Suicidal Mermaid 

Once you clear off the fog

you'll see that there was a man 

so little in the middle of the sea

oceans of tears in his eyes. 

He stood up on the bulwarks

such a weight on him
he looked down, up, around and around
"God, the pain! No love anywhere!" 
he cried, and went over the side;
it looked like suicide. 

He went down and down, darker 
and darker, colder and colder, then
he gave up, opened his mouth
and the sea turned him inside out. 

Down down down he floated
into black silence, but … then
a bit further, into pink glowing
glowing more and more, and lighter
like a sunrise. 

Below, there was a giant pink oyster bed
getting bigger, brighter, wider
the sailor had made it all the way 
to the ocean floor. 
Then he saw the mermaid. 

"Come down here," she said. 
"I think I know you." 

"You do?" asked the sailor, drifting
like seaweed, but dropping softly
like a pearl. 

"And I like you, too. Were you just now
committing suicide?" The mermaid's smile
was so beautific with her yellow hair spread out 
in the water - like a sunrise - that the sailor
wasn't embarrassed at all about trying to do
himself in, above. 

"I was. Or I did. Aren't I dead?" he asked, 
looking at her twinkling bed waving kelp, 
softly. 

"No. You're not. I tried it too, but I'm alive. 
Don't ask me how we're breathing down here,
those are technical details less interesting to me
than philosophy but I will say that as I drifted 
down here one night last year I changed 
the way I was going to see everything, from then on. 
From now on. 
I fumbled around down here in the dark, 
made my bed, and everything changed!"

"Well - how should I say this - what do you mean?" 
asked the sailor. 

"It was dark when I floated down, like it was 
for you, yes? But as I floated there in the black, 
I thought, I knew it! Then I shouted it, in the water: 
I KNEW IT! My shouting had a ripple effect, 
in more ways than one."

The sailor motioned toward the bed, 
the mermaid nodded why of course
and he floated down and reclined 
while she went on. 

"To make a long story short, I found out 
for sure - down here - what I always knew. 
It's not dark in my mind. In spite of everything
that happened. 
So if I can see with my eyes, from me out
and not only absorb with my eyes
all that darkness that I was in, literally, well …
who knows?" 

"Can you really do it? Is it that easy?" 

"Well, I'm practicing," she said, and they laughed. 
"Maybe it is a little bit pie in the sky." 

"Or oyster in the ocean. But I think you have something. 
I jumped because life was bad, my childhood 
was bad, and my way of thinking felt bad," 
said the sailor.

"Me too. I committed suicide too. But I knew 
about the light in my brain, knew I was born with it,
and after a few nights down here, last year, I decided this:
Once you've seen the truth of your childhood, you go
make up the rest of your life."  

"Maybe that's why we can breathe down here." 

"I think you're right." 

Now the oyster bed was glowing green and blue shells. 

"Hey, can I stay down here? This bed looks like 
Monet's water lilies!" 

"It's a Queen-size bed, and yes, 
I want you to," said the mermaid, smiling.  

"Maybe it's a California-King." 

"Well, we are just off that coast."

"Gee, and I thought I was sailing past Boston
when I jumped." 

"Either way!" said the mermaid, laughing, 
letting loose a silver spray of bubbles, handing 
the sailor a starfish sandwich.  

Go with the Floe 

A polar bear

a nurse

and a silver-haired busboy  

drift by the Reykjavik city lights tonight 

on a cold but cozy ice floe. 

"So, let's go around in a circle," says

the polar bear. "Would you care to go first?" 

he asks the nurse.

"I'm a nurse for a hip replacement surgeon

in Ghent, Belgium. So many hips every

week, it's all I do, and it gets so redundant.

I begin to feel replaceable myself. I dreamed,
as a girl, in my dreamy moonlit hopeful bed
of becoming a doctor, but I let myself get talked
out of my dream by uncles, grandfathers, professionals 
and Father. Men. No offense - you guys. So, I drink."

The polar bear thanks her; they look to the busboy. 

"My parents legally changed my name to IDIOT 

after I reached the second grade. Can you imagine?
It's hard to apply for work, or say my name anywhere.
I think this is why I still bus tables. One kind woman
decades ago hired me in pity, but I can't move up to waiter.
Think of it - 

Good evening, I'll be your server this evening, 
my name is Idiot! Care for a cocktail?

I brought this up to my mother in high school

but she only backhand-slapped me. Then father

slapped me back the other direction. My face, like
a hinge! So, I began to drink. From school days until
a couple of years ago."

"Uff, all those brain cells!" says the nurse. "Good thing 

you're so smart. And I can see that you are." 

"Thank you. And you?" says the busboy to the bear. 

"I was OK up north, I liked the overall atmosphere,

the bold blue and white tone of it all, and, of course, that," 

says the polar bear, pointing at the Northern Lights

above them. "I was alright with the lonely nature of it,

they called me the 'gregarious loner.' But then … it all melted,
and the gregarious side of my nature went south.
So, I was hurt. And I drank." 

