Practice pad

For a while, I thought it was cool to publish my own work on Blogspot, a platform that Google acquired and renamed Blogger. But I think they stopped supporting Blogger. To them, the blog is dead. Maybe it's on life support. Anyway, I had fun putting things up here from time to time. Now, Medium is cool. It's where the people are anyway, so I'm migrating to Medium. It will probably be around longer unless they charge, which they sort of are already. That makes sense. But I have a free membership, which is what I liked about Blogspot to begin with.

Find me here
https://medium.com/@carsonksmith

ESTATE SALE

You will not need your show posters,

Those CDs and DVDs,

Those pots and pans

That were tucked into your kitchen cabinets are out

Now, on the counter for all the world to see.

You will not need these things.

The bed you slept countless nights in

And comfy chair you sat away many days.

The rug under and lamp beside it

Lit books in a bookcase you will not need.

Cleaning products, put em in a box outside.

Appliances like your Foreman Grill

Won’t do you a lick of good where you’re going.

You are free of these things,

But the rest of us must pay for them.

Surprise is my love language Or, They say you should know everything but I’m not convinced

I used to want to know
everything

What was happening or
about to go down

Who was saying what
and what that means for me

I was so anxious
about the future
that I didn’t know
what to do

I was confused
about what
could be,
should be,
or might be,
that I barely knew
you know who

Because I was worried about
what I didn’t know,
I stopped paying attention
to what was what

And this is no way to live

Now, I’m in love with the
moment

Everything is new

What’s happening
right now is
completely unexpected

It’s like hunting
Easter eggs

If and when you find one
that’s the prize
not what’s inside

Tattoo removals

Down the street from my apartment, behind the Battery Exchange, is a billboard that advertises tattoo removal. It plays with perspective. A large person with a full back tattoo has tiny window washers on it, squeegeeing the tattoo, returning the back to a normal skin tone.

If only removing tattoos were that easy. I image the process to be long and painful. But the idea of the billboard makes it seem that tattoos are no longer permanent. They can be wiped. Or altered, covered up or added upon. Permanence is malleable. Nothing is forever.

I have a tattoo. My brother got matching ones. The same marking. My grandfather's initials designed into a symbol he used to engrave on jewelry he designed. When he died we put his initials on our arms—it was his brand. He was gone forever but never forgotten. There's one thing about permanence. Something lives forever if you burn it in your mind. Write it on your arm. We write to remember.

This symbol is a reminder to us, for the rest of our da,s of who our grandpa was and what he meant to us. Did we need the tattoo to remember forever? What is forever? Because I will one day be gone. My skin will deteriorate. But maybe in the future I'll be able to tell the next generation why I have this tattoo and the story that goes with it. And when they ask, I will make sure to let them know that I never thought of removing it. 

THAT'S OK

Cross-walking in front of me is a man who doesn’t look familiar. He could be anyone with a beard and baggy clothes. I fixate on him anyway. He’s carrying a black plastic shopping bag with what looks like a six pack of tall boys inside–PBR’s my best guess, but I’m not 100 percent sure.

That could’ve been me for an evening, I think, while waiting for the light to turn green. But it’s not now that I have a job and a bike and a wife and this backpack of frozen veggie burgers and bananas that I’ll add to my oatmeal in the morning when I wake up for work again. 

I get this song stuck in my head as I ride. It goes: Black plastic bag filled with six packs a beer. And I sing it over and over to myself. Across MAX tracks and over The 84. Up one street, down the next. I’m looking both ways on one ways, going up the hill and home the same way I always do.

THIS RING

Three years ago I got married. My wife put a ring on it. This ring. 

She didn’t buy it. And I didn’t buy it. It came from my mother.

It was her mother’s. I’m wearing my grandmother’s ring. 

That’s weird to write. 

It wasn’t meant to be this way. I was meant to wear my grandfather’s ring. 

And, I am in a way. 

Let me explain. 

Poppa, as we called him, died before I moved to Portland—12 years ago. 

My grandma died a few years later. But before she did, she told my mom she wanted me to have his ring.

So, when I was planning to marry, I asked my mom to bring the ring to me in Oregon. 

When we sat down together and I tried it on, it didn’t fit. Poppa has sausage fingers. See, he worked with his hands for 99 years—right up until the end. I put on the ring he wore during his nearly 70 years of marriage to my grandma and it felt like a bracelet. There was no way I was going pull it off. Mainly because it fell off.

I was bummed. But my mom to the rescue. Like the trained magician she is, she pulled out from no where this ring, which looks like a man’s band. 

She said it was my grandma’s. And I was confused. I looked at the inside and saw the initials W.K. (William Keil, Poppa had no middle name) and CHL (Caroline Hedges Keil), my grandma’s initials. Engraved, also, was 9-7-’40, the day they got married.

I could tell Poppa had had his hands on this ring. He made jewelry after he retired and there were tiny hammer marks on the outside of the two bands that make up the one ring. The bands look silver but it says 14K on the inside, so I assume it’s gold. 

