The other night I drove a truck through a heart,
Writing a what’s-so-funny-is-you’re-the-asshole email,
But immediately regretted it.
Don’t tell anyone.
I’m 75% liquidated Amish furniture.
I know I shouldn’t put this on you.
But I can’t hide.
25% percent of me is blood pumping, energy-drink-guzzling man meat.
The other 75% is, well,
Take my arms, for example,
Comprising almost entirely a brambly oak chair made by Claudius from Preston, Minn.
And my eyes? They look blue
But are varnished knobs plucked from a rosewood chest-of-drawers only
Painted by Gertie, Claudius’ octogenarian and nearly blind wife,
Who wears black curtains and rides shotgun in their horse carriage
To the farmer’s market.
I didn’t know this until the other day,
When repairing an ex-lover’s heart with a text
Realizing mid-apology that I felt more comfortable sitting in a
Handcrafted crib plucked from Laura Ingalls’ bedroom.
But not laying in this crib,
Mostly just, the crib.
And my suspicions were reaffirmed
Last night, when home from work late,
Checking my mousetraps,
Like a gentle tap on the shoulder,
I realized instead that
I wanted my legs (a pinewood armoire with a saddleback cushion)
Squeezed by a farm wife wearing a feathery hat,
Antique hunting with her girlfriends
In Amish Country.
Because I’m not 100% human
But rather 25% human and 75% liquidated Amish furniture off the highway.
And I guess a guy could get used to being
Shelves or drawers,
Smelling of pine, hickory.
Because I’m already pretty used to getting sat on,
Re-varnished, inspected, discounted, and
Hawked by a boy with a string of fish standing aside a pond.
So late last night, emboldened,
I was in a fight with a 53% human, 47% barefoot-crushed black currant jam.
She told me, “You’re not what I’m pinning anymore,”
And I screamed at her,
“You can’t find this in stores!”
“What?” She asked,
Not knowing my feet are wicker baskets for storing magazines or running shoes.
“This is genuine hand-crafted. This is old-growth pine,” I said.
There was silence on the phone.
“God, you’re such an ass sometimes.”
When I told her I was “priced to sell”
The line went dead.
And I wanted to slip into the pot of boiling potatoes
On my stove until I reminded myself of my true form,
A simple chest-of-drawers.
So I ran my hands in exasperation through
My sawdust-hair, still papering and crispy on the top of me,
Wondering about my Creator,
Matisyahu, the Hasidic rapper,
Or He looks like him at least,
Smiling through broken teeth and a stovepipe hat,
Suspenders holding up jeans,
Looking kindly down upon his oaken kitchen table,
Because He doesn’t have one more of me in back,
I needn’t be purchased to be valuable.
Which reminds me how the other day I talked to my friend,
(Ex-con, with a few trysts with fractivists,
Which you might think is bad,
But he’s only 35% human and
65% decorative vanity made of authentic black walnut),
Anyway, he tells me,
“We too often confuse use for value.”
And I nodded,
Because I knew what he was laying down,
Then a boy unscrewed the knob on my door flap,
Actually my chest, probably my heart,
And ran into the backseat of his parents’ van,
Driving the interstate,
On a Sunday afternoon,
Looking for a Culvers,
Where they sell that thing called the Concrete,
Which is like a Blizzard,
Not as good.
Front page image by chicagogeek.