Electric

When Matthew changed the bulb that night, he was already charged with the fullness of the hours behind him. The front porch light at the new house had run its course. The last tenant had left bulbs- an unspoken civility among renters- but lord only knows when the bulb was originally installed.

On his way out to meet a contemporary for a nightcap, Matthew stepped back into the house from the darkness of his porch. He'd done most of the packing and so knew where to find a bulb. You wouldn't find it on his resume, but changing lightbulbs was something at which he was quite proficient.

He took the top off the lamp, unscrewed the bad bulb and turned the new one in. On came the light. There, he thought, but when he closed the door, the light went out again. That's odd.

Upon unscrewing the successive bad one, it broke, quite simply, between his thumb and forefinger. It was like a balloon of sorts- just tensile enough to resist but completely absent from touch upon implosion. He wasn't cut. Before he even thought to be thankful for escaping incisions on his most-used fingerpads of the dominant hand, he set to seeing if he could unscrew it.

He pinched a still-connected shard gently and turned in the wrong direction. It didn't budge. Lefty loosey, he reminded himself, and rotated the hull of the bulb the other way. His fingers were actually in between the antennae of the bulb, but it was his opposite hand in which he felt something.

With his left hand, he pressed his thumb against the pointy bottom of the lamp for a counter pressure against which to turn the bulb. When he felt a tingling in his left thumb, he didn't recoil straightaway. Is that the blood draining from my hand, he wondered, in one of those split second thoughts before he realized that, no, it was not. He forgot to flip the switch back down before messing with the broken bulb.

Matthew was no Nikolai Tesla; he didn't know from Shinola when it came to circuitry, but even driving away from the now-lit porch, he could feel a phantom shard in his thumb and tried to wrap his mind around it. What odd chance he had; what curious exception he'd been meted.

Am I really driving away, he wondered, or were the laws of the universe actually in full effect within him? Was he actually lying with hair frazzled as Nikolai's? Were there actually lightning bolts coursing through the blacks of his pupils behind closed eyelids?

Because he could still feel it- through his forearms and when he smiled, he felt it in the corners of his mouth.

--Matthew Mercer

Not Baking

For the first time again in almost a month
I am substituting and teaching at a local High School.
The paycheck will surely be there this Friday next,
and I find myself tempted to substitute
teaching more often for that surety. Neither
my bliss nor my passion are engaged
for the pay I'm afforded as stand-in
for local educators. Neither do I need worry
about how to butter my bread because
this is work- a real job- and my paycheck
confirms that.

This is not baking. I'm hardly making anything
in the class but for a few students here and there
scratch their heads when I ask. Questions
when they want answers that they hadn't thought
to think, and I encourage them best I can
to continue. I'm not separating yolks from
albumens, not coaxing cream to bubble. There
are no tempering thermometers necessary here.
I have company when I wait for the bell
to ding, to indicate the time is up, but there are
no cakes when I open the door.

--Matthew Mercer

Remembering

Sometimes I like to leave the room,
leave the movie playing on the VCR,
leave my collection of film moments
on closet shelves exactly where they are.

Sometimes I like to return to the couch,
return to the story that's jumped to someplace new,
return to the collection of throw pillows
on our two-piece sectional and sit beside you.

But then I have woken, and I've started to learn
that the cream in my coffee makes it softer.
And the screen on my TV does the same to experience
no matter how crisp or sharp the resolution.

Before memory starts when I first wake,
I fill in the blanks for the life I make.

Accumulations

We are so secure; we are so protected
by technology, and it is not from the terror.
Our identities are idealized to the point,
so sharpened like knives we wield wildly
against any who would try to steal them.
You can't steal my time, we say in public.
You can't steal my mind, we say at home
with our Tivos and Televisions.

I am so protected behind the walls
of my castle, of my car, of my cubicle
by my thinking, by my things, by my...
There are excuses at the ready
for my steady lack of output.

I tell that the forty hours of work
will exhaust my reservoir of energy,
but the fact is that I often return
home and rush to my Tee Vee to check
out instead of in with myself,
with my other, with my mind.