The eyes of the nurse and the busboy look thoughtful
about the polar bear's story as they enjoy the impressionist
painting the Northern Lights and the lights of Reykjavik
have made together in the waters they're floating on.
The polar bear has impressed them, too. The nurse says,

"You are quite fluent. How did you achieve this?"

"It took time. Berlitz tapes. It was slow, getting
those tapes to our tiny, frozen post office!"

Heavy chunks of dark brown timber floating in the sea

bump into the floe, it startles everyone, but a light bulb

goes ON over the busboy's head. 

Meanwhile, the polar bear and the nurse gaze 

into the Northern Lights, the bear pointing out
various highlights, with a paw. Then, getting sleepy
they lay down on the ice, hugging themselves,
huddling in awe under the green sky. They are COLD.

While the busboy works under his light bulb.

He has hauled the timber aboard the ice, chopped
the bark off with the ice shards he's chopped
from the floe, and now again he chops
delicate yellow ruffles of wood he drops
one by one
into the ragged rough canoe he's made of the bark.
He lights the ruffles with dry matches from his decades
long employer - The Pewter Cup - and, FIRE!

The polar bear's black eyes open in white fur, he
nudges the nurse; they look down between their feet.
FIRE! Getting hotter, higher …

The busboy stands behind the flames, smiling
silver hair shining. The bear and the nurse crawl
to the fire, hands and paws playing in the warmth.

"Well, I don't know how the hell we all got here,
how we met on an ice floe," says the nurse, "but
I'm awfully glad we met!"

"I am very glad," says the busboy, sitting down
by the fire.

"Where were we?" asks the polar bear. "Shall we
go on? It's a long way to dawn."

"May I say something, before we go on?" says
the busboy. He points across the water to Reykjavik.
"Over there, the University of Iceland Medical School."

The bear and the busboy smile at the nurse
sitting around the red fire on ice floating
under the shimmering green sky.

"How the hell, indeed," the polar bear roars out
(literally) loud laughter. "But who the hell cares?!" 

The drifter, 
the cat,
and Santa Claus 

A drifter crackles through the brush
comes down from the railroad tracks 

and the wild swirling velvet blue midnight sky, down

through trees and lit yellow windows in the trees

to a red fireside, and one black cat, sitting alone

with a cup of - also black - coffee.

The drifter - seeing all these colors and

not even drunk yet, or for five years - 

has another vision: gleaming green glitters

like limes in outer space; the eyes of the cat!

"Coffee?" asks the cat, friendly, calm and

not necessarily in charge.

"Yes, I'd love a cup," says the drifter, near the fire now,

in a sort of crouch, waiting for the cat to invite him

to sit. The cat twitches her white whiskers, easy

to see across her lush black coat, and the drifter drifts

down onto the ground, stares into the fire, not sure

how to start the conversation.

"So," he says, "you're a talking cat? Like in the movies?"

"Yeah, I am. What do you want me to do? This is who

I am. Sorry, I'm being defensive. By the way, 

you seem worried about something."

"A little blue. Another Christmas over, a new year tonight,

in an hour … same thing over and over, what does it

all lead to?" asks the drifter.

"I know, I'm in my 7th life. It used to bother me, too. Then,

I got philosophic. Or is it philosophical?"

"Yeah, that sounds better. Philosophical."

"In my 5th life, I got philosophical. Before, I was worried

all the time about if there was a 10th life; what was there

after 9 lives, etc., etc. I started drinking."

The drifter's eyes get big in the firelight. "You too?"

"Yes. I got up to ten sometimes twelve bowls a day."

"Then you got philosophical."

"Yes. And moved out here. Beautiful here, isn't it?"

The drifter and the cat look up through the trees;

glowing silvery trunks around the fire, black branches

up high, clawing for the stars. They hear something.

Crackling, like the drifter, before; crunching footsteps

and then - wheels … squeaking.

The cat and the drifter look at each other with question

marks over their heads, which mingle in with campfire

smoke, then drift up, and away.

A bright red moves in the black branches and black night

getting closer; the drifter and the cat see it coming, but

as it's rolling side to side rather than advancing aggressively,

they aren't scared. But they keep their eyes on the red

moving in the trees, and as it comes near the fire

they see two gold circles, glass circles reflecting the flames,
and a white beard.

They see it's Santa Claus, and he's pulling a little red wagon

full of Two Buck Chuck.

Santa pulls the wagon of wine into the opening

and warms his hands by the fire.

"Hi Santa Claus," says the drifter.

"Oh, so you believe in Santa Claus?" asks Santa.

"I'm talking to a cat aren't I?" says the drifter. "No offense," 

he adds, making eye contact with the cat.

"None taken," says the cat.

"Just like in the movies, eh?" says Santa Claus. The cat rolls

her lime eyes like a couple of gin and tonics, which neither she

nor the drifter will drink this evening.

