Amy

There she sits without eyes to see, possibly without thoughts or any understandings that we would know; she sits waiting, looking past with empty orbs and then finds you with her nose. We are heat to her heart. Who you are is of no consequence. Sleeping, eating, drinking and passing remains, she otherwise sits hunched all but motionless in a shaded corner of her room. It does not matter who brings her food, changes water, or cleans the filtration system.

She of course can hear what you say, but the words don’t register the same inside her shell. We’d thought to simply put her back in to the Ocean, but such a fragile animal isn’t likely to survive, and Jane thought the spots of her shell quite unique_ 'worthy of collection'.

Bubbles formed in the pit of her stomach, lurch forward, and are released; she moves thus in increments barely discernible to an average man, yet forward goes to where-ever. Her gender, to all but the informed, remained speculative at best. She’d picked up the nickname Amy on account of the reddish complexion and spots, reminding all who worked in the facility of Amy, the general accountant’s youngest daughter, and her freckles. Introduced as such to said child, proved disastrous. The little girl took one look at the tank, bawled, and ran from the room in hysterics.

How could any one in their right mind think 'little Amy' might like 'that' named after her? They were all in agreement on the score, yes. Though which 'little Amy,' and what score, were in hot debate long after. The tank eventually ended up in a secluded place by the office water cooler, where in effect, she reminded all that mostly being along for the ride, was just fine.

At night the glow of the tank ripples with waves given off by the filter, sending shadows jumping about and on everything about, and wiggle. It is then she thinks it beautiful, without words having to say so, if you sit still and watch. Amy rocks back and forth dancing with an absent light, it reminds her of something, but just what that memory is, isn’t important just now; she dances having never seen that sea's embrace.

educating quietly

greened up in a pickling jar
a fetal float hangs suspended,
perpetually stilled,
it stares silently
down upon us children
testing our 2 point 5s
amid rushing, anxious
daydreamed nightmares
of life’s ultimate failure

Single it Out

What clouded thoughts were her’s as she asked yet again about him, “ C’mon, ya gotta level with me, is he seeing her? Don’t ya think he is, like always, I mean, like, before? What’s she want, another bottle? Just him, and not me then? “ Sitting in the corner, Johnathan then shot me a look. That look. His look.

What was she thinking he’d do with the ax anyway? Man handle it? I remember a simpler time, in a much less toxic environment, with the two to bed and me, and Candy asking, “pass the chocolates,” in her, “ hey pass the box, will ya?” kinda way, and naturally, I did.

Now, well now, I’ve only the cleaning up to do and then I suppose follow Ted to bed as I have for the past ten years while forgetting her, the other one.

Lynette,

There once was a Caterpillar, until it was no longer.

Ego x 3

Into that spring day
her hands sought out hunting that_
yet I'm of wet clay.

*

Cold still museum
his gal, with hard marbled tits
reclines, needing me.

*

Reflecting Psyche,
her want placed June’s classified:
“Urgent man wanted.”

Strings

Yeah so, I’m naked here. Yes, and you can see me, the real me, sitting here bare ass to all and then read some words about that, or you can choose to just read what comes, or possibly not. Here, naked I sit under a great big tree. My ass on the grass , I sit and look out to green fields and blue skies. I say blue, but understand that within the blues are a myriad of colors including gray, black, pinks and purples, and any that a rainbow would care to mention after that. My hairs curl tighter from the cool breeze floating ‘round them. I’m thinking of cheese and garlic on a shit load of pasta and wondering if Francesco would like a loaf of fresh bread with it. Taking out the bowl, I run warm water in it and let it sit. “We’ve a lesson this week,” I think aloud. Lutes in the corner beg playing and dare you to go boxing the weather. That of course meaning the peg box won’t sit still for your nakedness, regardless of intent. Fingers wait: four on the left, and four on the right.

Here, in a fisticuffs of prose, sits idle the writer. Sometime across the page a note sings, but mostly they sit waiting perusal. A big tree grows up my naked behind, the grass itches, and whatever I see, I do. This cannot be helped and is what has taken my life to grow to an enriched place upon the grass, itching, green, and crawling against me.

An interruption of the day crawls up behind my butt in traffic, and, with her cell phone in hand says to the air, “I really don’t care if he sits butt naked under the Goddamn tree, he’s got to go!” Slamming my ass, the car comes to a stop, and I sigh, thinking about her conversation. Sitting back to relax my spine, I hear the medics come. In heat and light there is an Angel of a man that approaches, too young, in dark blue paramedic garb, white smile and calming voice. “Sir, sir, can you hear me?”

“No, not unless I’m naked: the tree should be tall against my back, and the grass should tickle my butt and thighs; do you know if the strings are still strung?”

Yup, real words are like that_ this hallucination of life: calling, and answering, and just doing their thing against blue. So naked, against white, write this and that, and sit thinking about warm pasta and lute strings. Naked with you, the words march on too, naked and itching, while thinking about another cool color.

It

Is robin’s egg blue
sits now on a carpet green
asking in her look.

Two Haiku

Father

For that moment I
held on to a fair-the-well,
watching you lay brick.


*

Of Self

Sometimes in falling
against his pebbled road sits
a toad needing kissed.

About Venus:

Eating when she wants

occasionally dying back bloated,

her belly_ full.

The shellfish sickens,

and room swims toward

an explosive pink.

After rising with the sun

and feigning sobriety,

she vomits her guts out.

