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