—REAL-LIFE LIVIN’ IN A REAL-LIFE PAINTING

 

 

The 40-Year-Old Virgin

 

Yesterday my daughter and I were laughing like jackals again on the phone as I told her about donating blood, how they gave me a trainee that jabbed the needle in my arm harder than John Travolta stabbing Uma Thurman in that infamous Pulp Fiction heroin scene, and how the force of the puncture made me jerk, which made the bookmark and loose papers in the book of poems I was reading (so as not to witness the attempted assassination attempt) fly like feathers from a shot bird, while all the other needle-jabbers stopped what they were doing to stare in shock, and after we laughed, my daughter told me how once, while getting a pap smear, they were doing training too at the facility and asked if it would be okay to take photos, which she agreed to because she’s my daughter, shy, non-confrontational and awkward a lot of times, and she didn’t need to go into specifics because that was plenty of fodder for us, so we laughed some more, so hard on my end that I knocked over the cylinder-shaped drink on my desk, all over some poems I’d been writing, but I didn’t care because I was so happy to be talking to my girl on the phone and laughing with her, and then I closed out our conversation by reminding her when I took her to see The 40-Year-Old Virgin on her thirteenth birthday, like who does that, and she said, You do, Father of the Year.

 

—THE NIGHT’S WHAT YOU MAKE IT

 

 

…“And I was really just writing for me. It was a way of talking then. So, I talked to myself a lot.” Toni Morrison

 

…A lot of days, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do it anyway.

 

…Bobby Sherman was one of my boyhood idols, never quite up there with David Cassidy, of course, but I revered him. He seemed to have everything I didn’t—talent, boyish good looks, confidence. And the guy wore dog collars. Really. And because he wore them, they became a thing for a while. There’s a lot I could say about his passing, but it would just be more gibberish that only means something to me.

 

--Give me a kiss.

--Why?

--'Cause I need one.

 

…It’s only an island if you look at it from the water.

 

...“When I am on camera, I have a kind of confidence that I don’t have in real life.” Barbara Walters

 

…I think the reason sports are important and popular is because you always want something to root for.

 

…I really believe that I try to listen, read about, and understand the opposing side, but honestly it almost always feels like listening to one lunatic after the other spew complete nonsense that makes you question whether they're actually human beings. 

Like, “We should make January 6^th a national holiday.”

Like, “Autistic people will never be able to hold real jobs.”

Like, "Ukraine was the one who started the war with Russia." 

Fuck off.

 

…I’ve met my share of unreliable narrator’s, and I bet you have, too.  

 

…I’m not the best company inside my own head.

 

…“If you ask me what I believe in,

     I will say music and the sun.” 

    –Greg Kosmicki

 

…It’s usually when I don’t want to, that I know I really need to.

 

…The you in the poem changes when you make it.

 

…I’m not too proud to admit that I get a little too full of myself from time to time. How about you? 

 

…Who needs who more? What’s it matter?

 

…Growing up I had dreams, women, legs akimbo, Hell was there to tell me, all that shit was sinful

 

…Good grief. If you’re seriously going to pick apart Sharon Olds’ line breaks, then you should just go fuck yourself.

 

…I’m jealous of how other people can pause a long time before they respond. That’s a switch I don’t have.

 

…There are just over 8 billion people in the world but I don’t think there’s a single other one that says, “Whoa, Sparky,” just before they do something that could be suspect.

 

…My Junk mail is really worried that I might have dementia, or incontinence. Maybe they know something I don’t.

 

…It’s a little bit silly, all of these mountains of books surrounding me, but they make me feel safe for some reason. So, there’s that.

 

…I’m not sure when it became questionable to be a patriotic, or how that even happened, but I guess it doesn't matter since I’m not so sure I am anymore.

 

…It’s amazing, even to me, how many times a day I say, “Fuck that guy.”

 

…Was it a placebo? Was it a distraction? Tell me how the wind blows. Tell me if it matters.

 

…Falsehoods and Misleading statements are what scared journalists say instead of “lies.” 

He’s a rampant liar. 

