my guts strung out

Amy

2011-06-16T17:31:00.001-07:00

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

2011-02-09T19:39:00.001-08:00

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

2011-02-09T19:21:00.000-08:00

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,

2010-12-03T01:12:00.000-08:00

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

Ego x 3

2010-10-28T13:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-06T06:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-30T18:34:00.000-07:00

It

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

Two Haiku

2010-05-15T14:17:00.000-07:00

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:

2010-02-27T16:13:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-23T22:17:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-18T16:04:00.000-08:00

- 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

2009-12-04T18:36:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-20T21:21:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-16T07:38:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-28T17:55:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-16T07:28:00.001-07:00

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

2009-02-11T18:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-11T18:31:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-11T18:28:00.000-08:00

“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)

2008-12-12T20:14:00.000-08:00

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

End

2008-11-06T20:01:00.001-08:00

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

Democracy

2008-10-23T23:00:00.000-07:00

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

Yeah, well...

2008-10-14T01:46:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-13T23:45:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-10T23:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-07T12:38:00.001-07:00

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')

2008-10-05T19:56:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-10-02T16:40:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-28T07:14:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-28T00:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Accursed Friend-

2008-09-14T07:24:00.001-07:00

That we share our fleas
as old dogs is quite enough_
you may keep your worms.

Tossed Out in Belief~

2008-07-28T12:51:00.001-07:00

Rock on water
walking on water
see ripples wander
slapping this surface?
Below the fish watch.

Cast in Iron

2008-06-19T23:15:00.000-07:00

She brought the pan down on his head with a hard crack, so he died trying to steal her onions. “You ass-hole” the old lady mumbled, going off to leave nature a couple days corruption before she’d cover him up humbled.

He’d held a gun to her head, not two minutes earlier. “Fucking ass-hole!” she barked from time to time. Her bonnet had loose daisies which shook as lips quivered, “Sam Wal-Mart started out selling panties you fucking fat dumb-ass-hole” _she said looking down the body, spat, then turned her gaze to the heavens. She hated profiting, yet placed his billfold in her left breast pocket unashamed.

With skillet on the fire and coffee percolating, she growled, “Want ‘em scrambled or what? Well?” The wallet lay on the table. His picture, propped up, gazed vacant out over green linoleum. “Over easy I’d 'spect, but this flame will burn ‘em up for sure.” Grease popped hot. Smoke rose up darkening from the skillet. “I guess it'd not matter much now, mean, with what you being dead and all…” grunting she wrenched at her apron.

The crows ate a day or so more than they should have. She just couldn’t muster to lift out of bed other than to turn the radio on at one minute till six, then off again an hour later; the ‘Flock of Jesus’ broadcast spread comfort to remote souls. Finally needing to go out to pick the tomatoes, she remembered his breath against her neck when he raped her.

“Bang” the screen door echoed. Gathering herself up, she rose aided by the oven door handle. With black cast collected quickly, she followed the retreating figure. Bent over in her garden he’d stopped to gather onions. Dirt clung to their roots. Not hearing the pop of his own skull, he wilted and dropped.

Six o’clock, a voice drifts through the filtered dust, Southern and thick: “The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous sheweth mercy, and giveth.” Mingled within a dulling din of crickets and frogs the preacher railed on, numbly heard through the hot stagnant Texas evening.

Gray hair struggling to stay pinned, she grumbled to herself absently, “Ass-hole.” Picking up the shovel she kicked, starting a hole. A drop of rain hit the dust, puffed and popped larger than life, followed closely by another and another. By the time she reached the porch the torrent pressed down. Again, he became something forgotten; a pile of fall leaves left uncollected, wind tossed, scattered. Looking out from under the awning she paused and grunted. Lightening flashed, its rumble left for later. Again to her bed, she left the festering corpse to be washed of flies and maggots.

Rain fell for two days, and the sun baked mud to clay for another three. All told, it had been over a week since the knock had come to her door. Fretting with her day hat, she gazed vacantly from the window out over the yard, past the garden and to the black lump lying there.

He came, he said, inquiring about the land and the possibility of purchasing it for an unspecified good sum. Once inside however, the talk of cash petered out into an evil silence.

The Prize Inside

2008-06-01T20:53:00.001-07:00

If one could but see, it is a desolate landscape framed by the wintered Sakhalin forest. We trudge toward our destination at night. There is the hard crunch of snow made by feet. A scream, a woman’s scream splits the night, echoed in the dry air. Approaching a hissing gas lamp, see that yes, indeed there is much snow, snow dirtied by soot and street. Enter into the gray brick building below that dim glow: the hospital_ down long antiseptic corridors and encounter a man pacing. He is looking at each pass, with a worried look, the door we are about to enter.

Inside nurses mingle about beds in white starched uniforms. The Doctor, sweat running down his dark brow, barks orders of encouragement. Another scream shatters our ears. Her eyes are deep, tragic, yet beautiful. She is in labor. The sound of pain fills the room. Hard is proving harder, the baby, stubborn. Hours tick by, till, the Doctor, taken to humming a familiar march, has had enough and calls for a scalpel. It is to be cesarean.

Quickly, gracefully, he works, slicing through the belly of the problem. Blood is everywhere. He holds up a caterwauling babe, a noble story of monarchs, gay parties, crystalline but troubled lives. Handing it off he plunges his hands in again and another joins the cacophony. The tale is of a peasant, whose warm fire dwindles to thievery, leading to a wall and inevitable rifle shots. Shorter than the first, it is compact, soaked red with afterbirth clinging to its pages. This too he passes routinely to waiting hands. “Ah ha!” exclaims the Doctor looking down, “You slippery little devil…”

The swinging doors shut. The pacing man stops in his tracks. He looks to the Doctor, who, with hands raised shouts, “Mother Russia is well! Congratulations, three fine strapping boys hungry for milk and soon to call for Vodka!” The Doctor tromps away whistling leaving the father passed out, sunk, overcome with bill in hand. Doctor Chekhov hurries onward; this is not his concern.

Above it All

2008-05-23T13:14:00.000-07:00

One day at the park, a boy was swinging upside-down on a chin-up bar. The bar was intended, of course, for exercising rather than playing on, but being young the child could see no difference. Other children ran by him giggling and kicking a red ball. Seeing a dog sniffing around a tree, the boy lowered his eyes rather than watch it urinate. In doing so, what normally would have been down, naturally, became up. He saw the green foliage of the treetops dancing about in the wind. His downward glance continued, and the bright blue sky with its billowing white clouds filled his view.

In shapes of passing clouds he pictured dragons and wild circus animals. A horse, nostrils flared, mane tossed with hooves tramping, galloped across the horizon. Long and intently the boy watched. With blood rushing to his brain he became dizzy and imaged himself running along the same path. He was about to catch up to a string of elephants, when, lost in the daydream, his legs jumped an imagined ditch and loosened from the bar. Down and over he dropped violently to the ground. Hitting his head the boy lost consciousness.

Waking to find himself in a hospital, he immediately felt himself without a body, or at least the inability to move one if he had it. Flat on his back, he looked up at the kind but clinical faces of the Doctors and attending nurses. The medication he was given made him drowsy. In the swimming recesses of his mind he thought he heard the worried voices of his parents and another voice, a calmer one, quietly telling them about a damaged spinal column and the possibility of total paralysis.

Days later, he was rolled carefully outside in his bed to a courtyard for fresh air and sunshine. The nurse trying to cheer him asked, “Look up at the clouds, can you see anything in the shapes?”

“Yes”, he said quietly.

“Go on then, what do you see?” she urged.

Breaking down, sobbing uncontrollably he cried out, “My future!”

Dreaming the dreams of heavy sedation, the boy once more found himself jumping along from cloud to cloud, trying to catch other children who’d joined in his game. Without a care in the world he grinned at a large group of brightly painted clowns riding by, stacked up atop a tiny tricycle. The clown steering wore a large smile, but behind the paint had a mouth stern in its resolve. With his extra large gregarious shoes he peddled furiously towards an ominous dark cloud. His hand reached out to honk the bulbous red ball of his horn, but being top heavy with the weight of the other clowns, the vehicle suddenly threatened to overturn. Quickly grabbing both handles, the lead clown balanced first on the front and one back wheel, then teetered gracefully to the opposite, accompanied by the unison voices of all those above him saying, “Whoa…, ooh…aah!" They erupted into riotous cheers, whistling once their ride was safely righted after a lengthy pirouette on the front wheel alone. Furiously onward the clowns raced after the cloud, the horn now honking joyously, their tricycle with its red and white streamers gaily joining in on the chase.