I play with the ring a lot and look at it from time to time and think of them—my grandparents, whom taught me many things, who are gone but not forgotten, who are fading form my memory the more that time passes. 

I think that it's special that I get to wear their ring. The one she wore, and the one he worked on.

That their ring is our ring.

I think of the two of us and the four of us coming together like these two silver looking gold bands are coming together.

This ring that touches the vein in my finger connected my heart. 

COFFEE PEOPLE

Barista at the airport asks people where they’re off to.

Reacts to us excitedly,

Oh that’s cold…Yikes, how?

All with a smile on his face.

Takes the card, 

swipes it. 

Returns a receipt without a line for the tip.

We’re surrounded by jars 

that all say the same thing:

If you don’t like change, leave it here.

Crammed in each and every one 

of them are

Single dollar bills. 

Spilled out, the airport money is

Padding the coffer of the barista.

Who will one day be taking a trip
to the most appealing place 

he’ll recall someone saying to him 

Which won’t be the place I’m going, 

single digits or if double 

not much higher than 12.

Your small latte is ready.

And even though I spent three dollars and 50 cents on a cup

I find a single and add to his. 

MY TIMEX

I didn’t have what I ended off the year with: Time. But now I have it. On my wrist! See, the watch that I’m wearing is a Timex—Made in China! It's a nice watch that has a weight to it. Big numbers on a black background. Indigo, too And a genuine, black leather band. I got the watch as a present. Picked it out with my wife! It was our agreed upon gift. At that time, I didn’t have a gift for it.  So it was a stressful time. But also exciting! Because of the watch. I ended up giving her drumsticks and that one David Sedaris book. She’s now read it. Both were complete surprises to her. That was Christmas Now it’s February, the 8th. And today, I got a massage. It was given to me by an older woman. I took off all my clothes for her! And put my watch–yes, that watch—in the pocket of my folded jeans just so. Before lying face down on the table with nothing on but my undies. Please, she yelled to me, Get under the sheet! And closed the door again. I didn’t know! Putting my clothes on after, the watch fell out of my pocket and onto the cement floor. The back popped off and wouldn't go back on. Time had stopped for all of us for two days until I got my watch back back on. Fixed by a Jeweler (for free!) and set to the correct time and date. I placed my Timex on my left wrist and left.

HAT GUY

When I call my friend, the name that comes up on his phone is Hat Guy. 

I guess that was his first impression me, the hat on my head. 

I’m wearing that hat right now in fact, so I guess it makes sense. It’s the hat I was married in—a flat cap that fits so well. It’s not the first flat cap I've owned but it’s the best one I’ve ever had. 

When it’s raining I’m likely to wear a hood, but there’s a good chance you'll find a hat underneath it.

You might say I wear many hats: I’ve got a day hat and a night hat, a hot hat and a cold hat, a cap I can sleep in but not one for the shower. For I am bald and take baths. 

I take my hat off when I eat and when I go inside some places. 

The hat's off when I ride my bike because I wear a helmet, see. But I have a rack on the front of my handle bars made for, above all things, a hat.

Maggie and I have matching hats that we wear when we go to baseball games. 

She cuts felt out and sews logos on to two, generic navy blue adjustable hats. So no matter who is playing we're representing the home team.

I have but one head and will for the rest of my life! And it often has a hat atop it. 

I guess what I'm saying, my friend, is that you could call me a hat guy—when I call you that is.

LOOK BACK TO GO FORWARD

2016 is a weekly planner
left mostly blank.

I guess I didn't really use it all that much.

With a week to go I begin write down what I did last week.
Then, I do the week before.

I'm an explorer on a rescue mission,
mounting memories and evading events.

I write down what I remember happening
until I run out of space.

My year has become
a long story short.

To go forward I look back
And end the year at the start.

ON BOXING DAY

On Boxing Day,
there is plenty of time
to take a bath and
drink camomile tea
simultaneously.

On Boxing Day,
there is plenty of time
to unpack yesterday's paper
and take it to the cafe.

On Boxing Day,
there is plenty of time
to read and listen,
stare and hear
until you're sick
from overthink.

Two cups of coffee,
and a ripe banana,
a smoke from a leaf, and
plenty of time
should do the trick.

TEAL

I noticed her glasses were broken

And pointed this out. 

She was well aware and said

she needed to get new ones.

She picked up my sunglasses 

that were sitting on my desk

and put them on.

Mind if I?

Are these prescription?

Whoa, you’re blind

Do you have a stigmatism 

In the left eye?

I started to explain

that well yes
to her

sitting there

but what’s hard to do

is say that you are

blind

in one eye.

And, what’s impossible to do

is show someone 

what you cannot see.

So you start by telling the

history.

SWING BATTER

I hear, “Hey batter, batter...” 

