Sunday, April 5, 2015

Jeffrey Zable's Money Seeds Will Not Save You From The Winter


     I took the money seeds and panted them in the ground.
Each day I watered them, and waited. To my surprise about
two weeks later I began to see the edges of bills coming up
from the soil. The first bill that was discernible was only a five,
but after that, tens, twenties, fifties. . . until finally hundreds
were sprouting everywhere.
     I knew I had to keep an eye on my crop in case the neighbors
found out, so I brought out a tent and slept beside my plants
day after day.
     When I was sure that the last bill had sprouted, I held my
revolver in one hand and did the picking with the other.
     All told, the crop was worth $14,780.
     I quickly went into the house and deposited the money into
my safe, picked up a handful of new seeds, and planted them,
all the while checking to see if anyone was watching.
     Returning to the safe I took out enough to buy a larger and
more powerful weapon, as I figured there was no such thing
as being too secure. . .
     I decided that once I amassed a fortune I would move some-
where else--maybe to an island where no one will find me—
which suits me just fine. . .


The dogshit on the sidewalk looks sad and lonely,
and the faces in the supermarket have lost their luster.
When I think of my past I have no idea how I got this far,
only that my hands are always cold
and someone is trying to call me
whose words never quite reach my ears.
I want to say something positive, but the reaper is always there
in the back of my head,
so I walk to the window and say something to the outside air:
Would you please give me a thousand more chances?
Would you please forgive me for all the wasted time?
Would you please put me out of my misery?
One by one the faces appear in front of me
telling me I’m beyond redemption,
that my position is final.
What is my position? I finally ask, and then there is silence.
I go back to bed and pull the covers over my head,
stay that way for the rest of the season.

Jeffrey Zable is a teacher and percussionist who plays Afro-Cuban folkloric music
for dance classes and Rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area. He's published
five chapbooks including Zable's Fables with an introduction by the late great Beat poet
Harold Norse. Present or upcoming writing in Clarion, Coe Review, Ishaan Literary Review,
Chaos Poetry Review (featured poet), Barbaric Yawp, Chrome Baby, Dreginald, Z-Composition,
Uppagus, On The Rusk, Snapping Twig, Purple Pig Lit, Pound Of Flash, and many others.

1 comment:

  1. Mr Zable! It's James Spingola. I was your student around 1993 at Rollingwood. My email is jcspingola@aol.com or logansunclej@aol.com I would love to talk to you.