The Almost Symphony

I. The Altar of Almost

We’ve long since forfeited lifting up half-hearted prayers to the altar of almost, that pseudo-shrine of near achievement where an out-of-reach challis is prominently perched. This, despite what we’ve been told about petition and sincere supplication. Thoughts of unburdening your almosts land in an empty confessional where a screen and wood-embroidered separation admonishes every admission, where silence is a heavier affliction than the sin of almost.

II. Almost Remains Scoreless

There is no formal scorecard for tabulating the almosts. Every almost exists in the ether, uncounted, an unfashionable scratch, a prelude to cancel culture. Nobody shares the raw data of almost in fear of offending the self-professed, the anointed achievers, those who get the most, display it with upmost confidence, cast heavy shadows atop the great whisperers of almost who can’t help but keep count.

III. Almosting

Between already and not yet, in liminal space they lurch in search of identity. Accepting almost is a setback deeper than not yet, a feeling more like never. They are unsure of its composition, unable to explain what it means, though they know it when they see it.

IV. Almost

It has no crescendo, there is no coda. It doesn’t know how to bow. There are no strings attached. It is a perpetual skip in the record, not realizing that this is the record.

Realization

I wish I could write about the things that don’t hurt. like how the sky fights against the dark shoreline of trees. or how the sun makes everything glow golden in the mornings. and how the horses’ tails sway effortlessly back and forth as they graze the ground below them. But I can’t do that, I don’t know how. Or maybe I could write about the red windmill in the backyard that creaks and turns as the wind pushes through it. I hear the wind chimes and I’m reminded of my grandfather, reminded of his life and how his voice always boomed through the earth, the windchimes doing the same now. I wish I could write about how I feel when I look at him. I’ve been broken for a while now and gave up on that feeling, but he brings a different light than what I’ve seen before, kind of like the golden sun in the morning. I want to write about the warmth of the sun burning my back and I spread across the sheets waking up in the morning. The feeling of the tears running down my face when the boy gets the girl. the happy ending. I want to write about mom’s wildflowers that she planted in the garden, and how they shot from the ground and created a display of pattern and active color. At night, I open the door and see the night sky polluted with the burning stars, freckled with the white dots that remind me how small I am, how small my problems are.

I want to write about that.

I focus on the things that hurt because that’s what you told me to do. Never expect the best, conceal those emotions, they’re bad for you anyway. I want to write of the things that make me happy but you stole that from me a long time ago.

But I look past what I’ve written now, and the words in me are more powerful than you. I see the truth, only in me, not in you.

Prodigal Sun

I hold 2 of my dad’s fingers

             He’s a great guy

             Especially when your hands are little

Going to the better store in town

             after he washes up almost ceremoniously

             and after We cash the cheque

Prepping food and laughter, good times follow

Sunny barbeque, It sounds better in French

             Skewered from the beard to the tail

             de la barbe à la queue

Cutting gristle from the edges

             Hollow belly feeds on protein

             times are good

Stories of the old days

             His abilities secured a good, decent job

Afforded roofs above our heads

             Food on our plates

             Footings on upward mobility


There’s a lot of competition

             But I get college

             I get work

Dad used to preach against the pensionless jobs

             He first felt trapped

             Then dignified with steady work

             Benefits

The Gig Economy bites down

             I bought the cheapest razors

Bargain grocer, a bus ride away

             It’s too humid in this sunlight, screw the ride

maybe I’ll get the five dollar combo from nearby

             Lard and starch drenched fatty edge morsels

             Of leftovers stir fried, unholy alchemy

Ass scratched by one ply toilet paper

             Caged in dimmed low energy domicile

             Power bill’s a bitch


Sheepish when I consider telling him there’s no room

             In a junior studio bachelor’s

             Or other euphemisms for living in a closet sized trap

             In a giant city

I know they’re sick and old and 

             I’m guilt stricken by my absence

I hang my head in shame on the phone 

             but try not to spell that out

             or let him feel that pose

I put out my hand, a small hand still, only 

             Phonating what I know he’ll refuse:

Why don’t you and mom come live with me? 