She is the Venus,

collapsed,

inconsolable,

vulnerable again.

Hot, awakened abruptly,

she hears him humming in the kitchen,

singing something about someone

named E-lye-zah.

On board, ham and eggs,

but oh,

those eggs he made

were looking back just then,

and oh,

her body knew what to do

but nibble at toast.

Santa

Another baby blew bubbles at me today. This one had bright hazel eyes, curly brown hair, and through those cherubic pink lips drooled magical moments at me; with red, green, blue, and golden flax reflected from the tree behind me, within this gaze, held promise of colors more radiant still. I laughed and she smiled back; her stocking hung next the chimney with care, with a peppermint cane and brown fuzzy bear.

Imagine her surprise when I flew back up the chimney, then, imagine her surprise when she awoke.

Two for Brautigan

- Under the big top

She is waiting around the corner
for your eyes_
surprise her won't you?

- The Grand Canyon

Hey,
it’s bigger than me.

To Alice

I purchased the old locket while shopping one day. On the inside it reads in scrawled calligraphy, “To Alice”, also there is a bit of hair under a glass: brown, curly, and soft.

Now it is true that I do not know whom Alice was, is, or what relationship she had to this hair_ but it is nice hair.

A pleasant waitress named Alice waited on me a few weeks ago; maybe that’s it? But somehow I keep thinking of the hair and inscription and I know there is more to the story. Anyway, Alice is a nice name, and I was just thinking of her.

You Speak

We were birds just North-East on the fence-line,
against the Dakota blue
there with the off-coal
and white clouds.

Ask me and I'd say,
they were a bit too blue up there like that
reminding me of you_
fresh from a shower
with field of flowers laughing.

We were high there,
about the gold heads
of tall grass dancing
naked.

Giggling at me you smiled
and questioned "Tell me, do I fly too?"

_Well of course silly,
you know you do...

today comes early

4:32 AM

Insomnia starts the day. Glancing at the clock for the umpteenth time, and three, well maybe five cups of old coffee later, my eyelids open to find ants invading the bathroom. Poison for them, another cup for me listening to my honey in bed snoring away. I begin to think about his dreams and wonder if I'm even in them?

It would be so easy now, putting on shoes to take out the trash, to envision being tossed aside in that darkened, snooze filled slumber-land. A blond tanned Adonis, flings back gold hair and flashes a toothpaste smile ad, complete with sparkling gleam. The smell of black leather fills the air and the snore becomes a snort. But can he really smell the man's sweat? If so, does his nose move towards it, diving down to the pit of love? These visions could drive me crazy.

Garbage tossed, I bang around in the kitchen grinding loudly at more beans. The last of yesterday's coffee slammed in the microwave, and fifty seconds later pings_ stirs up empty air gurgling complaints about its day. I drift somehow not really caring about any of this old friend, instead, I sit down to write you. Another day in fucking paradise. The old man still asleep, and me, me, feeling the morning's shit coming on, I type.

B.

He told her one day after eating lunch, “It’s not a matter of love, I don’t even like you anymore.” Pausing the brush through her course bushy-red hair, she looked slowly, from the ceiling to him.

He felt a pain. He’d not seen the flash of her green eyes_ that kind of green, for very long time, and it hurt. It hurt wrong. His left arm numbed, and lips... He touched his right hand to his chest and sunk down to his knees in agony.

“Yeah honey…” she mused with a smirk, after the coroner left, “but I’ll be the one collecting the checks.”

An Old Melon

Sunk on the table
an old melon draws gnats
with a hot heady putrefying scent.

So much like you_
melodramatically flopped
in accenting the sofa

Sloshed to contemplation
with assured seriousness
your martini’s olive.

God's Mountain

Once lived two boys, Omar and Hassain, in a village at the foot of a great mountain. Passing by it one day, the notion to climb passed through their young heads. It was said by elders in the village to be a mountain of God, and in climbing to its top one could hear his voice; and so the two set out.

It wasn’t long, when the littler of the two, Hassain, grew weary. His small legs trembled violently, even having had rested several times. It was decided, between the two, to return some day when he was a bit older and stronger. Omar seeing that Hassain felt shamed in his weakness, reassured him, “Have faith little brother, we shall get there together some day.” And so they went down.

Years later, having grown to young men, they once again found themselves at the mountain’s base gazing upwards. Without words, both started up its slope. Crossing the place they’d stopped years earlier, a smile passed between them. Onward they climbed. Half way up however, Omar’s shoe picked up a stone, and, in not wanting to stop, he traveled a while further before reluctantly sitting to remove it. His foot was bruised badly by that time, but rising once again, he joined Hassain in the assent. Hassain could see Omar's limp and eventual struggle to keep up. “Omar!” Hassain said, “That foot of yours cannot hold out, we must go back.” Omar, who had not wanted his friend to see his plight felt grateful that he had, and agreed. “I hope someday in the future we may return to finish what we have started,” Hassain told Omar that night in the village.

A couple years later a family with a beautiful daughter moved into their village. Hassain confessed in confidence to Omar his desire and wish to marry the young women, but Omar desired her too. Without comment, Omar went quickly about arranging to marry the girl, giving half his possessions to do so. When word passed that the lucky couple was indeed to be married, a rift occurred between the two young men. Hassain, who felt Omar had stolen her from him, did not attend the wedding and refused to speak with his friend.

