They, if Not Them, Who Then?

Why did they bob the bull dog’s tail?

Why did they braid the horses mane?

Why do they raise their pinky finger

each time they sip from a cup or glass?

Why did they decide to run the marathon

or launch the country into war? It was

they who raised the taxes, they who voted

to take your healthcare away. It was they

in the majority who decided to do what

they did. They say we must chose to use

the most appropriate pronoun which applies.

One day shall they become one alongside

you and me? It is they who are questionable,

you see, they whom you simply refuse to

believe. Is it a generality, they, a catch-all

for the other we chose to use? Are they the

ones responsible for doing that which you

and I have either refused or are unable to do?

When the finger is pointed in our direction,

it will be they who shall blame us for the

mischief and malfeasance. In the interest

of uniformity, it has been determined more

specifically, one day they shall become one

with you and me. Can’t you see, it’s a matter

of objective relativity? They, they, they, you

and I and they—We are all the same—Ashes

to ashes, you know. There is no other way.

Chris Hanch 8-31-18

A Flash in Time, You and I

Lightning dances across the morning sky, and

a question emblazons the mind, who are you,

who am I? Here we are, there we go, not out

of the ordinary we’re told—the split-second

streaming, a flash of light pierces the eye—this

brief yet electrifying moment in time. Have you

seen the brilliance, heard the roar of thunder?

Here we are. Close your eyes, now we’re gone.

Chris Hanch 8-30-18

A Flash in Time, You and I

Lightning dances across the morning sky, and

a question streaks across the mind, who are you,

who am I? Here we are, there we go, not out

of the ordinary we’re told—the split-second

streaming, a flash of light passing the eye—this

brief yet electrifying moment in time. Have you

seen the brilliance, heard the roar of thunder?

Here we are. Close your eyes, now we’re gone.

Chris Hanch 8-30-18

A Story to Tell

Should I tell you how I got here,

more than likely you would say,

Oh, that ain’t nothin’ I’ve got a

hell of a story to tell you. And,

I would probably agree that you

do. But let me begin by saying

my trip was as slick as sailin’

down I-70 on a Sunday afternoon

in June. No traffic, not a vehicle

4-wheeled or more to be seen

headed East or West. Slicker than

snot on a brass door knob, I tell

you, the likes of which you may

have never seen in your entire

lifetime before. Now, go on ahead.

It’s your turn. Give me all you got.

Must be a powerful story too. I can

plainly see you must‘ ve been run

over lots of times on the highway

you took gettin’ here.

Now, I’m no beauty to look at. With

that most folks will surely agree.

But to you, my friend, I extend my

sincerest sympathy.

Chris Hanch 8-29-18

Infantile Memories

Have you ever had anyone, a good friend

or a relative perhaps, ask you what was

the first thing you remember as a child?

Was it your mother’s smile, or perhaps

the time your father embraced and kissed

her in the kitchen as you recall? You may

have been two or three at the time. How

can you separate a dream you may have

had back then from reality? Had your

very first image in childhood been pre-

verbal more than likely, for lack of the

words to describe, you may have not

retained the image in you mind. As an

example, I recall being handed a Teddy

Bear, brown and fuzzy. And I had a cow-

boy hat I loved to wear. It was red with

a gold-braided chin strap. Had these been

memories of mine before I had the words

to describe them, I may have hugged the

hat and slept with it in bed. I could have

put the Teddy Bear on my head believing

(speechlessly of course) I was the baddest

hombre West of the Mississippi. That’s

just too silly, I must admit. However, I do

know this for certain, I was way too young

back then to have been a successful stand

up comedian. Perhaps with these weird and

twisted images of mine, being a mime seems

a far more fitting profession for me at the time.

Chris Hanch 8-28-18

Merely a Matter of Age, Who Can Say?

A few months ago Anthony Bourdain passed away.

He was sixty-three. This week, John McCain died.

He was eighty-two. All my adult life I have admired

many for whom I had a certain affinity. And age was

rarely a requisite for my consideration: Good folks

die regardless of age. Take Jesus, Martin, John and

Bobby to name but a few. Now, take me for instance.

Approaching my seventy-second year in life, I have

exceeded the criteria for being one of those who

would have purportedly died before their time. I’ve

often told myself that if I, like Mark Twain (whom

I have admired most of my life), could manage to

make it to the estimable age of seventy-five, plus or

minus a year or two, that would be just fine with me.

Other than taking this issue into my own hands, which

some have chosen to do, I’ll just sit back and relax,

chill-out one could say, letting the chips fall where

they may. What in hell, I have often wondered, do

chips have to do with it, anyway? As I see it, my

betting days were over years ago.

