The Job

1984, I needed a break, things as of late had not been

going my way—new city, recently divorced, indebted

to attorneys and the IRS, small cramped apartment I

could barely afford, crappy part-time job as a server

at El Torito Mexican Restaurant, funds running low.

I took a chance soliciting free lance illustration work

to a small ad agency just a few blocks away from my

place.

The art director, a young woman looked over my anemic

portfolio and something she saw apparently struck her

fancy, a couple of pen and inks.

Just so happened she had a client who needed a few

simple renderings for which my style of work were aptly

suited. She gave me the okay to proceed.

And in a couple of days I returned with the completed

drawings. She was pleased; I got paid, and everyone was

happy.

About a week later the owner of the agency called me

and asked if I would be interested in the art director’s

position? Seems that the young lady got another job

and he needed to fill the new vacancy immediately.

We set up an interview for the next day. We hit it off

nicely, and I got the job. And the pay was more than

satisfactory. I was able to start my new art director

job right away. (So long, El Torito, see you in hell.)

Now, I was an artist of modest talent, but had never

held a position of such responsibility as the new position

would require of me. Having seen the work I did for the

previous director, the owner of the agency though of me

as quite an exceptional find.

And I will admit, I considered myself as possibly good

enough, but secretly I figured I wasn’t nearly as good as

he thought I was. Anyway, I showed up to work the next

day in a clean shirt and tie.

                                                       -30-

Chris Hanch 6-22-2020

Poetic Relief

When younger and able, you’ll sit almost anywhere,

wooden benches, concrete walls, a bar stool, fences,

a street-side curb, a blanket in the park. Pull up a floor

and make yourself at home. When you’re nimble and

young, most anywhere is fine by you.

When you get old, though, and the knees and hips

give out, when you’ve turned into an aging, aching

grouch, you long to find a suitable place to sit your

sore ass in moderate comfort, preferably a pliable

cushioned spot which allows you to settle in, and

then permits you to rise again when you’re god-

damned good and ready.

You squirm a bit to find a perfect fit, one where

pain may not completely quit, but becomes a bit

more tolerable. And, that’s it, right there, a place

you and your discomfort can bear, for the time

being anyway.

Ah but when you reach a certain level of disrepair,

temporary relief is all you can hope for. Even the

comfort of the moment is bound to fade away.

And those persistent twinges of pain tend to inevitably

reappear.

It is those precious moments of relief you seek in the

painful stages of old age. One wrong move and son of

a bitch...Pain! Shift the ass a cautious bit to the left, then

a skosh to the right. Then aah, relief, albeit brief, sheer

poetic relief. And that fool Kilmer thought he should

never see a poem lovely as a tree. From where I sit

at the moment, that’s not how I see it.

                                   -30-

Chris Hanch 6-22-2020

Constipation of the Brain

There comes a day when there is nothing

new to say, words are addled, some a week

or month old and moldy.

Even chronic pain becomes repetitive and

mundane. How many ways can you describe

pain, anyway?

Using curse words helps some, but even they

can grow to be unfashionable and inconse-

quently so so.

Although I have never been confined to a

monastery or prison, I can imagine the same

faces, the same prayers and threats everyday.

Addled thoughts, the worn out words and

phrases I entertain today lack passion. That’s

it, today I am lacking goddamned passion.

There’s leftover meatloaf in the fridge. I love

meatloaf, but the idea of it again tonight lacks

passion and leaves me flat speechless.

Listening to Beethoven right now. I wonder how

many times I can rely on him to inspire and pull

me through this haze?

I think I’m losing it. Some days the same drives

me crazy insane. For now, figuratively speaking

that is.

                                            -30-

Chris Hanch 6-21-2020

Autobiographical Me

One of our final homework assignments in eighth

grade was to write an autobiography of our lives.

Sr. Anne Vincetta said that a good portion of our

English grade would depend upon it.

Although a tinge of excitement ran through me, I

was always hesitant when it came to putting pen

to paper except when it came to drawing, the only

subject in which I managed grade A s consistently.

