Submitted

I Looked at Her Face

I looked at her face carefully to discern a message sent in secret 

code she was subliminally sending to my receivers which only work 

when there is no close relationship. If there's going to be a connection 

of any genuine emotional content then I go into a panic, with shirttail 

flying free from my backside as I look over my shoulder in total 

disarray running like hell for shelter, any safe hiding place will do.

If I'd known earlier I'd have paid more attention to critical details.

I needed to make more effort, throw myself into making much more ado 

about her. I'd have known that I had to show up, listen, and care in a total 

way. I'd have understood that committing to someone was real work, 

otherwise as clearly shown in the Hackman flick "The French Connection", 

bad stuff flourishes in a vacuum just as international crime thrives in secret.

Remember that scene when the bartender says "Hey, Popeye, who do 

you think is the best fighter you've ever seen?" Popeye responds with a total 

non sequiter, "Willie Mays." Popeye then chases the bad guys with his tail 

lights skittering under the tracks and I'm perspiring like a horse, I mean secret- 

ions coming out of every damn pore, yeah that's me, what a piece of work. 

Questions and answers. I'm never able to figure out their connection.

Please God if I could get this spell exorcised. I mean all I want is connection, 

Any little tie that might bind would do me. Big sigh. My energy begins to tail 

off as I ponder what is it, what? Do I emit pheromones that unconsciously work 

against me? In Jamaica I could go to a Rastafarian doctor and say "Please do 

that voodoo that you do so well" in a visit to his cave, so hidden, so secret. 

I would pay him just about anything including my entire net worth, all of it, total.

I'm sweating like a son of a bitch now, don't let me drive. Within minutes I'd total 

my pick up. But at least I've come out of the closet. It's no picnic, this secret 

need. How bad is it? It's so bad that I like changing diapers. "Touch" is my credo. 

Babies cannot get enough tactile sensation, nor can I for it gives me a sense of connection,

at least for awhile, at least until they metastasize into teenagers and then turn tail 

and leave. The good news? They're off the dole because they've got to go work.

Yes it's been lifetime of emotional misunderstandings, both at home and at work. 

You could give me the dots and number them in bold. I'd never make the connections. 

Masons sneer as I lollygag down the street. They vow never to let me into their secret 

society. Ok, I want connection, but not that bad. I do have standards. Ok, not a total 

set of ethical rules or moral guidelines but rather a loosey goosey, skooby dooby do 

life that says to me "you loser, you'll never have any money, you always pay retail."

Maybe I should flip a coin, heads or tails. It's tails. So I'll call the blonde at Public Works…

No, that's a bad idea. What would a normal person do? Maybe if I go click on Connections of the Heart.com for $49.95 sum total,

I can find someone who will love me and my secrets.

Oct 31, 2004

Massachusetts Method

George drops by my office

as he does every day after 5pm.

Most of the others have left

to catch their trains.

“You and I need to leave this place”,

he says, “get into our own business,

maybe together.”

I say,

“Give me a few days

to think about it.”

I owe lots of money from my school years.

I am making a small fortune every year

and will have paid off my debt in five years.

It’s 1967.

I make 12,000 dollars a year

and there should be a bonus at year end.

My father who died five years ago

was making 7,000 a year his last year on earth.

I’m almost twice as valuable as he was

and I have a window office on the seventh floor

overlooking Park Avenue.

Ed drops by to see if I’ve had a chance

to look at his allocation of other overhead

using the Massachusetts method,

a distribution of costs according to

one third based upon sales,

one third based upon employees,

one third based upon assets.

Ed’s not really asking me to critique his work,

he’s lonely.

He knows the activity of distributing overhead expenses

is essentially a waste of time,

a waste of his life,

but our company is willing to pay him to do this.

Next day I go to lunch with my boss Al.

He wants to know how I’m doing.

I’ve been here one year now out of school,

and he wants to know how I am.

I say, “I’m doing just fine Al,

how are you?”

Later that evening taking the subway

back to my apartment,

I clean my glasses on my tie,

then button and unbutton my raincoat.

I have to get away from this city

and from the Massachusetts method

of overhead allocation.