Time passed, and Hassain, who himself had eventually married, moved from the village to raise sheep in the nearby hills. Years turned into decades, families were raised, and flowers bloomed and died in their pots.

One day Hassain, coming from the village market, encountered his old friend at the foot of this mountain. They both looked to its top and began climbing. Their old quarrel soon dwindled, defused by distance and climb. Quietly, gently, they began to speak of their children, wives, and of the sorrows and joys life had given. Up, up they went, not noticing gathering clouds. A storm descended on them before they were aware of it. They continued.

Omar, without coat, soon became chilled. Hearing the chattering teeth in Omar’s mouth, Hassain removed his coat and threw it over his friend’s shoulders. Omar felt grateful, yet guilty that his old friend should now suffer the weather, and after a while returned the coat saying, “Thank you my friend, I feel much better now, you take this.” Thus sharing the warmth of coat and conversation they eventually stood at the mountain's peak. Silent understanding then passed and smiles radiated from both men. The storm ceded and warmth filled the air. Looking out under the blue sky they indeed heard the voice of God, though he had not spoken a word. Looking out, they saw all of God’s land.

Some say that they did not return, but froze to death when the great storm again dropped upon their old gray heads, but I say this is nonsense. For I ask you, if not from they, from where did these words and this story come, a mountain?

A Ripening

The purple fuzzy pile purred at me as I walked by. Good Lord, did one wink as well?

“Sweet, delicious fruit, fresh and juicy, the best that money can buy!” The squat round-faced man behind the counter hadn’t answered my question.

“Yes, but what are they?” I repeated a second time.

“They’re unlike anything else,” he continued unabated, “filled with all the wonders and goodness one could ever desire in a fruit, but so indescribably delicate and evasive to the palate. Come, come Miss please, wouldn’t you like to sample them?” he enticed, passionately plucking one of the now blue luminescent orbs from a small mound. He held it in front of my face, close, up to my nose. I unconsciously closed my eyes, inhaled deeply and gasped.

Its alluring sweet aroma filled the air, reminiscent of the most beautiful smells known to me. Moving from the darkest of rich chocolates, cotton candy, and bitter coffee, the air mingled with the smell of roasted pork and just as quickly changed to the heady perfume of flowers. Magnolias, carnations, roses, and gardenias all made their rounds before the unfolding dragon tulips hit me. My senses reeled ‘round pummeled into confusion. Unconsciously I drooled down the front of my blouse.

In wonder I looked on. It had turned a blushing tangerine color and flattened to a disc in his hand then just as quickly it elongated and turned to a deep scarlet . He tore it open with his fingers. A squeak! A groan! And oddly enough, I could have sworn I heard a faint seductive whispering emanate just before his tug at the flesh. Just a single word, said suggestively licking and tickling of the inner ear, “Ripe!”

Yes indeed, without question I knew it was.

Handing me half of a now swollen pink and green striped bulbous shaped flesh, I noted the scent had not stopped fermenting its chameleon march onward. Much like an orange blossom one second, it oozed of new leather the next. Placing a cautious tongue on the cut side I was shocked at how cool it instantly made me feel, yet all the while hot spicy and warm shutters ran the length of my spine. As I suckled its flesh I caught the scent of caramel, I realized too that the taste, subtle at first, now changed as rapidly in flavor as it had in appearance and scent. All my favorite foods instantly came to mind, and, yet it was quite unlike anything I’d ever eaten. Ice cream and candy, roast beef and gravy, vanilla custard and blueberry pie assailed me. But no, it was more than that, it was, well, as the gentleman had said, “unlike anything else.”

Buttered and garlic potatoes, well peppered pork, fresh toast and honey, rich cheesecake.

With my head swimming, unable to subdue the palette of my palate I gasped spurting breathlessly, “How much a pound?”

“Pound?” He queried.

“Yes, tell me, how much?” I said spitting out the words.

Scratching his ruddy balding head he gazed distantly, “They are so rare I’m afraid they are sold individually, and they are unfortunately, quite expensive.”

After quoting me an outrageous sum, the ominous privilege of being given the half piece as a sample took me aback. Still, undeterred, I readily and gratefully gave him the credits he asked, and left clutching tightly at my breast the small precious bag of the fruit.

Originally I had planned to take them home and split them with my husband, but as I drove along, the ever-changing smells overpowered me. Pulling over and parking my car, I greedily reached into the bag and pulled one of the delectable fruit out. It was by this time shaped like a soft, spongy square and covered with willowy white scales. As it neared my lips, I one again heard it emanate the word “ripe”. Kidney shaped, lavender colored and smelling of spiced vanilla beans, I shoved it into my mouth whole. Without chewing, only sucking upon the ripeness I felt myself whisked away to mysterious wonders previously unknown in my life. The best sex paled in comparison. I felt I was drowned in a deluge of sensory overload. My tongue, mouths, throat and body buzzed at the abundance. I had never felt so alive. Aesthetically pleasured beyond passion, mere words fail in application.

Not recalling the drive home or crawling into bed, numb from the experience, I was barely aware of my husband’s arrival from work. When asked if I was feeling well, I just rolled over and groaned. He dropped his briefcase by the bed and nibbled on my neck telling me I smelled exquisite. Remembering the bag I’d placed on the nightstand next to me, I pulled a velvety ruby triangle from hiding and licked it. Bubbling into a heart shape I heard my husband gasp when the scent from the now midnight black fruit hit his nose. Smashing it with my teeth I pulled his head towards mine and started slowly chewing and sucking while my husband did the same. Whimpering and crying with joy, he joined in the orgy of pleasure that had been mine throughout the day.

