The Tower Journal

Ricky Garni




It's a Little Too Quiet

When someone you love dies, they don’t come back as a fresh, new human body, but they
come back as a plain ol’ elephant, and they plop right down in the middle of your room, and,
finding it exceedingly comfortable there, they stay.




The Funeral

If only we were doing something simple, like eating peaches. But peaches are so sloppy and
slurpy and juicy and orange and yellow and soft and hairy fuzzy and round and pêche and
prunus and Van Gogh and Rubens and Persian and drupe and plum-like and honey bee-
loved.

I once saw a man in China pointing his peach bow towards the sky and shooting his arrows.
Begone, evil!
he cried, and all the evil went away. The honey bees landed on his bow and
dozed.





Grilling Onions

The lady next door is grilling onions.
The smell of grilling onions.
It makes you think of hamburgers
and hamburger buns and pickles.
The hamburger buns are thick
and doughy. The hamburgers are
quite small but they are delicious.
The french fries are greasy but
they are also delicious. When the
hamburgers are grilling you can’t
smell them, just the onions. Just sitting
there, waiting, it’s so good, I wish it was
right now. This was

so long ago. They were so good.
I don’t like the lady next door but still
you have to admit, no matter what you feel
she is grilling onions





Division of Labor

“Why did I not hug Faye instead of watching television

that day in September?” for example.

It’s all about the arithmetic of minutes and days.

Oh why did I read that dumb book

Oh why did I listen to that terrible song

Oh why did I pay attention to that awful joke

Time, come back. We all say Time, come back.

And then we tie our shoes.





Suit

I keep a suit on a hanger on my door knob near the front door and across from the piano.

Sometimes when people come in, they say “Hello!” but often they are thinking about the
suit.

Sometimes they think “Is it grey?”

Sometimes they think “What is that suit doing there?”

Sometimes they think “It seems awfully warm for a suit.”

None of these are things that I intend for people to think when they see my sit hanging on
the door across from the piano.

I just want them to think: “What a beautiful piano.”








Copyright © 2016 Ricky Garni


Ricky Garni  has worked over the years as a teacher, wine merchant, musician, and graphic designer. He began writing poetry in 1978, and has produced over thirty volumes of prose and verse since 1995. His work can be found in many online publications, print magazines and anthologies and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize on six occasions. COO, a tiny collection of short prose printed on college lined paper with found materials such as coins, stamps, was recently released by Bitterzoet Press.

The Tower Journal>
Winter  2016