Pretense

There were those days, so many days I’ve

lost count of where or when, those stifling

times I dressed in a suit and tie to make a

fine impression. And, as long as I kept my

opinions to myself, I believed that I was

welcomed and belonged. I ate with a fork

in my left hand, kept from slouching with

my elbows firmly at my side. There were

those days I seemed to fit perfectly into place

with my shirt tucked in, days when I would

piously genuflect entering church, and I’d

kneel properly in prayer. I blessed myself

with the sign of the cross at the beginning

of the Hail Marys and once again at the end.

This I figured was how I became acceptable

and managed to make it in life thusfar. I got

jobs with an agreeable nod of the head and a

firm handshake customarily applied. At times

I would laugh at the bosses jokes which were

not funny at all. Often, so many times I did

what I perceived I needed to do to fit in. In the

theater, I would applaud at all the right times.

I stood and was seated when I was told. But

when I was alone and on my own, I might eat

with my fingers and occasionally pick my nose.

In private I could scratch anywhere I itched

without reproach. And and generally I could do

that which I damned well felt I needed to do.

(Screw it and you!) It is now in the retirement

cocoon of my old age I am transformed and can

fully appreciate lovely blooming gardens of my

own imaginings. This here life on Earth has led

me to recognize that somehow everything fits as

it should seamlessly into place. Even the pain in

my joints has settled into where it is was inevitably

meant to be. I am now, however, allowed the luxury

of ripping off that choking tie and tossing it aside.

I can now fart outloud, and eat with my fingers

whenever I damn well please.

Chris Hanch 7-31-18,

That Guy

It must have been another guy, one

you may have met on this street before.

You know, the guy who smiled at you

and said, hello. Must have been a guy

with a beard and long, gray hair like

you see on me, some guy who perhaps

bears an uncanny resemblance to my

height, weight and complexion, you know,

that guy who is often talked about standing

there by that sign, the guy you’ve noticed

hanging around there many times before,

that affable and charming fellow who does

seem familiar. Look over there, is he the

one you are referring to? In all likelihood,

it is he of whom you speak. And I can

assure you unequivocally, I am not he. I
will say, however, having myself stood on
that very same spot, I do get that a lot.

Chris Hanch 7-30-18

The Need

Some things matter, like a rainy

day in July when there’s a picnic

or a parade. You need it to stop.

There are things you need, have

rightfully become accustomed to,

like the days in the month you get

paid. And then there is grocery

shopping to pick up necessities

you need.

(Don’t forget to add toilet paper to

your list. You damn near ran out of

it this morning finishing up some

important business.)

Needs, we’ve all got ‘em. Some have

more than others, and too some have

fewer. (To say less may sound better,

but is grammatically incorrect.)

You want fried chicken for dinner,

but you’ll settle for bologna in the

refrigerator instead. You’re hungry,

short of money, and you need to eat.

Some things matter, like water from

the faucet when you’re parched on a

hot and sweatie summer’s day. An ice

cold beer sounds better, but financially

tap water will have to do.

You’ll take a Marlboro from a buddy

when you’ve run out of the Salems

you generally smoke. There are those

frantic days you pray for a break. You

need to get away.

There are things which matter, like

where in hell the car keys are when

you’ve got to be somewhere. And

hopefully there’s enough time and

gas in the tank to get you there.

You almost forgot, your friend needed

to borrow the car this morning. And

need or not, you’re damn well stuck

right where you are.

Chris Hanch 7-29-18

The Last Show

I figure if I keep writing every day,

there will come a time when I have

nothing left to say. It is this inevitability

which keeps me going. No one wants

to consider what their last word will

be. This is not a script for a movie

where the credits roll after The End

flashes before you on the big screen.

The popped corn and Milk Duds are

gone, the straw has hit bottom and

all that is left is an aggravating slurp-

ing sound. The theater lights come up

and as a final chorus, the audience

rises from their seats, and murmuring

to one another, they leave. If it was

up to me, I would remain seated

patiently waiting for another show,

perhaps next Sunday’s matinee. The

lights go down. And perturbed as can

be, the usher sweeping the isles shines

his flashlight in my eyes and says to me,

Sir, the show is over…I must ask you to

leave. I never considered my final word

would be, Okay. What a submissive and

milk toast ending for me--not going out

with that proverbial BANG! we so often

hear about. Ah life, and the last word,

one never knows.These days could even

be reduced to a friggin’ acronym…WTF!