Did we have sex then? I don’t recall. Nor do I remember eating the rest of the bag, but the next morning we woke late and it was empty, so we must have. Upon seeing the bag my husband turned to me with a questioning look. Instead of asking 'if' about the empty bag he asked me where I got the fruit and would I’d go back and get some more. Indeed the thought had struck me too. I told him of their high price. He readily agreed- at any cost, and got ready for work while I went to make coffee and breakfast.

He was getting out of the shower as the coffee finished dripping. It smelled good, but something wasn’t right. Pouring a mug for each of us, he read my mind taking the first sip. “What’s wrong with the coffee?” “Yeah, I noticed something smelled funny when it was brewing. Maybe the beans are old. I’ll be sure and stop for a new bag on the way back from the market,” I said following his lead dumping the cup down the drain. “Yuck!”

Turning to his breakfast he fidgeted moving cut up pieces of egg around the plate. Crumbled bacon, toast and jam likewise went unattended. He didn't touch the fresh orange juice. Grabbing the morning paper, he mumbled about eating later. With that I kissed him, sending him on his way.

I likewise had no appetite. Shoving the whole of my breakfast down the disposal, the notion of still being full from the prior night gave way to the craving. Tossing on jeans and one of my husbands sweat tops, fishing for car keys- 'did I lock up?' I sped to farmer's market ignoring half the traffic laws. Panic set it when the vendor wasn't readily found. My heart rioted in my ears by the time I found him.

Only a few of the amazing fruit remained on the table. 'Were they singing?' Buckling inside at the scent, saliva went directly to a sleeve without regards to appearance. “Are these all you have?” I puffed out breathlessly. “Yes, I'm afraid so, and, unfortunately the price has risen accordingly.” “How much” I felt myself swoon as he spoke, not really hearing his answer. “Oh never mind,” I barked impatiently at him, “I'll take them.”

A smile of recognition crossed his face- someone who knew? Taking my credits, almost all we had remaining for the year, he placed them gently in the bag and into my hands warning, “Be sure to eat them today, they'll be overripe and rotten by tomorrow.” Eagerly I urged, “When will you get more?” The man now looked almost piteous. “They are only in season once every seventeen years...” he said to my retreating figure, shrinking, overwhelmed at the notion.

At home, the bag sat on the counter. It now screamed continually, “Ripe, Ripe, Ripe.” The once subtle scent overwhelmed the apartment. I could wait no longer. Shoving them in my mouth one after the other, I could neither discern scent, color, texture or taste. It was only after sucking the remaining juice from my fingers and hands that I succumbed. A deep, devastating remorse set in. Sobbing for what must have been hours, I later heard the keys and door open. The distant voice of my husband asked what was wrong. A strangling sadness darkened our bed, wrenching at my insides while I confessed all. His face paled. In an attempt to soothe, he whispered sweetly (words?) kissing at my salty tears. Emotions drained out while holding each other and an unsettling bitterness nestled in darkening our lives, making itself comfortably at home while wedged constant and ever changing between us.

We Regret to Inform You

“Tom! Hey Tom, where’d you put the gun?” I heard Jeffee call from out back. Bein’ a lazy butt Saturday mornin’ I only want to roll over and stuff the pillow up my ears. But friends are friends right? I shouted from where I was laid out, “Where you left it ya big doofus!”

“And where’s that?” he yelled back. I stretched looking up at the yellow-brown rain- stained ceiling. “Well, why don't you go check up in the fort.”

Rusted boards nailed two years back squawked as he climbed up the old oak, ten feet from the window, up to the tree house we’d built. From where I lay, I imagined I could hear catfish talking in the river. From where I lay, I see the empty bed of my brother Jim, gone.

“Hey Tom, we still got some live night-crawlers?”

Moments later after a few pops of zinging Bee Bee's, Jeffee called back, “Yeah, but they’re kinda slow now. Hey, ya wanna go drown ‘em an see we can catch a few?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Do do that voodoo, that you do so well” sang Jeffee back at me then starting to whistle the star spangled banner off tune, punctuating the high notes with the gun_ pop, ping, pop, ping, pop, ping, pummeling the rotted out 'private' sign hanging on the fence.

Heaving myself up I quickly dressed, washed my face, peeling a bit dead skin off last week’s sunburn, leaving a bright pink sore mark on my nose. After feeding Jim's goldfish and feeling slightly guilty over not cleaning its bowl, I tried to fix my sleep mussed hair into place- pointless no matter how much gel. I tossed the comb aside. Grabbing an apple in the kitchen, pushing the screen door aside for a fly or two going out, I stepped out and stretched again facing the day.

It was a damp warm day. Standing on the porch for a few minutes to get my bearings on the morning, I couldn’t help but think of Jim leaving last year. Casting a tall proud shadow just a bit larger than life, he shoved the bill of my cap down over my face. “See ya ‘round squirt. You be good to ma while I’m gone and don’t do anything I wouldn’t. Eyes still covered I knew he winked like he always did when bein’ big brother. Pushing the cap back I mumbled “Sure thing” and poked him in the ribs while he bear hugged me. It seemed unreal him pushing back then, slinging the duffel bag on his shoulder and walking off to war. I couldn’t tell you why I cried then. I was proud of him and I suppose a bit jealous as well, but I wasn’t no sissy.

