Jeffrey Zable

SO AS NOT TO HURT ANYONE’S FEELINGS

In fact, I was one of those sardines who escaped

through the asshole of a Great White.

And from there I floated off to the side of a protest group

that was mostly comprised of disbarred lawyers,

exiled pimps, and unwed pregnant barracudas

organized in response to the government’s unwillingness

to do anything about global warming at the poles

that is mostly affecting the bears who are desperately in need

of heating blankets and bobsleds.

Other than that, I’m doing fair with the exception

of needing an extended vacation away from the City,

that’s overrun with intravenous alcoholics and rats—

and when I say rats I’m using the term loosely

so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings. . .

ALL I GOT TO SAY

First off, there‘s no reason to give you more money.

The whole enterprise was my idea. I took all the chances

and if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be here, and no doubt

be making far less somewhere else. You should appreciate

what I have to go through to maintain this company,

having to come up with monthly paychecks for the employees, 

pay for insurance, utilities, etc. etc. It ain’t easy to keep up,

and just because I live in a big house with a swimming pool

and a hot tub doesn’t mean I don’t pay for it in worry

and concern that it could all be gone in a heartbeat.

You should be thankful to even have a job. Working for me

is a lot easier than it would be in most other circumstances.

That much I can assure you, so if I were you I’d get back

to work with a smile on my face, and be thankful that I thought

of all this so that people like you could come along for the ride.

That’s all I got to say. . .

THE UNDERSTANDING

With winter approaching I stuffed all the nuts inside

my head, pushing my memories out of consciousness,

which turned out to be exactly what I needed

‘cause I was sick and tired of remembering all the stuff

from the past in which most of the scenarios

were angst filled, “Why am I here if all I do is suffer!?”

And it wasn’t until much later—after the nuts were gone—

that I came to some terms with myself and just said

“What the hell. . . I may as well finish it off as best I can.

Try to accept things the way they are, like the dog next door

who, without a doubt, is happier and more fulfilled

than I’ve ever been. . .”

                                     DANCING

I’m dancing on the head of a pin while the bombs go off all around me.

I learned the art of focusing from one of my teachers a long time ago.

I can see his face, even though I can’t recall his name. I do remember

that he killed himself over the loss of his beloved hamster that was

always there in class siting on his shoulder, periodically whispering

in his ear, at which point he would stop, stroke his beard, and present us

with some new insights and information on how best to live this life.

I still don’t know how best to live, but I am getting better at dancing

on the head of a pin while the bombs keep going off all around me. . .

TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH

I don’t really know who are more dangerous—

homosexuals or straight people. I’m guessing

it would be determined on a case-by-case basis

and the situation that the person was in.

I would also guess that women are less dangerous

and volatile than men, but it could be that men

just use more weapons that draw blood,

whereas women are more inclined to enact revenge

using poison.

With that, I find it interesting that I just used

the word enact as I don’t remember ever using it

in a writing context but probably have used it

in speech on a few occasions in which I no longer

remember. . .

                      IF I WERE YOU

Of course I need more things to do. But, no, I won’t

become your hitman to kill that spider that’s sitting

on your TV table right now while you’re trying

to concentrate on a rerum of Gilligan’s Island.

What I will do is give you a hammer and a plastic bag

to put it in so long as you promise to not bother

me anymore. Other than that, I think you should

consider doing more  psychotherapy— maybe six

or seven times per week, especially since your

psychotherapist has agreed to see you on a sliding

schedule if you’re willing to come in at 3 a.m.

I certainly would if I were you!

Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist who plays for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Chewers & Masticadores, Wayward Literature, Recesses Zine, Cacti Fur, The Hooghly Review, Uppagus, and many others. . .