Dream in a Bubble

2008-05-03T12:25:00.000-07:00

In the dream, strands of her flaxen hair tickle an entourage of tiny green fish. Joy laughs inside bubbles, before popping to the surface with their gay “Ha!” Swiftly the school turned to dart downward. None saw the sailor cast his greedy net. They didn’t see her turquoise tail thrashing when hauled aboard, plopped down on the ancient oaken deck. How could any of them know, or understand the passion stirring inside him at that moment? He stared, entranced by her pale firm breasts , nipples erect, enticed perhaps by the unfamiliar breeze. If her escort had seen him bend, enchanted by emerald eyes, what could they have done? But down they swam with their scales moving homeward unaware, down somewhere below the flotsam, not seeing the kiss that tightly ensnared the sailor. Quick as a half hitch, he was hers.

Overboard, floating into a world never imagined, her warmth fending off the cold at first frightened the sailor. Her speech was foreign, yet readily understood. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, leading him to her watery kingdom. “Come and tell me of your world.”

He started to speak of his lonesome time at sea, of life of vast expanse over the waves, under stars, but instead he leaned in for another kiss. Entering into the conversation of flesh, time in the seabed of kelp suddenly stopped. They gave themselves to each other. If his gasps for air went unnoticed for the moment, so did their eventual slip into sleep.

Waking, the sailor sighed, looking on the incomparable beauty that lay beside him. The sudden urge of wanting to bind her with a present washed over his being. Having seen pearl oysters in passing, he rose and went to look for them. Swimming past a large majestic bivalve the crushing clamp of life caught him unguarded. Held tight by his ring finger, struggling, he lost her secret for breathing underwater. Panicked, he furiously pulled, violently twisting till his finger severed. Sharks, smelling a meal, swiftly tore the young man apart before he had a chance to break surface. The sea was awash with his chum when the mermaid woke.

"Surely" she thought rising from a rose sandy bottom, “the man was not a dream.” Touching herself, a wrapped excitement set off new felt tremors inside her body. An octopus blushed at the mermaid's innocence. Male sea horses moved closer, comforting her with their presence. Starfish colorfully came creeping up slowly to brush her hair.

The moon rose, high tide came and went and her belly grew. One day, passing the oyster bed, a wizened ancient mollusk presented her with a large pink baroque pearl. Covered by layers of iridescent beauty, deep inside, the finger and wedding ring remained. Caressing the pearl, and humming an ancient lullaby Sirens sing, she placed it carefully on a crib of sea grass, safekeeping her dream forever.

The Hard Road

2008-04-06T20:35:00.000-07:00

Tortoise, with nails gray-brown that had toughened each day of his many long lived, till one day he thought of them “My nails are hard; yes, yes they are the toughest ever crawled upon,” and so, it was with that thought he set out to challenge life.

“This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere.”

At first the small pebbles merely parted as he shuffled his slow way forward, though gradually, over time, the much larger and bigger stones also creaked and groaned at his passing. “Move!”

His mouth tasted the many sweet moist red, purple, and blue berries, and the green succulents along that path. Cacti, regardless of sharpened spines, once sat upon, gave way to his hard snap, hewn as the words that drove him onward. Fraught of callous nature, spoken within heart, mind and soul, they welled up, “Out of my way, for I am tortoise, long lived, of tough hand, foot, beak and shell.”

“This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere.”

Coming of an old age, the ways of the tortoise unfolded and became known while crawling on, boastfully displaying the hardened exterior, and only escaping to it’s soft interior when necessary.

Through drought and flood, he found his way. Finding mates, then leaving them, each in their turn. Wolves howled outside, frustrated at his impenetrable nature. Inside, smugly smiling, he rejoiced at this race surely won in steps.

“This shell is a fortress hardened by tribulation, thus I am strong; I will persevere, forever.”

It was with this confidence one day that this ancient set upon the harsh road of men. Guts strewn, its popped shell was all that remained moments after their meeting. Crushed to bits. Circling buzzards knowing full the meaning and confidant of their own determined purpose smiled, slowly descending.

"What happened to Mister Nusko?"

2008-03-29T08:32:00.000-07:00

What ‘has’ happened to Mister Nusko? They prepare his body for the crossing over ceremony but remember Susé dear, with great reverence this is done. Yes child, yes, I know that there is no actual body left. How could there be after the great dragon’s fire ate its fill? But his spirit must rest, and so they mourn to let it know it’s time to go. We must mourn too. As we light candles and burn incense, you must think of him. You must think good thoughts, even though he teased you when you saw him last. He liked you a lot otherwise such an impropriety would not have entered into his mind. We must let his spirit know his body no longer exists to carry it about, and that going now is the proper thing to do. Being young, you do not understand and are frightened when the court paints their faces and wears masks. This is done to hide what was known in life, we who he knew no longer matter; the spirit should leave and not return seeking us.

Dressed all in black you look stunning, I am sure he would have approved. Under the lanterns your hair will shine like the deepest of pools. You make me proud, so be brave.

Keep your lips tightly shut, and eyes down when you bow and lay the flowers. Do so quietly. Yes, I know it is but a picture you place them before, but some believe the spirit may look out from it, so it is best not to chance catching an eye. I will be ringing little bells from time to time to confuse any evil that may be about, so don’t worry. When you have lain the last of the flowers, bow and back away, then go to his wife. Bowing low, you should let her dictate the next step. If she motions you to sit, bow again and do as directed. If however she does not invite you to sit, you must again bow, back away and come quietly to me. Above all, do not speak, even when you return to me. Hearing your voice, any familiar voice, may keep the spirit lingering about for a long time, and we wouldn’t want that now would we Susé? Don't cry. Good. Now go fetch me my funeral robe. We will go see what has happened to Mister Nusko, and do what we can for his spirit.

The Witch, the Flowers and the Little Birds

2008-03-28T23:06:00.000-07:00

for

A witch decided one day to go into the woods surrounding her shack in order to catch birds for dinner. Darting and twittering about through tall trees the gay little birds disregarded her presence. Looking about for a proper place to lay snares, her eyes fell upon bright flowers growing there, causing great displeasure. She enviously hated their simple lives and pure beauty. Pulling them quickly from the ground and tossing them brutally aside, the hag grumbled a spell to rid the field of any flower that ever tried to grow there again. With traps set, the short walk home delighted her. Thoughts of the delicious little tidbits roasting on a fire filled her mind.

Later, while setting up her black pot full of onions and herbs, she cackled at the thought of what she had done to the flowers. She would have a fine meal; spittle drooled from her jowls and her belly roared hungrily.

Afternoon approached, so she gathered up a basket to put her catch in and set off. Nearing the place where she had been that morning her ears could only hear silence. This caused her to grin wickedly thinking that she had caught the birds that had flown so happily above her head earlier. The sound of her growling stomach filled the air in anticipation.

As she went from trap to trap however, she found nothing. Her mood went from bewilderment to boiling mad. In a rage she set off hungrily for home wondering who had stolen her food. Who would dare take what she had so awaited? Had some hunter perhaps come along?

With hunger feeding her anger, she stomped along empty and famished, thinking of supper’s gloomy prospects. It was only then, that she heard the singing, and looking up saw the small birds flying joyously above a colorfully flowered field beyond her own parched ground.

The King and Queen

2008-03-28T20:31:00.000-07:00

He had always been viewed a very handsome boy. While growing up, people would often remark about the depth of his blue eyes, fullness of his masculine form and the jet-black hair curling in profusion upon his head. Growing up well liked and well placed in society; John later became the butt of nasty jokes when, upon reaching puberty, his right arm had twisted up in paralysis. Despite the best attempts by dozens of doctors the cause of his affliction remained inexplicable. Voices suddenly dropped to secretive giggled whispers whenever he approached. Tightly trapped upon his chest, still with full mobility of hand, this awkwardness, presented a young man of his age, left him shamed. Frustrated to the point where even pleasing himself became impossible, over time his heart grew cold.

June likewise become embittered when, after growing straight, tall, blonde and beautifully rounded, she developed a bad stammer at that time most girls blossomed. It was exactly when she first noticed boys the impediment manifested itself. She could not speak a single word without stuttering awkwardly, again and again, over each and every syllable. Thus impaired, her beautiful brown eyes sank low whenever spoken to, and the round full lips that otherwise would have surrounded a warm smile, became a tightly fortressed line.

Seasons had come and gone and with each passing year isolation sadly iced both hearts. It was in their senior years of high school when the miracle happened. The homecoming dance that had been on the minds of all the students, and both John and June were no exception, though theirs was a pained reaction. Being the odd two out, they had been assigned to the ‘decorations and refreshments’ committee. While others in the group chattered on about fixing the streamers, balloons and flowers or who was to bring in the cookies and punch, John and June sat silently watching. Participants shot them an occasional questioning glance; they also stole a few between themselves. When their eyes did meet, both faces became a brilliant crimson and immediately they dropped their gaze. Being told what chores they had been assigned, they walked out of the room with hearts beating wild and minds full of confused frustration.

