Honesty Is Not Contagious - Rants

"Cries" -- "And the band played on..."

6/20/2017

"And the band played on..."

Fingers went Aristotle
at the Empty Bottle
when the bass decided
against what chaos provided --
A is A and shall remain
the only note to ever reign.
Used to find peace
in the infinite probable
of the irrational,
where anything's possible,
now grasping
at the logical
for some anagogical
meaning to the decease.

Ditching punk chop
to stir the sea
drummer beat 2 over 3,
and sensing changing tides
guitarist does her best, abides
a chugging snarling
12 bar blues howling
high gain growling --
The mourning bassist
can't resist,
steps to the mic
to vomit
delicate as a hit
from a switchblade fist
he plucked a wish
from his wife's wrist.
Guilt weighted tears
fall able to squash --
he whips the mosh
into a sacrifice he'll slay
to wipe the grim away.
.
Lyrically photographic,
4k HD portrait of the tragic;
musically chromatographic
separating all of then
into a palatable blend;
Playing into a moment of Zen
the hostile crowd becomes friend,
though it's just a creative defense
against the capital offense
of pushing a heart towards a blender
any way to quickly end her
crying for hours
for no reason.
Gladly committing
romantic treason
to break from a black hole
only to wake next to a corpse,
and be left with the toll.

He can pay for Styx,
and get bricks
to build a hit single,
but may never nix
the horror flicks
starting to comingle
with every thought
it wasn't survivor's guilt
he wanted bought.

And the band played on...

#

"Cries"

She hides her face
Wearing sheer lace --
I'm not staring at her eyes.

I don't dictate the pace
Though it isn't a race
On track to vocalize.

Mint fills the space
I chase to trace
Where she'll materialize.

Queen of the ace
Mariah I embrace
To know all her cries:

The demon, the lemon,
The whore and the cannon,
Scrape of the closest shave;

The keening nun,
And crackling sun;
Crows gathered on a grave;

Explosive anti-matter,
Blood drip & splatter,
Hyena laughing at a rave.

She sings them all
Like a siren's call
Leading to a deadfall.

Words won't do,
Yet a portrait is due.
I can't make it true
Using paints lacking the hue.
You need to hear to see
With any guarantee of clarity.

Why I Quit: Hotel Concierge

6/11/2017

When I took the job at the hotel I expected something more glamorous. The day I arrived for work, finding in the parking lot a naked man in Santa beard and cap beating a pimp with a sock full of batteries – I suspected the description related over the phone might not have been accurate.

The pool did not resemble a glittering sapphire. Rather, it seemed to be a kidney shaped mound of dirt dotted by several tombstones for pets. The complex of hotel suites, a hive of rooms in a horseshoe, suggested a building could get addicted to meth, suffering all the adverse physical side effects associated with such; graffiti tattooed brick; an odd implicative assortment of vehicles in the lot, from high end luxury SUVs to rust bucket sedans; occasional whiffs of fresh mint stabbing through a miasma of weed, piss, and compost… part of me wondered if somewhere in Chicago a more regal establishment existed, its own nefarious history passed on to this place like some architectural Portrait of Dorian Grey.

A simpler, less mystical explanation would be the Breeze Inn used to be a fine place once upon a time, but that era existed decades ago. Before superhighways, every city owned specific streets operating as the main thoroughfares into downtown. Other businesses gravitated to these veins, feeding off the steady flow of tourists and traveling professionals; eventually falling into the slow decay that followed the arrival of quicker, more direct routes stabbing the heart of the city.

Plus, gone are the days of a traveling salesperson, retiring from the road to rest in a quiet motel. Now they arrive, and dart straight from the airport to appointments. Whether successful or not, the modern professionals then depart – here and gone the same day – red eye on to the next opportunity. There’s no need to slip back to ersatz comforts, raiding the mini-bar on the company dime, celebrating victory, or taking the edge off failure, either way numbing to the fact they’re miles from home. Cloisters of lonely itinerant professionals – maybe such places were always meant to die. However, it’s a slow death that the manager seemed eager to pay someone to witness. So I settled in for the moribund days of the Breeze Inn.