Jeffee was lookin’ funny at me as he walked up. “You moping on again? C’mon, you know Jim's goin’a teach ‘em. They shoulda’ known not to mess with the U.S. of A. with guys like him around. ‘Sides, he can pick a sparrow off a flagpole blindfold.”

“I know,” I sighed, “you got the worms?”

“Do I got worms the man asks, do I got the worms?” knuckle punching my arm, Jeffee ran on ahead calling back at me, “I’ll have a stringer full before you get there!” Tossing the apple core at his running behind, with pole and the tackle box in hand I shot out after him. He could have been my twin, ‘sept he had a mop of red curls instead of an unruly yellow top, and a purple black shiner from a run in with a local bully last week that just ‘bout shut his right eye. Bare foot and in coveralls we set out walking the mile and a half to the river.

It’s funny how much noise can pass between to boys not saying a thing on a country road and how much that really means. Occasionally picking up and tossing stones, or kicking them out in front, till they flip off to the side of the road and laziness to lay any toe-claim prevailed.

Halfway there, I went silent with the passing of the telegram man peddling his bike in the opposite direction. Sure, it coulda’ meant anything, but for me, it meant one, only one. I thought painfully back to Jim and how a couple years before the war the girls and his preoccupation with them came along to steal him. He hardly time for me then, except when he needed help detailing his red Chevy for a date.

“Lotsa folks live out here,” Jeffee said reassuring, momentarily breaking empty space between the calling swamp birds. I buried myself deeper into dark thoughts and walked on, not wanting to talk about it. “It could be anything right?” Guts knotted up, like the mass of worms twisting ‘round a hook and a ripple went through my hide.

Frogs ker-plunked themselves down to safety when we reached the sluggish muddy water. “I need a new hook.” “Help yourself” I mumbled, baited, cork set I tossed , sinking myself in too.

The pole woke me seconds later. “Dang, you got one already,” he said in awe as I pulled up a catfish pushing the low end of four pounds. Memories of Jim showing me how to hold a catfish, without getting stabbed by its dorsal fin, flickered and went out. Putting the fish on the stringer, I reached for the worm can. Once more I was awakened from my trance by the tugging. I repeated the process from time to time as the afternoon wore on. Stagnant water stank and the bobber was forever going down. Jeffee talked his small talk to my muted silence till finally it was late.

We walked fast the way back, our arms aching from the catch. Lightning bugs raced frenetically before us all the way leaving their trails of life in the growing darkness. Jeffee must have called goodnight to me, leaving me to stumble numbly the last couple blocks. Why he left me alone just then when I thought I needed him most I'd only half guess at later on.

Mom home from work, still in her waitress apron, sat stone faced sunk at the kitchen table. Open in front of her, flattened out, was a rumpled yellow telegram. I could see the five words I'd expected and feared most written across its top. “Ah honey- Tom,” her voice trailed, “it's Jim...” Going to the sink I skinned the still flopping fish; if they croaked out in protest, I didn't notice.

The Turning of a Page (December 11, 2008)

Ah, my dear Bettie_
brilliant lights fade away,
still I will miss you.

End

Decapitation:
Swift blade severs head_ there's steam
comes from the basket.

Democracy

Cold at this hydrant
it smells of politicians,
even after words.

Yeah, well...

Foie Gras, veal,
escargot, eel,
lamb and ham,
a dish of fresh fish,
even crude fast food
that once mooed.

I squeal in delight,
to the cringe (and their fright),
while taking large bites
that taste out of sight.

Blessed vegetarians be,
see- there's more
left for me.

Beauty

I fucked a dog in the wilderness, don’t ask me how-
I’m an American male and can fuck anything.

Five beer gal.
Teeth like broken glass
and skin rough as the floor of her desert shack
(complete with rattlesnake and cacti).

Needs a bag they’d say-
but the rocking was nice.

Years later and turned queer
when ask by dad, “Have you had a woman yet?”
with thoughts on her said, “Oh yeah.”

I’m an American male,
and the comfort of a dried up old gal
can feel good for a time.
Time enough at least
a long time ago.

Five beers of six reflected sadly in soft brown eyes,
imploring, ‘Stay, we can make love and ugly children.'

I pulled out hitting the road
thinking now, only years later
of her kindness-
somehow bigger than the Fourth of July.

Maybe she had me?

Though, I’m an American male
who can fuck anything,
and usually does.

Porcelain Destiny

I can cry
when gold fish die
and thus, do not keep pets.

A stray cat
black, sensing that,
eats here and then she gets.

Going Away

It started like any other evening with Emily bringing me tea. Cold with lemon, and just the right sweet, she handed it to me landing a kiss. She glanced at my blank notebook and yellow pencil silent on the page, questioning nothing.

She’d replaced the Bermuda two months ago with Buffalo grass, it bordered on a wilderness that we both tended to like at times, and so I questioned her, “Em, don’t you just love all this green?”

Pausing after refilling her jelly jar, she looked around, “Yes, I suppose it isn’t really what I’d intended, but at least it is that.” She frowned looking down in her glass-“It’s that old half empty half full routine. I can and will go drink, but when I get there, all I can think about is another refill.”