Dance night was upon them and not having nerve or willpower enough to collect dates, both sat idle in hard folding chairs placed against a wall behind the refreshment stand. He was groomed impeccably in tails; she in her long dark blue gown matched wonderfully the red and white streamers and balloons floating in the music filled the hall. People romantically mingled to embrace on the dance floor.

Quickly the cruelty of childish adults reared its ugly head; a group of young couples approached the table. June had started to stutter out “wwwoo… wwoo… wwouldddd…ddd… dd, yyyyyouuuuuuu, liiii… li… liiiik… k… kkkke” when a nasty voice rose up, “Just give me some punch babe, save the spit for your boyfriend.” John rose from his chair hot behind the ears, his eyes flashing with hatred. “Yeah, what you going to do gimp?” was heard from another voice with much the same malice behind it as the first.

June looked deep into John’s eyes imploring calm, and placed her hand on his shoulder to steady his anger. Meeting her eyes, he raised himself, unclenching the tightened fist of his left hand and turned to the group sternly asking, “OK then, who wanted the punch?” The embarrassed group quickly quieted and a girl meekly said, “Can I have some with cookies please?” June picked up a napkin and handed it to the girl then ladled and gave her the filled glass. John then asked once again, a little less agitated “Anyone else?” Soon they busied themselves into routine, John doing the asking and June the serving. It was if the partnership simply needed to focus together just that once, to enable them see order.

After a couple hours the relief servers came and took charge of the table. John quietly asked June if she would like to dance. Her answer was a simple but clear “Yes.” He beamed at her beauty and she smiled back. Wrapping herself tightly in his right arm, once against his chest and heart dancing she whispered other words softly that only he could hear.

Later when the music died down, they sat together, entranced and oblivious to their surroundings. All eyes about the room were drawn curiously towards them in silent awe. Unnoticed, the arm at some point had unlocked from his heart; both of his hands now gently caressed hers, bringing them to his lips to kiss while the gay warm laughter of her beautiful rich voice filled the air.

What's the Point?

2008-03-27T21:36:00.001-07:00

Even though I knew she was fucking nuts, I woke from a dead sleep one morning surprised to find she’d shoved a knitting needle through the palm of my right hand. It went through, clean out to the other side. Stunned and numbed from pain, I couldn’t scream. Shaking violently, I just kept asking her over and over, "What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?” With cold fish eyes, she reached out and twisted, removing the needle violently. Blood gushed across the white sheets. She smiled sweetly saying, “Yes dear, exactly my point,” then left.

Later on I kept wondering where she’d gotten that needle. But maybe I’m kinda nuts too, ‘cause I waited three days for her to come back with a Band-Aid, and she never did.

Smell the Coffee

2008-03-27T21:14:00.000-07:00

After pulling the late shift, suffering insomnia, and getting to bed around six, I woke less than a half-hour later to the exuberant singing of a bird. Rolling a pillow over my head, I’d barely set about grumbling to the Almighty, when the screen door of an alcoholic neighbor banged open violently. Moments later the sound of a pellet gun popped, and a short dismal tweet reminded me that others were having a much tougher morning.

The Cooking Lesson

2008-03-27T18:56:00.001-07:00

She was expected to have dinner ready at five after five. It only took our father two minutes to walk the block and a half home from where he worked. With the spare three minutes he’d hang his jacket, hug us kids, wash hands, kiss mom routinely on the cheek then sit down. Lord help her if her step into place at the table was in anyway delayed.

There was certain nervousness in our minds, as we’d watch her scurry about scrubbing pots, buttering bread or turning out whatever dish needed a place at the table. Her dance was frenetic. We stayed out from underfoot fearing our childish foolishness would be her undoing. His easily ignited temper had on more than one occasion overflowed putting her on the floor, pummeled, bloodied and weeping. For us children it was a sight we feared. Either, like on most nights, warmth sparked from well-timed submission or at times his rage would make the house shake. How this loving man, our father, could behave in such a manner dumbfounded even the youngest among us.

The table was simply set with a cotton screen print tablecloth bought at the local five and dime. Daisy pattered melmac plates held their unproved promise for a peaceful evening. The linens were washed and pressed daily, perfected and awaiting all the spills us seven kids could manage in an evening; but early on we all learned that our chance to do so depended on her timing.

The door opens, our arms open and with a big hug given, he turns toward the kitchen. At the sink with all cooking utensils cleaned and out of sight he washes his dirt-encrusted hands, reaches for a towel placed just for this purpose and turns. He kisses her cheek and sits to say grace. She, by then in place, brings her hands together and bows. This was a good night; the bad ones were quite different.

The door opens. Though we hear a pan quickly being scraped of its contents, we open our arms and give him a big hug. Maybe, falsely, a bit bigger one than normal, trying to stay for a moment the inevitable. He turns toward the kitchen. We can hear her scurrying. His eyes glaze over resembling those of dead fish. The sink is clear. While he is washing his hands she hurriedly attempts to fill our milk glasses, place beans in a bowl and remove her apron. He turns as she tries to put the pot back on the stove in lieu of the sink. A raised hand comes down over and over. The sound is horrendous and the room is turned upside down with his bestial anger in full swing. She pleads and whimpers to no avail. He strikes her again and again. We’ve all run and taken refuge in our rooms our stomachs gnawing with the knowledge only frightened experience can explain.

They at first owned China, a family heirloom given to them by her great aunt for a wedding gift. Long ago broken she had purchased the melmac so that it at least would withstand these ravings.

Later, after all had settled down and father had retired to their room, we would on occasion give into the growl of our hunger to tiptoe quietly into the kitchen for food. It was always a sad sight to see her sitting propped up against the counter nursing a black eye or find her scrubbing the blood and mashed potatoes from the floors and walls. Looking up between tears, she would silently go to the icebox and take out what she had for us. Often times, with nothing else to offer she would find a few cookies in the cookie jar or simply bread and kissing us would whisper softly “Good night.”

He was our father. He was her master. He was a brute.

She was used to this hardship having endured it for years. Having cleaned her own linens after childbirth she had simply resolved that this was her lot in life and to make the best of things. This went on for years as each of our mouths entered the fray to feed and nourish. The diapers, the garden, the hours of backbreaking scrubbing upon linoleum floors; all this was her job, and he expected her to do it in an orderly and timely fashion.

Then one day it happened. How she later explained it was that the clock in the kitchen read six minutes after and she looked again to see if it was still functioning. Seeing the seconds ticking away she peered into the front room uneasily. Dinner was ready. The towel was ready. Our hugs, hunger and thoughts were ready too. But the door didn’t open. The clock ticked another minute, then another and yet another longer until at precisely nine minutes after five she stepped out to join us in looking at the door.

Reaching for her hat and coat she commanded us to wait and left the house with the most determined look imaginable. We gathered around the screen and looked out to a world quite familiar but now grown mysterious. One by one we let ourselves return to our chairs. Anxiously looking again and again towards the door there was little said but knots welled in our bellies, surprisingly not of hunger.

About a half-hour later we heard our mother’s heels coming down the street stabbing at the sidewalk. She opened the door removing hat and coat and threw them into his easy chair. Walking into the kitchen her words rang out “Come and eat if you’re hungry kids.” Her face was like a blank slate, unreadable as we silently ate. When done and tucked into bed we heard her pace like a caged tiger back and forth in the living room.

We awoke with a start to the sound of Armageddon going off in the kitchen, our father screaming in pain. Running to the room our eyes opened wide with the sight of mom scratching and clawing at his face. She punched and beat upon the ears. He tried to hold her hands but she reached for her iron and popped him across the face. When he fell yelling and crying she continued to kick him in the gut and ass as he rolled into a fetal position. Only when she was exhausted and spent did she let up. Reaching into the icebox she took a plate of food out and threw it on top of him saying, “Here’s your dinner!” Looking at us she sternly said, “Aren’t you suppose to be in bed?” We ran quickly and covered our heads with our sheets wondering if we’d all lived though the same strange dream.

None of us actually ever found out why father was late that night, but in all our memories he never was again; and mother, well, after that she called when dinner was ready.

What a Life

2008-03-26T00:58:00.001-07:00

I was being paid to say the line and by damned I was going to do it. No amount of snickering from the crew could sway me; I needed the cash real bad. There was just one catch, I just couldn’t help smiling at least inside when I said it, and the director, rest his soul, wanted me to play it straight.

“But my dear, you’re so young and innocent, how could I ever inflict this pain upon you?"

That was the line. The trouble was she was a forty-year-old Hollywood has-been playing a sixteen-year-old virgin. Our famous Meg had about as much chance, even with several coats of thick make up, of convincing the audience of that, as she did covering up the fact that she’d slept with a half a dozen producers to get the job. Topping it off, she reeked of gin and couldn’t remember her next line. So here I was, repeating my line over and over again, all the while incurring the wrath of the director who by this time had torn at his hair until it looked like the cheesy toupee it really was.