Be that as it may, I tackled my assignment judiciously,

paying close attention to dotting my i s and crossing

my t s. It was a fairly good story with a basic timeline

chronology like date of birth, parents, siblings and so

forth.

Mostly, though, I wrote about my best friend, Larry,

and how we would ride our bikes down to the creek

and hunt for turtles and frogs. And the big snapper we

ran across one day who could snap sticks in half we

put in front of his face.

“What do you suppose would happen if you put your

finger up to his beak?” I asked my friend. “I’m no

fool,” Larry said to me.“You do it and we’ll see.”

“Uh uh, no way, Jose!”, I shot back at him.

Anyway, in my writing I explained how in winter we

would set up and run our electric trains. We would

take turns: one day my house and the Lionel; the next

day Larry’s place and his American Flyer. I strongly

favored the Lionel because it was my dad’s when he

was a kid.

Up to that juncture in my life (14-years, and only vaguely

remembering 9 or 10 of those), I had little more of inter-

est to say. Oh, there was the St. Louis Cardinals and Stan

the Man Musial. They would surely win the Pennant this

year.

The title of my autobiography was, This is Really Me. I

never mentioned what I wanted to be when I grew up. I

couldn’t see myself more than a week in the future. I

planned to take the bus to the Cardinals game on Sunday

after Mass.

I did get a B on my autobiography. Only missed dotting

a couple of i s, and as I recall, failed to cross one or

two t s. Hadn’t a clue as to which “Really Me” I’d

grow up to be. For that we'd all have to wait and see.

                                              -30-

Chris Hanch 6-20-2020

Strange

Strange,

you might be thinking,

going to a place where

half the poets are drunk

and crazy.

1988, a St. Louis,

working-class bar

in the heart of Soulard,

open mic night.

Strange,

because I went there

for inspiration,

myself newly sober.

Strange,

but at that time in

my life, it seemed

a perfect

exercise for me.

Strange,

to see how

useless it all was,

the useless reality

of the me I had

recently left behind.

Strange,

but inspiring

to see and hear

the insanity

of intoxicated mankind

reciting, the slobbering,

stammering

and mangling

of thoughts

and words.

Strange,

among them

the serious and

sober poets as well.

Some good, some

not so much,

and not one of them

including me

half as interesting.

Strange indeed,

I suppose,

my take away lesson

learned in poetry.

-30-

Chris Hanch 6-19-2020

A State of Mind

I often wonder, I have these thoughts

of what you or they must be thinking?

When this happens, I reconsider that

What I am thinking may not be what

you have in mind at all.

My thoughts of you are my thoughts,

and so often I am wrong. Why are you

angry or upset with me? I can say or

do some foolish things.

I’m frustrated with myself and so then

I figure you must be too. I am not a

clairvoyant or mind reader, though

all too often I imagine that I am.

So, if I should ask you if your thoughts

of me aggravate, whether you choose

to explain or simply turn and walk the

other way, I will certainly understand.

Should you tell me it’s not I but you,

then I am satisfied that you may have

the same problem as I do.

Punch me in the face or curse vocifer-

ously at me and prove me right. I

figured I was anyway. At least I thought

I was.

For you and me at least I find, it’s all a

state of mind.

                         -30-

Chris Hanch 6-18-2020

Drive Time Anonymity

As you get into your car today

and shield yourself in the steal

mobility of anonymity, as you

turn the key, guide the shifter

into drive, as you look both

ways at the end of the driveway,

as you take a deep breath and

step on the gas to make your

way through the city streets

and onto the Interstate, music

and news playing on the radio,

realize there are folks who

don’t drive through the hustle

bustle of rush hour speeding

toward work, appointment

and play, folks who shall

remain home bound in their

own personal anonymity,

folks like me whose face

will hopefully never again

be speeding past you to

cut you off and piss you off

to ruin your day. Call in sick

and avoid the uncivilized

malaise, the crisscrossed

confusion, the mental con-

tusion which on any given

day is bound to happen. I

shall be thinking of you,

the faceless and forewarned.

                -30-

Chris Hanch 6-18-2020