Chris Hanch 7-28-18

The Sagacity of Age

There are fewer words today than yesterday.

The speed limit had been reduced exponentially.

No one seems to care that the sun is decreased

by millions of square meters in a single eruption.

And who is it keeping track of the losses as all

the measurements of today are wasting away?

Have you noticed the slide rule and abacus have

been retired, and today all the critical calculations

are being computed automatically? The South Beach

Diet is a ruse, my friend. We are all losers in the end.

I stepped outside into the sunlight today, and my

shadow in front of me indicates incrementally in

measurements of length and time that I am somewhat

less of the man that I was yesterday. And the sagacity

of age now implies—this shit, man, has been ongoing

for quite some time.

Chris Hanch 7-27-18

Driven Buggy

There’s a droning around me as the housefly circles

my head. The dog sniffs the air and is likewise

disturbed. He hates flies too, especially when they

invade his space. Needless to say, flies drive both

of us crazy. Pesky creatures such as these are fast

and all too often often just out of reach. Indeed,

there are more serious concerns in the world today,

but for millions of years, flies have certainly added

to the frustration. Vermin with wings often prove

to be a distracting and bothersome thing, like a random

thought which suddenly appears buzzing incessantly

when the screen door to the mind is left open on an

already aggravatingly hot and sticky summer’s day.

What in hell did I do with that spray?

Chris Hanch 7-26-18

This Poem

This poem is not of beautiful warm summer

mornings, not of stately mansions in well

manicured neighborhoods. This poem is not

of glistening gems in gold settings, jewelry

stuffed in velvet boxes rarely worn. It is not

of the newborn, the dying old or the war-torn

dead. There are birds out there singing which

barely deserve mentioning. This poem is not

about elections won or lost, nor will it address

political, social or religious upheavals. It is not

about

young girls realizing their fantasies,

about marathons to be run,

not about BMWs or Chevys in parking

lots or streaming in and out of cities.

This poem is not about rampaging

rivers in rural counties, not about

the States of Oregon or Missouri,

it does not speak of universal mysteries

or four-fingered musicians who play

the piano with their feet. This poem is

not what it appears to be. There is no

logic to be followed here or anywhere.

You can add more sugar to the recipe,

drape a sheet across the window of

your own perceptivity.

Oranges are sold by the dozen here

or can be bought or stolen individually.

Try these shoes on for size.

Tell me more lies.

Bend the iron bar of rigidity,

stick a fork in the blue eye of transparency.

Today has been taken completely out of the

context of reality.

Sit down, shut your mouth and buckle up

for the ride.

This poem is about the nonsense of imagery.

And you and I are the only fools with two

flat tires limping across the finish line.

  

Chris Hanch 7-25-18

Lost in Place

Funny how things come to mind, sometimes

coming from out of the blue. Why is it we say,

“out of the blue” anyway?” I know the sky

seems a vast place encircling the Earth, seeming

to go on forever and ever.

Surely things get lost up there. And occasionally

stuff falls unexpectedly from above. (Gravity will

have its way.) But, no one really foresees a friggin’

meteorite falling at their feet. Yet when it does,

that could be said to have fallen “out of the blue.”

Anyway, a funny thing—the mind, and difficult

if not impossible to sometimes explain. For now,

however, “out of the blue” will just have to do.

Oh, you may be saying to yourself right about

now, Damn it, Christopher, get to the point!

Okay, okay, take a deep breath and allow me

to explain…

Got to thinking about all the places I have lived

over a lifetime of nearly 72-years. I won’t bother

you with all the sordid details for it would fill

volumes, and in the process, I’m sure, it might

drive many of you plumb-crazy.

(And by the way, why in hell is it plumbs are

often referred to as crazy? Just another nonsen-

sical thought “out of the blue” up for discussion

perhaps another day.)

Anyhow, at last count I came up with over thirty

places in a half-dozen cities where I have lived, a

number only exceeded by the number of jobs I

have worked along the way. Why, that’s just

plumb-crazy! you may say. And I agree, making

me far crazier than any self-respecting plumb

could ever claim to be. In fact, I got so good at it,

moving from place to place, finding new places

to move and live, places where no one had even

considered living, places so unknown that no one

could find me, or even get to know me anymore.