“Cut! C’mon Cliff, what was that? I told you to play it straight. Drop the Goddamn smile like I told you or you’ll be back working as an extra before you know what hit you.”

He was full of shit and both of us knew it. First off, we were down to the last couple scenes in an already late and over budget production, no surprise there. He wasn’t going to can me. Second, he didn’t call cut until after she slurred the line.

“You must…you must let me try, even if it brings nothing but humiliation and shame.”

Well, that’s what it was suppose to be; her latest version:

“Mush tried humiliating shame…butt mush.”

“Cut! Cut! Cut!”

He’d been yelling that periodically for the last hour and a half between various renditions of her alcohol induced interpretations. I’d managed to drop the smirk on occasion, and though holding her close enough to curl my nose hairs, I didn’t say a word about the bottle she kept nipping.

Finally, having had enough, he called for lunch break and taking her elbow said, “Hey babe, let’s go grab some coffee.” He shot me a dirty look daring me to touch that one, and walked her out.

The lighting and camera crew started streaming out back, heading for brown bags, caffeine and long over due smokes.

“Dang Cliff, how can you handle that?” one of the regulars said giving me a friendly slap on the shoulder. “I mean if she keeps going like she’s been doing, you’ll be the first to find out what she had for lunch”

“Man don’t I know it. Got a light?”

He flipped open his lighter for me and then lit one up for himself. Ah, the pause that refreshes. Famous star doing commercials, now that was a job I thought silently. Light up and tell the kiddies how smooth and cool it is. Nuts, but shit like that wasn’t ever going to happen if our Prima Donna couldn’t deliver her line. Inwardly I knew her lunch wouldn’t lurch because she wasn’t going to have one. Nor was she going to have coffee. What she would get, and plenty of, was the director. Somewhere in some back room on the lot he’d be grunting on top of her.

What a life huh? All glamour and glitz… I don’t think so. If the public could only see this part I thought, maybe fan mail would stop and I could resume a half way normal life. No one bugging me at the store for an autograph. No more dark glasses. I could stay at home and relax rather than frequenting the late night parties where cameras went off blinding my eyes every fifteen seconds.

A couple of cigarettes and a coffee were all I had before heading back. I didn’t want lunch trying to come up, figuring she may have swallowed and that wasn’t going to smell any better alongside the gin.

Much to my surprise, she seemed to have sobered up dramatically. The crew took their places. It was then, when she had taken her place beside me, that I noticed she had been crying. Makeup was busy engulfing her face with more powder than even I would have deemed necessary. When they walked away I saw why. Even with the new layers piled on, the hot red mark of a hand radiated on her cheek. She looked tired. The scent of bile emanated from her mouth even though she was furiously chewing gum.

The director walked in. Without looking our way he said a few low words to the cameraman and then in his flat voice, “Is everyone ready now?”

She quickly put the gum behind her ear before he shouted, “Action.”

I didn’t smile and delivered my line with a look of true concern that I couldn’t have faked. Looking back into my eyes she delivered her lines. She didn’t deliver them perfectly, no, but her eyes filled in what the words lacked. The director said “Cut and that’s a wrap.”

Looking at me, she quietly said she was sorry for the trouble she’d caused. Heat flashed through me. “What did that asshole do to you Meg?”

“Nothing that I didn’t deserve” she said, gazing in his direction.

“But doll, no one deserves that. No one… ever.”

Looking back at me she sighed, “Yeah, maybe so, but it’s a living.”

And you know for a split second, I almost believed her.

The Lesson

2008-03-25T01:20:00.000-07:00

I was a pretty good kid: doing what I was told, getting passing grades, playing hard and not causing too much trouble for those around me. In an old one-room schoolhouse our teacher, Miss Applebloom, would give us lessons in Mathematics and English. My favorite part of study was when she would read aloud to us, either poetry or prose, her rich matronly voice filled the room, enchanting our imaginations with far off lands and wonders we couldn’t help but dream about. Being rural children, the idea of a skyscraper was mind boggling. She would tell us of things so fantastic, such as pyramids and jungles that we, knowing adults incapable of lying, still had a hard time believing.

She was in the middle of reciting “Chicago” by Carl Sandburg one day, as I gazed out of the window entranced by his powerful words: “Bareheaded, shoveling, wrecking, planning, building, breaking, rebuilding.” Perfect… without clouded thought to impede their flow, they tumbled and set sail, floating out into a glorious blue Nebraska sky. I sighed, wondering how on earth the poem could continue to greater heights. It was then, in this rapture of words, a voice cleaved through.

“Steve, do you have better things to do than listen to the poem?” My head spun away from the window into the stern eyes of my irritated teacher. “I think if you do, you should take the appropriate chair to do it in.” she continued. Stunned for the moment, I froze in my seat unable to move. I wanted to recite those powerful words back to her as some kind of proof, but they had flown away, the spell broken.

“Close your mouth and move it young man.” Hesitating, trying to bring back the phrase, I tried again to lift myself but the magic had flown. Lowering my eyes toward the wooden desk, I wished passionately that the “time out” chair had never been introduced as a form of punishment. It was humiliating to sit in, unlike the swift bite of the willow switch which stung, but was easily forgotten. I mustered rising, unable to look at her. Walking to the back wall, I put the dunce cone on and sat down in the seat facing the corner, away from the snickering class and knowledge. “Children, now that Steve knows his place, shall we continue?”

Try as I might, the rest of the poem had been replaced with a white washed wall, hard and unforgiving. There I sat for the duration of the afternoon, till about an hour before we were to leave, I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve one more lesson. Remove your hat and go to the front blackboard.” Doing as instructed, I took up a piece of chalk and waited for her assignment. “I will take the seat when told.” she said, “now start writing and don’t stop until I say.”

Once again my giggling classmates added to the punishment. I started digging into the work on the top left-hand corner, at arm’s length above my head; my embarrassingly childish cursive made even worse by the height. Slowly, deliberately, the curves sounded against the slate, punctuated by the two dots, one above ‘will’, and the other to end the sentence. Dust from the chalk floated against light from the window, but I dared not turn from its source. One line at a time I worked my way down the board. Stepping to my right I continued, reaching up and working downward. Partially through the fourth column, school was dismissed. I knew to continue however, as was the normal way of such a punishment, until she was ready and would signal me to stop.

Outside I could hear the laughter of the other kids running about in the schoolyard under the same expansive sky that I had looked on earlier. Longing for release, I doubled my efforts to write neatly hoping she would notice. Yet the lines only seemed to get smaller without any discernible improvement to my penmanship. This was frustrating because my next thought was that she wasn’t going to let me leave until the board was full.

I could hear Miss Applebloom ready herself, straightening up her desk, putting on her jacket and fishing the school key from her purse. Out in the yard came loud bickering and one of the girls screaming, “You bring that back, it’s mine!” Heavy clanking of heels against the hard wooden floor moved towards the door. There was the rapid patter of shoes outside running away from school and an angry tired teacher, then silence.

My ears strained to hear the returning flutter of her starched dress, but there was nothing save the sound of the wind and a boastful meadowlark. I sniffled loudly, my nose running from the chalk dust. Continuing to the board’s end, I stopped briefly and looked about at the empty desks with the little disappearing daylight that still managed to peek inside. Putting the chalk down I stretched my arms and neck. My back was sore and hand cramped. The door stood open as it had been left and the one faint light bulb had started to collect curious victims. How odd I thought as a moth with wings singed fell, that sometimes we’ve no time to learn lessons before being cut down.

Looking back around at the full board, I noticed flaws in the topmost lines, now more readily apparent than when writing them. Clearly my attempts to improve my writing could be seen, smaller and sloppier in comparison to those where I didn’t try as hard. I stepped back a few steps and looked again. Counting the lines, I stopped lost midway. Again trying to count them, I counted by five’s but once more lost my place. Angry, I picked up a new piece of chalk and walked to the board on the side wall and reaching up started once more to write. After the first line, stepping back, I grabbed the eraser and furiously cleaned its surface. Pulling a desk over, I stood upon the chair and wrote carefully and relaxed the seven words, and got down to examine the results. Looking from board to board I could see a difference, ever so slight in my best work at the first with this one line on the new board.

Back up on the chair I wrote most comfortably within reach. Then down to move the desk over, I stepped up to continue the column. Up on the chair… move the desk… again. I repeated this procedure over and over till once again the board was full. Comparing the two boards I could see what vast improvement I’d made. Looking around to the third and final board I once again stretched my self out and moved a desk into position.

