Give Us This Day
Our Daily Bread 

By Anthony Martin

January 20, 2015

My computer shuts down very quickly today, faster than yesterday, and I think, My god, I have a computer. And then the lady at the counter tells a joke where an alcoholic is the punch line. Again with that. And then I see redshirts on one corner, out to save the malnourished children of the Central African Republic, blueshirts across the way, hustling for the well-being of Syrian refugees, and I start to formulate a good reason for not contributing this month. Again with that. And I scream, I scream angrily, at the driver of the Honda Civic in the crosswalk, so loud that she finally looks up from her mobile phone and puts her foot back on the brake. And in the elevator there is a crowd of suits and I think about how much I miss Freddie Mercury, Ray Manzarek, and Bradley Nowell—about how, if I were interviewed tomorrow, tomorrow being the obvious and inevitable beginning of my rise to fame, fortune, and artistic immortality, I would tell the world of my plans to invite the Queen of Jazz, Lady Day, and Nina Simone to my hypothetical dinner party, should the opportunity ever arise. And after I finish work, I go home and watch Martin Sheen listen to Marlon Brando define human perfection, the former man painfully aware that he will soon murder the latter, and I think about that image, that distinct image of a diamond bullet striking me in between the eyes. And I drink a drink from a tall glass. And I drift into a sleep so deep that I miss a call from Ma.

And it’s all in a day’s work. 


Anthony Martin (Twitter: @pen_tight) is a mutt mixed with a little Pea River Journal, Squawk Back, Lunch Ticket, and soon Flyleaf Journal and Quiddity (among other wicked things). Visit Anthony at