No rhyme to reason to the madness per se, just

another move, willy-nilly and coming from nowhere

seemingly, “out of the blue.” That’s plumb-crazy,

some would say. 

My phone number hasn’t changed in awhile...
call me.

Chris Hanch 7-23-18

As Luck Would Have It

The ballplayer wears the same stockings

every game hoping he will pitch his way

to a victory like he had the other day. The

worker drives the same route to his office.

Surely his routine will keep him safe over

and over again the same. Some rely on a

rabbit’s foot for good fortune; another says

it’s the wearing of a lucky chain. Mother

put it on every morning to begin her day,

and she lived the good life for eighty-eight

years. Prayers before bedtime relieves fear

of the treacherous unforeseen for many. The

gambler lost his paycheck on one roll of

the dice. He forgot to adhere to the sage

advice handed down from one generation

to the next—Life is a crap shoot at best.

Ah ha now (as luck would have it, and a little

late in the game) he can see more clearly the

timeless wisdom in that saying.

Chris Hanch 7-22-18

Misdirected

I arose this morning

with a chilling thought—

My god! Had I gone left

rather than right in life back

then, I may have saved

the world all this confusion.

Befuddled by what I say?

More than likely you too

headed the same way, mis-

directed could be, pathetic

suckers all, nonetheless,

who were led to believe.

Chris Hanch 7-21-18

Contemplation

Zoology

Some have come from the jungle, others were

captured on savanahs or mountainous terrain.

Most inhabitants here, however, were born and

raised in captivity like you and me. Nonetheless,

here we all are on display, pacing back and forth

in our cages, waiting to be fed.

Chris Hanch 7-21-18

The Bug Man

A notice was attached to my apartment front door—

The bug man is coming to spray his pesticide today.

Make sure your pets are secured. The pesticide he

applies is pet-friendly that management’s memo

claims. And having been through this proceedure

before, I know that 6-months from now he shall

return once again, as the insect population will

surely continue to proliferate throughout the annals

of time. Any problems? he asks me as he sweeps his

lethal wand around the baseboards of my apartment.

Not really, I tell him. Oh, except for an occassional

water bug now and again. Uh huh, he replies with a

cursory smile on his way out the door. He, the bug

man, is routinely scheduled semi-annually to apply

his toxin around here, and I am somewhat confident,

that he shall continue spraying in all the dark corners

long after I am gone. And I’m willing to bet that those

pet-friendly waterbugs will continue to outlast anything

he’s got.

Chris Hanch 7-20-18

Lessons Learned

I was once too young to know how.

That’s what school is for mother, father,

and teachers told me. Will things be better,

will things I need come to me if I learn

my alphabet, learn my times tables,

memorize all the dates of history? Will

my life be better, will good things come

to me? Will I be recognized for knowing

what the sun means to Earth, what Earth

in turn provides me? What does war and

famine mean? Is there murder and justice

for a reason? When you tell me that an all

powerful God works in mysterious ways

does that mean everything eventually will

be okay? I have spent days, weeks waiting

for some answers. Will they come too

late? Where did grandpa go when he died?

Have I been told a lie? Will I go to hell

when I tell one too? Who am I, who are

you? Is this it? Is this how we learn to live

each day; is this how we learn to die?

Chris Hanch 7-19-18

Cost of Living

Why is it, I wonder, that old folks tend to talk

about the way things used to be? I, myself, see

no sense in bringing up the past. Young folks

today can’t relate anyway. So, I figure, what

in hell is the use? Ah, but in a moment when I do

feel the need to reminisce, I might talk about my

thrill as a child finding a nickle on the street. By

golly, back then, that would buy you a Snicker’s

Bar big enough to share with a friend. And in the

mid-1960s, I bought a 3-bedroom ranch with a

full basement, a fenced-in back yard and central

air. The mortgage payment was a whopping one

hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. And I

had a new car too, a ‘68 Chevy Nova costing me

only $2500 in totality. Why, today, it seems damn

near impossible for most folks to make ends meet,

especially if you happen to be supporting a family.