Working into the night, the sounds of birds were slowly replaced by crickets and the occasional moth smashing into the light. When I ran out of chalkboard space, I took the two Big Chief tablets from my desk and started on them. When they filled, I placed them on Miss Applebloom’s desk. Again I grabbed the chalk, this time starting in on the floor. Somewhere towards the middle of the room I had the notion of going home for supper, but my folks were visiting a great aunt and wouldn’t be home till very late, so there wasn’t going to be a hot meal, hug or kiss goodnight anyway. Even if they had gotten home early, they’d think I’d have slipped off to sleep in the barn again. With stomach growling I pulled out the remains of a half-eaten apple from my desk to finish off. Going back to work… I don’t remember when… I finally fell asleep before filling up the floor.

Waking very early to the warmth of sun on my face, I went to the outhouse and then returned to the classroom. Picking up the chalk, I finished the last few lines needed.

The day and fresh air called to me, so I left the room and started in on the sidewalk. Seven words, two clicks, one over ‘will’ the other to end it. I had almost filled the walkway when I heard the sound of a throat being cleared behind me. I turned my head around to see a shocked stare on Miss Applebloom's face. Turning again towards the sidewalk I filled in another line. By this time the perfection of my writing danced, fluidly bringing the words to life. Rushing by me, I heard her stop suddenly at the door of the school. I completed another five lines before her shadow dimmed the sunlight.

“Steve, have you been here all night?” I just nodded and wrote. The silence stopped me a couple lines further on. Looking up into her eyes I could see confusion as she tried to recall her own words from the previous day.

“I told you not to stop until I said so, and you didn’t?” Again I nodded and wrote. The silence loomed above me, this time I didn’t look.

“Steve… you may stop now.” Halting mid sentence and standing up, I placed the chalk into her outstretched hand. Finding the sky, squinting at the radiant sun, my eyes fell following the words back to the schoolhouse and back at the blank face before me.

Searching about, finding a stick on the ground I knelt down to pick it up. She watched as I wrote in the dirt:

Bareheaded, shoveling, wrecking, planning, building, breaking, rebuilding.

She seemed older to me now and worn down, a weariness I’d not noticed before. With the last of Sandburg’s words in mind, I drug my foot across the knowing earth and walked back into school.

On Empty

2008-03-21T00:28:00.000-07:00

I was born when it was
twenty-two cents a gallon.

Fucked for the first time
at forty cents.

And now, turning fifty years old,
I seldom even look at the sign
while handing over my wallet.

Can our six feet dance?

2008-03-20T01:02:00.001-07:00

Is it one goat or two you tend my love?
You, with your bright blue Aegean eyes see this clearly.
If two, could you bring both in? One to milk and for making the hard cheese;
I will roast the other with lemons, honey, olives, and rosemary that grows wild_

Crushing green grapes between my teeth I taste
their wine, much rarer than you imagine.
Popping wetness in the mouth, known full
your moistness sweeter still, gathers lust upon this heavy tongue_

Beauty, in your linen dress you haunt other men
maddening them in their want, as they for a mother’s teat.
Celeste- can you not love, eat, and sleep deep dreams with me?
A wave's undulations less potent than you when comforting my breast_

Shells on the dry salt sand echo with gay laughing voices.
You say I’m a stupid shit, and that I should go look elsewhere.
Yet your coy smile tells me that stars are almost above, to look, know, and wonder by.
Is it one goat or two you will tend my love? You see, I’ve a friend named Paulo who sleeps aside me.

The Maid in the Meadow

2008-03-20T00:50:00.001-07:00

Once there was a young maid who, while tending her woolly sheep, would often mend clothes or sometimes play her wooden flute. While pleasing grazing animals with music, gentle creatures, from the surrounding woods, would also come to listen and little birds would chirp along with the beautiful silvery sounds she piped.

She was whistling, one day, when a loud crack of a twig behind her caused her to stop. Looking ‘round, she found herself gazing into eyes of a gaunt giant wolf.

“Silly girl," it snapped harshly, " do you think your playing can only be heard by these small creatures? Because of the sound, I have heard, followed, and found! A pasture full of food, but you my dear will be dinner tonight!”

Frightened she could not move with the wolf menacing ever closer, snipping and snarling, with big teeth bared. Suddenly, a loud BANG! filled the air. The wolf howled painfully once, and fell dead on the ground. Looking up from the body, the shaking maid saw the handsome woodsman walking towards her.

“I heard your lovely flute and when you stopped playing, decided to come ask if you might play a bit more, for it makes my chores rather enjoyable. Now it seems I’ve fur enough for a new coat, though need to find someone to sew it.”

Her brown doe eyes filled with tears of gratitude. Softly she said “Kind sir, I will gladly make your coat for you,” and picking up her flute resumed playing for him.

A few years later, sitting around the fireplace, she would tell her young children this story and their father, in his big shaggy fur coat, would always play the part of the big bad wolf, growling and howling in just the right spots.

The Bending of Flowers

2008-03-20T00:45:00.001-07:00

Dispelling concern with a flick of her hand
like shooing away flies
she rocks back and forth,
commenting in a sage voice about how 'the garden
could use some rain just about now.'

We sip glasses of too sweet lemonade.
A cooling breeze carries the scent
of dust kicked up miles away, magnolias,
and the neighbor's fresh mowed lawn.

Lightening splits open the sky,
there’s distant rumbles, a soft sigh,
and the protracted shuffle inside,
for cherry pie, cards, and tooth aching refill.

Crazy Quilt

2008-03-20T00:41:00.000-07:00

Buzzing in the ear…
“Now what on earth’s the matter now?”
buzzing…
She pulls the thread tight
bringing it to her teeth where
a quick bite separates from beauty
another stitch made.

“Well, that’s all well and fine...”
buzzing…
“Uh huh, well, you don’t say?”
buzzing…

Between her fingers she
slowly threads another color through.
Over smudged and crooked bifocals
she takes time to roll her once sharp eyes
up towards heaven upon completion;
half over the accomplishment,
half over the conversation.

“No, I don’t suppose it’d matter
one way or the other to me.”
buzzing…buzzing…buzzing…

Laying the fabric down in her lap
she sighs impatiently inside, and then aloud.

“Well you tell him,
you just tell him that.”
Buzzing…
“Yes, OK, well I’ll see you Sunday then…
and don’t forget the mashed potatoes.”
buzzing…buzzing…buzzing...
“Fine, good night.”

She cradles the receiver
on the old black rotary,
giving it a sour look.

Picking up her work
she resumes, with renewed
diligence and patience,
the flower she’d started
before the buzzing began.

Come Play with Me

2008-03-20T00:36:00.000-07:00

I wanna be the red skin.
I wanna be the martyr,
hung up, nailed,
shot like coyote.

Roped to the hood
of a ‘52 Chevy-
a downed deer
rolling eyes and
sticking tongue
at everyone
that stares.

I wanna be the Injun
layin dead in the dirt,
beneath a cork gun.
That would be so cool.
Tay ya.
If only I weren’t so white.

I wanna have eagle feathers
hangin from my head,
wear buckskin britches.
(I wonder if my balls would sweat,
or be cooled hanging so free?)

Tommy go get your gun then.
I wanna be the misunderstood
beaten drunken native,
with arrow, firewater,
and long raven hair
tied up in braids.

You can be the stinkin white man.
Why don’t you folks ever wash?
Why do you do this to me?

The Owl and the Rat

2008-03-18T12:36:00.001-07:00

One night an owl sat upon a fence post, looking out over a moonlit field. Turning towards a rustle in the grass, its eyes fixed on a spot of ground as a rat appeared. Seeing the owl, the rat froze fast with fright.

“Don’t worry rat, my belly is full and I’m not hungry just now," hooted the owl. “I’ve had my fill of mice and a toad who should have been in bed, but made a fine meal instead.” Gazing at the rat while stretching its neck around the large bird inquired, “I’m wondering though what you have eaten this eve?”

The rat, shuddered and then said rather boldly, “I’ve helped myself to the farmer’s grain and I feel very full too, thank you!” He continued, bragging, “If I were to eat all night the farmer wouldn’t notice my nibbling. He works hard all day long, yet doesn’t miss what I eat. I think he is rather thick headed. Over the years, I can eat as much wheat with my yellow teeth, as it takes to make many loaves of bread.”

“Really?" responded the owl, “I would think a smart creature as yourself would respect the farmer, and be thankful to him for providing you with your food.”

“Yes," said the rodent, who had started cleaning crumbs furiously from his dirty face. Still he is quite stupid for letting me eat what is rightfully his. You would think he’d take better care of his future, and more importantly, that of his family.”

Winking wide eyes, the owl thought aloud, “For indeed_ someone wise cannot forget about their family!” With a swift spread of wings, it dove down quickly catching the stupid squeaking rat, and flew home.

Beyond Fiction

2008-03-18T00:13:00.000-07:00

In a field, somewhere off in a distant land, a woman leans over the body of her dead husband; his face down in the dirt where he fell, a single bullet hole in the back of a head. She has no more tears left, having spent them on her two eldest sons found in the ditch a few feet from where she stands. Clutched to her breast,her last remaining boy, an infant, snuggles for warmth. At her side, much too young to be afraid, with her eyes fixed upon the corpse, a two-year-old daughter squeezes her hand tightly.