It's not even madness in which I'm immersed
for 9 hours away daily--it's a comfort
that keeps me from having to stretch,
from having to really grow where I want
to go, from confronting my own soul.

And then I get on the shuttle, I shuffle
myself off to my hovel with all my life.
It's all my life I live at home,
where my other part is, it's my collection
of crap- but it's my crap- that signifies
nothing. More than nothing I have accumulated.

And as without, so within, so I ask:
Are you going, are you coming, am I there
yet, amd I still here, are these the words
to the song I'm meant to sing
because I have so much to say,
I want so much for someone to play
with me, with energy, with wonder
like wild animals are just outside our door.

How ill we escape? It isn't from ourselves,
it's from the world. It's from the work,
the wiles of technological wizardry
that makes us the most actively disconnected
society of connected people ever. We're growing
to understand there is no coincidence,
there is no cowardly craven waiting on our doorstep,
there is no cross to which we are kept.

Our arms are outstretched, we want
to embrace someone, something, somewhere
that there is nothing to distract us,
there is nothing to keep us quiet,
there is nothing that cuts too deep.
And more and more kids are staying home
and fewer and fewer kids are moving out.
Maybe more have begun to realize the fewer rewards.

We rush into the world, but it will wait.
The work will still be there waiting
and wanting you to report, so what
is the rush? Are you ready, have you readied,
what will happen if you get there
and you're not ready? What do you want
to be, is what adults ask of others. Is that
because they know they've forgotten their own answer
to the question that begs so many different answers?

Every time you ask out loud before
you ask inside, you will find an answer,
but not the one you need the most.
What you believe determines how you act,
and I'm afraid that too often my behavior
is as cheap as the words I speak.
So I aspire to rise above, I aspire
to reconnect, I aspire to realize

that this age can be the one where I come
into my own, and when I get home tonight
I will continue to crave more than the answers,
I will keep on creeping up on the questions
I still remember from when I woke up today.
I want nothing more than to go where
I haven't been, but the way there will be
wound by my own turning over. Watch me leave.

Customer Service

This is an ode
to every employee
of the customer service industry
who was gee-golly just so pleased
to serve me whichever
soul-numbing amenity
my wallet could afford,
and an ode more importantly
to every single employee
who readily, however hesitantly,
has sold the majority of their waking
life to work for a man
they'll never meet.

This is a song
dedicated to every one
of those workers who sought
to convey to me
just how much
they would rather be doing
anything other than listening
to my hare-brained opinion
on either how to do their job
or why their job matters
or how better to cater
to my happiness.

This is an update to management
that lets them know
that however high they happen to think
that they sit on their horses
above all the rest:
Not even you can make everyone happy.
No, sir, not even when you deign
to come down to reprimand your worker
in front of the unhappy customer.
Not even when you choose
to react in a way that uses
nothing you have ever learned
in conflict management classes, no, Sir.

This is a tribute
to each employee who ever refused
to bite their tongue in the face
of the rude, even though they knew
their manager would be asked for.

"Can I speak to your manager?"
"Who is your boss?"
"I'm gonna write a letter!"
"Let me talk to your supervisor!"

Those are the magic spells of today,
and the wizards who populate the public
know that all they have to do is say
that they just don't feel
that quite enough sunshine
has been blown up their holy ass
today, and like flipping a switch,

a manager will manifest
and stomp his big important feet,
pulling the reigns in on his fleet
and showing his big, red, hairy butt
because, "What?! My employee said what?
Are you saying that he was Human?"

Who here is ready for a revolution?
Managers, the next time a customer
threatens to spend their money
at some other establishment,
what would happen if you said,

"Well, we'll be sorry to see you go,
but we believe in our employees,
we believe in respecting others,
and we believe that everyone will be
much happier if you do decide to go."

So, Thank You, all employees out there.
You deserve to be treated better,
and the next time the public
threatens to write a letter,
let it only light a fire
that warms you the way you deserve
because this public, here,
is not an easy one to serve.