Chris Hanch 8-27-18

Movement

There is movement. It can be felt in the

fiber of all things. Realize, it must go on.

Movement is growing in the dog’s hair.

Movement is in trees, in each blade of grass.

Stones even cannot stay motionless for long.

Earth moves as each plate rumbles beneath

the feet. Pittsburgh is now where yesterday

Singapore used to be. Clouds move to disappear

then regenerate elsewhere to repeat over and over

again. As a symphony moves music in and out of

the ear, tears of sorrow and joy continue to fall.

Movement is present here, there, everywhere.

Hush, be still, be perfectly still...Can you hear it?

That’s the whooshing whisper as the seconds slip

away, as in the sea of darkness the world spins

round. The rush of time is passing by, my friends.

It cannot be stopped; move along.

Chris Hanch 8-25-18

A Case for Either Or

Either it is or it isn’t. Either you can

or you cannot. It is up to you to find

an acceptable solution or pass.

Long before Plato and Galileo, before

Newton, Freud and Einstein gave us

avenues leading to the answers, we

created the gods to whom we would

subscribe, and by whom we without

question would faithfully abide.

Then, we are free to walk away, to

deny our own ignorance or culpability.

Something created from nothing is a con-

venient excuse to explain the unexplained.

For that which I personally have no

answer, my friend (and believe me, that

accounts for a hell of a lot), I would

humbly offer, either it is or it isn’t.

All I know at this time is that I am unable.

However, should I have a change of heart

or some revelatory enlightenment of the

mind, rest assured, you shall be the first

to know.

Otherwise, let’s consider the matter entirely
in the hands of God. All knowing and omni-
potent, either He or She shall most certainly
figure the whole thing out.

Chris Hanch 8-24-18

Slow Boil

Here I am, and there you are. And,

let’s face it, no one really gives a damn.

Trade places and who would notice

anyway? With or without you and me,

life would pretty much go on the same.

Most days are like tofu, tasteless filler

in its raw and unembellished state. We

are like those live crabs in a pot of water

brought slowly to a boil. The killing heat

comes incrementally in degrees, and

before they know it, they’re cooked. Why,

just the other day, I got to thinking about

my grandkids, two of whom are just a

year or so away from college graduation.

Somewhere along the way their inch by

inch progression took place as my attention

was preoccupied looking the other way.

And before you know it, I got to thinking,

marriages more than likely, then babies on

the way. Good Lord, I could become a great

grandfather should I withstand the growing

vicissitudes of old age. (I can relate to those

poor damned crabs—once netted, they never

stood a chance anyway.)

Of course, there’s always the possibility of that

illustrious great-grandfather degree being

bestowed upon me posthumously.

 

Chris Hanch 8-23-18

Food for Thought

Something plain and simple today—

Folks, we are all here together

hopelessly lost in space, gravitationally

bound by this earthly mass which in

turn spins in compliance with the in-

controvertible laws of physics, wibbly-

wobbly on its axis annually round the sun.

And you were thinking Mt. Rushmore was

amazing. Give it a moment to sink in...

Eat shit, Donald Trump!

Chris Hanch 8-22-18

Please, Tell Me Why?

Why? Why? Why? Oh, please tell me,

why did I awaken this morning with such

a torrential downpour pounding my brain?

I found myself singing both backup and the

lead...Whoa...whoa...whoa...whoa...whoa..

whoa-whoa...whoa...whoa...LA is a great

big freeway...put a hundred down and buy

a car...Do you know the way to San Jose?

Dionne Warwick repeats and repeats lyrically,

musically the same. Good Lord, I can’t stop.

I think I’ll go insane. What in this day and

age has taken me back to 1968. Whoa…

whoa...whoa...I can’t explain. Why oh why,

please tell me why am I so musically pre-

occupied? I beg, I plead of you, Rhianna,

please save me from the steady rain. Extend

your umbrella of relief over me, your umbrella…

ella...ella...ella...eh...eh...eh...ella...ella…

ella...eh...eh...eh...I never meant to cause you

any sorrow, I never meant to cause you any pain,
I only wanted to one time to see you laughing, I

only wanted to see you laughing in the purple

rain...Oh, Crap!

Chris Hanch 8-21-18

An Aging Place to Be

Some will claim with old age comes wisdom.

Having reached that unholy status, I would

fervently disagree. Old age merely takes away

that which one no longer needs. Some will

say, look at him, that old guy over there in his

chair. He’s happy as can be without a care or

worry in the world. He has finally been relieved

of all carnal desire and fiscal responsibility.