It is a quiet field. A very small patch of fertile land, passed from one generation to the next for centuries. Reason enough, according to the new regime, for the extermination of this family. Squatting low in the tall grass of the neighboring farmland she listened to the shots. One followed closely by another rang out, a few sharp words, pleas, and the final explosive ‘BANG’, that ended her husband’s life.

An enriching stain, once the blood of her husband, darkens the soil. Looking from earth to sky, she watches a single white cloud pass silently towards the horizon. The sound of crickets and a small tug on her sleeve brings her back from dazed contemplation. Seeing the remnants of family, an uneasy quiver runs the length of her spine. Bending down, grabbing a handful of soil, she spits on it and gently packs the broken skull.

She gazes over this place called home, with its sweet waving crops. Trees at the edge of the road are starting to turn deep rust with the season; branches full of watching crows sway from a cool northern wind. Covering the baby’s head with its blanket, she takes her daughter’s small hand, walks to the road, and steps decisively south.

What Remains

2008-03-16T21:47:00.000-07:00

The journey had taken me ‘round again to the beginning or as close to it as I’d wanted to come. Her scent filled the air, a perfume in my nose and mind. Her haunting me had been so easy; it engulfed me in sorrow and I was a push over.

“Hey, how ya been?” I asked, lifting her brush up and pushing it into my cheek. Her hair still clung in a web among the needles too real. ‘Damn it kid’ I could hear her spirit saying ‘snap the fuck out of it already’. But for me it wasn’t the time, and honestly I thought there would never be a time, yet the wave of emotion passed in a flush of heat through my quivering body welcoming it. Maybe it was the silent instruction, mentally projecting itself that had done its job for the moment, but tears insisted pouring out regardless. “Damn it” I said aloud and gently replaced the brush to its original position among the rest her life’s paraphernalia. My fingers strove over the items: lipstick, liner, creams, atomizer and the hand mirror. I’d not been able to look into it, least its last image within vanish under my gaze and so my hands lay atop the handle, numb. Unwilling and unable to lift up her last reflection I simply sat.

‘Snap the fuck out of it’ I heard her say again and looking up saw my own sad surreal eyes painted in her vanity. Looking down again, ashamed of my melodramatic reaction to these things, simply not her, I once again felt the mirror’s handle underneath my palm. Eyes wandering upon her things: things unrelated to time, unrelated to death. My watering eyes dull, red, and lifeless in life now, gazed.

A picture she had framed was on the tops edge; we were so young back then and had had hope. She beamed out at me (in the picture), and I the ever so serious, sat dumb struck at the luck that had brought her to my side; so young I thought and naive. Yet it hadn’t really been that long ago we had shared ‘the joke’. The photographer had his fly open. I whispered the news and feigning ignorance, she looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Shoot the damn thing already.” It was then that the memory was made. We giggled like the kids that we were and after paying the man, went off to make our future. A short, short future together chucked with other such nonsensical increments that life hands its lovers.

‘Snap out of it’ she said again somewhere between then and now.

Lifting up the hand mirror, I was shaking so badly as I turned it ‘round to look upon what was hers: a blurred image. What should have been my eyes were lost to times awakening and with an unaided arm I smashed it into the larger mirrored image of the vanity that had watched me all along.

‘Snap it’ she had said. He did, we did, and now I on my own certainly had. The little bits of our life, fragmented, incomplete and never to be made whole again lay in shards. That which she had cherished no longer remained whole. What was hers was no longer wanted. I found then, that I had died as well, and in a snap became simply her ghost.

The Fable of the Little Mice and the Story

2008-03-16T21:39:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time there was a family of mice. Each night, as the babies readied for sleep, their mother would tell them a bedtime story. It was always the same one, about a princess and a dragon living in a magical kingdom, far-far-away. They listened spellbound as her gentle voice spoke, until each one of them fell fast asleep.

One day, mama and daddy mouse did not return home from the fields on time . But they were often late; so the baby mice went ahead and ate some grain from the cupboard and settled themselves down for bedtime.

It was then, they decided to tell each other the story, and so they started reciting the tale, each adding a line or two as it went along- quite soon however, they had difficulty remembering just what happened next. One would say something as they recalled it and another would pipe in “No, no, no, that’s not right!” and tell their version. Quickly they started squeaking back and forth about how the ending should be told. Some maintained it went on happily ever after and others claimed that no, it wasn’t a happy ending at all. Their little voices kept getting louder and louder as they argued on, each insisting they knew exactly what happened.

Just then, a passing weasel heard the little voices of the mice. It stopped and listened briefly to their bickering. Quickly running down the mouse hole and to their startled little faces it exclaimed, “I can tell you the ending!”*

As he was about to pounce on the little mice, the weasel heard a loud noise. Frightened, he leaped out the back door. With wide little eyes the baby mice ran to the front room, gathering about their parents hugging them with all their might. Quite surprised, the mother mouse smiled sweetly saying, “I thought you were all in bed; I suppose you stayed up wanting me to tell you the story?” Eagerly they cheered in together “Oh yes! Yes, please tell us the story!”

That night while telling it, she noticed that all her little ones listened quietly, but oddly did not fall asleep until the very end. Only when she said the words “happily ever after” while kissing their little heads goodnight, did they slip quietly into pleasant dreams.

* an alternate ending for naughty children:

Just then, a passing weasel heard the little voices of the mice. It stopped and listened briefly to their bickering. Quickly running down the mouse hole and to their startled little faces it exclaimed, “I can tell you the ending!” Then gobbled them up, one at a time, till none were left to either hear or tell the tale ever again.

While on Vacation

2008-03-11T23:30:00.000-07:00

01/25/06

JM, having been on vacation in the area for a couple of weeks now, Marie and I stumbled upon this at a local bazaar. Yes, she drags me into every shop and market we encounter still; Marie is quite one reliable woman in that respect. On her insistence I purchased the following letter, paying all too much I may add, as a souvenir of sorts. Tattered, dirty and rumpled rather badly, faded from moisture and stained with what looks outwardly a dark substance, possibly blood or bile, for all that, the words are remarkably intact. At first I’d had a gut reaction this was some horrible hoax, being unsigned by the author, yet the Hotel’s name is real enough and there was a religious holiday of some sort held in recent days. Having not bothered to read the newspapers since leaving (we are on vacation after all) neither of us have heard of the political snafu the writer mentions; more is the loss to him, if not just some sick jest perpetrated by the locals on tourists. Not knowing how to broach the subject gracefully, my stumbling inquires have been met only with friendly faces and curious smiles. Aware of how you so enjoy this sort of thing, I'm sending it along, but mind, would like it back upon our return. What do you make of it then?

I’ve got to run now, the day and Marie are calling, love S_

01/19/06

I'd was told two days earlier that I was to be executed. Having merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, to groan at the injustice would have gotten me nowhere. Taken to an office, I was queried as to any last requests. Asking for the paper and pen that I’m writing this on pleased the head officer. He asked if this was to be a confession of my people’s guilt, with which I planned to bargain life. No, I explained patiently to him, I would just write a short account of these last hours of life, simply to ease the nerves. This puzzled him a bit, but he shrugged it off letting my explanation suffice. At the time, I also took the opportunity to question him if I was to be beheaded or shot. I had gathered from the guard that these are the usual ways of the region. Looking up from his desk he quietly informed me that I’m to be taken into the town-square, and after a brief official proclamation, am to be handed over to the mob and torn apart.

Seeing or maybe sensing my panic, the commander told me not to worry. My demise coincides with some local religious holiday occurring later in the week, and many people from outlying areas will already be in town, to, as in his words, “lend a hand.” With such a crowd he mused “You shouldn’t feel much for long; the whole process will be quite quick, and before nightfall, pieces only big enough for the birds will remain.” If that was meant to calm, it numbed instead. “It is an unfortunate affair”, he continued “that you should come seeking the beauty of our great country and find this end.” “Yes” I replied, “the land is indeed beautiful.” With that he looked out the window, sighed and after calling for guards to return me to my cell, went about his official duties.

The insult, I gathered later listening through bars, that had so grieved these people, was something that passed unnoticed by me in the papers a little over a week ago. A slight on the part of some dignitary that sent a wave of hatred careening throughout the land. Overnight my fellow countrymen and I had become the despised enemy.

On what was passed off as a bed, I sit looking at my hands, having sunk mentally into a state of shocked depression, lost without a voice to scream or tears to cry. Things like this happen to others, not me. Surely, if I pinched myself long and hard enough, I will awaken safely once again at home.

The bone-laden figure of an old man in the next cell, bent on tormenting, points his arthritic forefinger at me, hooking it again and again, downward, in a topsy turvey form of spectral beckoning. Repeatedly, he strangles out in his grating gargled voice, “hey you… hey you…hey you,” then smiles wide to reveal missing, broken and crooked teeth.