Just say it. 

 

…I know I shouldn’t pay attention to a headline like this--Fat Joe Sued for $20 Million by Former Hypeman in Explosive Suit: Alleges Rapper Engaged in Sex Acts With Minors and Coerced Him Into ‘More Than 4,000 Sexual Acts to Maintain His Standing’--but I have a lot I could say about it. 

 

…The thing about a one-trick-pony is that sooner or later you start expecting another trick.

 

…Here’s something—when you’re not sure, just go for a walk.

 

…“There are fronts and facades celebrities put on, but behind that, you know, there’s always a kid inside you.” Bette Middler

 

…I still play Words With Friends. I know that sounds lame. But I like it. What’s strange is the ads that come up—like “leakproof underwear” or “chair exercises for seniors” or a million bra ads.

 

…I really have no idea how I got so lucky. It probably should’ve been you.

 

…Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you.

 

…Catch me, if you can. (And good luck with that.)

 

…“There is another side, the human, imperfect side, and I wanted to learn about it.” Barbara Walters 

 

…"Meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that were charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best meals, occur in a context that has very little to do with the food itself." Anthony Bourdain

 

…I’ve got two days left to get it done. Cross your fingers for me, please.

 

…Thank God Pandora’s Box left that last thing in there.

 

…Every Tuesday’s fatter

 

…You’re the one who delivers the good news. And that’s the difference.

 

…I actually have a document, a file, saved, entitled, “Bits,” which is a receptacle for sentences or words or sounds that seem intriguing, things that might make for a good story or poem. It’s now (currently) grown to 125 pages. I should probably hunker down and get busy.

 

…What’s the point of that?

 

,..I don’t mean to sound melodramatic or alarming, but I can understand why some people O.D.

 

…Most days, don’t you just want to say, “Fuck off”? I know I do. (And have several times in this post already.)

 

…Okay, this could be a mistake.

 

...It’s always the “but” that stops you, that makes a difference, and then everything about what you just heard changes.

 

…I think I have, but maybe I haven’t. And that’s the problem.

 

…What’s weird is saying, “I don’t have anything going on in my life right now,” and meaning it completely, which always, immediately, provokes the question, “Are you okay?”

 

…If you discount lawyers, I bet no one in the entire country knows what racketeering is. 

 

…“Maybe the secret to pain was to respond to it in ways that made the pain worth it.” Kevin Wilson, Run for the Hills

 

…I’ve come to view the current administration the same way I eventually did my mother—I don’t believe a fucking thing they say.

 

…This is a truth that can’t be undone—when your kids are happy, you’re happy.

 

“When I know what people think of me

I am plunged into my loneliness. The grey

hat bought earlier sickens.

I have no purpose no longer distinguishable.

A feeling like being choked

enters my throat.”

        --Robert Creeley

 

…Sometimes it can be a good thing when you wake yourself up from snoring.

 

…One thing I’m pretty good at is making other people feel happy even on those days I don’t feel that way myself.

 

…“Everybody throws a Hail Mary when you’ve got nothing left to lose.” Suits

 

…Sometimes when I’m watching TV and I see some handsome young guy on some insipid SVU, FBI, CSI-type show, I’ll remember the first time, years ago, when I saw a handsome young guy on a similar show and thought—that guy is younger than me, in fact, everyone on shows now is younger than me, or younger than I’ll ever be anymore.

 

…I saw an article from The Hollywood Reporter yesterday that read: That’s It, The F Word is Officially Boring. 

I think I disagree.

 

…Almost everyone I know is better at saying No than I am.

 

…“There’s not a better feeling than the one you get from helping somebody out. I would recommend it to everybody.” Bobby Sherman

 

…What you pray for says everything you don’t.

 

…How lucky to have a birthday, even when no one knows you do.

 

…I think I actually love birthdays now.

 

…Okay, that might be more than I need, but Thank you.

 

…“Do you think I sigh a lot?” 

