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Poor Quality

He worked on the last stair tread for far too long. What took so long, exactly? Was it low blood sugar? Befuddlement induced by inhaling sealant fumes? Refusal to admit that a dull chisel and a hammer is not a router? He attempts to place it on the stringers. There are obstructions. Metal brackets, SDS screws, the guardrail post. For an experienced carpenter, this would be boring. Later that night, the imposter carpenter contemplates blogging his disastrous stair tread. What, exactly, would uploading a picture of chisel-savaged redwood with a self-deprecating caption achieve? Perfunctory sympathy? The deafening silence of indifference? He imagines an old carpenter, confident in his abilities and his battered Toyota pickup, graying now, unhappy with how awful lumber has become. He wonders if seeking sympathy for stupid mistakes on the internet is something that poor quality lumber would do.
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One Color Pollock

(as read at Nomad Cafe 28 April 2010) SHAPES I wish I could tell you where that goddamned fuse is the one in my nose, just outside my brain the one that burns out on its own inscrutable schedule underlining random incidents in red ink sometimes it's an ambush the drops splash down before I feel them falling a one-color pollock stares back at me from the ground, expanding sometimes, I just know and you'll see me tilt my head back am I looking for shapes in the clouds in the ceiling? no, I am just standing here drinking myself to death
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