Junkyard Sunday

Today is like a rat’s ass,

I’m thinking,

like a Junk Yard Sunday

where old cars

are stripped for

spare parts

then crushed and

melted down

into a Second Coming.

Now that’s ressurection,

I say.

But that

sort of knowledge

doesn’t help much.

So what? I can name the nine

planets which by scientific vote

have been reduced to eight.

Pluto was demoted to dwarf status,

you know. Bastards!

A lot of good that does me.

I wasn’t planning a visit there

in my lifetime anyway.

I know what you must be

thinking, why is today like

a rat’s ass or a Junk Yard Sunday?

And what would

Pluto have to do with anyting

I might have to say?

Well, look around you, man,

the universe

is one big, humongous place.

We can’t possibly

cover it all in one fell swoop,

but at least it’s

a start.

Bird feathers flip-flopping

in place, and bear scat piled high

in the Halls of Justice.

Noonday Heebie Jeebies

happens to be

the flavor of

the month. Deal with it!

Algorithms got me here,

and here I’ll stay. It’s all

bullshit anyway.

Okay, it’s your turn.

Knock, knock, who’s there?

Chris Hanch 6-17-19

Something About Opulence

I was amazed some people could live in such

an opulent way. I was invited to the party only

because I worked for the man who owned the

company, not directly, mind you, for there were

a dozen or so supervisors and managers in be-

tween him and me. All were in attendance at

the holiday party that evening. Oh the opulence

I tell you, from the great room with the polished

Chippendale antiques, from the Waterford crystal

to the uniformed butlers and maids serving cock-

tails and hors d’oeuvres. A canapé? Yes please, I’ll

have one of those. Everyone in attendance was

dressed to the nines, and I was humbly attired in

my thrift store jacket and Walmart shirt and tie.

One day, should I excel in my line of work, climbing

the corporate ladder financially, perhaps having

introduced an innovative product or design which

sets the world on fire, I may be hosting a soiree in

a grand and ostentatious manner with esteemed

elegance such as this. Ah, but for now, one more

cocktail for the road, then I must go, smugly smiling,

though, carrying my pipe dreams of fantasy with me.

And while backing my old Nova out of the semicircu-

lar drive, I accidemtally hit a fire hydrant on the street,

putting quite a noticeable dent in the rear bumper

which until this day I never managed to replace. Had

I been more affluent at the time, I may have been

chauffeur-driven in a Lincoln Continental limousine.

Jeeves, my good man, take the car to the shop in the

morning and have them put the repairs on my account.

Folks who know me to this day would say, Chris, that

life style doesn't sound like the you we have come to

know. You’re more the type who would wear a grease

stained apron, who serves hot dogs, hamburgers and

beer in the backyard. By the way, how many years have

you had that Nova with the bashed-in bumper, anyway?

Chris Hanch 6-16-19

From Where I Used to Be

When I was younger, about thirteen, it was a

glorious thing to be sitting high in a neighbor-

hood tree smoking cigarettes with my friend,

Ronnie. It was cool being a Cardinal fan back

then cheering on Stan the Man when he hit a

home run in the ninth inning to win the game.

I could imagine being Huckleberry Finn floating

down the Mississippi with old black Jim. Not a

care in the world. Forget about crappy school.

The hell with mom and dad’s fighting all the

time. I was where I wanted to be in a place of

my own pretending for a time that nothing in

the world could bother me. A tall tree, a fresh

pack of Lucky Strikes, and a good friend out

on a limb, safe and secure above it all was 

okay by me. Looks like the Cardinals may win

the pennant this year. I’m going to catch the

Manchester 56 down to Busch Stadium this

Sunday, Ronnie. You want to come along? A

transfer to the Grand Bus is only a nickle more.

Hell, cash in a few soda bottles and we’ll have it

made. There’s usually a bunch of them along the

railroad tracks. Let’s go find some. Huckleberry

Finn and Jim, they got nothin’ on you and me.