"That's what I said!" says the drifter.

"Coffee?" asks the cat, changing the subject. Santa Claus

squats down into a sort of lotus position, his big black boots

resting on either knee, and something rips in his red suit.

"No, thank you. I'm gonna get into some of the red wine.

Can I interest you two?" Santa reaches into the little red wagon

for a bottle, and pops a cork.

"No thanks, we both quit," says the drifter, the cat nods.

"Oh, I see," says Santa. "Were you addicted?"

"Does Santa have reindeer?" says the cat, with a

twitching in her whiskers. "Hey, since you're here

… do you?"

"Yes, but not tonight. They're resting in the hay. So,

what are you two discussing?" The cat and and the drifter

look at each other, the cat answers.

"I suppose something like the meaning of life, Santa.

This drifter just joined me and said he's wondering

what New Year's Eve is supposed to mean; what

another year means except - just another year. That

kind of discussion."

"Yes, I understand," says Santa. "And I know what it is.

The meaning of life."

"Tell us, please," says the cat, her head on her paws.

"There's no meaning, so relax. Next time this comes up,

try to think of something funny, then - laugh."

Santa Claus is looking at the drifter when he says this, but
they each sense something in their peripheral night vision;
something green and sparkling - the cat's eyes. "You must 
have more to tell us, Santa!" she says. She sees he does.

"Yes, my cat, I do. Sleep deeply. Dream in color.
Eat well, eat richly, cheaply and maybe less animals.
I've been eating Japanese food for, I don't know,
about 100 years. Oh my, no - longer. Sushi was around eight
centuries before I started working, but I didn't catch on,
not right away. But eat deliciously, slowly. Then,

try to see things differently every day. Every hour even. 

Make some creative, benevolent trouble every chance you get, 

and 

most of all

stop being so goddamn fucking unkind to yourself

and everyone else." 

Santa is done, takes a drink of Two Buck Chuck,
burps, and the cat and the drifter start laughing.

"I didn't know Santa Claus used those words," says the cat,

sheepishly.

Red wine, red suit, red face; Santa Claus is laughing!

"Ho, ho, ho hell-yes I do, my new but permanent
friends! I mean it, and I'm trying to get your attention!"

"You did!" says the cat.

BANG, splash! The moon is out and full,
but someone's New Year's Eve fireworks
Van Gogh-sunflower the sky above the trees.

"So did that!" says the drifter.

"Let's bed down and talk more in the morning, ok?"
says Santa Claus. "Sweet dreams. And remember - color."

Eulogy 

I winked down at my mother in her box.

“Well, it was always the hopeless past and 

the stagnant present, but this is something new!”

She heard me but she was dead so she said

nothing. Just like the good old days. 

Hard bright currency

The pressure of them ignoring you 

is like them standing on 

the electric cord to your light bulb. 

And if that doesn't make you 

so much the brighter (all that crimped, RED wattage), 
it’ll electrocute them right to the assbone; 

them - standing on your cord

like that. 

Which was never nice of them,

anyway.

The end of capitalism in 
10 seconds 

“There's no such thing as a free lunch!” he said, 

with a face like an electrocardiogram, 

before the morgue run. 

“Well, if that’s how you want to live, go on,” we said,

with a face like Christmas morning candlelight

at the top of the stairs. 

On a (mile) higher plane 

Really out of breath, in heaven, or anyway 

30,000 feet closer to it 

the two sit back down in their seats. 

Beaming. Tingling. Smiling. Sex in the bathroom; 

the high consciousness of the Mile High Club

just got higher. 

The man, Zorro, says to her, Emmeline Pankhurst

(these are the names they gave themselves as

strangers meeting in the airport bar), 

“I feel so open and generous 

and humane after making love 

like that. Even if it is on aluminum 

and mirrors over blue water. Can I say

something, Emmeline? I want to tell you something.”

She smiles him: go on. 

“Watching the Broncos game back there in the airport

bar, I thought: making those women do that

cheerleading is sexist! And cold. But look here -

I'm not against an ostentatious display of skin.

And I'm not a puritan, believe me, I'm a hedonist,
and I say: what about men as cheerleaders, too?” 

“I was hoping you'd say something like that,”

says Pankhurst.  “I thought you were a good guy, 
back at the bar.”

“Well, can I say it simply, no nuance, no stalling? 

I'm sick to the gills of sexism. Anyway, I know 

there are women - men too - who'd love to see men 

out there undulating to a touchdown. I think the pilot

of this jet would. He gave me that look, I think.”

“This look?” Emmeline turns to Zorro; her eyes

roll still, into sharp focus; green diamonds in a stream.

“Yes, that one. Like this one,” says Zorro; his eyes like

warm chestnuts, roasting on an open … you know. 

“So, Zorro, shall we repair to the Room of Blue Waters?” 

The jet, contageous with generosity and humanity 

goes above 30,000 feet to 60,000, and then into orbit;

everybody smiling

free drinks

stars in their eyes.