#

I helped Butterscotch shovel ice from the bin into a large trash bag. She held the bag open, while I scooped in bucket loads.

“I tell you man, I tell you I hate this fucking guy, but he pays good,” Butterscotch said.

Making small talk, “I wouldn’t be too comfortable with him either.”

“I mean like it’s easy and all. Alls I gotta do is fill the bathtub with ice, soak there a few, and lie on the bed. Don’t gotta move, or do nothing, while he does his thing. It’s easy.”

“And it pays good,” I said.

“Yes, it does.” A look flashed across her eyes like a deer missing its chance to escape headlights. Butterscotch shrugged, “Beats what I used to do.”

“What was that?” Seeing the bag mostly full I closed the ice bin.

“Hotel clerk,” she laughed, “I’m just playin’.”

Chuckling too, “I know. Have you a good time Butter.”

She hoisted the bag over her shoulder, “You too Connie.”

I’d long since stopped trying to correct the permanent residents. About a week in, attempting to jazz up my job, I began referring to myself as the hotel concierge. This resulted in customers referring to me as Connie.

Back in the front office I found a group of bleary eyed teens. College kids on their first road trip, they stopped at the Breeze Inn because they couldn’t afford anywhere else.

The boy who fancied himself in charge, upon seeing me, angrily rang the desk bell. I walked around, and removed the bell from the counter.

Smiling, “How may I help you?”

“Last night… we got no sleep. Someone tried to break into our room. I braced the door with a chair, and spent the whole night holding a Bible to bash whoever burst in.”

Shocked that a room still possessed a whole Bible – guests tended to use the pages as rolling papers – I remarked, “Well, if they really wanted to break in they’d’ve probably smashed the window. That’s happened before.”

Looking confused the boy said, “What? Seriously, dude, we want our money back.”

“Dude, did you spend the night in the room?”

He glared, “Yeah. So what?”

I replied, “So read the sign.”

I pointed. The group collectively turned to find a bare wall. By the time they turned back, I held a bat wrapped with barbed wire, “You spent the night. You don’t get shit.”

Slowly the pack of children receded to their car. On the way out a young lady dressed like a burnt out trucker shouted, “I’m giving this place the worst review. Zero stars!”

Mathematically speaking that might actually improve our standing. However, I felt no need to tell her that. Those kids didn’t yet understand that for the low, low price of fifty dollars they experienced a story they could tell the rest of their lives. Some pay more for less.

Yet, I didn’t have much time to reflect on such things. Taking the bat in hand I hurried to room 207. At three on the dot, every afternoon, a thin envelope peeked out from under the door. It contained enough cash for one more night, paid daily since 1987. The manager suspected vampires resided inside. I saw no reason to doubt that. All I knew, if I didn’t get to the money first some resident would snatch the cash. Sure enough, stepping onto the landing I saw Willy the Goat idling towards 207.

Pointing with the bat, “Get away from there Willy.”

“Fuck you, Connie, I ain’t doin’ nothing.” Tucking his hands into his pockets, their greasiness darkening the fabric from the inside out, Willy stomped away.

Collecting the envelope I glanced inside, a blood stained twenty, and several crinkled, gutter plucked ones. Slipping it in a back pocket, I decided to tour the rooms quickly. At open doors I paused to knock politely, peer in, and inquire if anyone needed anything.

Room 213 needed her dick sucked. Room 108 wanted a bowl of fingernails. Room 201 required nothing, emphasizing the fact by pointing a gun; I backed away from the nine year old girl slowly. For the most part guests needed fresh towels, needles, and bandages, the usual assortment of necessities at the Breeze Inn; what I could handle myself, I did, delegating other responsibilities to Isabella, the head maid.

