Daydreaming About the Design for my Chapbook Cover

This poem is an exercise inspired by the 'First Thought, Best Thought' writing theory of the Beats. I basically just recorded a shift at work as it happened with some personal observations and memories folded in for good measure. It's a stream of consciousness thing to be honest, and not meant to be anything more than that. This poem will not be included in the chapbook, Wild Taste, as far as that goes. Fair warning: there is a bit of dirty language in one section of this poem. It's over fast but it even surprised me a little bit when I re-read the poem.

Daydreaming About the Design for my Chapbook Cover

I smell cut grass and catch a contact buzz

from the senior citizen buying a cup of coffee

here at the college bookstore where I 

prop up a counter and scan shelves for 

outdated convenience items. 

Everyone tells me I’m overqualified for the 

jobs I’m applying for but I have skill gaps

deeper than ocean trenches. 

I hate writing a cover letter, instead I’d like

to submit a few comics pages to illustrate

my work life and habits. 

I’ll never change the world working at this

bookstore even though I am kind to people 

with the hangdog look of someone starving 

for kindness. 

I presume nothing. Their souls could be black holes, 

my affirmations could be toxic. 

The man wearing the ‘Peterbilt’ hat takes me back 

to long drives with my dad, who’d name passing 

semi-trucks with an affectionate growl in his voice 

reserved for automobiles and big trucks.
You might recall Tim Allen’s primate huffing--

it was like that. 

I smell cut grass. The maintenance crew

is mowing, edging sidewalks, trimming beds.

I saw one guy this morning running the edger

with one hand, other hand in pocket,
I thought to myself The South is full of lazy men

as the edger bounced out of its groove

and struck sparks against the concrete.

And then I thought He’s lucky he didn’t

hit his boot and strike sparks against that

steel toe. 

My dziadzia is in his recliner, sucking a

butterscotch candy and listening to Ernie Harwell

call a Tigers game in a little living room 

in my brain; he’s directing me to critique everyone’s 

work habits and judge them inept. Still, 

he thinks I should help them do it right

so they know for next time; next time they’ll 

do it right and I won’t have to--right? Right? 

Maybe my affirmations are toxic. 

‘Apple Bottom Jeans’ playing on the store’s

overhead radio and two girls start dancing

in the chip aisle, and man can they ever!

I’m jealous. I can do the hippie spin and the

flail about the room, but their moves elude me.

They want those Flaming Hot Cheetos, 

they want that degree, that job security, 

that upward mobility. I hope one of them

runs for President and she wins and 

breaks out those sweet moves on inauguration night. 

And this guy, with the thick plaque on his skin, 

what is it? Fine cuts on his cracked, flaking hands

weep blood and shed countless scales 

on the counter when he opens his wallet to pay

for Diet Pepsi and Sour Patch Kids. After he leaves

I wipe the counter, which shimmers like fish death

in his wake. 

There is no mercy here, is there?
I’m afraid to look at a woman, 

mere acknowledgement terrifies me. 

If I drink a Redbull my heart will explode. 

My resume is a covering of duckweed that 

obscures wonders of my nature just below the surface. 

Endless forms most beautiful could apply to beetles

and people, couldn’t it? The mad diversity of our

single species is ample evidence for a god of caprice and

explosive wilderness, willing to try anything once.
Regard the young woman who smells of green tea;

the beautiful man with dreadlocks nearly to his knees--

Guys from the maintenance crew wander in from their labor.
They smell like cold air, red clay, diesel fuel. I’m certain

their balls are just sagging with cum. 

Their fingers are thick and hard as punches and hairy 

as caterpillars; their beards bristle like urchins. 

Every man scowls and smiles,

battered daily by the sun and all its accomplices. 

I want the cover to say ‘Wild Taste’, I want the letters

to look woven out of grapevines--the girls at my

elementary school pulled grapevines off the chain link fence

to make wreaths during recess. I want the letters to look like that. 

I want the ‘I’s to be dotted with leaves, I want a clump of tomatoes

nestled within the letters. I will dedicate it to my mother, 

the saint of blind men and vulnerable children. 

I will dedicate it to futility. One of the poems included

will have a dedication to Annie Dillard. 

I will dedicate it to you, and you, and you, and

to the woman with the baby face and her left leg

Straight as a beam. I will dedicate it to all of my hours

that never thrived.

Everyone is carrying purses or bookbags, their convenience items

are all packaged, yet they still want a bag for potato chips 

and orange juice--no one wants their receipt but 

I don’t have the option not to print one. 

My grandpa crunches his butterscotch. 

He thinks we’re all a bunch of bimbos--his words, 

Not mine. I’m calling the chapbook ‘Wild Taste’. 

‘Wild Taste’, it’s dedicated to you.