Her eyes pierced and she knew; she knew it was true and that for years I’d been thinking the same things: about grass, about life and most importantly, us. We’d done pretty well I thought. We raised three kids who weren’t behind bars and actually supported themselves. We followed our own paths while supporting each other’s. Her music and my writings hung there magically fulfilling artistic need. And loathed to admit it, our joke about not having enough lawn to plant the other on was a half-truth. We were rich in life, but our life was small, only enough to mow and not quite enough to put a dog on. A peach tree in the corner of the yard, the mailbox, and the porch on which we sat offered our only shade. The sun was warm, the light breeze cooling oddly embraced. Looking out she mentioned them first.

“Hey, look at that, we have company.”

I followed her line of sight and at the end saw a box turtle slowly crawling its way forward in our direction. Her grin proved infectious; we enjoyed nature and here it was making its presence known. My grin was instantly replaced by a question knotting my brow. “Hey, I wonder what the other wants?” From out of an adjacent field another turtle popped out catching our attention. “What the…” her voice trailed.

Quietly we watched as a few, then perpetual growing numbers of turtle’ crawl into our yard. In my head, I tried to remember if this was one of the Biblical plagues and I asked her, “Do you think we're both just dreaming? The turtles piled up I mean?”

We watched uncomfortably even though the turtles, at present, contented themselves upon the green, they were a less than khaki view. We kept shooting looks at each new arrival. Finally she gave up and reached for the phone. “C'mon c’mon, pick up,” I heard Em say after several minutes. “Blast it!” she exclaimed as a mosquito voiced, “You have reached the Department of Animal Control, if this is not an emergency, stay on the line, if it is call 911." None stop ringing ensued, hanging up, she called information. “C'mon, don't you have another number?”

“No, nothing other than 911 or that 311, extension 2 for animals.

She hit it and held a long time.

We later thought how amazing the number of creatures actually accrued while we sat, stars rising. Several dozen perhaps? We sat waiting.

A voice answers tired, “Yes, what is it?”

“It's that we have turtles. They're all over the lawn.”

“Where would you want turtles to be?” queried the voice.

“But you don't understand,” Emily persisted, “There are dozens and dozens and they keep coming.”

“Look Lady, they're turtles and not going to hurt a thing,”

“Yes, I suppose you are right, but can't you do something? There are so many,”

“I image they'll leave when they're ready,” the voice said flatly, “The best I can do is send someone around when they are in the area.”

“Fine and thanks,” Emily said between tightened eyes, and to me said, “You know, so much of what we do- we were never forced to do, but don't you think, maybe, it's all been worth it?”

“But what about them Em, the kids I mean, don't you think they should know?”

She stiffened her back a bit, and stood. After returning from filling the pitcher, and turning on the porch light she filled both of our glasses. “Lemon.” she asked, though knew the answer.

“What is it? I asked her pulling my chair closer. “What is it about a green lawn that does it?”

She looked with me to the little green left. Piles of turtles had filled in what was ours and started piling on top of each other. Still the walkway, remarkably, was clear for any one wishing to use it. I reached down over the rail, picking up an intruder. “What do you want?” I wavered, “Can't you let us alone?”

The face was expressionless as expected. Gray browns and yellows spotted the animal geometrically. It pawed at the air frantically after its initial retreat and not wanting to unduly alarm the creature, I placed it back near the area I'd retrieved it from.

We sat for what must have been hours. Darkness filled the air. The turtles were still gathering. We knew they were, even if we couldn't see them; the occasional scraping of shells, the smell, and their breathing felt.

Reaching over Emily took my hand. “We'll be fine. Some day understanding might not seem as important as it does right now. Why worry the kids? That we're together, at least a little longer, that's what counts.”

She got up and sat in my lap, bringing her kisses. I cried then, lost in my grief, holding her tight, a babe in the woods. I eventually wore down. A cricket stirred in the dark.

“Come on then-” she said.

My mind told itself to shut down. “But...” I said, peering into the night.

“No, no time for that, come on then.”

Helping me to my feet, Em stared into the darkness. “We'll deal with this like everything else, one day at a time.”

Taking me inside, she turned out the light. I knew then, that in the morning they'd be gone.

The Gene Pool (a farce 'in one act')

Characters:

Tom, a middle-aged man in a suit and tie
Dick, a middle-aged man in white shirt and slacks
Harry, a middle-aged man with blue eyes, in jeans, striped short-sleeve shirt sporting a pocket protector, thick glasses and slicked back hair
Betty, pretty young blond with great legs, wearing a short white skirt, a pink pullover sweeter
Butch, Betty’s husband, a young tall and muscular man dressed in an army uniform
Several office workers, at least three women and a couple of men

ACT 1

Scene 1

An office lounge with a couple of tables, several chairs set around them, a coffee pot on a table and water fountain set to the left and back of center stage.

Lights come up with Betty bent over the water fountain in position, back to audience, drinking from the fountain. Tom, Dick and Harry (from right to left) clustered center stage. A group of women stand rear right chatting.


