Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response (ASMR)

Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday,

at two forty seven

in the afternoon.

Stanley shuffles the deck again

-for the forty or fifty or sixtieth

something time.

Deals the cards into four neat piles

gathers them  back into a single stack

without looking at them

and shuffles them again.

Stacy says, do it again please,

I'm almost there. I'm almost  -there.

Stanley isn't there yet either,

his hands are automatic,

he's staring out the window

where the kid from down the street

he's hired, is raking maple leaves

into piles on the lawn.

The riffle of the cards synched

with the rhythmic scratch of the rake.

The prickly pleasure that Stacy seeks

arrives, and as it shoots down

from the back her head,

along her spine and leaves

a tingle just above her ass,

she arches her back

in a delicious shudder.

Good? he asks.  Yes! she says

but would you please

now brush my hair?

Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday,

barely midway through

the afternoon and five o'clock

feels as distant as next year.

Stanley says, I'll brush your hair

but then it's my turn, okay?

I want you to carve some soap.

Palmolive or maybe Dove

Irish Spring doesn't fit the season.

Stanley goes out to the garage

and inspects a row of boxes

on institutional metal shelves.

Flips the flaps on a large one, sniffs,

and takes out four bars of Dove.

Peers inside the box and frowns, getting low.

Back in the living room

he slouches on the couch,

hands a bar to Stacy.

She unwraps it with a flourish

because he loves the sound

of the waxy packaging coming off.

Which would you prefer today,

the potato peeler or the box cutter?

The peeler. Maybe start with the peeler

and finish with the box cutter?

By the way, we're down to less

than half a box of Dove.

Better get over to Costco and restock.

Get some Palmolive and Ivory while

we're at it. Stacy smiles at him and murmurs

Sure, honey. We don't want to run out.

Want to smell the first one

before I start to carve?

She begins to shave long slivers

of pale soap which falls into the apron

she has spread across her lap.

Stanley watches her slender fingers

push the peeler through the bar,

the soft sound of it's resistance

and the pause at the end of each

gentle stroke tickles his eager ear

and the first shiver stirs on his scalp.

That's exquisite, dear, you carve so well.

He lets his head roll back against

the cushions and waits for Stacy

to unwrap the next bar of soap.

Ready for the box cutter, Stan

or shall I keep going with the peeler?

Keep going, love, there's nothing

sweeter than the way you work a potato peeler

on a freshly opened bar of Dove.

Those carvers on YouTube

are butchers compared to you.

No one has the magic touch you do.

Past or future

Later, sheltering in a shallow alcove,

a man not dressed for the rain,

mimes asking for a smoke.

I had two left, so I gave him one.

He asks me if I've ever experienced

vibrations of the past and future.

Demonstrates with an

outstretched trembling hand.

Points to the crook of his elbow

as if injecting something.

Says the vibrations of past and future

go away with Dilaudid when you dream.

Then you wake up and discover

that you've written yourself a letter.

We share a chuckle about that.

He wiggles his fingers at the sky.

the in between

Two guys hustle across

thirty feet of bricks at Market.

One says to his tall friend

it's all meat, you know?

He's wrong of course,

the vast in between is empty.

Wind or dust

Is it nobler to be compared

to wind than dust?

Like the herb-scented

breeze of Provence

or the stuff that fornicates

and duplicates like bunnies

under the four poster bed?

The galactic dust from which

the universe was born?

or the cosmic wind

on whose breath

it was borne.

And when it came to rest,

God moistened it with tears,

of joy or sorrow, I don't know,

to form the primordial muck

from which microbes, amoebas,

and coelacanths coalesced

before Adam ate the apple

and we codified a thousand rules

about whom and how to fuck.

To be the powder blush

that pinks the cheek

of the happy bride,

or the wind that lifts the kite

of the laughing ten-year old

running, unafraid or targeted

across the schoolyard field?

Am I the black wind

that rolled across

the Texas Panhandle

and pushed my grandpa

to the promise of California

where the night air carries

the perfume of lemons,

oranges, and raisins, alfalfa?

After the dust that trailed the tractor

all afternoon settled on the cattle

and the his old Buick

where the cats sleep, and on

his white board and batten house.

He rinsed his hands and face

free of that cloud and sat under

the front yard walnut tree

savoring the evening breeze

with a tall glass of sweet iced tea.

Just one more

Some folks vie to tie strands
on the world's largest balls of twine.
Make it onto the Guiness list.

Francis Johnson
of Darwin, Minnesota
spent four hours a day
for twenty nine years
adding strands.

The ball lives under a gazebo.
It weighs nine tons.
Darwin celebrates Twine Ball Day
every August.

Some guys prefer
balls made from
rubber bands.

The largest resides

in Lauderhill, Florida
and consists of 700,000

rubber bands.

Alexandria, Indiana
is home to the world's largest
paint ball, 20,000 coats
on what began as a baseball.

The Department of Homeland Security
has designated it as a
"distinguished heritage site"
which helped the state qualify
for a slice of the terror defense pie.

Some individuals go for more
esoteric collections:

A North Carolina dermatolgist
owns 675 back scratchers
from 71 different countries.

Carol V in Birmingham, UK
has 5,000 bars of soap.
A McDonald's franchise owner
has a collection of 75,000
bits of McDonald's memorabilia.

What to think about the Dutchman
who has 6,290 airplane barf bags?
or the Russian with 1,320 toothbrushes?

In America, we collect guns.
The top fourteen percent of gun owners,
seven point seven million people,
own a hundred and thirty million guns.

The average collection is seventeen.

Seventeen. A handy number.
One that fits just right
to personalize seventeen
assault rifles with a name:

Meadow, Jaimie, Alyssa, Scott,

Aaron, Luke, or Carmen.

Gina, Alex, Peter, Cara.

Alaina, Christopher, Helena, Joaquin.

Nicolas with a C not a K,

and Martin.

Dawn on Drumm

Guy walking down Drumm Street

cell phone glued to ear, says,

it was wrong, it was wrong.

Thought I heard a pigeon

moaning in the park above him.

I was wrong.

It was a woman

in the throes of ecstasy.

Either that or sorrow.

Stuff the mouse has taught me

That I have flame retardant 

in my blood. And plastic.

Seasoning for the soup

of nicotine and bourbon

that I put there myself.

Discovered that

George W. Bush

is a distant cousin.

So is FDR if that's any

consolation.

That I'm descended

from Salem witches

and slave owners.

and the poet Longfellow

if that's any consolation.

And the seas are slowing

becoming more like

vinegar than honey.

And a garbage patch

of shoes and refrigerators,

shopping bags and soda bottles

swirls out there in the blue.

There are Russian women

who are eager to meet me.

With just a few questions first

on the subject of money.

Better deals can be had

in Cambodia or Rwanda.

Kansas has ruled that

a dog can't run for governor.

Which is too bad, he might win.

Unless he ran against a cat.

Either would be better

than the rats who rule it now.

There is a twiitter feed

for news story headlines

that start with "Florida man"

and I don't even have to wonder

what that says about things

that happen in Florida.

Most likely it will involve

poor decisions involving

an alligator, an arrest,

drugs, genitals or vehicles.

usually with a mugshot.

It's not all ugly memes and kittens,

I've wandered Chernobyl

and Mars without protective gear

and a wink on a dating site

can last for years.