The Welcome Mat

THE WELCOME MAT

I knew something was amiss as soon as I walked up to the house. It’s interesting how even inanimate bits and pieces around a home can betray the emotional state, busy schedule, or well being of its inhabitants: a door ajar, an unkempt lawn, an overflowing mailbox, dying plants, broken windows, or, in this case, her and her sister-in-law’s cars in the driveway. My girlfriend was supposed to be in class, so I knew something was afoot. I only needed to open the door and see their faces to know it wasn’t anything good. “What’s goin’ on,” I asked eagerly. Her sister-in-law slowly bowed her head and looked away. “Adriana, what’s wrong,” I pressed more firmly. Her chocolate colored eyes already red and puffy from crying, she pointed toward the laundry room as her bottom lip curled in horror. I walked quickly through the kitchen; seeing the blood on the floor gave rise to anxiety and panic.
I opened the back door and saw the familiar long hair of her Maine Coon named Romeo. His once thick body and billowy fur lay still, almost deflated on the doormat. Two pools of blood surrounded his front and backsides. I knew instantly he was gone. I hovered over him in awe, petting his lifeless forehead. “What happened,” I asked through the tears that were welling up in my eyes. Adriana began to sob and knelt down over Romeo’s body, uncaring about the blood, as if to cover him with a blanket of mournful affection. “She found him like this,” her sister-in-law replied quietly, mouthing the words as to not trigger an endless loop of trauma for Adriana. I held her, while she held him. The moment seemed to hold us both in the bizarre limbo of shock, disbelief, and sorrow.

Judging by the lack of visible wounds and the internal bleeding, Romeo had been hit by a car. We moved close to campus last fall so we could save money by walking to school; that kind of convenience, like most, comes with its drawbacks: loud parties, beer can littered lawns, and fast moving cars with negligent drivers, the latter of which I blame for Romeo’s death.

Loss is a dreadful fact of life. I say this as a well-acquainted victim of loss. I’ve lost my aunt, grandmother, friends, dogs, cats, hamsters, parrots, fish, horses, cows, even a squirrel, hit by the car in front of me, died in my arms once. All of this hard-edged existential trauma has brought me closer to a place of acceptance around grief and loss, but that acceptance doesn’t really make it easier to cope with the seemingly arbitrary violence that sometimes surrounds such trauma. “So it goes,” as Kurt Vonnegut Jr. would claim; who am I to argue?

We elected to bury Romeo at Adriana’s parent’s house, since we rent and plan to move after graduation. Her senior piano recital was the following day and she had planned on devoting this specific day to rehearsing the thirty-seven pages of music she had committed to memory over the last two semesters. I’ve never been terribly fond of the saying “if you want to hear God laugh talk about your plans,” but it did seem appropriate, albeit dour. We wrapped Romeo’s body in the jute doormat on which he constantly came and went through the cat door and on which he took his last breathe.
It’s strange what goes through your mind during times of trauma; I broke my femur playing football when I was eleven but before I went into shock and spent two months in the hospital and another two in a body cast, I kept thinking of how grass-stained my favorite pants had gotten during the game. This morning I thought of how we had switched cat food a few days prior, how the cats weren’t terribly fond of the new stuff, and how Romeo’s last meal wasn’t even his favorite.