Tom: [Gazing at the backside of Betty.] Beautiful…
Dick: [Following his gaze.] Absolutely!
Harry: [Sighs audibly and glances back.] Absolutely beautiful.
[Betty turns and we see she is absolutely beautiful and quite pregnant as well. She walks over to chat with the girls.]
Tom: [Watching her then turning back to talk to Dick and Harry.] Oh God, what am I going to do?
Dick: You?
Harry: Why 'you' in particular?
Tom: [Pauses and considers.] Well, there was that time when we were stuck together in the elevator. I was comforting her and one thing lead to another and next thing you know, bang, right there, stuck between floors. I barely got my pants up before the lift started again and the doors opened.
Dick: So? What about the parking lot?
Harry: What about the parking lot?
Dick: The first time I helped her change a flat and out of gratitude we ended up in the back seat.
Tom: First time?
Dick: Yeah, the second time I let the air out on purpose.
Tom: [Feigning disgust.] For shame.
Harry: Disgusting! [Tom and Dick look inquiringly at Harry.] OK, OK, several times in the supply closet. I was helping her find ummm… things.
Tom: Several times?
Harry: Not all at once.
Dick: Disgusting. [They all look over at Betty and then turn back to each other.]
Tom: [Looking worried.] But it only takes once.
Dick: Twice doubles the odds.
Harry: [Clearly upset.] Oh God, what am I going to do?
Tom: You?
Dick: Why you?
Harry: Odds are.
Tom: It only takes once.
Dick: Or maybe twice.
Harry: Oh God!
[They watch as a young man starts walking from off stage right, and seeing Betty picks up pace and runs off stage left.]
Tom: Then too, it might not be any of us.
Dick: Could be anyone.
Harry: [Even more upset.] Oh God! Please don’t say that on my account.
Dick: Well it could be.
Harry: [Collecting himself.] I suppose, but what if it weren’t?
Tom: She told me her husband couldn’t, though they tried and tried…
Dick: And that they’d seen a specialist…
Harry: And how she wanted a baby more than anything else. She told you too?
Dick: About her husband in the army...
Tom: And needing something more...
Harry: A child! [Pauses and looks at Betty.] Oh God, have you seen the guy?
Dick: Her husband?
Harry: [Nods.]
Tom: He’s big.
Dick: And mean looking.
Tom: Like he could rip someone apart with his bare hands.
Dick: A total ape.
Tom: Capable of anything.
Harry: Oh no…
Tom: Just once.
Dick: Or twice. [They both look at Harry and then back at each other.]
Tom: Oh Shit!
Dick: Sweet Jesus!
Harry: Oh God!

[Fade lights.]

Act 1

Scene 2

Setting is the same with the exception of an easel with bright balloons floating strung from it and written on paper in large bold letters, the words: “Congratulations Butch and Betty!”

Lights come up with Tom, Dick and Harry; cigars in hand, clustered center stage. To the left and rear Butch stands with Betty who holds a wrapped baby. Office girls are gathered to admire and chat.

Harry: Did you see it.
Dick: A boy.
Tom: He's got your ears Dick.
Dick: Your eyes Harry.
Harry: [Baby cries.] Tom's mouth.
Tom: [Looking angrily at Harry] You’re mistaken; his mouth bears a distinct resemblance to yours.
Dick: [Smiling wryly at Harry] And his ears look nothing like mine, but he does have your blue eyes.
Tom: Don’t all babies have blue eyes?
Harry: [Looks desperately at Dick.] Please, tell me they do! [Baby cries and they all peer over at the group.] Oh God, please tell me.
Dick: Yes that’s my understanding too.
Harry: [Brings his hands together as in prayer.] Thank you, thank you, thank you…
Dick: But that doesn’t mean they won’t stay blue.
Harry: [With hands still together and closing his eyes tightly.] Oh God, Sweet Jesus, Oh God.
Tom: Or that they necessarily will.
Harry: [Opens and rolls eyes.] So maybe yes, maybe no? [He closes his eyes in prayer muttering as Tom and Dick speak.] Oh please no, oh please no…
Tom: [Considering.] Yes.
Dick: [Looking at Harry and smiling.] Or no...
Harry: [Opening his eyes again.] Maybe?
Dick: [Smiling at Tom.] It only takes once.
Tom: [Frowning then grinning at Dick.] You could double your chances.
Harry: [Looking dejected.] Odds are then…
[They all three watch as a young man starts walking from off stage left and slows seeing Betty, Butch and the baby, then picks up his pace and runs off stage left.]
Tom: It only takes once.
Dick: Just one time.
Harry: Oh, God.
[Betty and Butch wave to the group of office girls and walk over to where the trio stands.]
Betty: [Turning the baby for them to look at and gather around] Hi boys, so what do you think of little Butch junior?
Tom: He has his father’s ears.
Dick: His father’s eyes.
Harry: [Baby cries] His father’s... [Butch gives him a stern look.], lungs. [Butch smiles.]
Betty: [Gently hands the crying infant to Butch.] Here honey.
Butch: [Cradles the infant and rocks it as Tom, Dick and Harry look on intently. The baby stops crying and after a pause.] I think he looks just like his beautiful mother.
Betty: [Looks lovingly into Butch’s eyes and kisses him, then speaks to Tom, Dick and Harry still looking at the baby.] And his father…
[Betty and Butch slowly walk off stage.]
Tom: [Looking distantly at the audience.] Honestly though, I think he does have my ears.
Dick: [Joining Tom in his gaze.] And did you see his eyes? They look just like mine did when I was a child.
Harry: [Looks at both of them, then at the audience, he rolls his eyes, shakes his head and says in an unbelieving voice.] Oh God!

[Fade lights.]

###

Who will love the mangy puss if not I?

A flea bitten, moldering, good-for-nothing mooch.
All but deaf, she loudly screams:
“Feed me! Feed me! Feed me!” at my front door,
too good to go to the back porch where her dish is.