Isabella maintained the Breeze Inn with a stoicism rivaled by stone. She slips into a room, tap-tap-tapping her key softly, “Housekeeping,” upon seeing a junkie on the bed, she checks the pulse. Finding none, she flags a few strays, runaway dusthead punk rock kids failing proudly. For the promise of a free night’s rent they drag the body to a nearby dumpster, and pitch it – out of sight, out of mind. Tap-tap-tapping, she finds a shit coiled like soft serve ice cream in the middle of the floor. She cleans the mess without so much as a sigh; however, should the guest return she walks casually by. Using a knitting needle she exacts a piquerist vengeance, stabbing deep into a butt cheek. The other two maids, a pair of ladies I’m sure should be in high school – though the education here is better than a degree – take orders in brusque Spanish. At the end of the day I pay her cash, wondering why she always smells like coconut – obviously a cream, or perfume, but why that scent exactly – I never ask because she seems the kind of person who’ll tell you what you need to know when she feels you need the info. Then the three maids depart together in a wood panel station wagon, leaving me alone for the evening.

#

Every hotel possesses at least one ghost. And frankly, given the amount of suicides, deaths, and murders which occurred here, the Breeze Inn surprising only possessed one. Interestingly enough, though, it’s one of the more famous Chicago specters.

On weekends, several ghost tours rolled by the hotel. Passengers pressed their faces to windows, ogling the location, though never daring to set foot off the bus. Seated on a chair outside the lobby, smoking and sipping whiskey, I could hear the static cracked recitation of tour guides. The blather all sounded the same: “This (hiss) The Breeze Inn (crack-hiss) once a premiere Lincoln Avenue stop (hiss-hiss) ’s what you see now. In December 1980, this is where…”

The story is myth. For those few who don’t recall, whatever reasons why, the bare facts start in December 1980, a legendary musician stopped for the weekend. His band used to stay at the Breeze Inn as part of superstition, having stayed there during the early days touring on pennies in a van more likely to breakdown than arrive on time. So, whenever in Chicago, he insisted on staying there. Coming back from a radio interview the musician saw a fan waiting by the room. The musician reached for a pen. The fan reached for a gun. The musician went to sign an autograph, and the fan shot. The musician died. The fan claimed to be an angel sent to make the musician immortal. Like I said the rest is myth, the “real” why debated always since the plain truth is too unpalatable – lunatics don’t need reason to do crazy shit.

Soon as the bus pulled away, cameras flashing, the ghost peers out of the office, “They gone?”

“Yep,” I say, cracking two beers, “Whiskey slug?”

(Whiskey slug: personal slang for whiskey double.)

Taking a seat next to me he says, “No thanks Connie. I don’t feel like getting too strange this evening.”

#

“Hello.”

“How do you do ma’am?”

“I have cancer.”

I nodded, “Not well then.”

She smiled like a kindergarten teacher comforting a kid with a skinned knee, “I’d like a room.”

“Okay. Sorry to be blunt, but I find it’s easier, um; there’s a thirty dollar additional fee applied to any guest we suspect is planning to, well…”

“Suicide?”

“Yeah.”

“Actually, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

#

Marissa Oak explained things clearly, leaving no doubt as to her state of mind, intentions, or willingness to be dissuaded. She intended to rent a room for two months. Her doctor prophesized she would not last longer than one, but on the off chance she lived more, and for any inconvenience, she felt obliged to pay two in advance. During that time she planned to stay in her room, allowing anyone who wished to visit her to spend however long they wished.

I asked, “Is it a kind of performance art?”

She shrugged, “In a way. More than anything else I just want some company.”

Filling out her forms – writing somewhat escaped her since the cancer got to her brain – I asked, “What about family and friends?”

“They’ll be here. But I kind of want new strangers too. It’s like Wilde said, something like the beauty of new friends is they don’t know the old stories.”

“Do you have dinner plans?”

She patted my hand, “Don’t be a cliché.”

