Sweat-drenched, once again,
her body became
the rain to the bed,
her sudden nightly windshield.
Engine starting,
she stretched to rise,
holding her racing head,
shifting into
her fake-tan,
fake-nail,
fake-face role
with vehicles, run sheets, and chauffeurs,
and she was never anything more
than a stuck car door,
and she was never anything more
than a stay-at-home groupie.
Fifteen, going on twenty-seven,
she arranged rides
for businessmen and stars,
making sure the drivers
remembered the ice,
watching her pager
vibrate and flash,
later collecting backstage cash,
shaking hands with managers,
when they had no idea
that Mom was her ride that day,
when she nodded, frowned,
and made a note of it
when the man in shades,
the big-toothed contact,
mentioned that one car
didn't have the right juice.
C.A. MacConnell
4/14/2021
Limousine Girl, 1989
4/13/2021
4/12/2021
The Good Knives
Was talking with a friend the other day, laughing about scenarios like this, and I was reminded of this funny little essay...hope you smile. Love, C.A.
The Good Knives
When I was little, there were these weird people called "traveling salesmen" who appeared every now and again in the neighborhood. Now, of course they're long gone, but back in the day, we'd let any old Scott or Tim or possible murderer into our house. Encyclopedia Britannica? Mom and Dad bought the whole set. Tupperware? Bring it on. We didn't even discriminate against the guy selling Cutco Knives. That's right -- he was selling knives, and one night, Mom opened the door for him like he was her best friend. Soon, I think he was.
Hunched in a corner of the den, I watched the transaction go down. I always thought it was fun when something interrupted dinner.
The salesman laid out the butcher knives, the steak knives, the machetes, the swords, and the various types of scissors. I'm sure there were some nun-chucks, axes, daggers, and crossbows in his bag.
Mom listened intently as he described their possible cutting, dicing, and slicing techniques.
Wide-eyed, I thought, What do we need more knives for? But the salesman wore a suit, and he smelled like Polo cologne, so I figured he was the real deal.
Then the salesman pulled out the Cutco scissors. He began to demonstrate how the scissors were so sharp, they could cut a penny in half. And they could -- that serrated edge cut right through any old penny.
Mom shouted at Dad, "Honey, come look at this! These scissors cut a penny!" Then to me, "Can you believe this?"
"I can't believe it, Mom. Never saw anything cut a penny in half!" I yelled, agreeing wholeheartedly.
With his skeptical face on, Dad slid into the room. "What's this racket all about?"
Smiling like a wild clown, the salesman did another demo of the penny cutting.
Dad gasped. "Never saw that before! Unbelievable. Those things cut a penny right in half! Where's Matt? Get him in here."
Matt, my brother, wasn't around, so I was the sole recipient of the day's magic, and I admit that I was pleased about it.
Mom promptly purchased the scissors, and then she added about five knives on to her bill. She seemed excited, maybe even sweaty.
The salesman seemed excited, maybe even sweaty.
But as the salesman was leaving, reality set in, and a horrible thought about the scissors occurred to me. I waited a few minutes until Dad was gone, and then I tentatively asked Mom this very pointed question: "Why and when would anyone ever need to cut a penny in half?"
Holding her knife set, Mom scrunched her eyebrows, shrugged, and whispered, "You never know." Then she looked around, and I could tell she was listening for Dad's footsteps above her. We did that all the time -- just stared up at the ceiling to make sure he was up there. Then Mom chuckled and winked, whispering, "At least I finally got my good knives."
C.A. MacConnell
4/11/2021
Church
Church
I see your face
in the faces of strangers –
in the quick lip licks,
in the thin-legged stride
that leans right,
hips tilting
with sudden sweeping.
I see your face
in the teeth
tearing through lettuce,
in the church drunk
fresh from detox;
he shudders and hovers
kitchen-counter-style.
I see your face
in the picnic table
bad man, who watches
the ladies, carving into knots,
tugging the tangled leashes
on his hound dog,
and the mutt.
I see you inside
the jerky walk
of the wedding photographer,
the squint of the close-up shot,
and the nervous groom’s
flute lip.
You must be behind
the blue wristwatch glass,
keeping time zones straight,
holding a half-cracked
lollipop.
C.A. MacConnell
4/10/2021
4/06/2021
4/05/2021
No Name and the Neighbor
A piece I've been working on. A prose poem. Hope you like it. :) Kinda spooky. Alas, I can be spooky <3, C.A.
No Name and the Neighbor
Famous net photos seem inviting. In the lull, in the slight burn
of the space heater, in the silence of a half-empty, rented room,
No Name misses no one. Morning, Mom reminds him to swallow
one tablespoon of apple cider vinegar. Yes, before him, random,
filtered snapshots. Trapped in a lofty, 46-year-old frame, thumb
and pointer fingers greasy from canola oil, how he wants to erase
twenty years, crash-study psychology, and listen to win. Surely,
guitar leaked into his genes at three. No, a drumkit, and a crowd,
and various pretties. Yes, there was the cooking era, but the head
of his spatula came loose. Next came drag racing, but he always
choked on the turn. All his life, he’s longed to be king. Followers,
the…one…great…award. No Name could never take care of Julia.
Black tool box, loaded garage, and all, he hammered. The takeout
dinners were never normal. Yes, he tried to last through the night.
Tied himself to the bed once, but in sleep, the knots came loose.
All around, many are fat, but he’s…bingo…at his summer weight.
Off and on, he lost his sanity this year. Off and on, eating crushed
ice, he gained it back. No, there is no animal. Julia got the pit bull.
But somewhere, hungry bears fish, slapping cool water, dealing
with near-misses. Yes, inmates wear whatever blues. For cellies,
many days are inside out. If they’re lucky, the hot plate burns red,
and they score Ramen at the canteen. Downtown, rat-faced Dougie,
the born-again ink slave, swears he’ll cover up No Name’s bad tats
for less than spaghetti. If he becomes a clean-skinned millionaire,
will he end up like Mom – closet-crouched down with one ill-fitting
shoe? Famous net photos. Yeah, inviting. A balloon-lipped, skin-
and-bones, local girl. All his life, No Name has longed for fans,
a willing crowd at the supermarket. As the pandemic’s filthy hand
lingers – nose to mouth – whether or not he wears his American
flag gaiter, maybe tonight, he’ll find the bony girl’s close address,
unpack his rotating crackers, wash his hands thoroughly, rise up,
and kill the neighbor.
-- C.A. MacConnell