Soon, even this distraction became distant; thoughts of the beautiful vacation I had been enjoying added their surreal presence to the cacophony of emotions. The hotel de M_ manager dressed to the nines, stepping out from behind the counter to shake my hand in welcome. Native children giggling, running wildly down the street, holding still only long enough for my tourist camera to do its magic. There is a wonderful open-air market here, popular among the tourists and locals alike, which sells every conceivable item or oddity to be found. Wonderful foods , cooked and uncooked, and drinks found cheap, all becoming my nightly affair.

I was getting ready to retire one evening when there came a knock on my door.; the two policemen telling me to dressed, get my passport, and to accompany them. When asked, what I was being dragged out in the middle of the night for, I was told rudely to “shut up” _it would be explained later. Fearing I was being set up for a kidnapping, my relief upon seeing the police headquarters proved short lived.

The knot in my stomach is such that when bread was given me, it seemed a crude joke on the part of my captors. Tossing it to the still muttering old man, in an attempt to quiet him, I gaze out into the square.

The sun’s glow is faint, yet rising. The sounds of a city coming slowly to life are drifting lazily through the bars in the window. I’m balling up this note now and swallowing it, in the hope that without these words to confront me I may yet wake.

As if From a Dream

2008-03-11T23:21:00.000-07:00

A couple traveling settled down near a river preparing to eat and rest. The man, who had started building a fire to cook their food on, leaped up startled by a deafening roar and scream. His mouth dropped open as he gazed upon his wife held in the grasp of a huge crocodile. Massive jaws clamped down crunching hard, stifling her second attempt to scream; blood popped from the face. The animal moved towards water with the twitching body. In despair the man staggered backwards, fleeing the scene horrified. Running at first then slowing to an exhausted pace, he stopped only at nightfall to sleep in the crook of a very tall tree.

Rising in the morning, as if from a dream, he searched his mind wondering if there was something he could have done. Vivid images returned to place him, though still panicked, at rest with any such heroic notions. He decided to return home and inform their families of the tragedy. Having gone far from the river however, the way back itself proved to be a long journey. A half day into the walk his mind again plagued him with unreasonable doubts, only to be silenced by the memory of her horrible scream. With a shudder he moved on.

Daylight started to dim. He noticed the pale form of a young woman walking ahead along the same path. With an effort he quickened his pace and though gaining, seemed unable to catch up to her. Several times she glanced back. Alerted to his presence, fearing an unknown stranger perhaps, he imaged that she started walking just a bit faster. Not wishing to be rude but feeling a need to hear the voice of another, he started to call out, yet held back. Instead, taxing the last of his weary legs, he seemed again a bit closer. “She’s finally wearing down,” he thought. Surely her features could be seen much more clearly than before.

He saw her on the bridge before realizing he was once again at the river. She was half way across when his hands first touched the wooden frame. Slowly, uneasily, he took a few steps, then halted. Starting forward, as if having decided upon something, the man stepped with determination.

It was then that the jaws of the bridge dropped in upon him, surely as the crocodile’s had on his wife. The girl, by then at the other side of the river, glanced back once, and walked quickly away.

The Frozen Angel

2008-03-11T23:08:00.000-07:00

Hot piss cut through the white snow. I aimed and wrote best as I could, “Tommy is a faggot”. Really, it looked more like TOMSAFAG since I didn’t want to wet myself trying to stop between letters. Abbreviating my original inspired thoughts with my bladder running on empty half way through, TOMSAFAG was the best I could manage.

He was concentrating on his own yellow stream steaming away beside me. He only managed “FUCKYO” before his piss gave out. We both were peeing in cursive, so anyone else would have had to use a lot of imagination to decipher what our urine trails actually said.

Looking over at my snowdrift artwork and giggling, Tom managed to shove his writing tool back in, zip up, and get his mittens on before I did. Scooping up part of my “FAG” from the ground, he popped me in the neck with a piss ball and ran before I had the chance of returning the favor.

Catching up to him was easy since he had short legs that easily got stuck in the knee-deep powder. I flipped what I’d managed to grab before running, landing a load of yellow slush on his face. “Damn that tastes nasty man, what you been drinking?” he said brushing it off his face.

I was too busy loading up my hands with the second volley to answer; his question, I knew was meant as a diversion, and still we ended up throwing at the same time. Snow balls popped everywhere, for the next half-hour we tossed away heated by the energy of war. Laughing, with snot running freely down our chilled red faces, we went inside. Stripping off the layers and layers of clothes we’d been bundled in, my mother chased behind us picking them up off the floor as we went.

“Go get cleaned up and into something dry boys while I make you cocoa,” she said to our retreating bodies still sheathed in our damp underwear.

I grabbed linens from the closet for Tommy on the way to the bathroom and tossed them at him as he closed the door. He was almost finished undressing by the time I started running the tub. “Nice and hot… you want bubbles?” I asked.

“Yeah, the ones that smell nice, and some of the softener stuff too.”

I dumped in more of the water softener than I should have, but it didn’t matter. After yanking and pulling my way out of my wet long johns, I wrote the same nasty words that I had written earlier on the fogged up mirror in full before wiping it off and jumping in. He was already on the faucet side partially submerged in bubbles watching me with a curious look on his face. Sitting opposite, I laid down flat, my legs on top of his, and sank into the wonderful heat.

He turned off the water and I played submarine. Under the water, I could hear the muted sound of Tommy starting to sing a song we’d learned at school. I surfaced quickly. His beautiful soprano ran out, “Was you ever in Quebec, launchin' timber on the deck? Where ya break yer bleedin' neck, ridin' on a donkey!” I joined in for the “Hey Ho away we go” bits, as he sang on and on verse after verse. He kept tickling my toes and only stopped torturing me after deciding he wanted his back scrubbed. Turning around he pressed his smooth body between my legs handing me the soapy rag. While I washed away invisible cooties from his neck, shoulder blades and back, he ran his hands over my legs. He tried to bend over to tickle my toes again so I laid my feet flat hard against the tub bottom. “Hey, no fair,” he said, with a pout in his voice. Turning quickly around he proceeded to tickle me underneath my arms till I called ‘Uncle’ a dozen times, begging him to stop and clean my back.

Dried, we were still giggling like madmen when we tumbled out of the bathroom streaking naked down the hall and into my room. We dressed in flannel PJs and went out to sip our hot chocolate. Tommy seemed extra pleased to find mom had put marshmallows on top since his mother wasn’t given to such flights of extravagance. “Thanks,” he said, “my mother doesn’t give us marshmallows, they’re really good!”

Mom, being the motherly type, took the bag down and popped a few more in both our cups, leaving the bag on the table. “Gee thanks!”

“You’re Welcome Tommy, just don’t let it ruin your appetite, I’m making your favorite for supper.

Tommy shot me a ‘your mom is the best’ look, loudly slurping his chocolate. After we were done, he thanked mom again and we went off to play till dinner was ready. We tried to watch TV but the reception sucked. All we could pull in was some awful news station where the weatherman was reporting on how deep the snow was and how much more was on the way. Erector set, Lincoln logs and Lego blocks littered the floor with our fantasies for the next two hours till dad got home and mom called us to eat.

“How you boys doing” my father asked us as we took our places at the table.

“Great!” we both agreed.

“So, you having fun with all this snow and being good?”

Nodding furiously we excitedly told him about the best snowball fight ever, leaving out the yellow parts. Mom placed the platter of fried chicken right in front of Tommy saying, “Dig in boys!” so we did, till we couldn’t fit in any more mashed potatoes and gravy, much less fathom of another drumstick.

We watched a little TV with the folks after the table was cleared and the dishes were done up. The weatherman had been replaced by some old black and white John Wayne Western, so it wasn’t a total loss. Mom made popcorn loading it with butter and salt for us. Tommy kept looking over between handfuls, smiling every time the guns would come out, probably remembering our own battle earlier on. He’d cock his finger and say bang, bang, bang. On queue, I’d roll my eyes and drop my head to play dead for a second or two allowing him time to blow the smoke from his fingertip. Before we knew it, it was time for bed. But we both knew now was when the real sleep over started.

I kissed the folks goodnight then went to grab a flashlight from the junk drawer. Following Tom to the bathroom to brush our teeth, we heard Dad call out not for us to stay up too late. We knew he didn’t really care since it was the weekend and we were out of school, but it was something he always said and we’d probably miss it if he didn’t say it.

Mom had carefully laid Tom’s cleaned and dried clothes on the bed by the time we got there, but being the nine-year-old boys we were, they promptly got tossed on the floor as we jumped under the covers. Pulling a “Green Lantern” off the nightstand I clicked off the overhead and we hid under the blanket reading by flashlight until the villain got his come-uppins. It started getting hot and slowly the PJs came off, first the tops then the bottoms and finally pulling off our underwear we found ourselves naked again.