—STOP ME IF YOU’VE HEARD THIS ONE 

 

Not Quite Finished

 

Sometimes I sit here, watching baseball or golf like any old man, and my son will come home from work, what they call teaching pre-school to young terrorists, and he’ll be exhausted, same as I was once, and he’ll kiss the crown of my head without asking permission, as if I’m a prince or king, a gorgeous gesture I never taught him, and he’ll ask how my day was, what I did, what new music I heard, and maybe he’ll genuinely care to hear my replies if he isn’t too beaten down by toddlers tumbling all over him or kids shitting their pants before noon, too early in the day for that, and I’ll say, It was good, son, Yeah it was, saying so with a little extra something if I wrote I poem I felt good enough about, and he’ll say, That’s good, Dad, and I’ll watch the pitch or swing on the screen before he comes back down later to the table where we’ll talk about what really happened today, the bombings and genocide in foreign lands and right here, the destruction of decency and the demolition of truth, and afterward, while I’m cleaning up the mess of plates and stuffing uneaten food down the scary gray mouth of the disposal, we’ll say, I love you, because it’s always the right thing to do, the knot on the bow so to speak, and then invariably, I’ll find another plate set aside, smeared with some disgusting sauce, or a dish with a meal on it that looks started but not quite finished, and I’ll swamp that one with fresh hot water from the sink spout and push whatever’s still clinging down the drain as well.  

 

—CAN YOU THINK IT LOUDER?

 

 

See-through

 

But you didn’t call me back is what I hear the man whisper into his cellphone at Gate 8, an anthill of people and commotion blurring around me, the thumbtack beginning its push, center of my forehead, neat as a surgeon’s needle, a migraine sprouting, here of all places, my left hand numb, sprockets in my vision, But you didn’t call me back and you said you would, the man repeats, his hands coned around the cell now as if he’s speaking prayers into it, and suddenly I’m thinking about Ms. Marshall, my ninth grade Chemistry teacher who I haven’t recalled in years, the way we taunted her, making fun of her masculine mix-and-match pantsuits, how she’d wear them in different colors but two days in a row, how the mocking progressed, clever kids that we were, becoming more insidious until there were dead rodents left inside her desk, her purse, a mangled cat in her mailbox after someone learned her address, until she stopped showing up at school, until there was dowdy Mrs. East instead, no fun at all, firm with detention, and later the rumors spread like STDs, that Ms. Marshall had hung herself in the garage, and for weeks afterward I imagined her swinging from a rope, wearing a beige pantsuit under a bare bulb because of what we’d done, because she had no one to call, or maybe she did but they didn’t pick up, and now the migraine is drilling like a motherfucker and the crackly speaker is announcing boarding rows but it’s all just dots, people and memories becoming diaphanous, like see-through dust or microscopic motes, too tiny to be real or meaningful, because nothing is real or meaningful, right, and so why should anyone ever call back, why should anyone even bother to ask in the first place? 

 

—WHAT IF I CRY EVERY SHOW AND IT’S “HEY, LOOK OUT BELOW”?

  

…It’s always easy when it’s easy.

 

…Who cares what I have failed to become?

 

…There’s a lot I used to have backwards.

 

…Maybe I still do.

 

…It’s really what the kids are writing that matters.

 

…“You’ve been with me forever.
      You know all my angels.

      How could I say no to you, 
      taking off your earrings to kiss me?”---Kaveh Akbar

… . A big part of living is matching what you do or say to what else is being done or said by others. The difficulty is in knowing where to draw the line.

 

…Looks empty over here.

 

….“Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art.” Andy Warhol

 

…“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.” Somebody

 

…In college, my least favorite question to be asked by adults was, “So, what’s your major?” Because you knew the question that would follow after your answer, and you knew the others that would come, and they all felt like a firing squad, so much pressure to pick a good major, a practical one that would get you a decent job, which was why you were supposed to be in college to begin with, right?

And even though that four-year period was one of the most incredible times of my life, it was also stressful. Because there was looming adulthood. Like, not just driving to Moscow, ID every night, where the drinking age was 19. But real-life adult responsibility.

