Microfiction: A Small Rebellion by Jack Phillips Lowe

A SMALL REBELLION

 

 

 

 

            The government money dropped yesterday. So, Helen went out to Kroger’s for groceries today. Helen is two years older than me. But her legs work better than mine. 

So Helen goes out and leaves me at home. Which suits me just fine. 

            It’s the time I like best. After all these years, Helen still thinks she’s the boss of me. When she’s out, that’s the only time I do what I want. 

I like to feed the birds in our backyard. If I don’t, how will they eat? The birds depend on me for food. Every day, they look for me—cardinals, blue jays, yellow finches, woodpeckers, sparrows. Hell, nobody else does. They swarm around me like a Disney cartoon. The birds are the only friends I got. 

Helen thinks she knows it all. Last week, she told me, “Genna, don’t feed the birds no more. It’s winter now. Any food you throw down for them birds, it’s going to bring mice and rats from all over. If you bring mice and rats to my house, I’m going to send you to the county home. No more feeding birds until Spring comes.”

 

Well, to hell with her. I can’t let the poor birds starve to death in this cold and snow. As for the mice and rats? My dog, Oliver, is a Boston Terrier. Boston Terriers are better mouse-catchers than any cat. But Helen don’t like Oliver, either. So on that score, Helen don’t know her ass from her elbow. 

Like I said, Helen went out to Kroger’s for groceries. So, I took a couple slices of Wonder Bread from the ice box and tore them up into little bits on a paper towel. 

I put on my coat and my old legs were good enough to shuffle me out to the driveway. There, the birds were waiting for me like I was their guardian angel. Warmed my heart, it did. 

            I dumped the bread out on the driveway for them. The birds jumped all over it, like they hadn’t eaten in days. In minutes, the bread was gone. Those birds were back up in the trees, singing. And it felt like they were singing just for me. 

When Helen got home, there was no bread left and no birds were seen anywhere. She didn’t know from Shinola. So, Helen, the birds and me, we was all happy—for different reasons.

See? Helen ain’t the boss of me. 

Jack Phillips Lowe was born, raised and still resides in the Chicago area. His poems and short stories have appeared in Piker Press, Synchronized Chaos and Bold Monkey Review, among other outlets. Lowe's most recent poetry chapbook, Brautigan's Blue Moon (Instant Oblivion Press, 2025), is available on lulu.com.  

New poems: Jack Phillips Lowe

FRED WOULD UNDERSTAND

 

I was sitting in the break room, 

looking at my phone,

when the news popped up

on my Facebook feed:

the poet Fred Voss had died.

 

Fred Voss was a unique 

and distinctly American writer.

Using experiences he’d gleaned

from years of toiling as a machinist

in a California aircraft factory,

Voss’s poems portrayed 

the blue-collar laborer’s world

with sensitivity and compassion 

rarely seen in poetry since Bukowski—

minus the “tough guy” bullshit

that marred much of Buk’s writing.

 

Voss’s poetry was, for me,

a school of possibilities. 

Poets, Voss taught me, 

didn’t glow in the dark. 

They weren’t required to be born

with blue-blooded pedigrees.

They didn’t need diplomas

from Ivy League universities.

 

Poets, Voss taught me, 

worked 9-5 jobs. 

They wrestled with mortgages

and insurance, asshole bosses

and douchebag coworkers.

They endured heartbreaks dealt  

by family, friends and lovers.

 

The difference, Voss taught me,

was that poets—each in 

their own singular way—

heard music in the rat race

that bypassed everyone else.

 

Sitting in the break room,

I felt compelled to post 

something on Facebook 

in memory of Fred Voss. 

Something, beyond the usual R.I.P.,

that would convey how much 

and for how long Voss’s words

had enriched my life. 

Try as I did, nothing came.

 

I glanced at my watch;

time to get back to work. 

Company policy stated that 

clocking in late from a break 

earned you a half-point penalty. 