“Well, on that note, do you have any drugs?”

She looked at me sidewise, “Morphine.”

“We got junkies here. Be careful. They’ll steal it.” I furrowed my brow, “Shit.”

“What?” Marissa asked.

“If you attract a crowd that means worse than junkies, fucking tourists.”

She chuckled. I didn’t.

#

I swung the barbed wire bat, “Back! Back you savages!”

Everyday droves of tourists arrived. None seemed familiar with the concept of a line. Whenever they scattered into something nebulous, the horde pushing in to watch Marissa die, I herded them back into formation with the bat. The manager and I worked in tandem, taking turns herding and performing typical Breeze Inn duties. When she could, Isabella lent a hand, her glare pushing the crowd from chaos to order.

It took three days for things to truly get out of hand. By then news crews began arriving, spreading the word, reports drawing more and more spectators. Members of her family did the same, dispersing word online. Marissa wanted the company of strangers, well, she got it.

Folks came from as far as Orlando to sit with her. Some chatted, conversations ranging from the mundane to grasping at the profound. Others arrived to tout holistic cures Marissa politely declined. Some stood silently, and left as quietly. She welcomed all with a smile. Those who held out a hand to shake she hugged. Some kept a respectful distance, I suspected to hide their discomfort touching a wax wrapped skeleton. Still others came to defeat accusations of pretention by leeching off Marissa’s death to seem deeper; I remember a twig like woman lying on the bed with Marissa, cuddling while the twig’s friend recorded them. I wanted to smash the camera, but somehow sensing the intention, Marissa suggested by a subtle expression I leave them alone. So I did. She didn’t see what I saw -- #Idiedwithher. She saw something positive I can’t relate because I couldn’t perceive it well enough to describe.

When she slept many left. Others set up a tent city in the parking lot. The manager, seizing on the opportunity, charged ten bucks per tent occupant. They paid. It felt obscene, yet I still collected the cash every evening. Though, that said, I skimmed a few off the top to bribe the worst junkies.

Hand a ten, “Leave her drugs alone.”

“Whatev’s Connie. Jeez. Acting like I’m some fucking scumbag. I don’t rob the dead.”

But you would. Who wouldn’t? It’s not like they can stop you.

By the third week Marissa couldn’t get out of bed. She could barely speak, often just able to force a kind of gargle-cluck. Her eyes appeared to go in and out of focus.

The tourists stopped flooding in. Many who stayed aimed all manner of camera at her, streaming her decline in real time.

“We’re with her now…”

No, you’re not, I thought, but remembering her glances I respected what would’ve been Marissa’s wishes. I let them be.

Off duty hookers brought her water. I remember Butterscotch laying a cold cloth on Marissa’s forehead. She said, “This is how my mama died. She went in a better place than this shit hole. You know what I mean, right Connie?”

“Yeah, Butter, I hear ya.”

Towards the end the news crews departed, though reporters called regularly to see if Marissa died. They shot enough stock footage they just needed to know when to say the end occurred. The tourists mostly left. Even the hashtag allstars fled as reality crept in. What few remained occupied the parking lot wondering what to do next.

Meanwhile, in room 105 Marissa lay dying. Her family and friends surrounded the bed. Her breathing came irregularly, inspiring the guilty desire she die now, for her own good as well as theirs. I stood in the doorway watching.

The manager approached, “Hey, Connie, since shit’s calmed down a bit, the usual stuff needs to get done.”

Crossing my arms, “And what?”

“And you need to do it.”

“You’re saying I need to do my job, not be here.”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“Then I quit.”

A few hours later Marissa breathed her last. When I walked away I saw the hookers on the second floor holding junkie candles in a vigil. The tent town broke up quickly, washed away on a flood of tears. I saw Marissa’s younger brother disappear into 216, a heroin black hole he’d been orbiting.

In the office I collected my last few day’s pay. The phone rang. I answered.

“Hello?”