We started to sleep, but for whatever reason after an hour or so of rest we both woke up and started talking again. We whispered about what we’d done and planned what we would do the next day. In our minds, building an Igloo like we’d seen in the ‘National Geographic’ seemed the logical choice. I started to yawn when Tommy turned from his spoonee position to face me. Bringing his face close he whispered, “Steve, do you think I’m a fag?”

It was just some word I’d heard older kids at school use to cut each other down. I didn’t really know what a fag was and told him so.

“My brother says it’s when two guys have sex,” he said softly.

“You mean they love each other?” I asked.

“Yeah, but they do other things together too.”

“What do you mean Tom, like what 'things'?”

“Well I’m not so sure, other than they touch each other and kiss. He says they’re Homo, but I’m not sure why he called them that if they’re faggots. ”

“I thought maybe that’s what it meant,” I said, though didn’t really understand it at all. “But why do they do it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He looked like he was thinking about something, then, pressing his body to mine, he quickly kissed me.

I felt the blood rush to my face. I didn’t know exactly what a faggot or Homo was, but wasn’t so sure I minded being one, 'cause it was with Tommy and he was a friend I loved. He kissed me again and I felt myself flush. His face was right on mine and the next time he kissed me his tongue licked my lips.

I must have groaned because he asked if me I wanted him to stop. Instead of answering, I put my arms around him, rubbed my body against his and kissed him back. Kissing him a second time I put my tongue in his mouth. He giggled. So did I. We did it again, over and over.

Pretty soon we were licking each other’s necks and bodies and, after nibbling on each other, we got down to that point you’d expect such play to lead. We were both too young to understand or get really serious about things; we did manage between the snickering, giggling and feeling these strange new feelings, to enjoy ourselves. Two young pre-pubescent boys playing around sexually for the first time, not knowing exactly what it was we were doing, just doing it and enjoying the feeling of each other’s company.

We eventually got so loud with our laughter that dad knocked on the door telling us to knock it off and go to sleep. Tommy stifled himself on his way back to the pillow, having had his head buried in arm pit. He kissed me again and in a real quiet voice asked if we could do it again some time. I didn’t answer out loud but sticking my tongue in his mouth and sucking deep on his tongue he knew the answer was yes.

I woke a few hours later with the feeling of Tommy on me. The warmth felt frightening at first, then strangely familiar and comforting. Pulling his head back up to my face, I reached down to touch him. Once again flushed with this new sensation, I found myself kissing him. Turning him around, so that I could spoon him, I felt my self mingle with his legs. I was warm and he was warmth. With Tommy held, wrapped in my arms, my legs entwined in his, sleep reached out to engulf us. Whispering, in a voice barely audible, I heard him say that he loved me. “I love you too friend,” I said falling into deep and wondrous dreams.

Shortly after that, before we could have another sleep over, my family moved away. After a few letters and Christmas cards, I sadly lost track of my best friend.

Years later, I received a call from him. Catching up, I told him I’d gone into the military and been kicked out for being gay, having finally come to terms with what being a homosexual really meant. He’d gone his own way in life; telling me he was married now with four kids. I mentioned that night together and how it had been my first experience, even though innocent in nature. “Steve” he said, “I don’t remember that at all.” Something in his voice said he did, but I knew he didn’t want to reopen ‘that’ can of worms. Inside it hurt.

Hanging up with him, I remembered vividly that next day and how we’d gone out to go build our Igloo, deciding instead on a fort. After several failed attempts, we ended up peeing in the snow again, having us another snowball fight and making snow angels.

“Somewhere,” I thought, “There is a pair of little angels lying side by side in a frozen field right now, just trying to take flight. And somewhere too, there are angels waiting to be filled in by the drifting snow.”

The Opera

2008-03-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

-The most intense horror lies solidly within the mundane- Steve.

Tired and angry, the push through traffic tore at us. We’d been snapping at each other’s throats for the last five minutes. Karen’s panicked incompetent directions around the jam, had finally wore my patience thin. “Shut up for a second and let me fucking think!” I snapped.

“Yeah right! If you’d listened to me and left when I told you, we’d have had plenty of time. I don’t know why you’re telling me to shut up, when it’s ‘you’ that be should listening, but you never do. Why should this time be any different?”

Silently counting to ten, I finally gave up at eight. “God damn it, like I could foretell the future and seen the road closure coming? Get real! If you had picked up the fucking tickets when you were suppose to we wouldn’t be making this mad dash.”

“Sure, go ahead, blame it on me,” she said fuming. "If it were up to me, we’d have just of stayed home. But no, you had to go to the bloody Opera. The last thing I wanted to do on my Saturday night was to go hear a stage full of overweight singers, howling and bellowing full on in Italian.”

The rain that had been pouring down buckets had lightened to the point where the rubber from the wipers started to complain. Sun, which normally have been a welcome sight, only intensified the muggy stagnation within the car. My temples throbbed. It had been a long day and the evening was proving an intense nightmare.

“You’re the one who likes Opera, and the only reason I said yes to the tickets to begin with. It’s what you said you wanted tickets to “La Traviata” for an anniversary present, but if you want me to turn the fuck around and head home, I’m more than willing to do it. Why you ever agreed to go, when you knew you’d be pressed for time, I have no idea. What the hell were you thinking anyway? Running Jenny to Kim and Bob’s, stopping at the dry cleaners and jewelers wasn’t enough. No, you had to offer Rudy a lift to the train station and insist on seeing him aboard.”

“Damn it Ken, knock it off. Who did you think was going to look after Jenny? Did you think your suit would clean itself? And you said you liked the watch!”

“Sure I do Karen. It’s ticking away right now, reminding me how late we are for this Goddamned thing.”

“Hey, Rudy is your friend, not mine remember; were you going to be the one to tell him ‘no’ when he asked? We were heading down here anyway and he jolly well knew it. So next time he wants to spend the week and ends up staying drunk on the couch for three, why don’t you say the hell something instead of letting me get like this?”

“They were our friends!”

“Yeah, maybe so, but I’m your wife!”

“And that gives you the right to tell him he’s a lazy butt and to get the hell out? You know he’s not been the same since Tracy left!”

“Yes it does, and offer him a lift to the train if that’s what it takes to get his sorry ass off my couch and back to reality. She was smart for leaving him, she should have done it sooner.”

“You can’t mean that Karen. She bled him dry and took him for everything. That bitch is saying he is an unfit father, and shouldn’t even be allowed to see the kids!”

“Go ahead, tell me about it. If he weren't such a lush, maybe she wouldn’t have left.

“You know damned as well as I do that he didn’t start drinking heavy until after she started running around”.

“Yeah, and why do you suppose she went looking to begin with?”

Wondering if Karen thought I was a lush too, I fumed thinking about the ticking watch, the Opera and dinner reservations; were they as much a charade as our marriage? Why celebrate? A hole opened in the pit of my stomach and acid rushed in, my forehead warmed feverishly.

“Look Karen, just tell me if you don’t want to do this. I can call and cancel the reservations at Andre’s so we can just go home.”

“Shit, we’re already almost there. You know we’ll be hungry later on, and if you think for one minute I’m going home to cook tonight, you’re nuts.”

Cracking the window, the sound tires tracking on the wet asphalt joined the cacophony. My headache intensified. Sirens loomed large on a side street. The fumes from a car burning oil in front of us was starting to make me nauseous. Trying to silence some part of the noise level, I turned the wipers off only to be blinded by the continuing drizzle. Turning them on again, I hunched lower in the seat trying to push my self away from the pain.

“Turn left here!” she barked.

Impatient horns sounded behind us as I stopped and waited for an opening in the oncoming lane. Rolling my window down all the way, I yelled at the guy behind me. “What the fuck do you think the signal is for asshole?”

Shouldering to the right, the guy shouted, “Fuck you butt hair!” and sailed through the intersection just missing a car turning left in front of us. Grumbling about him being a stupid idiot, I was able to turn on eighth when the light finally changed. I say turned, but in actuality, I’d peeled. Screeching tires from the turn were rapidly followed by their squeal as I shoved hard on the brakes. My knuckles clenched the wheel and Karen made a grab for the dash, though her seatbelt held fast.

Ahead, a large industrial truck was stopped, double-parked in the middle of the street. I started to pummel the horn, when a white smock-clad worker lifted the rolling rear door. Loaded in back were hundreds of slaughtered pigs, piled one atop the next, deep as the eye could see; their stiff tongues lolling and eyes vacantly staring at us. Stunned by the bleached off pink paled images, one at a time being lifted and hauled away, Karen and I went silent, stunned. We had no words left, our breaths taken hastily away by the end of the Opera. All that remained were a renewed curtain of rain, and the blaring applause of horns behind us.