I was already at 4 ½ points;

5 points meant termination. 

 

I pocketed my phone,

hurried up the hall 

to the time clock 

and punched back in. 

Somehow, I knew

Fred would understand.

 

 

OKAY, THEN

 

I don’t care 

that you once met

Tupac Shakur.

Okay, then.

He’s still alive,

you know.

 

I don’t care 

that Bukowski

once told you

to write a book

about your life. 

Okay, then.

He said that 

to many women. . .

who, sadly, listened. 

 

I don’t care

that you dived

off Navy Pier.

In your underwear.

In broad daylight.

Okay, then. 

I hope that 

you chose

the deep end.

 

I don’t care

that you once 

knocked out

Ronda Rousey

in a bar fight.

Okay, then. 

You used 

a beer bottle, 

didn’t you?

 

I don’t care

that your ex-boyfriend 

once dared you to 

put your cell phone 

on vibrate and 

shove it into 

your crotch, 

while he 

speed-dialed you

on his cell phone.

Okay, then.

Some people 

are just bored. 

 

I don’t care 

about anything 

that happened

with anybody

before tonight,

outside of 

this room.

 

Can you just 

sit here with me,

without talking?

And help me

drink this 

twelve-pack of beer?

 

Okay, then.

You can stay.

 

 

WELL-CHOSEN WORDS

 

He fell in love with her

that day. 

He loved her long dark hair. 

He loved her smooth olive skin.

He loved her dancing brown eyes. 

Her full lips, even when forming

the most mundane words,

gave him a boner that could 

pound gravel to dust. 

 

He knew he wanted to spend

the rest of his life with her. 

All he had to do was

say some well-chosen words

that would make his dream reality. 

 

He opened his mouth and spoke:

"Thanks for shopping with us.

Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

 

He handed her the receipt.

The woman smiled and walked away.

He never saw her again. 

Find more of Jack's work on BMR here: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2024/02/featuring-jack-phillips-lowe.html

 

 

Featuring Jack Phillips Lowe

MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES

I like to believe 

that famous poetry 

lost boys Lew Welch,

Weldon Kees and 

John Hoffman 

did not die when 

Wikipedia said 

they did. No way. 

At the time 

of their vanishing,

they each seemed 

to be moving south---

Kees told friends

he was thinking 

of trying on 

a new identity 

in Mexico. 

Hoffman was in Mexico, 

where he reportedly 

died under 

"mysterious circumstances."

Welch, in a last note 

to his Beat comrades,

wrote that he was 

"heading southwest."

What if they all 

defrauded the Reaper

by holing up in 

some obscurely 

funky pueblo 

just below Veracruz?

Wouldn't it be cool 

if this trio of

bookish booze hounds

happened to trip over 

each other's feet 

while stumbling in to 

the same pulqueria,

jonesing for a fix?

There they'd sit, 

drinking themselves 

under a shared table,

each loving his invisibility

and delighting the others

with slurred readings 

of poems that existed

only between their 

mouths and ears.

Wouldn't this finish 

beat all hell 

out of a 

question mark 

within parentheses?

SOMEWHERE ON THE WAVES

I was up at 2:00AM---

the need to speak 

with Simon and Garfunkel

pried my eyes wide open. 

They were there 

in a couple of keys. 

We hung out together,

shooting the shit, until

the sky turned pink.

For sure, they did 

most of the talking. 

By daybreak, though, 

thanks to them, 

my mind was clear. 

Paul and Artie---

best friends live

between the buttons,

somewhere on the waves. 

SHARP EDGES

Thorn enters the kitchen 

carrying the day’s mail.

Among the bills and catalogs 

is a full-color wall calendar

from the World Wildlife Fund,

trolling for a donation that 

Thorn isn’t going to send them. 

“What’s that?” asks Donna.

She’s seated at the kitchen table,

painting her fingernails

a quiet shade of rose.

“A nice calendar,” Thorn replies,

pulling it from its envelope.

