Parting acids duct their way into the bottoms
Side by side down the milky slipstream

A sliver of membrane
A rattle behind those white towers

Oily posture collecting in the tidepools
The favored sun a glint and wet shadow

Three drops to the surface
A broken ocean blanket ruined with vermillion

Peasants milling in the bleached surf
Parched mouths open with salty breath

Staunch grooves deep in those leathery walls
Now barren aqueducts abused by the reef

Gulls cry and drop down to bury their song
Tearing wasted resources in unmanageable bites

Riffraff sounds and rambling language of the sea
Culling songs for their wayward spawn

A carrion gift to the naive and indifferent

A fetish for the gawking seaweed children
Nourished in the belly of its great divide

Editor’s note: for the next two weeks we’ll be running the best of our This Ordinary Day pieces. We’ve enjoyed working with so many great writers and wonderful people and felt it was high time to take a look back at some of what they’ve brought us. If you’d like to see more pieces, please take a trip over to our archives page — it’ll be well worth your time.

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After almost two years, I finally switched my telephone number to a local area code. I’ve lived here long enough, and the novelty of having an out of town number had worn off. It raised a lot of questions and had become more trouble then it was worth. Besides, the nice people at AT&T offered to change it for free when I signed an exclusive 12-year contract.

When I changed my number, I immediately contacted everyone. All my friends, all my clients, they all got e-mails or phone calls letting them know I had altered my contact info. I knew there might be a few mistakes, but weeks went by and everyone seemed ship-shape. Even my parents were dialing the correct sequence.

I should have known not to breathe easy. Problems eventually surface, though not for me. No, the problems were for the poor bastard who got my number. I would later learn that his name is also John. And of course, the one person who ends up calling him is the least civilized.

Nick and I go back many years. He’s also the one guy I wouldn’t want to write my epitaph. We’ve gone through some interesting times and have a keen understanding of one another. When guys reach that level of friendship, they bust each others’ balls.

Nick calls up my phone and gets my voicemail. The recording is different, but the name is still John. So he leaves me a message about how I’m an asshole for not picking up. Since I don’t get the message, he calls again and leaves another. This time he must be in a good mood. This time he talks about what prick I am and something about having sex with my mother. He was probably thinking it was a pretty good message. He was probably thinking there’s no way I could ignore him this time.

But that’s what happened. So Nick, acting on whatever instinct he has, believes this is a calling. He believes that he should just keep up the phone calls until I break my silence. He thinks up fun scenarios, usually involving fucking and some other odd activity before dialing. He calls my number in the evening. He calls between work downtime. He calls from the car. The details of these messages are unknown to me, but I can only imagine their graphic nature. Truth be told, I’d love to see the look on the phone owner’s face when he listens to them.

After two weeks, Nick receives a phone call. The screen says that it’s from me. He answers with some sort of equivalent of “about fucking time” only to hear an unfamiliar voice. The man, this other John, is not angry…but he’s not amused. He tells Nick that he doesn’t know who he is, but he doesn’t like the messages. He tells him he probably has the wrong number. Nick says that he backpedals and apologies profusely to John. He tries to explain he wasn’t suggesting bestiality or necrophilia about him. He meant that for another John. Another John with the same phone number and similar voice.

The other John seems satisfied and hangs up. Nick sends me an embarrassed e-mail and asks when the hell I changed my number and why I didn’t tell him. I dig up the month-old mass e-mail with his address in the header and send it back. He claims to have never received it and then tells me his story.

I laugh, mostly at Nick’s ability to be a dick, but I feel bad for the guy who got my number. Nick wasn’t the only person who failed to get the memo. I later learned a couple clients called the old number as well a few friends. One admitted to calling him in the morning and waking him up. Another suggested he wasn’t a mentally sound individual. This probably says more about the people I associate with more than anything.

I imagine this John, this other John, answering call after call of mistaken identity. I imagine him listening to messages meant for me, some of which called him names, suggesting he’s a pederast, a sociopath. We’ve never even talked, but I’m guessing he probably thinks more highly of Mussolini.

After a few more weeks, it seems to blow over. Everyone has my correct number. I hope that the other John is no longer deluged with harassing calls and messages. I make a mental note that all future memos detailing my life should be sent with copies and done so repeatedly.

Months pass. I’ve moved on to other problems. Then I get an e-mail from a friend in St. Louis who just checked out the info page of my website.

