Solipsist
He was a remover of labels, an un-joiner. It started early, weeding out Lutheran, quitting Scouts, giving up on letter sports, no chess club. He had been quick-sketched as Joe-college, beat, then hippie, dropped out of the counterculture after Altamont, answered the door naked for Jehovah’s Witness. He despised the polarity of self-righteous right, and cynical left, even worse was center. Abhorred PhD, NRA, urbanite, and middle-aged, believed Polo Ponies revealed a lack of self-esteem. Kept an eye on, but from afar, AA, AAA, and AARP, avoided Lunch Liners.
His recent Ex in designer jeans, contemplating 33 years of existential sophistry, scooped the Maxwell House high test in the BUNN coffee maker, thinking she’d need a roadie to keep her awake for the journey to the agreed-to monthly rendezvous. She popped two Excedrin and a valium, pulled the BMW onto I-95, popped in an Elton CD, it was exactly an hour’s drive. They would watch the Yankee/Red Sox game, it was most certainly post-season, and have sex as usual at his place.
He was preparing generic snacks, sipping on homemade wine, stopped quickly in front of the dining room mirror, hoping for a little definition, amusing himself with the myth that no reflection was a sign of the undead. He went back to the kitchen, feeling primped, spontaneous, anticipatory, and in the proper third person.
Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. Craig houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems in a folder on a laptop. These words tend to keep him straight.
After a hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, Hamilton Stone Review, Bluestem, Yellow Mama and several dozen other journals.