August 2014 Flashes
Recent work of P. Kobylarz appears or will appear in Connecticut Review, Basalt, Santa Fe Literary Review, New American Writing, Poetry Salzburg Review, and has appeared in Best American Poetry. His book, Rues, was recently published by Blue Light Press of San Francisco. His collection of fiction, Now Leaving Nowheresville and book length essay "Nearest Istanbul" are forthcoming.
Yet He Carried a Comb
Because he thought that everyone loved him, he loved everyone though his love was more of an addiction, as exemplified by his yellow stained "fuck you" finger (too many consecutive cigarettes) and his haphazard ability to splatter his shirts with the spoils of breakfast, lunch, dinner, name your snack, or his constant tapping of pencils, or worse, his feet, and his whistling even when he went to the bathroom, not to mention his wanton and indiscreet lust for any other of either sex, thank god there are but two, his promises to you that sounded too good to ever keep– given with a wink of his innocent as Kris Kringle eye that would embed them into the furthest cranny of your heart– even though when you were away from him how the thought of his very essence, his be-ing, would piss you off to no cessation, you-he-she-we– would return to him in search of the next jest, the next improbability yet maybe possibility that just might arise if you could get him to pour you another glass of white wine while he tried his damnedest to cook you fish and red peppers and put something cool on the stereo, and afterward, offer to light your cigarette, the smoke of which you'd blow in his direction and that would stay like some kind of real/ ethereal halo in the disheveled locks of his hair.
As inevitable as rain on day the windows are, as clear and unambiguous as a bank statement saying zero (in dot matrix), as pesky as a shoe that, in spite, unties itself throughout a busy day, as indicative as a palm tree in a monsoon, as unencumbered as a mailman is at 5 o'clock, as exciting as a parrot let out of its cage, say, in a grocery store, as predictable as azaleas in springtime, as unrepentant as a dog pooping on a downtown sidewalk, as irksome as a telephone solicitor calling in the midst (or mitts) of lust, as inane as gates around a cemetery, as long as the day is short, as old as news printed in an un-unfolded newspaper, as useful as a pack of matches found in the washer, as clever as thirsty children eating snow, as eventful as the sudden appearance of a new pair of high heels, we as citizens plan, finance, mortgage, save and stash away ever so elaborately for that remote never thought of time that we concede to our predestined in the great-scheme-of-things one and final contribution: wormfood.