“Holy shit,” she writes. “I just left the worst message on your old number!”

There’s a fine line to me between being affable and being annoying. I try to talk up people in most circumstances. Not to be normal, but because I’m usually interested. The only exception is when I walk my dog. For some reason, I don’t like to converse around my dog. Probably because it leads to the same small talk. Whatever the reason, I just stay quiet on our little walks.

It’s late afternoon and I take my dog to the park. The place is sunny and nice and green and free of pollen. A blonde woman stops me and tells me my dog is beautiful. She says he has wonderful coloring, pretty blue eyes. I want to keep moving but she smiles and I break my silence. I crouch down to calm my dog and introduce him to her toddler. The little boy pets him harshly while the mom and I discuss common breeds. She seems nice and then suddenly calls the little boy back. It’s abrupt, but feel it’s an appropriate time to go, so I excuse myself and we go on our way.

When I get home I realize I’ve dropped my keys somewhere along our walk. I put the dog in the backyard and trot my previous footsteps. I return to the park and the blonde woman I spoke with is just leaving. We make eye contact and I begin to smile but before I do, she looks away and continues past without a word. The cold shoulder surprises me.

I retrace my walk down to the soccer field, past the barriers and into the playground. There I crouch down and find my keys in the grass. The same place I was twenty minutes beforehand. I think of the mom again and wonder if she recognized me. The wind picks up and I feel the breeze flow cool above the blades. A cold rush strikes me and I look below.

My shorts are ripped at the crotch. A great view for anyone who wants to know about male anatomy. I look up and the remaining mothers are watching me. They’re thinking, Looks like the park pervert has returned. I pickup the keys and try to walk out with some dignity. Days like this are why it’s best to just be the weird quiet guy with the dog. I’ll take that over the weird flasher any day.

Silken whispers invade my privacy.
Deep stanzas hum with agendas.
Tracing afterthoughts and outlines.
Our fingers dance and forget the time.

Down in the valley echoes are softened
and absorbed by the fall.
Everything flutters and takes on a life.
The air is hot and sticky with life.

It passes between without hesitation.
The bellows, the memories, taught
like catgut and bristling with inertia.
Even at peace, my thoughts are burdens.

Warm lies tread tirelessly without pause.
They nestle and build ramparts to
which I cannot go beyond.
Looming and violating the sky with obsidian pricks.

Behind us is the place we began life together.
No embargo to strain and tear down.
I’ve found something worth remembering.
I’ve loved you for so long.

Before nightfall the echoes will be heard.
Whispers of young men turn into barks and cries.
Their brash mischief leading arrogance without home.

Jawing and jawing and jawing.

Their desperate hearts, a furious crescendo.
A fracas of hands and lips and indecipherable grunts.
An army of undeveloped men.

A once survives myth, a gold themed aura of ego.
The ashes flutter deep within a furnace.
Bellows heave and sigh, sending them skyward
in a buckshot spray of calmness.

Hackneyed arms. Crisp and delicate.
Worn like old leather and creaking with every step.

Do not flirt with forgiveness. Do not ask your enemies to allay.
Held down and branded with a chaser of salt.

The smell of melted flesh. Scar tissue after scar tissue.
Still harping. Still taunting. Still waiting.

A wave of strength beyond the breath of youth. Age remembers a
cure for inequality. It sharpens worn ends and mends brittle armor.

Sweetness. A taste of glory. Bitter at first, but memory brings back
the flavor. It nourishes like mother’s milk. It reminds with a brimstone kiss.

Rejuvenated. Reborn. A hard day with good reason to sleep. The dreams
are punctuated by the sounds of comeuppance. 


Force of myself comes naturally
exercise pieces like discarded gifts.

Echoes of thunder vibrate and churn
the air around me.

Melodies hum and dance so wickedly.

Dance above me and scorn the heavens.

Beasts long forgotten have risen and
taken their rightful place by the throne.

Passion fans across a thousand miles
and only birds can see the reach.

Screams and flags and furor beat
the ground and and maelstrom competes with calamity.

All eyes are on the victor and the pride
she’s brought upon us all.

No shame in waving a flag nor
humiliation for screaming your birthright.

The chorus of sympathy and
the righteous encouragement from blind mice.

Matters that concern an
otherwise indifferent heart.

In the open air we leave and cross
the Nile without boat nor oar.

The wail of danger falls deaf.

We have nothing to fear.