“Yeah, I can hear you already!”

Can opener grinds its way to stinky food,
plopped from the can and
her engine is off and running.
Scratching behind her ears
while she’s too busy to notice and run away.
I wonder how many more years
she’ll stick around
before moving to New Jersey
or wherever they go?

Yeah, one day I’ll go out
and the little shit will be gone,
then I’ll miss her sorely.

Francesco says cats are living proof of alien life.
I say yes, they must be from another dimension
all I need do is wait long enough
and another will pop up to adopt me.

I never did figure out why my allergies
chose them as the culprit, and I hear tell
of cats sold without the accompanying
red eyes, runny nose, and prescription meds.

But who will love the mangy pussy if not I?

I imagine they keep me around
‘cause I can open cans,
otherwise I suppose
I’d be considered a lost cause
and they’d go back to playing with
small birds, lizards and mice.

Then too, maybe one would scratch my ears
or curl up to keep me warm
if I were lost in an alley.

That would be nice.

A Good Day

Coyote slings a rat up in the air, it is dead but coyote still plays. It drops to the ground, coyote ruffs at it. It stays there and coyote ruffs again. Coyote whines, cocks his head, sniffs the rat and eats.

Licking lips, coyote runs over to the brush-pile again. His ears perk up, listen. Nothing that you could hear, but coyote does. He hears. Springs coil in his haunches. Coyote leaps up high, and wiggles down into the ground cover grabbing another rat.

In the shadows of a deep canyon, coyote dances. Eating again after rolling on his dead prey, coyote stretches out. Glancing about at the outlying golden prairie alert, he yawns wide and turns back to the pile of brush.

Unhinged

Her baby was crying_Charlie was crying. She couldn’t go to him, she didn’t have time. Held at bay, cornered in the kitchen, two young men stood hands up staring down double barrels. Behind Sarah, her twelve-year old son Ryan put the phone receiver down on the table. “She says it’ll be a couple minutes till they get here, but to go ahead and talk, she says she can hear you.”

“Ryan, you take Jenny and see what Charlie wants. Jenny, you go ahead, you go on, you go with Ryan.”

Taking his nine year-old sister’s hand, Ryan hesitated, even knowing of his mother’s uncanny ability to handle any situation. Sensing his reluctance, Sarah urged him to hurry. “Go on now, I’ll be fine,” she said with a confident voice, though inside her heart hammered out a crazy rhythm. Ryan pulled Jenny out the door. Moments later the crying stopped. From where she stood she heard Ryan’s whine, “Awww mom, he messed himself.”

The taller of the two men scratched at his nose and laughed. She raised the shotgun pointing it directly at his gut, then lifted its business end upward. “Keep them up, I can shoot and will.”

Sarah yelled out over her shoulder, “There are extra diapers in the bag. Ryan? Can you manage?” She thought she heard a reluctant ‘yes’ through the ever darkening tunnel.

Fidgeting, the shorter and older of the two darted a look at the back door, its stained glass hummingbird shattered, still open from the break in. “Don’t!” she warned sternly. He looked hard at her, trying to decide if she would shoot. “C’mon lady, let us go before the cops come,” he begged. "You wouldn’t want them kids to see their ma kill someone for nothing now would you?” said the tall man. “Shut up!” Sarah said in an agitated voice. “This is my house, those are my kids and you’ve messed with the wrong woman buster!” He remembered a cornered bear with cubs on a nature show: “Don’t come between them,” had been the advice, and the one he’d opted on a bit too late.

Far off they could hear the approaching sirens. She glanced out the window. Before she knew she’d done it, the rifle roared. Instantly the short man halted his move towards what remained of the door. It groaned and fell, unhinged by the blast. At least one of the men lost his bowls and both raised their hands a little higher. Red flashing lights tugged at the night for what seemed and eternity then started dwelling with each passing, sending the flowered curtain pattern dancing throughout the room.

Loud knocking at the front door was replaced with the violent knocking of her knees. Finally she lowered her shotgun and the police took over. The two men in handcuffs were escorted out. She sank into a kitchen chair shaking inside. The voice buzzed on the table. Picking up the receiver she handed it to an officer who confirmed their arrival and status. Cradling the phone he passes the message: “Margaret says to say ‘well done’ and to ask you if you need a job?”

Later, trying to recall those next few moments, it became simply a blur. Kneeling next to her, a young policeman was asking if she was all right. She nodded and then told her story. Someone handed her coffee; they wrote up reports and gave a phone number to call. Then the tears came. She wanted her children.

With brood gathered aside her, she listened to their excited talk. The diaper bag, baby powder, wipes and rolled waste diaper lay beside the blanket. Charlie was on it, kicking his feet up and down giggling in happy gibberish.

“Ryan tried to but started gagging, so I did it,” Jenny boasted loudly.

“That’s my girl,” she beamed patting Jenny’s head.

Ryan looked down ashamed, “I tried honest, but I was too worried about mom,” then added, “awww Jenny, you said you wouldn’t tell any body.”

“But mother isn’t just any body,” corrected Jenny. You know?”

“You too!” she said to her daughter.

Ryan’s pout turned to embarrassed laughter as she started poking him in his ticklish spots. “And you, you young man!”

Picking up her baby and looking at her family safe, Sarah smiled. "And you Charlie,” she cooed, into his cherubic face. Then, then she cried a bit more.