And then came “Interviews” senior year, a few months prior to graduation, where certain companies would get a jumpstart and arrive in droves on campus and you could sign up if you were ambitious or knew someone. 

I bombed every interview I was lucky enough to get, but I remember a specific time with a guy from Caterpillar (can you even imagine me thinking that was a good idea, a good fit?) where I thought, You know what? I’ve done terrible every interview I’ve planned and planned for, so I’m just going to go ahead and be honest this one. No rote answers. No prepared replies to the questions I’m anticipating.

And when the guy asked, “So, what would your ideal job be, your perfect career, like the one you that would make you happiest, the one you could do for the rest of your life without any regrets?” 

I said, “I’d be a writer.” 

I spat it out fast, almost like a person with Tourette’s, or a burp that slips out before you have the wherewithal to stifle the sound. 

In response, I remember he smiled and sort of looked over my head wistfully, almost if he and I were sharing the same blurry dream at that exact same moment. But then he lowered his eyes and asked me, “So, why don’t you become a writer?” 

 

…I got this yesterday:

Hi Len,

Royalties for THIS IS ME, BEING BRAVE

 1 x paperback sold via Amazon.com

= USD 0.31

 To be paid in June

…If I have a breakdown while I’m gone, will you still love me? 

I might, you know?

 

…I’d never listened to Pet Sounds all the way through but did on yesterday morning’s walk. With the exceptions of some juvenile lyrics here and there, it is the definition of a masterpiece. Especially if you listen with earbuds in.

 

…YOU APPEARED IN 82 SEARCHES. 

Okay, but why? 

 

…“Amidst the urgent eternal amidst, it is very good to be in love.” St. John of the Cross

 

…I often wish I was more practical, or pragmatic, but then maybe I wouldn’t dream so much, which might change me in irrevocable ways.

 

…I remember a lunch date with one of my best friends—and I actually forget the specifics, though I remember his words—where I said something like, “I’m not sure if I’d get anything out of that,” and he smirked and said, “So, Len, are you telling me you’re too old to learn new things?”

It’s funny the things you remember, the things you think about repeatedly, but that’s one of mine. And that one speck of a sentence (out of a long series of conversations) is the thing that’s motivated me to try to be better, to improve myself.

 

…“Sometimes things are important for the exact reasons you expect them to be. Other times, you’re wrong and the moon cracks in half while you’re staring at your shoes. Either way, it matters.” Penny and Sparrow

 

…If you’re lucky, you only get a few people in your life who are going to make yours better, so it’s best to hold them close and be sure to really mean it when you say, “Thanks.”

 

…Lately, I’ve been thinking about the past, how it wants to hold you back, no point in wasting time on those things that won’t be here tomorrow.

 

…“What about what I think?” I’m trying to remember that’s usually what the other person is thinking while I’m talking to them.

 

…Early morning message sent to my best friend the other day: 

"Anymore it feels like we're all just one hour away from the end of the world, so I'm trying to use all of my carnival tickets."

 

…If you haven’t seen this, it’s worth a watch (and you can stop after she’s done, about 6:30 minutes in.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJQS22Off2E

 

…“How about I be me, and you be you” Sinéad O'Connor

 

…On the phone with one of my best friends the other day, this was part of our conversation, which caused us both to laugh at the end…

Me: --    “I remember being in a workshop once when a woman said, ‘I have been really happy lately, so I haven’t been writing much. Do you ever notice how you can’t write when you’re happy?’ It was probably ten years ago when she said that, but I still remember it because I thought, Yeah, I totally get what she’s saying. I always have to be leaning a bit dark. or sad, to be able to write anything good.”

Her: --    “Well, that’s not a problem for me at all, because I’m never really happy.”

 

…I could really use a Snickers bar right now, one with real ingredients.

 

…It’s so strange to look out your window and see a huge boat parked right there with four capped people, all dressed in camo and holding fishing rods that look like rifles.

 

…After a while, as a parent, you learn that one kid leans into you for certain things, at certain times, while they lean into the other parent at different times, needing different things. 

