What Old Men Do

 

What does an old man do, disabled to a good extent,

retired from a fair degree of productivity? Well, I for

one review my past, renewed to me through photo-

graphs, writings and copies of my artwork I have man-

aged to create and save throughout the years.

Places I have been (which were many), people I have

known or strangers I have met along the way (so many

of those as well). Oils, pastels, pen and ink caricatures

and sketches, 3D construction pieces—enough to fill

several good-sized galleries or a modest museum.

Sometimes I am surprised when I come across a

piece I had forgotten completely. And then I get to

thinking about all those photos and artworks I

have given away, sold or lost over time to the myriad

moves I have made, items destroyed by flooded apart-

ments and fire.

And all the poetry, essays and stories, so many of those.

Who, even if gifted with photographic memory, could

ever hope to remember thousands of those? Ah, a life-

time of work to sift through and review.

And to think, most of it gone unseen by anyone. Much of

what I had done which is not recollected even by me. And

for what? One day, along with me, artifacts of the eye and

mind all to ashes and dust.

The Cosmos and life, neutrons of energy, each and every

breath are enigmatic bedfellows indeed.

This piece I wrote for posterity today--Poof!

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Chris Hanch 9-17-2020

What Made Him Tick

 

A bowl of Wheaties and Captain Kangaroo got him

going in the morning.

School for the most part was a murder mystery

in which he had been cast as the victim.

Puberty and pimples for him were the beginning

of the end.

He thought conformity was stupid, and eventually

learned there was more to life than being a nice guy.

He liked the uniform and regalia, but never saw killing

people as a reputable profession.

He saluted officers and hummed the National

Anthem anyway.

He loved liverwurst and beautiful women. Liverwurst

never was a disappointment.

He admired the wit and wisdom of Mark Twain and

the illustrative irony of Bill Mauldin.

He understood Picasso, Dali and Dylan.

Fatherhood to him was living his father’s failed life all

over again.

He polished the brass, but never could get it to shine.

His dad applied what he called elbow grease. For him

it only aggravated his crazy bone.

His belief system was based on the fantasies of his

elders who turned out to be misguided liars.

He learned about life and mortality by the dead and

dying all around him.

If there was heaven and eternal life, god would select

faithful dogs over duplicitous mankind to be by his side.

(That’s what Mark Twain implied.)

Bill Mauldin was “Up Front” and showed him the farcical

absurdities of war.

He was comforted by the taste of liverwurst, and the

cooing sounds of mourning doves in the late afternoon.

                                            -30-

Chris Hanch 9-17-2020

Who Can Say Anyway?

 

I have arrived at a time in my life when there are few

options left for my future, and mostly those will not

be offered up to me for choosing.

Being handicaped physically and not able to get around

very much on my own, the possibilities for me are limited.

For certain, I won’t be trying out for the team or training

for the Olympics or the Boston Marathon.

Of course there is home healthcare which is likely out

of my price range. Then there is the nursing home hell,

which to my thinking is no way to go. Of course death

is ever a looming possibility.

Presently, I am for letting life run its course. I’ve never

been a fan of making a bloody or grotesque mess out

of things.

Whatever is meant to be has to be acceptable to me.

In any case, some will say no matter what takes place,

“Oh, did you hear about Old What’s His Face? It certainly

is a shame.” That, however, won’t be said to illicit pity or

sorrow for me personally, but stated because that’s what

people say when they want to be nice and have nothing

better to say.

I say, whatever happens happens. What did you expect?

Suppose I got what was coming to me anyway. So, what is

there left for me to say? Whatever fate precedes me to my

grave, that and death are inevitable.

-30-

Chris hanch 9-15-2020

Obstacle Course

 

1965. Basic Training, US Army, Ft. Leonard

Wood, Missouri. Sloppy, rainy, nasty, day.

Me and other recruits crawling on our elbows,

knees and bellies through the mud, over rocks,

in helmet, fatigues, cradling a weighty M-14

semi-automatic weapon in our arms, inching

along under barbed wire with machine gun

fire, tracers blazing a few feet overhead. Got

to make it, can’t fake it, explosions blasting

side-to-side. All hell has broken loose. It’s

every man for himself. Not once, but twice,

during daylight and in the pitch dark of night.

The infamous and dreaded obstacle course

we had heard about from those who had gone

before. If this is a simulated battle, what in hell

could the future hold? Until remembering that

exercise 55-years ago, the mud, the muck, the

grinding of elbows and knees. I had almost for-

gotten how difficult it was getting here to where

I am today—going on 74, hobbled, curmudgeonly,

old and gray. Son-of-a-bitch, no wonder I feel

this way.

-30-

Chris Hanch 9-15-2020

Misplaced Delivery

 

It has happened to me several times.

I placed my book order with Amazon

and Prime delivered the package to

the apartment on the first floor above

me.

