I went to the estate sale on a whim
Thinking I knew what I’d find
The detritus of old age, laid out
Pricetagged for your convenience
Wary strangers hauling away parts of a life
Shelves clogged with diet books
Gospel and Christmas music both vinyl and cassette
Bibles and commentaries, uncracked
I found all that but also
Stacks of violin bows, strings unstrung
Batons fit to conduct orchestras
The musicians waiting, sealed, in CDs
All the equipment for adding intertitles
To the 16mm home movies that lay about
Reel-to-reel tapes from a college radio station
Still in their original brown paper
I wonder if, when my time has come
And the estate salesmen crawl through the ashes
Price tagging a life after its close
If anyone will notice, lying there
The hundred tiny stories, now forever lost
For want of someone to tell them
April 7, 2024
From “Encounter at an Estate Sale” by Anonymous
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April 6, 2024
From “Will I Still Sleep In When I’m An Old Man?” by Anonymous
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Roused today, early, on a weekend off
Wondering idly how long it’s been
Since I felt truly rested
Even after a long night’s sleep
Is it the weight of the years
Anxiety for the future
Or just rosy glasses looking back
On a youth just as sleepless
Just as anxious
Just as awake
April 5, 2024
From “Two Weeks’ Notice” by Anonymous
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Whispered in the labyrinth of cubes
Watercooler talk without the cooler
“That one’s put in her two weeks, you know.”
It’s said with distaste, with venom adrip
“They are a traitor for leaving” is clear
Or is it just because you are jealous
They’re fleeing the corner you’ve painted
Your life into, and you would do anything
To join them if you only knew how
April 4, 2024
From “Discards” by Anonymous
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No one should throw books away, you say
They are an object, sacred, a shrine
Knowledge in its purest form
Even as covers splinter and spines break
Pages flake and tear, discoloration creeps
So will you take them, I say, these books
Will you give them a home and a shelf
Falling apart though they are
But no, there is no room, not for you
But somebody must want them
Somebody will take them
Surely
April 3, 2024
From “First of Season, Last of Season” by anonymous
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Every day we all look out
Feeders full, binocs ready
They are coming northward
Along the ancestral roads
As yet unbroken, if frayed
Anthropocene not yet their doom
A warming world not yet finished
First of season a flittering delight
Last of season too sad to contemplate
I try to look up at the sky
To take in the song
As if I will never hear it again
April 2, 2024
From “April Second” by Anonymous
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April 1, 2024
From “The House at Pooh Corner” by A. A. Milne
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One day Rabbit and Piglet were sitting outside Pooh’s front door listening to Rabbit, and Pooh was sitting with them. It was a drowsy summer afternoon, and the Forest was full of gentle sounds, which all seemed to be saying to Pooh, “Don’t listen to Rabbit, listen to me.” So he got into a comfortable position for not listening to Rabbit, and from time to time he opened his eyes to say “Ah!” and then closed them again to say “True,” and from time to time Rabbit said, “You see what I mean, Piglet,” very earnestly, and Piglet nodded earnestly to show that he did.
“In fact,” said Rabbit, coming to the end of it at last, “Tigger’s getting so Bouncy nowadays that it’s time we taught him a lesson. Don’t you think so, Piglet?”
Piglet said that Tigger was very Bouncy, and that if they could think of a way of unbouncing him, it would be a Very Good Idea.
“Just what I feel,” said Rabbit. “What do you say, Pooh?”
Pooh opened his eyes with a jerk and said, “Extremely.”
“Extremely what?” asked Rabbit.
“What you were saying,” said Pooh. “Undoubtably.”
Piglet gave Pooh a stiffening sort of nudge, and Pooh, who felt more and more that he was somewhere else, got up slowly and began to look for himself.
“But how shall we do it?” asked Piglet. “What sort of a lesson, Rabbit?”
“That’s the point,” said Rabbit.
The word “lesson” came back to Pooh as one he had heard before somewhere.
“There’s a thing called Twy-stymes,” he said. “Christopher Robin tried to teach it to me once, but it didn’t.”
“What didn’t?” said Rabbit.