No need for a job to support a fancy car, a lavish

home or some pretty young creature languishing

by his side. He’s free, by god, free! to lounge around

leisurely in worn out and stinky pajamas watching

TV all day long should he please. He has truly

achieved his independence, his heavenly Nirvana

here on Earth. Actually, if and when you should

get here to this stage in life where I have distinct

the misfortune to be—I’m stuck in this position.

Are you blind, can’t you see? Now, shut the hell

up and give me a hand. And hurry it up, damn it,

you son-of-a-bitch! I’ve got to go pee!

Chris Hanch 8-20-18

A Bright Future, Indeed

Ever been told, you’ve got a bright future

ahead of you? When I was a young man

I was told that from time-to-time by older

folks mostly. My piers would never claim

such a thing for they secretly believed a

bright future was reserved exclusively for

them. What would a bright future look

like anyway, I had to ask myself? I certainly

was not born into good looks, and so it was

more than likely I would not grow more

handsome as time went on. And as for

position, stature and wealth, well my

familial lineage, my lack of education and a

degree would certainly be working against

me. A bright future...what in hell was that

supposed to mean? I had my inherent genetic

deficiencies, and had been frequently accused

as being incorrigible, stubborn, lazy with a

profound streak of sarcastic obstinance in me.

As I grew older and wiser in life’s experience, I

began to see that a bright future for me meant

awakening now and again with a goddamned

Weather Channel forecast for a mostly bright

and sunny day. And of course that was by and

large dependent on the area of the country I

happened to reside in at the time. A bright

future indeed. Shit! On any given day, it doesn’t

take a bloody genius to see that there’s always

a fifty-fifty chance of that.

Chris Hanch 8-19-18

Said and Done

9:44 in the morning. I have done

what I usually do to get me headed

into my day—coffee, well into the

second cup; dogs leashed and out

to poop and pee; classical music

tuned in to further stimulate me

(nothing like Vivaldi to get the

juices flowing). Read another man’s

poetry, and begin to write with a few

thoughtful lines of my own. Crap,

no good! This one is going nowhere.

Begin again. Nada, zilch, another

literary Hindenburg burst into flames…

Oh, the humanity! 10:00 AM. I’d bet

Whitman and Frost had a few false

starts in their time. And look where

they are today. Could be I’m already

there, the last man standing, having

already said what needed saying without

a damned thing else left to say.

Chris Hanch 8-18-18

Cats and Dogs

In the last few pages of his book, the

poet I am reading writes about cats

with whom he has shared his home

over time.

One had its back broken when it

was run over by a car, but managed

to somehow survive.

Another was nearly toothless and

could barely see, yet continued to

retain its imperial state of being.

Still another had been neutered and

declawed, but instinctively had fight

and superiority left in him to exercise.

Cats never give up. That’s why we

bestow upon them their legendary

9-lives decree.

The old poet himself had seen better

days. There was hope, though, sad

and forlorn as it seems, that he too

could go on to survive yet another day.

He said of his cats: they may complain

but never worry. They walk (or crawl)

with a surprising dignity. They sleep

with a direct simplicity that humans

just can’t understand. When I’m feeling

low (he continues), all I have to do is

watch my cats and my courage returns.

Now, I too have descended into the dark

and cavernous depthds of old age. All

my life, however, I have been a dog person.

And, as with my canine companions, I find

myself more reliant a docile and reassuring

daily routine rather than a brazen hissing

and clawing tenacity.

I have come to realize that it is more than

likely too late or virtually impossible for me

at this point in time to make significant

changes in my unwavering ways.

There is a touch of crusty defiance which

has settled over me nonetheless. For over

forty years now, I have remained steadfast

in my refusal to shave.

And all the dogs who have lived with me

in their lifetimes have never recognized

me any other way.

Chris Hanch 8-17-18

Crime and Punishment

All along the way, and up until today

my brain has purged itself of all that

which is now irrelevantly useless to me.

Good on you, one could say. Mostly,

I have a clear conscience which I carry

around with me most days. Well, on

occasion I still harbor a few regrets, but

all the misdeeds for which I freely admit

a personal responsibility, I can say those

were perpetrated by another me who no

longer has skin in the game. Besides,

the statute of limitations for my crimes

and misdemeanors has expired. I drove

home drunk one day, was never stopped

by the cops, was neither fined, jailed nor

otherwise made to pay. I did, however,

suffer miserably with a hangover next day.

I suppose punishment can be meted out

in a myriad of ways. Then, I do recall Otis

Manchester’s birthday party I attended

when I was ten. His mother blindfolded

me playing Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey.

After spinning me around several times

she asked me if I could see? I said, no

Ma’am, I can’t. (That was an outright lie.)