Take a pack of smokes for instance, I realize most

young folks don’t have that habit to support these

days. It’s a well-known fact that that noxious weed

is likely to shorten your life considerably. Why at

more than five-bucks a pack, and at a pack or two

a day, how are you going to afford that? Take me for

instance, I began smoking when I was twelve-years

old. Back then, Camels, Lucky Strikes, all the brand

names were only twenty-five cents a pack. Had we

known that the damn things would eventually send

us to an early grave, we may have figured, at least

we wouldn’t go broke getting there.

Chris Hanch 7-17-18

Saturday Every Day

Used to be I enjoyed Saturdays once a week.

In these my retirement days, seems Saturdays

are stretched across the calendar of my cognition

seven days a week. Each day I wake, I tell myself,

it’s Saturday again, and you, my friend, are free to

do any damned thing you please. No bosses or

corporate BS hanging over you, no sir. No

standing at attention, no saluting captains of

commerce or generals of industry. Seven days

in a row now are filled with a perpetual state of

standing leisurely at ease. The only thing which

fouls up the whole premise of the retirement

ideal is the persistent shadow of old age and its

encroaching limitations. That son-of-a-bitch keeps

a followin’ and a growin’ on me without release,

Saturday, every day, seven friggin’ days a week.

Chris Hanch 7-14-18

Waiting Game

How many hours, how many days

have been wasted waiting, waiting
in the crowded DMV for your number
to be called, waiting patiently for the

prized package to arrive from Amazon?
You have lost count yet still you stand
in line hoping there is a last ticket left
when you eventually reach the window.

Time, always biding your time, a frittering
away of the commodity which will never
return the same. You wait for the phone
call accepting your application for the job.

You wait for the girlfriend who always
arrives late. You laugh, scoff at your
past military days when the norm was,
hurry up and wait. You twirl your thumbs,

nervously twitch your leg while flipping
through the pages of year-old Time and
Newsweek magazines in bland and stuffy
waiting room. You waited for your blood

to be drawn, waited for the results of the
cat scan which was performed a weel ago.
On pins and needles in restless anticipation,
you wait. And then, your name is called by

the nurse who ushers you into the cold
and sterile examination room, one of five
or six lining the hallway. You are not the
first to be seen, more than likely not the

last either...just another useless move
you’ve made on the Chess Board of Life.
You know it’s coming, don’t you, the call—
Check Mate? And yet, hope against hope,

you still wait. You’ve already lost your queen
and two bishops, what are your chances?                                                                            You snicker defiantly. Win or lose, it’s all                                                                            just a waiting game anyway.

Chris Hanch 7-11-18

Trashed

Got a call from my daughter at 8:05 AM.

Sorry, she told me, I got to work and remembered

I was supposed to drop by your place on my way.

I’ve got a lot on my plate these days. Oh (I was

intrigued), what’s going on?

Then she began to give me the lowdown on her

present situation: I’ve got to drop by my mom’s

after work to mow her lawn, and take care of a

few other things. She just had surgery on her foot,

you know.

And I’ve a lot to do getting ready to sell our house

and move. Move, I asked, where are you going? Dave

and I have decided to minimize, find a smaller place

and rent for awhile. The housing market is good, and

now is the time to get the best price on our property.

We’ll be able to pay off all our bills and have enough

left for Dave’s retirement, and to travel while we still

can. And for the next few minutes she explained her

plans in detail to me.

Do you suppose when you’ve finished at your mom’s

you could come by? It is on your way home, and won’t

take very long. A few days earlier I had asked my daughter

if she could stop by my apartment and take out my trash.

The arthritis in my hip has gotten pretty bad, and the

dumpster is quite a ways across the property.

My son usually visits me once a week and takes care of

that for me, but he and his family are on vacation this week.

They’re exploring Minnesota in a rental SUV. You’d think a

little insignificant thing like taking out the trash would be

no big deal. But when you’re disabled, your daughter has a

lot on her plate, and your son is hundreds of miles away,

sitting at home alone looking all day long at two sacks of

rubbish can be an overwhelming and aggravating sight to

the eye. Why, it’s a damned shame, and near enough to

make a grown old man cry. If I were a younger and more

able person today, I’d go on a vacation, or when I felt like

it, move the hell away. In either case, I could take the god-

damn trash with me on my way out the door.

Chris Hanch 7-10-18