We’re wearing yellow, my team, the Dukes. I have gray sweatpants and Payless cleats on. Our hats have a D, are mesh and mine sits high on my head. It's snapped back to the second to last position. My tee shirt, our jersey, is too big. My dad is our manager. And he has no idea what he is doing. He has never coached anything before. He wrote our line-up on a prayer concerns card at church on Sunday. His way of asking God for help. He has given everyone on our team nicknames. He wants to play me but doesn’t want to favor me. I don’t envy him. I was there at the batting cage, and will be there all those times in the garage, hitting the bottle caps he’s collected with a broom stick. Something he thinks will improve my eye-hand. I will feel his frustration. 

Compared to us, our opponents for game one, the purple team, are the Yankees of the Little League Minors. They look professional. Instead of ill-fitting sweats they're wearing polyester baseball pants, pulled up with matching purple stirrups. The Yankees wear name brand cleats and broken-in gloves. They have batting gloves and special bags for their bats. Whereas, the bat my dad bought me at Oshmans up the street fits into the opening of the hand-me down glove and I better not lose either one of them. We haven't gotten to batting gloves yet.

“Hey batter, batter, batter...”

Is this what they call chatter? I’m up now with two outs. And, I'm all up in my head. Part of me is not in the game; part would rather not be up; part wishes I was on base; part is scared of the ball; part wants to hit it; part wants to take, knowing I’d probably miss anyway; part would rather play soccer; part thinks I’d suck at soccer; part is uncomfortable in this jock; part is ready; part never will be; part doesn’t want to let the team down; part doesn’t give a shit; part knows this is it. And here’s the pitch … "Sa-wing batter."

TELL ME A STORY

Tell me a story.
Make it a good one.

Go way back when.
From your childhood.

Tell me a story.

Make it hard to recall.

Try to remember names
—who was
with you—
and what
you were
wearing.

Tell me a story.
Make it hurt a
Little.

(ANOTHER) POETIC APOLOGY

I left the drawer open. Not the everything drawer. The silverware one. I don’t know what I was reaching for in there, why I needed it all the way open, but that’s how I left it and how you found it. And for that I’m sorry.

SICK MISS

I'm second guessing my food order
at the cafe with the coughing barista.

Two other customers ask her how she's feeling.
Not good and horrible were her answers.

What I mistook for slits, eyes tired or stoned
really belong to someone super sick, someone
who should not be working / handling food.

Now I'm noticing her pajama bottoms,
slippers, and rag she coughs into /
wipes down things with
all nonchalant.

But I didn't when I asked her to make me a sandwich.

Now, I’ll be lucky if her condition is not passed along
to me.

So tomorrow might be the day that
I'm the one wishing I wasn't working
when I have to be.

THESE TREES

We didn't have much in that backyard of ours
but we had shade.
Until we didn't.

The landlord,
He raised our rent
and cut down the trees
Right around the same time.

Without those redwoods
we have sun and have had heat.

Without those redwoods,
We have a clear view of
what our next door neighbor is up to.

We were left with one thing,
I guess, besides the mess.
We were left with all that wood.

The landlord,
He says he's going to post it on craigslist.
He calls the mess he's made
"free firewood"
and hopes somebody else will take care of it.

The landlord,
He wants to know when we'll be home–the one that he owns–
so we can meet the strangers he thinks will pick it up,
and take it all away.

I said, Hold up. Wait one minute.
Please don't do that.
I'll take it, I suggest,
Or know someone who will.

No, we don't have a fireplace.
Nor axe nor maul.
Is a splitter the same thing? I even wonder.

I don't know nor have the right tool for this situation.
But I'm hoping the wood remains
As long as we do,
unspilt but cut up like pepperonis,
Because I miss these trees
We used to have in our backyard
And the shade they'd provide.

POETIC APOLOGIES

I did not respond to your email,
text,
call,
question.

I got it. I think.
Because why else would I remember this?

Anyway, I'll have to get back to you.
--

I wasn't listening when
you were talking.

I  heard you but
I was also on my phone.

Thinking about
someone else,
somewhere else.

I was in another
time and place.
--

I was talking when
you were talking
to me.

How can I listen
when I'm talking --
I mean really listen --
to you?

I can't.

SMOKING DOG OWNER

She ties up her dog to the dangling phonebook at the pay phone and goes inside the market on Belmont across 34th from the Stumptown. The dog owner comes out of the market with a light teal pack of AmSpirs. No, wait they're Camels – not American Spirits. She packs them, a sign she hasn't been a smoker for some time, or is young or both. And away she goes – dog in tow.

HOLE IN THE GROUND

I’m raking the front yard when I notice a hole in the ground the size of a squash ball. I rake rocks into it. Then some more. Completely covered one second, it’s a hole the next. I look down at the squash ball. What’s down there? On my knees, I take a closer look. With one one eye closed, I peek in like it’s a microscope. It’s dark and I can’t see much. But I hear something. A scurry. Not a dig. Maybe a whisper.

Who’s down there? I ask. Did I bury a being? 

By trying to fill the hole did I kill the mole?