John Gallaher

Mid-Century Modern

I regret having regrets, and not being one of those “NO RE-

GRETS” people with their “one-time” things, and that’s as close

as they get, as they’re sitting around a campfire, turning orange

in the late night glow, getting all real with each other, looking into the spaces

between logs, bits of yellow, white, and black, and seeing nothing

but bits of yellow-white-black. And their beige or white turtlenecks

under plaid vests, holding mugs of hot chocolate in two hands and laughing.

I’ll be the revenant in the distance, claw scratching at the car door

or rising from a lake, as if regrets could make you immortal.

Television is insane. It’s probably a beer commercial I’m picturing.

But you’re picturing it, too, right? And how white

their teeth get? How do we deal with that?

Like people trying to dance who have only read descriptions of dancing,

with architectural slides and various color dissolves.

                  *

When we don’t know what something is about, we’re told

to think of it as a comment on time. A lot of things, then,

are comments on time. I was born

filled with time. I’ve been passing it out ever since.

Maybe we’re noticing each other there, for the first time even, horizon extending

all the way to Tuesday. Call the prop department, there’s something

amiss. My biographical note has turned into a commercial for shampoo

and imported beer. Surely that’s not what I wanted?

As one who falls asleep over their life, unaware of the change.

There’s a room off to the side where we can store

our various garlands and seasonal particulars.

Leave the clear light strings out, though, as they’re festive

and soften the edges of the trellis, where one might linger too long

otherwise, in these ambiguous shadows at certain half-open doors.

The Perfect Name for It

As we feel right now making a decision, that it’s made,

but then here comes the evening followed by tomorrow

and it’s still hanging around taking up space

and demanding attention. Alphabet. It’s from the Greek words

Alpha and Beta, works perfectly. Frogs. Those things

are definitely frogs. And then we open the closet

and twenty years of stuff pours out we didn’t know what to do with then

but didn’t want to throw away, and now we’re regretting

our dreams. Water-

fall. Firefly. Most things in German. Aromatic Hydrocarbons.

Gorgonzola. Squeegee. Thagomizer.

If I were to kill myself, I’d want it to be that I get to simply vanish.

I’m not supposed to talk about it like this, that there are ways

and we think about them sometimes.

                  *

I love the world on days like this. Pop. Fire-

fighter. Toxic productivity with our besties. Growing up, as I did, in outer space,

it was very hard to understand gravity. I was helped

by thinking of it like magnetism. It’s helped me with my relationships,

too, but only at first. It’s the little things they’re talking about

in the castle, sourced from obscure texts and Gen Z nostalgia.

Aibohphobia. Walkie-talkie. Am I being ambitious enough?

Windshield. The End Is Near parade

and The End Is Nigh parade meet at Echo Park.

It’s brewing toward a fight, and we have to decide if we should push it

or put it off, as one does with expectation and stress, and these are real questions up and down

the organizational chart. I’ve watched it all night.

If I could tell my younger self something, would I?

Why are you asking?

Apology Tour

I get why we have memories, they’re really helpful

in the “where did I store my nuts” way, but what about all these other ways

they fall apart? Wait, did I meet Carly Simon or was that you?

When’s the party again? Who am I married to? Get too self-indulgent. Lean

into the Yelp review. As one says, the trick

is not to get it right, but to not get it wrong. But this

sends the boats off with way too many provisions

and now even that is lost. Remember, these are all just questions.

The seas rise. The great stars shine. Shh,

I’m being majestic. I’m on the sugar high of my new job as competitive memorizer.

As one who says, “I’m afraid of everything I want,” please forgive me.

A bachelorette one time in Louisville had to kiss the next man she saw

after her friends spun her around after vodka shots,

and it was me. She was wearing a tiara, and her eyes were flashing.

                  *

This is how I document my agility:

Time / Distance / Speed. It turns out, you can make this shit up after all,

and sway in the fall breeze, in the music of that, hidden over the top of your furniture crisis.

And then, I’m back home again. I’m on my bicycle

in town, and a woman on her porch calls out, then pulls up her t-shirt

with nothing under it. I’ve no idea what the proper response is.

This time, I waved. I said, “Summer!” It was the least I could do.

I think. I mean, I could have ignored her, but that didn’t seem polite.

She was obviously committing to the bit, both of them,

and I felt I had to respect that. Heidegger talks about

the “moment of vision” as an experience of insight

into one’s situation, that breaks through the fallen temporality

of everydayness, and confronts one with one’s authentic, historical

temporality. Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I should’ve said.

Hinge

Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone did nothing for 24 hours?

At the same time. And then, define “nothing.” And then your cool idea

for conceptual humanity really puts the cat

in catapult and the Hubble tension crisis continues to roil physicists.

Given the circumstances then, it’s back to work on our sawdust gum

or our dog hair gum. Remember how schedules used to make us so mad?

And intention, and plans? The way Salvador Dalí would relax

on a couch or whatever, holding a spoon, so that

when he started to doze he’d drop the spoon onto a plate,

and he’d snap to, and then he’d write or draw something.

I wonder if that worked. Or if he really did it. I mean, nice story,

commitment and all that, the dooryard blooming behind us, allusions

to everything we knew or thought we knew, because anyone within five feet

of a door, it seems, is invading and apologetic, as a form of greeting.

                  *

I’m sorry, I left my emotions at the office. It’s part of our new

filing system. We get an email alert as well as one

on our phones. I was thinking “Redemption Tour,” helping this little old lady

across the street, but I was told that it’s not for me to say “redemption”

about my own tour, and also, she didn’t want to go across the street

so it turned into something of a fight. Here goes all hopeful things.

A threat is just an opportunity in a Halloween mask.

And the depth of your yes. The running flame

of your yes. The disaster of your yes. And here it is once again, Cow Tongue Day,

where we throw a frozen cow tongue

until it thaws and something else is supposed to happen, someone “loses,”

which sounds like all of us, come to think of it.

Lives end up in different places is all. And

please, at the reception, act like I don’t know you.

A Thousand Dorothys

In his final year, my father and I were in a production

of The Wizard of Oz but our roles kept changing.

Which of us is supposed to get courage? Heart?

Who gets the brain? And Dorothy’s no help.

A thousand Dorothys are no help, when you have

to write all the jokes backward, reverse

engineer from the punchline, and you’ve to mark the trail

with little slivers of quartz in the trees in a secret way

only you’ll be able to follow. Dad, this person

is trying to help you. Don’t call her a bitch and throw

your food. Dad, please use the toilet.

This is my show, one says. As if owning a piece of air over the stage.

Dorothy gets used to playing her part, and tries

to keep it going long after it’s plausible casting.

                  *

Hollywood is another metaphor for grocery shopping. Like clothes

are a metaphor for the soul. Like survival is a metaphor

for purpose. Like purpose is a metaphor for love.

And Dorothy’s dog is limping, for old time’s sake.

The snake oil salesman with a heart of gold hasn’t had a drink

all day. Let’s go outside the moment a minute,

dad. Let’s play the part of the flying monkeys.

Here’s a little blue cap and a bucket of water.

All of my minds are busy right now. So here’s my

admission. I decided to call him, a year after his funeral,

at his old number, which felt real

and honest and truthful. It wasn’t even on accident.

I just wanted to know where our numbers go.

A guy answered. He sounded young. I said sorry.