“This is channel {redacted for legal reasons}. Is she dead yet?”

Looking out the front I saw Marissa taking a seat next to the Musician. He handed her a beer. She smiled at me, and waved.

I said, “Nope. She’s gonna live forever.”

Greasy Spoon Goddess

6/5/2017

lingering in a greasy spoon
wondering what caliber
best to shoot the moon.
picking at pecan pie
brown as the waitress thy
lust insists will love
being part of
the foxglove
digitalin mixture
sure to cure
the cracking apart
lonesome
homeless heart.
imagining laid to rest
on her welcome breast,
wolf on the chase
see her pace
in khaki kick pleat,
and start a second hour
wondering if her sweet
might silence life's sour.
toothsome as this
slice of pastry,
fancy something lacy
lingerie webbing netting;
every glance setting
sights on her, betting
a smile will start wetting.

the cunning linguists
seeking to be distinguished
from the rabble bramble
fashion flowery words
promising to be
Miles Sullivan's bird
heads perpetually dipping
to breathe, kiss, and lap
the sticky sap
from her pink petal flaps,
but not being a dictionary
some plan contrary
to Shakespearean eloquence
instead stick to a preference
for silent l'adoration perpétuelle
while she shouts at Al,
"Bow-wow plain and dry,
cut the grass,
but make it cry.
the frog sticks
feel free to eighty-six.
then walk a cow through the garden,
and hun, get ready to harden,
I'm gonna bend a crab --
you may have to jab."
seven foot short order cook grunts
happy to screw
the crab who calls the ladies cunts.
too sadly true
wouldn't be the first he punts.

meanwhile, objet petit a
drops the overinflated bill
as more admirers arrive to fill
the counter
like some long prie-dieu.
ordering: prayers,
soliciting a chance to bedew
her with sweat
as if asking and receiving
extra bacon
hints
she wants to be taken
by lonely diner monks
devouring chunks
of grainy hourglass sand
between idle blather.
buttering tongues slather
greasing bars
with flirts and memoirs
heroic, comic, erotic, tragic
thinking every syllable
shifts the scales a tick
in favor of the flavor
they alone can craft --
so sure she'll savor
the skidrow princes,
especially the few
who'd act as though they knew
she's a butcher queen
murder scene
railroad baroness --
matter of fact
owns a track
across a canyon caesarean;
and finds the silver merry when
she dreams of the mess,
her lost princess
feeding vultures.
blissfully she cultures
optimistic bacteria
to feed on the dead in her head.
how could they know what she's never told?
gilding guile like a sheer gold blindfold.
she sees thru
the yellow hue;
deciphers readily
their muttered steadily
indirect oddly Oedipal
prayers to Mary,
"send a refill,
and have the waitress tarry,
long enough to risk
a brisk
implicative gaze,
and I will forever praise,
you Mother of God.
Amen."

the assembled cenobites
of Rosie's grill,
a crooked row of bedlamites,
eat at a snail's pace.
no desire to be first
they run the race
to be last to leave
hoping to achieve
a moment alone
to try one more jest,
for the finale
saved the very best.
if (when) then
she laughs
no need to subtly test
arms open to hug
she obliges
feeling wrapped in a rug
like a corpse for the river.
but she escapes
thru the narrowest sliver,
"goodnight, goodnight,
Until we meet again.
Goodnight, my friend --
Al, latch the chain."