And there are reasons or stories for that, and you can drive yourself a little crazy trying to figure out the “why” of it all, but at some point you just become glad they reached out, that they still trust you enough to want to.

 

…Looking for mystery where there is none is a waste of time, unless you let yourself discover what else is there.  

 

…It takes a lot of bravery to hold onto the silence in a conversation, even when you’re bare-knuckled.

 

...Bedtime’s getting earlier, but so is dawn.

 

…I can be a Rube Goldberg machine, I can overcomplicate a thing…

 

…Maybe the antidote is right here.

 

…I’m a fan of skinny, yet sometimes I see old photos of myself and I think—there’s thin, and then there’s just bones.  

 

…I’m not very tough anymore, if I ever was to begin with.

 

…Do you ever get to the end of something and then wonder, What was the point of that? Only to remember the point later on, and then think, Oh, yeah, that was it.

 

…Monday, Monday...Monday brings the blues. I put on my shirt and tie..

 

…I know the voices aren’t real, but man do they come up with some great ideas.

 

…“No need to hurry, no need to sparkle, no need to be anybody but one’s self.” Virginia Woolf

 

…If someone was really angry and needed to take it out on a person and beat someone up, I’d be their perfect guy.

 

…All it’s gonna take is all your patience, I can be a lot, ha!

 

…Next time I’ll be better prepared.

 —NOW I WALK AROUND BACKWARD

  

Help

 

It helps if you have cocaine. 

It helps if it’s an old story, but not one about the sad moon, or a drunk dad who does the same unspeakable things all inebriated fathers do. 

It helps if it’s storming outside, hail ricocheting off the roof, same as that perpetual haunt pushing up beneath your skin, like a trapped beetle, needling you again to say something you can’t, and never do. 

It helps if your therapist nods off while you’re sharing about the six-month period your parents became nudists, their saggy bits barely covered in pubic hair that resembled month’s old alfalfa sprouts.

It helps if you haven’t eaten since Tuesday.

It helps if your heart is shattered and you feel guilty that it isn’t your fault this time either. 

It helps to sink into a frigid bath of pity and self-loathing, gasping Fuck quietly in a shaky voice no one will ever hear. 

It helps to have a broken mirror nearby, one with the backing cardboard showing through, lightning-shaped shards glinting in the sink like so many sins. 

It helps, too, if your soulmate dog died recently, twenty minutes after you rush her to the emergency vet, where you forget her collar and they call you five days later to say so. 

It helps, too, if you’ve stopped seeing colors and it helps if you don’t put that razor to your wrist, because you have thighs after all, and there’s a thumbtack for that. 

It helps, they say, if you have a pen or a keyboard handy, though no one’s ever going to understand anything you’ve written anyway, how could they? But it helps.

—LEAVE A LIGHT ON FOR YOURSELF

 

1841

 

He would call me after a sparrow flew into the window, though he never knew about the dead birds, how could he, drunk as he always he was, his voice slurpy-sounding as if he was sipping on some kind of stone soup, and I’d be at work when he’d call so they’d have to page me through the store’s speakers, using the special code I’d given them, Len Kuntz 1841, sometimes it was for Mariners tickets, sometimes to tell me what a shit brother I’d become for living in a stucco mansion like a rich prick, but he could also be inventive, even fucked up by noon, like once my brother claimed he’d killed a guy and laughed about it, though as I said, he was a perpetual and spectacular drunk, a 13 year-old kid when he ran away, ten years older than me, so I never knew him until these calls started, and then before he died, I learned things I didn’t want to know about him, though his son needed to tell someone, so I listened and nodded and said I’m sorry because I meant it, although what I wanted to say was I’m disgusted, and then a few days later at the burial site while the pastor expressed false gibberish, I looked over my nephew’s shoulder into the guts of some nearby trees expecting to see dead sparrows hanging from their limbs, but instead it was two crows, black as migraine spots, and these birds they were just dawdling, shooting the shit you might say, or maybe they were mere strangers, with nothing else to do, just getting to know each other, stooped there on that crooked branch, on that humid August afternoon as we buried my brother.