice content. What 

Amazed me was that she remembered

Me and named several others,

Who had married, moved away

Not again to be heard from. I 

Should have asked whether they

Still met, whether she attended,

Who was leading them. She asked

After the pets and noted Sophia

Walked bravely along with the 

dog. We parted at the corner, I 

Going south, she continued to

Malachi’s. I could hear her 

Saying something about Loki

And Sophia, not to a Bluetooth

But to herself, that marvelous

Intelligence, that read and spoke

Of Dickens's acquaintances, or

Of whatever she'd been reading

That week, and that recorded

Her patchwork mindstream, but

Who couldn’t or wouldn’t

Bow to the inconsequential

Daily necessities like working

To pay her way.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016  

20160726 (sparkle)

A face only a pincushion could love . . . am I too harsh? This is a child of God like me.

Anyone who really knows me

Knows I am not a paragon of 

Tolerance. For all the far-out

Concepts in which I dabble

From politics to religion (the

Verboten topics) to weird 

Science and basic math (which

I have yet fully to grasp) when

It comes to personal decor

I’m right in there with the 

Snobbiest of Republicans

Insisting on khaki Dockers,

Pinstripe shirts with old 

School ties, and navy blue

Blazers for men, and thin

Wisps of nothing much for 

Women (actually creamy

Linen summer dresses cut 

Above the knee and a colorful

Silk scarf pulled through

Epaulets (?), blond tresses

And blue eyes). On an 

Adventurous day, green eyes,

Red hair, with a bit of a

Brogue brings out the lap 

Dog in me. But regrettably

There are new fashions about

Putting a heinous dent in 

What passes for beauty

Nowadays. I have already

Addressed one issue: any,

Positively any, tattooing,

For either women or men

Though I must confess,

Since I spend the far greater

Part of my visual life scanning

Women’s flesh (I can’t help it

I was born that way), I once 

Wrote, “Ladies, please don’t

Get tattooses. You know they

Only look like bruises.” In the

Spirit of non-discrimination, 

I’ll let you retell that as, “People,

Please . . . .” The other egregious

Practice is facial jewelry in which

I include scarifications, artificial

Aperture stretchings, and the whole

Vile rest, which I categorize as 

Defacings of the Image of God

Which can only reduce, not enhance,

Human beauty. (See my What a 

Bargain from Bijan's* for an

Extended treatise on the nature of

Human beauty.)  When I see one of

These unfortunates I am moved to

Tell them, “My son is a surgeon.

He could remove those in ten 

Minutes without Novocaine

Or cutting you in any way.” If

I’m feeling a little jocular, I’ll 

Ask, “Are you the one who stood

Too close to the jewelry shop when

It exploded?” The afflicted rarely

See either comment as helpful or

Even positive. Maybe it's because

I was born that way—without a ring,

Or watch, or stud.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016

*http://filosuferz.blogspot.com/2014/04/what-bargain-from-bijans.html