Chris Hanch 6-15-19

The Hockey Game

Players skate in zig-zag formation, home team and

visitors on their respective sides of the ice. Lights flash

and wild music blares. The announcer asks the spectators

to stand and remove their hats for the presentation of the

Colors and singing of Our National Anthem. The fat man

with stubby arms and an Italian last name sings: “Oh say

can you see...Land of the free and home of the Brave.”

And the raucous crowd goes wild. Over the PA system,

the announcer names the visiting team starters, mostly

from Canada and Russia as booing erupts from the spec-

tators. Then, the home team, again, some from Canada,

a goal keeper from Finland and a few native of the US.

And wild cheers from the 18,000 spectators in the stands.

St. Louis vs Boston for Ice Hockey’s coveted Stanley Cup,

7^th and final game. And from there, sweeping, slashing,

crashing and careening up against the boards. The forwards

charge, the goaltenders guard as the defense charge, slam

and defend. I watch the game play out from home on the TV.

And after three periods, the clock runs out, and a buzzer

sounds the end. Blues win over the Bruins, 4 goals to 1.

Even in my youth and on my best day, I never could skate.

Weak ankles, you see. Badminton was more my speed.

Unlike a puck, the birdie never caused serious injury. And

on ice, even without skates, I manage to fall on my ass.

And too in Badminton, a net always separates the opponents.

Chris Hanch 6-14-19

Another Day, Hopefully the Same

When I awoke today, I had no intention

of cleaning my place. My feet hit the floor,
and I slip on the same shirt I wore yester-
day, and yes, the day before. Dogs out

first then coffee, a must routine for me.
Some days, in fact most of these, routine
is the only steady stream of contentment
and calm I have come to rely upon and see

me through. From here, where shall I go,
from the accumulation of dust and com-
forting aroma of shirt I wear, what on
Earth shall become of me? I figure by

retracing my routine, at least for another
day, I shall remain the same man I was
yesterday. And as for tomorrow, well my
dear friends, that remains to be seen. But

not by you or anyone else, only by me.
Should there be any new developments,
rest assured, you will be among the first
or the last to know. Hopefully today, no

fires, no wind, no torrential rain. Watch                                                                                    this space. A clean shirt hangs in the closet
just in case.

Chris Hanch 6-13-19

Something About Poetry

I read from many poets, and unlike me,

these famous bards are widely regarded

in their fields, whose works appear in

magazines and published anthologies.

I find that personally for me, much of that

which they have written, much of that which

they have said remains a mystery and makes

little or no sense to me. And should I ever

have the opportunity to ask them about it,

I’m fairly sure they would likely say, that’s

the way it is supposed to be. Imagery, my

boy, it’s all about the imagery! And then

comes my Ah Ha Moment—You mean,

after all is said and done, with all the obtuse

and nonsensical verbiage I can muster, per-

haps there is still some hope for me? You,

dear reader, shall find that I use “all” here

mostly as a noun. As an adjective, it appears

only occasionally. Imagine that. Now, take

for instance, one who flew over the cuckoo's

nest...I know that’s not a poem, but to insert it

into this one without rhyme or reason, why that’s
just plain crazy. Rest assured, see it here first,

and published nowhere else on Planet Earth.

Chris Hanch 6-12-19

Passing Judgement

Passing Judgement

Some Believers are willing to judge, separating

those considered worthy of the glory of Heaven,

and those meant inevitably for the fires of Hell.

There is an old axiom by Mark Twain: Heaven 

goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay

out and your dog would go in.

I, for one, subscribe to that profound notion.

Being a nonbeliever in the hereafter, I discount

both the golden or brimstone methods.

I tend to rely upon the tried and true formula

available to me: I’ll let my dog decide whether

to lick your face or bite you in the ass.

It’s all about the numbers, you see. I give it a

95% confidence interval with a 4 percent margin

of error.

Chris Hanch