He leafs through the months.  

“Looky here, Don. November’s the best.

November has a picture of a gray wolf,

sitting on top of a wintery hill.

Wolf’s probably stalking snowshoe rabbits. 

Reminds me of the time me and Mike

went hunting in Spooner, Wisconsin.

I think I’ll hang this up on the fridge.” 

Donna shudders and crumples her face

like a piece of tinfoil.

“Hell no, you won’t!” she spits. 

Thorn shrugs his shoulders.

“Why not? This kitchen is too bland. 

It could use a bit of color. 

Besides, the calendar’s free.”

Donna caps her nail polish bottle

and gives Thorn a cold stare.

“Do you want that thing 

staring back at us all day, 

every day, reminding us both 

of how much time we wasted?

Of all the things we failed to do?

Of how close we’re getting to our graves?

Not in my house, mister. Throw it away.”

Thorn, suddenly cautious, uses his fingertips

to hold the calendar by a corner, as if

he just realized that it has sharp edges. 

He walks the calendar to the trash can 

and carefully drops it in.

APPLES AND ORANGES 

William is hunkered down

on the couch in the front room. 

Several CD's and empty Miller Lite cans

are strewn across the coffee table before him. 

Headphones clamped to his ears 

are connected, by a thin wire, 

to a portable CD player in his lap. 

William's girlfriend, Addison, 

eases into the room and 

sits beside him on the couch.

She reaches over and tickles 

his salt-and-pepper goatee.

William ignores her. 

After a brief pause,

she reaches over and pulls

the thin wire from the CD player.

"So," Addison giggles, 

"are we going out tonight or not?"

William glares at Addison. 

He reconnects the wire 

and fiddles with the CD player. 

"Not tonight," he snaps. 

"I've got to hear this."

Addison considers the CD's

as she plays with a lock 

of her neon-blue hair. 

"So that's it?" she asks. 

"You're just going to sit here

all night, listening to 

dad rock on caveman tech?

You can do that any time."

William adjusts his headphones.

"This is Material Issue," he says.

"Today's the day their lead singer,

Jim Ellison, committed suicide 

twenty-six years ago. He came from 

the same town in Illinois that I did.

The Ish was my favorite band. 

Under-appreciated, then and now."

Addison picks up a CD, glances at it 

and replaces it on the coffee table. 

"He was like Kurt Cobain, huh?

Why do all of your rock stars 

kill themselves?" she asks. 

William pulls a headphone cup 

away from one ear; 

muffled music drifts through the air.

"Addison, please," he says. 

"You're comparing apples and oranges. 

I'll explain it to you another time. 

I need to listen to the Ish."

Addison folds her hands and sighs.

"Well," she says, "if this guy Ellison

means so much to you, why don't you

upload a tribute to him on YouTube?

I'll help. Everyone will see it then."

"I'm not a veejay," William replies.

"Besides, this is personal. 

Everyone doesn't need to see it."

Addison sorts through the CD's,

arranging them into a neat stack. 

"You know, Will? You should  

listen to Meet Me at the Altar. 

Their lyrics are like life."

William shakes his head.

"You, and Meet Me at the Altar, 

should listen to Material Issue. 

Their lyrics are life." 

Coolly, Addison stands up 

and walks to the front door. 

She removes her coat and purse

from hooks on a nearby wall. 

She throws both over one arm. 

Addison uses her other arm 

to open the door. 

"William," she says, "you're old."

Addison steps out the door

and shuts it behind herself. 

"Thank God," William replies,

as he sits back 

to absorb the music.

Jack Phillips Lowe was born, raised and still proudly resides in the Chicago area. He has contributed poems and short stories to Clutch 2023, Beatnik Cowboy and Red Fez Magazine, among other outlets. His most recent book, Flashbulb Danger: Selected Poems 1988-2018 (Middle Island Press, 2018), is available from Amazon.com. Lowe is currently working on a new poetry chapbook.