Hands outstretched, I pinned that paper

tail square on the donkey’s ass. One of

the kid’s yelled out, Not Fair, he cheated;

he could see! I lied again, No, I did not!

I swore to God, and I got the prize. I figure

that’s why today, in my seventy-first year

here on Earth, I suffer from severe pain

in my hips from arthritis. A sign of being

served my just desserts, I suppose. The

Almighty can forgive a pitiful drunk,

but a liar and cheat he (or she) simply

cannot abide. Now, here’s the pathetic

part—I don’t even remember what in hell

the prize was at the time. Talk about working

in mysterious ways.

Chris Hanch 8-16-17

The Dating Game

I watch the dating site commercial on TV. These

days, so many folks are wanting to date and find

a mate electronically. I am old and worn, and

although these 60-second spots are amusing to

watch, this media for matching the needy is not

for me. Who in the world would find a toothless,

unkempt curmudgeon such as I have grown to be

as either attractive or appealing? My better dating

and mating days have long since been relegated

to the trash heap of unwritten history. I am no

longer a wan-na-be, but a crusty and dribbling

old use-ta-be. However, on occasion I still do

respond to certain stimuli instinctively—The young

woman featured on Match.com who implores pro-

spective seekers to, “Come find me!” has enticing

eyes and a beguiling smile to be sure. But in my time,

I have met her type a hundred times before. In a

crude but sagacious l way, I am grateful that I have

seen my best and worst days in the topsy-turvey

dating and mating game. Someone out there is

bound to find that young lady, though. And should you

be tempted to reply on line, heed this warning, my

friend—steer clear and for god’s sake, stay away.

Years ago, I believe I may have dated this aluring

creature before. It’s truly amazing what they can do

with CGI, a little makeup and plastic surgery these days.

Chris Hanch 8-15-18

World of Dreams

Would you believe that a mere twig

thin as a gnat’s hair is the only thing

keeping the sky from crashing into

the Earth?

Would you believe that fire ants at

their annual convention in Price, Utah

voted unanimously to rebel against

all mankind?

Would you believe the color blue is

fooling you into thinking green is a

communist conspiracy bent on con-

quering the European Union?

Look around you, things are not as

they appear to be. Even your life has

turned out to be make believe. Wake

up from the dream, my friend…

You’re finished—the end.

You were given a name so that one

day you could be crossed off the list.

Your heart is nothing but a forest fire

of unquenchable desire.

You happen to be a smoldering California

with nothing left to burn. Would you believe?

Of course not. After all, who in their right

mind would believe you after all you’ve

been though?

I, myself, had one hell of time, wasted an

entire hour this morning just dreaming up
this shit. Would you believe I’ ll be given an

ounce of credit for that?

Chris Hanch 8-14-18

Little Things Happen

When I was seventeen little things

happened to me. There was this

Vietnam thing going on which I

knew nothing about. Why should

I care about stuff happening half

a world away?

Kennedy was assassinated in

Dallas last year, and although

that shocked and saddened

me, nothing in my hometown,

St. Louis, seemed particularly

out of the ordinary.

The Ozark Theater continued to

show movies. The Tasty Freeze

down the street kept dispensing

soft-serve ice cream. Church bells

at Holy Redeemer rang true and

on time every Sunday morning.

The same old shit kept happening

on any given day which bored the

living hell out of me.

The pack of Lucky Strikes tucked

into my socks, and free bourbon

and Coke at Dennis McGuire’s

house on Friday night kept me

from going ape-shit with the ho-

hum doldrums of my teenage

routine.

When mom and dad split-up a

couple of years ago, that was it,

the last straw for me.

I swore to never trust or believe

in anyone older than me—

especially that knuckle-headed

counselor at high school who

called me into his office to inform

me that I would not be a senior

that year. And that I would have

to take my junior year over again.

That’s bullshit, I told him. I won’t

do it. You can’t make me. Oh yes,

you will, he demanded firmly. Due

to failing unacceptable grades,

you will repeat.

That’s when I stood up abruptly

on my own two feet and flipped

that numb-nutted counselor the

Bird as I turned and stormed out

of school never again to return.

A few months later I joined the

Army. Funny how one spontaneous

gesture and a few select defiant

words today seem so petty and trite.

But actually, it was a little thing

such as that which forever changed

the world for me.

Over time, however, I did learn

more about Vietnam. Somehow

from then on, I managed to kept

my big mouth shut and my fingers

clasped firmly behind my back.

And fortunately for me, rather

than a treacherous tour in Viet-

nam or a stretch in the brig,

Uncle Sam sent me overseas

to Germany instead.

The stout German beer over there
seemed to help for awhile.

Chris Hanch 8-13-18