Tuesday, Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday

by Jeffrey Hermann

NASA

An old friend moves home but I don’t reach out. Months pass. I look around for him when I’m in a crowd. Nothing yet. Some people keep diaries, some watch history documentaries, and some think the past can fuck right off. I know myself well enough to only read self-help books halfway through. Tomorrow can be a better day but the day after that there will be a hurricane. A journalist stands on the beach and says winds will exceed 80 MPH. She explains the dangers of storm surge. Behind her a man walks in the surf without his shoes. He shields his eyes from the sun with his hand and looks toward the horizon. I think he is either foolish or enlightened. I search the internet for facts about the man on the beach. Nothing yet, but there are other facts. Violent weather events are often named after deities. The fear of drowning is more powerful than the fear of god. Today is July 27. The day after the day after tomorrow is almost August. Software is creating images of people with extra fingers and strange legs. There’s something off about the eyes. An artist’s early work is all passion and bad craftsmanship. Like early sex. Animals would rather learn through fear than pain. People are different. Nearly all wild lions live in Africa but one small population exists elsewhere. In my mind that means they could live anywhere. Where I live. Where I live things are mild. I live in Michigan. We take pills like anyone else.

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Jeffrey Hermann’s poetry and fiction has appeared in Electric Lit, Heavy Feather, HAD, Whale Road Review, and other publications. Though less publicized, he finds his work as a father and husband to be rewarding beyond measure.