Refracted Neurons

Admittedly, I have not had the best of luck lately. So I was more than a little surprised when I opened the cover of a book I had picked up at Goodwill and found signatures. At first, I thought it was the usual, “To So-and-so, thanks for all the good times on the lake,” or just a string of nonsense letters and numbers. That’s what’s usually in second-hand books. It’s pretty rare for people to write their own name in the flyleaf, which I always do if I plan to loan it out. Anyway, it took me a minute to realize that the book was signed, not by the author, but by the relatives of the woman in the book. Luck glanced at me from the corner of his eye and grinned. I’ve read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks before, a friend loaned it to me. Since then, I always knew I’d pick up a copy if I ran into one. I’m crazy about non-fiction, especially medical non-fiction. One of the things I always wondered about was how Henrietta’s family felt about the book after it was published. The ...

“Ooooooh Veeeera, why are you still here?” Tracy walked by Vera’s cube, a white coffee mug in one hand. “I’m working on the report that you need on Monday,” Vera spun in her chair to face him, “You know, the one you didn’t ask for until it was 3:30 PM on the night before Thanksgiving.” Tracy lifted his mug as if he were about to toast her, “You can do it on Monday, as long as it’s on my desk by eight.” “I’m not coming in at six in the morning on a post-holiday Monday.  I’ll just get it done tonight,” Vera turned her back towards Tracy.  There was no point in arguing with him, he always won.  She continued working, setting up different fields and writing queries.  She was so immersed in her work, that a sudden movement off to her left startled her.  Caught off guard, Vera jerked, her hand connecting with a coffee mug. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, the flash of Tracy’s blonde curls, the tidal wave of coffee cresting the lip of the mug, and...

I am ill-starred, legs above the water, breath still held.  For me would you stand bareheaded, scattering wildflowers on the shore, or am I just driftwood in a sea of fragments of what was or could have been. My breath is still held for you, my bearings, my ballast, my scattered wildflowers on the shore, the star that I can point down to, the dial that seems to spin in its case, pointing always in the same direction, my bearings, my ballast, the sky I never grabbed two-handed, you, the star that I can point up to, the arch of waves that defines me, the bubbles, I can no longer hold, bursting with what could have been. The sky you grabbed, two-handed, standing unbevereaved, bareheaded, the arch of waves defining     you are ill-starred, legs above the deep. oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo I just finished reading Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania . This poem is rather heavily inspi...

“We used to think space was the final frontier.  We had no idea we were wrong,” the woman mumbled as the robot ran a brush through her thinning, white hair.  “I was young once, like you.  I’d like to think I was pretty.” The robot paused, a hand half raised, “I am not a biological organism.  I do not age.  I am here to care for your physical and mental wellbeing.” “Yes, yes, I’m not senile, you know.  I’m not some cyberspace junkie who can’t tell reality from virtual.  But I do like . . . oh, you wouldn’t tell on an old lady, would you?” “I am required to report any instance whereby threat or implication, there is the possibility of real or imagined harm to a person or persons as defined by the law,” the robot set the brush on a tray and picked up a comb. “Whatever that means,” the woman looked down at her swollen knuckles, “Sometimes I like to go into the backwash where no one knows I’m an eighty-year-old woman.  I suppose if you tal...

“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the man in the leather cape peered down at Tristan. “Yeah, you’re right,” Tristan met the stranger’s eyes, grinned, “Know of a good place to stay the night?” The man let his cape fall open and the light from the street lamp glinted off something metal.  Everything around Tristan suddenly seemed much clearer.  He could see every kink and whorl in the wood of the raised sidewalk, taste the warm bitter smoke from a nearby fire, and sense the curvature of the black sky.  The sky itself sealed over him, trapping him like an insect in an overturned water glass.  There was no way he was going to die in this backwash. Tristan’s mind reached for his revolver seconds after his hand had.  He stepped back, straightened his right arm, then stopped.  The stranger drew his cape back with a flourish.  He had an accordion.  Tristan blinked, then started to chuckle.  Of all instruments, it had to be an ac...

I shake out my pockets for a currency, forgotten until this moment, when the mist settles on chimneys and the white sky trickles down to the tops of street lamps, and I can no longer breathe without puffing steam in a spiral, delight, liquid with the violence of living.  Please, another song. oooooooooooooooooooo I haven’t forgotten about y’all, I’ve just been working almost exclusively on a super-secret project that I’ll share with you soon. I’ve been so wrapped up in it that I feel like there’s nothing in my head except stardust. You know that feeling? No? Well, it must be a personal problem, but nothing that a good day of accounting won’t fix. The other day I went to Safeway and saw the most amazing thing. There was a man outside the store playing an accordion. I always think of accordions as being wheezy and brassy, but this was rich and nostalgic. Everyone kept throwing money at him and I was grinning like ...

There are certain children's books that I can't read without adding commentary.  One is the book Stop, Train, Stop!   It looked innocent enough when I picked it up from the thrift shop, but once I started reading, I realized this was one of those books that shoves sugar-coated conformity down the throats of unsuspecting parents.  I would say children too, but I honestly think that goes over their heads.  They're more interested in the objects flying around the train and the detailed illustrations.  So let's get cracking. Thomas wakes up one day and realizes that his whole life is going down the same track over and over again, stopping at the same stations, at the same speed, over and over.  Realizing this, he begins to ask himself, "What is the purpose of life?  Do I matter?  Can I change my destiny?" If this isn't the face of ennui, I don't know what is. It doesn't occur to him to go off track or even go backwards.  No, all Thoma...