I’m in the subterranean # 1 apartment

below. The unit above me is #101 not

#1.

Now, I’ve never met the folks living in

apartment #101, and quite frankly I

don’t care to know them, for I cling

to my privacy and anonymity.

Besides, I consider them as dishonest.

They have likely kept those misdirected

Amazon deliveries which belonged

to me in the first place.

There are drawbacks to living an

innocuous and invisible life here on

Planet Earth.

Why, even folks I know on line,

Facebook Friends and All Poetry

people, have no real idea about

me and how I live.

What in hell does he I look like?

What pleases and disturbs him day

after day, anyway?

I post pretty pictures and pithy

poetry on line, but there is an

unkempt persona and piles of

dirty laundry which surround me.

Most don’t realize I hobble in pain,

bitch, grumble and complain with

each and every step I take.

Few know that I watch MSNBC,

curse Trump and his sycophants

and constituents most every breath

of my day.

I disgustingly slather my bologna

sandwhich for lunch with gobs of

mayonnaise.

I pick my nose with uncanny fre-

quency, and scratch in places no

one would care to see.

Oh, I’m perfectly fine with me, but

would be totally unacceptable in

polite society.

Is it any wonder that the Prime de-

livery guy or gal brings my packages

to the wrong apartment, #101 upstairs.

Those folks are likely more conforming

and acceptable to prim and proper social

mores than I could ever hope to be.

Enjoy my recent order with Amazon

when it arrives, folks. I hope Bukowski’s

reviling poetry and the aforementioned

imagery of me makes you puke.

                 -30-

Chris Hanch 9-14-2020

Story Telling

 

In my life I have had the pleasure of

knowing two guys who could tell a

good story, Dan and John.

Now, these two fellows didn’t know

each other, but they shared a similar

talent, they were naturals when it

came to the spoken word.

Unlike me and others who attempt to

convey a story in writing, Dan and John

could reel off tale after tale verbally

and keep your interest peaked as they

left you hanging on their every word.

And what’s more, they streamed their

lines flawlessly live and in person, with

perfect precision every time. They always

left you wanting for more. Natural story

tellers both.

I often wondered, had they ever met

personally, which one would outshine

the other. More than likely, they would

carry on simultaneously each uniquely

framed to the benefit and applause of

their audience.

Now I and many writers of my kind rely on

making frequent changes and corrections

in our work. We constantly rearrange, edit,

polish and rephrase words and lines in order

to make our stories more palatable.

We strive to make the written words flow

as if they were elequently spoken as Dan

and John do so fluently and naturally.

I would relate some of their work for you

here, but I could never do it justice. You

had to be there.

Mark Twain and Will Rogers would properly

be comperable, but they’re gone now too.

Believe them or not, Dan and John would

nevertheless always entertain with wild

and whimsical pages of their vivid imaginations.

                 -30-

Chris Hanch 9-12-2020

Coffee Cake

 

Got to thinking about walking home from

school when I was in fourth grade at Mary

Queen of Peace. It seemed like a long way,

I walked to and from each day.

Revisiting my old neighborhood as an adult,

I drove that route and calculated the distance

to be a little over a half-mile. Good daily ex-

ercise for a kid my age.

Sometimes when I got within viewing dis-

tance of my house, I’d see a yellow Ford

sedan parked out front. That was my Aunt

Margaret’s car. She would come to visit

Mom every couple of weeks.

Mom rarely got out. She told my brothers

and me that she had some sort of liver dis-

ease, and had no energy to go anywhere on

her own. So, she spent most of her days

at home.

Anyway, Aunt Margaret would drop by for

a visit now and again. I was always happy to

see her car when I was coming home from

school.

I liked Aunt Margaret. She was older than

my mom. She never got married, and had

no children, but she was a very nice lady.

She didn’t ignore my brothers and me

like most adults did. Always a smile and

questions about what we were up to.

Another thing I could count on, she would

always bring what Mom and she called a

coffee cake from Straub’s Grocery Store.

It wasn’t until I was older did I know why

they called it that.

I thought it was funny because each cake

was always different. Why did they call so

many kinds “coffee cake?” How did the

baker know which one you wanted if you

simply asked for a coffee cake? Needless

to say, I was confused.

But no matter, each cake Aunt Margaret

brought tasted good. And it was a real

treat for me to have something sweet to

eat after a long, boring day at school.

Now, Mom and Aunt Margaret have long

since passed away. And I got to thinking,

I haven’t had a good coffee cake in years.

I have also learned that coffee cakes come

in a variety of ways, but generally they are

served with coffee, hence the name, ”coffee

cake.”

Personally I’ve always preferred milk with my

cake. Either way, I’m sure any baker worth his

salt would think me crazy should I ask him for

his finest “milk cake.” No matter, I suppose,

most bakers probably couldn’t care less about

which one I ordered, or what I choose to drink

with my cake.

                       -30-

Chris Hanch 9-11-2020