He says he’s proud of me, and that We’ll not bother while it’s cold out son

             let’s wait til summer(,) Sunshine

times will be good, we can do up a feast.

FUTURE INSTRUCTION MANUAL: On Work

It will be the opposite of toil // the once-towed line that is now yours to draw // to define what has value // what will halve you // much like day from night // labor from leisure // from punch clocks to punch lines from those working the line // lunch lines in the corporate café // clock watching so as not to waste time on the timeline // the time sheets that need to be complete // accounting for hours // by the quarter // like a hoarder of time and profit // yet still not fit for the next rung //the one your brother said you should be gunning for // running for as if you were up for the vote // on the ballot // not some speculative write-in charlatan // work will not be this // it will not be just this toil of hands // head work intended to get you ahead // it will be eye work // mouth work // your words at work // your whole self // poured into something more than self-serving // a conviction of how time, more precious than profit, is spent // work is not the obligation you thought it was // told it was // sold it was // it is a decision // a vote // the only one you’ve got // the most consequential one you will cast.

High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)

I have dreams

every other full moon or so

that I’m driving down middle road

and the sun had already set

and there’s a car driving towards me

he flashes his high beams at me.

On, off, and on. Three times.


I’m driving down the dip in the road

He’s coming at it from the other direction


His high beams light up the cabin of my Chevy Trailblazer

They illuminate the yellow dashes in the road

They light up the wheat on either side of the street.


On, off, and on. Three times.

What are you trying to tell me?


They light up the abandoned machinery in the field.


It’s been abandoned;

every time I pass,

every time the car drives by in my dreams.


The fields by this road are my favorite part of this town.

My family used to watch fireworks from that hill at the top of the road

and when the sun is setting

the city skyline lights up over the trees.


I used to take that road as a short cut to get home from Jay’s Diner.

It’s where I got pulled over for the first time.

It’s where I drove the car to the side of the road to spend three hours crying

just because everything was falling apart.


I have these dreams

every full moon or so

that I’m driving down middle road

and the sun has already set

and there’s a car driving towards me

and he flashes his high beams.

On, off, and on. Three times.


What are you trying to tell me?

Is there something wrong with my car?


YOU’RE DRIVING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION


Lately, the landscape has changed

but I still take that route home.

The machinery has been moving dirt.

Dad says they’re building soon

and we might not be able to see the skyline from that hill


GET OFF THE ROAD


I never go to Jay’s Diner anymore.


BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE


I don’t even know if this route is really a short cut.


GET OUT


On, off, and on again.


IT’S NOT TOO LATE

On Contemplating a Buzz Cut Before the Pandemic

The Mania tells me to chop off my hair. I don’t. 

             I talk down the scissors

                         from an idea of bangs.

             The clippers and I compromise on

an undercut- only mutilating

             half of my head, no need

                         for the whole punishment. I

             do not remind myself of all the knives in

the kitchen, afraid of the mob 

             they would become; taking

                         to the streets of my body, igniting

             the memory of bleeding by choice. No-

I squash this rebellion before it starts, 

             thumb to forearm. Instead, remind

                         myself that I am sovereign: nothing

             can remove my crown ((“Or the weight of it,”

Depression adds unsolicited, like a mother.))


I, like a mother, gift my hair the name Anchor.

             A noun of its own. Depression simpers

                         something about

             irony//doubt//the lies we tell ourselves

My hair rebuttals “truth

             is subjective at best.” and says nothing else,

                         no billowy language, bloated

             on its ideals of forgiveness

or growth or weight. Instead, it leaves 

             me alone. Gifts me an allowance of mistakes

                         The soft joy of bad at-home hair dye.

             The brisk rush of freshly cut bangs.

The gentle thrum of clippers in steady hands.

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN