Jeff Shalom

Listening to the Eagles 
 
I’m trying to like vinyl and the sweet velvet feels of the needle, but the needle keeps slipping, keeps skipping, at the welcome to the welcome to the Hotel California, I press fast forward and now I’m stuck, in magnetic tape rotating around that plastic spin-a-ma-jig inch by inch with my yellow Dixon Ticonderoga #2, now there’s a New Kid in Town- but I don’t want to hear it, welcome to America Online (you’ve got mail) dialing up, re-loading, chirping, beeping, facsimile-screeching, living Life in the Fast Lane, guitar giddying up on my Napster, my iTunes, my Spotify, Walkman on, headphones on, iPod on, wayfarers on, summer gone, and now the autumn leaves have got me thinking, I never thought I’d feel alone, this far down the line, worrying about this Wasted Time. 
 
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Powering Down
 
There was the week I unplugged your brain, lit a cigarette, set myself adrift, sailing in your direction, no port to call, no phone to scroll, your protocol, the rhythm of the planet, this state, this window overlooking the water. No elections or news, just jazz and the blues of the sky and the river, that sweet moonlight sliver. Breath leaving the lungs with call, cough, return, cool menthol burn, red with the rise, ash in the urn. Pour me out a whiskey, spill the ashes in the sea, too late to stop now, together, let’s sail, together, lets go.
 
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Confession
 
Running white hot up Mont Royal, feet spraying the snow, sick of screens and obligations, wind whipping the lows, I run for salvation, face first through every squall, straight shooting my way past the crooks sipping cocoa in fire-lit chalets, fueled by conscience and espresso, past McGill before the kids can say quoi, before the search party can start searching, before the blisters bleed raw, salt stinging my cheeks, chest choking in air, gazing up at the cross on the northeastern peak, I whisper to Him I miss you, regret I didn’t kiss you, wish I’d said sorry and stayed.
 
**
 
At the Pit Stop in Ogallala
 
there’s a whiff of slaughterhouse. Memento Mori. Ground beef mixed with cheese. I’m tired of Runza off the highway. The sky’s a spicy mustard burning up the winter wheat. A trucker asks why I chase storms, and I say it’s to see America, he hands me a pamphlet about his messiah. Carol-Anne takes a bite out of her Klondike. She says the ice cream soothes her throat. I put on my sunglasses and mask. I’ve never liked jury duty, small talk, or voir dire, but here, we geek out in Airplane! mode. Hey Johnny, what do you make of this? A hat or a pterodactyl? The farmer up front nibbles on radishes. I pass around a bag of strawberry Twizzlers. As the cumulus towers, I cross-examine myself. There was that escape from 9/11. Woke up in Maui with a ring. Talk about destiny, child, Beyonce was there too. That morning at the swim-up bar, watching my office turn to ash, the bartender was laughing. I can hear the ice shaking in the glass. He had been to New York once. Why are you here?
 
**

In the Sand Hills of Nebraska
 
the specter of hail haunts the corn with turquoise forewarning. Wind whispering, interlaced with cricket song. Jagged bolts disco-strobing the distance. You can feel the friction between two boundaries, warm breath spiking your pulse, your first kiss. Sometimes emboldened clouds sink lower, spin fingers beneath the outskirts of the horizon. You can turn and run, get in your van, drive east to Ogallala and start all over again. Or you can take your chance with the siren, stare straight at the squall, you can stay and dance.
 
**

We’re Walking Around Rockland Lake 
 
in my mind, while she is watching Wimbledon. The lawn may not be long enough to protect the fawns, to hide in within sets. White egret stretches her neck above lily pads, a spoon submerges into strawberries and cream. And now we’re holding hands in the middle of the night, we’re skipping across the bridge, the moon moseying out from behind the clouds to say I knew you’d show yourselves to me. Back in the living room, a spotted lanternfly lands on the table with a flutter of red, with black checkered wings, with eyes on the sides. I know what I must do. With a spinning backhand, I kill it.
 
**
 
Jeff Shalom is a poet from Upper Nyack, New York. Jeff's poems have appeared in Offcourse Literary Journal and The River. His poem "Border Crossing" was part of Nyack's Poetry Walk. Jeff and his wife Anna have three sons who are all taller than them now. Jeff enjoys soccer, storm chasing, running, and photography.