I thought of how beautiful my girlfriend’s hair looked as it enveloped Romeo’s once lithe body in a sea of dark silk ringlets. I thought of how sweet and tender her voice, slightly hoarse from crying, sounded through the dreadful moment; of how small she looked crouching down over her “furry soul mate,” as she called him. I thought of how deep and rich Romeo’s blood appeared on the doormat, how it had sunken into the fabric, bonding with it, changing it forever. I thought of it as a channel of sorts, this doormat; it had seen him out and welcomed him in countless times; and in that moment, it was as sacramental to Adriana and me as the Shroud of Turin to the followers of Jesus.
I thought of Christians, of a few friends of mine who believed that animals are bereft of the ability to love and feel and understand life. I thought of how they had told me animals, not having souls, don’t go to heaven. I thought if Romeo, Matisse, Oso Peligroso, Luna, Louie, Harlow, and all of the other animals I’ve known and loved aren’t allowed into the Kingdom of Heaven I don’t want to be there.
I thought of how much joy and unconditional love animals have evoked in me, of how intuitive they are to the needs of humans and each other. I thought of how much I’ve learned by watching them, how seemingly simple but deceivingly complex their trust/fear hierarchy is, as well as the profound accuracy of their instincts. I thought of how my Abuelita had told me that animals are sensitive to people’s issues and are always a good judge of character. I thought of how I’d rather keep the company of my cats than that of most people, and how I never quite click with those who claim to not like cats. This may be yet another reason why I feel so anachronistic at times; maybe I’m a reincarnated pagan, a pious member of some polytheistic sect that worshipped cats and saw them as demigods or spiritual deities far more divinely connected than humans. They’re definitely high on my totem, if not on top.

We loaded Romeo into the back seat of her car and made our way to her parent’s house. She and her mother have something of an estranged relationship, seeing that Adriana is a staunch liberal and her mother somewhat conservative: her provincial Catholic upbringing in rural Mexico lies in stark contrast to her daughter’s flexible American-girl ethics. Most of their strife comes from the fact that Adriana is “shacking-up” with a “boyfriend” eight years her senior. Needless to say, their conversations are perpetually rife with heat and friction, so when Adriana asked for Romeo’s burial plot her mother was less than compassionate; saying, “It’s okay, you can get another cat. You should really be focusing on finals right now.”

Adriana couldn’t focus on anything at that point, not even letting go. Rumi penned, “ a life rooted deeply, lives and grows in memory.” Our memories may be our only defense against time, which tramples on, regardless of our trials or victories. Adriana had certainly dug a good stronghold against time: never having a pet of her own, she fell madly, whole-heartedly in love with Romeo, whom she affectionately called “Mr. Boom Boom”. They had a rare bond that inspired her to love more deeply. Every time she saw him or said his name she beamed joy, an uncomplicated joy, the kind that comes from a love without question or distress. I believe he felt the strength of that bond too. I believe that’s what carried him from the road and back through the door, to present her with an honorable farewell. It was hard to see Romeo go out like that, and even harder to see Adriana’s reaction to his demise.
Some people feel very comfortable crying; it seems to come as naturally as laughing. Others are embarrassed by the vulnerability involved in such an honest act. Adriana’s tears were like those of a child having lost her mother, or a mother having lost her child; either way they’re significant and justifiable: crying is the only language that makes sense, the only language that communicates the anguish and confusion brought on by loss; seeing her cry like that made me want to cry, even now. Sad as it is, it has endeared me to her.

I could write a thousand poems about that day, the emotional genius, the cunning it takes to love so deeply, how vulnerable we all are in the face of life, love, and loss, how we’re all adrift, lost children hoping for the best. We’re all looking for something real, something that brings us joy, makes us grateful to be alive, helps us feel, keeps us honest, quells our hunger for understanding, and guides our journey. We’re looking for something that helps us communicate the magnitude of human suffering, the isolation and alienation that comes from being a grain of sand in an endless desert. Art, science, and religion were all born from this, this curiosity, the thirst for order, meaning, and justice; but none of their scholars or prophets, nor the contrived theories, or pretentious pageantry they so embody even come close to conveying the sincerity I’ve witnessed in seeing a human cry for something they love.

I’ll never forget the way the sunlight illuminated her skin as she kissed Romeo’s forehead for the last time, how it seemed to twinkle and dance through the tears she cried for him and maybe for her mother too, the way she held her heart (as if she was saying this is where it hurts, or as if pledging everlasting allegiance to a dear friend). I’ll never forget how gently the breeze shook the grove of May apples that surrounded his tiny grave. Nor will I forget how sweet and innocent his fuzzy little face looked nestled in the hole I dug on the rocky knoll; his head barely peeking out, still wrapped in the jute rug, his welcome mat into the next life.



-R. Flores

JH's appearance on National Public Radio

"The Body you Crave" as featured on NPR's Open Mic
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5645962