A destructive thought
momentarily entertained
then thrown out on its ear.
A reluctant apology
thrust into the spotlight.
One last cigarette
left out in the cold.

Small victories.

Tiny drops of successful living,
choices well made.
The seeds of pride;
polished stones
paving the path to bright future,
a bright now
right now.

Hold these treasures in our hands,
feel the heft of them,
their smooth perfection.

Castles are built of these.

A misunderstanding.
A few words.
Too few words.
I take my war to bed, and
awaken to a cotton barricade.

She has tucked the blankets
between us and under herself.
A barrier I cannot cross.

Flannel and satin,
soft and warm.
A wall nonetheless.

The night lingers, smolders.
She in her soft castle
with her minions of remembered resentment.

I at the parapet
with my battalion of ancient wounds
and feigned indifference.

Cherry blossoms
fall into the river
and slowly drift out of sight.

I begin each distant morning
In my closet
In my mirror
In my mind
Writing an email to the world
Each pick
Each pluck
Each panic
Then I step out my front door
A word
A phrase
A message
And hit the send button

When I was a boy
I had a catcher’s mitt.
A leather catcher's mitt.
We walk a world where
sticks and stones are often hurled.
We are sometimes hit.
That can hurt a bit.
So I used my mitt.
I used my catcher's mitt.
I've grown older, with a bag of stones
upon my shoulder.
I should not have used a mitt.
No, not a catcher's mitt.
I should have used...
a hockey stick!

They descend upon the host like a plague
Hungry, homeless, intent on survival
Intent on propagation

Spring break, microbe style
Staphylococcus gone wild

I
Under the influence of influenza
One Streptococcus over the line
Front door left wide open by
Careless living
Late nights
Bad food

Them
Having one hell of a party
Trashing my upper respiratory tract
Overrunning my sinuses
Chewing their way through my lower lip
To puke their pus onto my sweet vanity
Billions of happy little hangovers
And I feel every damn one of them

Property rights?
Sovereign state?
HA!
The saddest of human delusions
Nobody cares for us but us
They eat us without a second thought
Living or dead; makes no difference —
I’m a walking bed and breakfast.

This here’s the story of the man called The Picker, and a picker he was. He was a hell of a picker. Such a picker the world will never see again. He hailed from the great fields of the Pacific Northwest, the heart of berry country, where the air hangs heavy with the sweet scent of ripe.

Now, The Picker was born under a harvest moon, and people knew right away that this was a special boy. He took to those berry fields like he was born to it, which he was, you see. He came from a long line of pickers, in fact the family name was Berry. His brother Charles could have been great too, but he wasted his life playing guitar. Shame about old Chuck. I guess you might of heard of him, though, he did alright.

Now, The Picker was such a natural born talent that his folks never thought to give him a real name; they just called him The Picker. He could pick blindfolded with both hands and one foot. He could go into the heart of the meanest, nastiest blackberry bush (where the best berries are) and come out with a bucket full of berries and not a scratch on‘im. You see, the berry bushes loved him as much as folks did. And folks did love him; they’d come from miles around just to see him go at it. Especially the ladies, cause he always had something sweet to fill their pies.

Some people say The Picker made a deal with the Devil, down in them thorny briars, and that was how he came to be such a magical picker. I got no more to say about that. One thing for sure though, he bumped buckets with the best of them; Purple Thumb Peterson, Thorny Johnson, Cherry Pit Perkins, Muddy Bucket Monroe, Strawberry Jones, all greats in their own right, but none could match The Picker. Sometimes those berry pickin’ boys would get together and have jam sessions that would go on for days!

But it was the picking where he really shone, and it didn’t matter what kind of berry neither; blue, black, straw, huckle, cran, rasp, elder; he mastered them all, although some say he had a special fondness for the blues.

—

Seems to be that the greats burn out too quick, and The Picker surely was great. With all that berry pie going around, you can’t blame a man for developing a taste. Soon after the world discovered him, he just lost himself in pie. Maybe the pain of losing the quiet life of an unknown berry picker was too much to bear, but soon his tongue and teeth were just purple all the time.

The Knotts Berry Farm Rehab Center became a second home to him. It wasn’t long before he was down to picking with just one hand. There were even some nasty rumors that he was seen buying frozen strawberries, but I don’t put no stock in those stories. Seems like some people just try to knock down them that stand up too tall.

So anyways, as most of you probably know, The Picker died doing what he loved to do, picking berries. He had snuck out of the rehab center, and found a huge bush of ripe blackberries. He just went on in there and died. When they found him he was just leaning into the bush, and those thorny brambles was aholding him up. Funny thing; when they pulled him loose of those thorns, there weren’t a scratch on ‘im.

You can find him buried with those other great pickers of his day, up there on Blueberry Hill.

Well, those times are mostly gone now. But out there somewhere, under a harvest moon, there may come a child who hits the ground a-pickin’. And sure enough, wherever he is, The Picker will be smiling.