“Didn’t what?” said Piglet.
Pooh shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It just didn’t. What are we talking about?”
“Pooh,” said Piglet reproachfully, “haven’t you been listening to what Rabbit was saying?”
“I listened, but I had a small piece of fluff in my ear. Could you say it again, please, Rabbit?”
Rabbit never minded saying things again, so he asked where he should begin from; and when Pooh had said from the moment when the fluff got in his ear, and Rabbit had asked when that was, and Pooh had said he didn’t know because he hadn’t heard properly, Piglet settled it all by saying that what they were trying to do was, they were just trying to think of a way to get the bounces out of Tigger, because however much you liked him, you couldn’t deny it, he did bounce.
“Oh, I see,” said Pooh.
“There’s too much of him,” said Rabbit, “that’s what it comes to.”
March 31, 2024
From “Newsflash: Retired Pirate Chooses Invisible Beard” by Dettra Pierrie
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The Most Excellent Order of Retired Pirates (MEORP) had its annual convention in the place that was most naturally suited to high seas robbery, lawlessness, and acts of savagery: Florida. While the keynote speaker, Redpatch Ockham, was considered a major ‘get’ for the event, most of the retired buccaneers and pensioned pirates were there for a glimpse of Captain Charles “Crackerjack” Jackson, who had retired undefeated after winning both naval battles, infamy, and the Mr. Beard Universe title five years running. Reclusive in the extreme, no one had seen Crackerjack since he’d retired, and outside of a short audio interview with FPB on the event of his quartermaster Blondbeard’s death, had made no public statements either.
The furor quickly grew into a scandal when Crackerjack arrived via chartered limo…without his trademark calico three-shade beard. Not even a mustache! Crackerjack was as clean-shaven as his sixth wife who accompanied him as his handler, his face and pate as shiny as the hook which replaced his left hand. Relaxing in the convention’s green roon in a Hawaiian shirt, white knee socks, and sandals, Crackerjack was deluged by reporters looking to scoop each other on the fate of his famous facial hair.
“It’s quite the scandal, isn’t it?” one asked.
“Why, not at all,” chuckled Crackerjack. “I’ve simply chosen to wear an invisible beard so as not to scratch my beloved’s face, that’s all.”
March 30, 2024
From “The Matibrush Comes Tomorrow in Shorts” by It’s Mr. Mousebach!
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“You specified that you did not care whether your house was painted by a human or a matibrush. Is a matibrush acceptable?”
“Y-yeah, I guess so. I wouldn’t have said I didn’t care if I did.”
“Wonderful. The matibrush will arrive between 10:00am and 1:00pm tomorrow. You will not be required to interact with it, and our automated vehicle will provide it with all the paint and ladders that it needs.”
“Will it…will it be wearing clothing?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Will the matibrush be wearing clothing?”
“Sir, clothing is not necessary for the operation of a matibrush. It may, in fact, get in the way and accumulate paint.”
“I would still…I would really appreciate it if the matibrush wore clothing. Just for my sake.”
“One moment.”
“O-of course.”
“Okay, sir, it looks like we can accomodte your request. What sort of clothing would you like the matibrush to wear?”
“I..I beg your pardon?”
“You said you wanted the matibrush to wear clothing. What kind of clothing would you like it to wear?”
“Uh…a pair of shorts would be fine, I think?”
“Very good, sir. The matibrush will arrive tomorrow wearing shorts.”
March 29, 2024
From “See the World Through Your Balloon Eyes” by T. Baylee Olson
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A cartoon character printed onto a helium balloon had escaped from the bunch, and was wriggling its way up to freedom, the mesosphere, and death. Even though the cartoon’s painted-on smile was unchanging, its bugged-out eyes, molded parts of the balloon in their own right rather than a simple sticker, seemed to have a wild gleam of freedom within them.
It was free. It would perish in the freeing, of course, and leave a mess of mylar shrapnel as its toxic legacy. But it didn’t matter, not now, not yet. I wondered, as I watched, what it would be like to behold the unfolding view below through its balloon eyes.
Excerpts From Nonexistent Books 