Punishment

5/30/2017

I. Good Boy
            When I'm good Poppa lays brick dust and salt. He pours the two in a braided line across the door to my bedroom and on my window ledges. Then It can't get in. I don't know if It has a name of Its own like Bob or Tim. Poppa says It's a Xaphan. His Momma called It to teach him lessons just like her folks did for her and so on and so forth going way back to I can't even count when. But the dust and salt keep It away. Well, keep It outside anyhow.
            On nights It can't get in the Xaphan scratches at the glass.
            When I'm bad Poppa sweeps up the lines. Like the other day Poppa said I's eating too loud. So he picked me up from the table, took me to my room, and swept up the lines round the windows. Then he locked me inside.
            I can't use my left hand so well since then.
            I'm always good afterward, though the lessons don't tend to stick. Somehow I keep making mistakes. Like I've been taught not to lie, only sometimes I still do it; I think I'm telling the truth, but Poppa says I'm being a liar, so I guess there's a right way and a wrong way to be honest. Or sometimes I don't learn enough and doing good makes me bad. Like I tried eating quieter only it made me eat so slow looked like I wasn't touching my food. Poppa says not eating someone's cooking is the same as saying it's shit. Not that I'm allowed to swear, but that's how Poppa said.
            Every time I'm bad means a visit from the Xaphan.
            It's like a cross between an alligator 'n' a bat. I hear Its wings before It gets to the window. The Xaphan pushes open a window -- I don't lock them anymore since It'll just smash through the glass which makes Poppa double mad -- best to just let It in. I don't even hide anymore. There's something worse about thinking, 'This time It won't find me,' and then It does. I'd rather just get things done.
            I suppose it's not so bad. I mean, people have to get punished for when they do wrong. Poppa said, "You weren't born right. You have to be made proper." It's for my own good. It's for my own good.
            The first time was the worst. Well, the first time I remember. See, I have this fuzzy notion even before I's five I'd seen the Xaphan, but it wasn't till after I's near six I really remember It. There used to be this cat I'd see chasing mice in the field behind our house. It took a couple of weeks, but I managed to use a saucer of milk to get the cat close enough where I could pet her. Eventually, that big old cat'd let me pick her up and carry her around, so I took her inside. When Poppa got home he saw the cat and says, "You trying to make me sick? I'm allergic to those goddamn things." He locked me and the kittie in my room that night. We curled up in my bed all peaceful. I don't know when exactly the Xaphan showed up. I remember waking up to a bumping sound. I've gotten to know that sound real well over the years. It's the sound of the Xaphan opening the window, using It's shoulder and snout to push up till It can crawl inside. I screamed for Poppa.
            Grandmama says, "Children have that instinct."
            Poppa didn't come running, but I suppose you can figure that part yourself.
            First, It ate the cat. I was going to call her Pickles. But I wasn't suppose to have one in the first place, so the Xaphan got rid of it. Then It pulled me out from under the bed. I hid under there according to more instinct I suppose. Didn't do any good. The Xaphan dragged me out with a wing -- long strong fingers grabbing my leg. It chewed up my arm some. I was balling, tears running like a flood, and screaming to wake the dead. I thought Poppa must be dead. Why else wouldn't he've come to help me? Xaphan licked up the puddle I bled out. Then It left. Just like that. That's all of what It does: chews me up a bit then laps whatever blood comes out. All things considered, the Xaphan doesn't kill me.
            Anyhow, I passed out.
            Next morning, Poppa woke me. He waited to hear all of what happened. Afterwards, he said, "Now you know not to bring a cat in my house." Seven years since, and I don't even look at felines.
            Sometimes It takes a little blood. Sometimes I have to go to the hospital. What's nice, in a way, is I've got a scar now so it looks like I'm always smiling. 'S good to smile, though getting that one made a serious mess. I don't really recall what I did to deserve it, but I'm sure I'll never do it again. And I cleaned up afterwards, as always, spick and span like Poppa insists.
            It's my responsibility to do what's right.
            What I'm getting at... Mrs. Fletcher who runs the grocery saw my leg last week. I didn't mean for her to notice, but I had to scratch around the teeth marks. They itch like crazy when they're healing. So she noticed and asked Poppa, "What happened to your boy's leg?"
            He told her a stray dog bit me. Now, that's a lie, flat out plain and simple. What's more he knows it's a lie. Xaphan gnarled my leg for not doing my chores right. And lying is wrong.
            If I've learned anything from my father it's that when people do wrong they have to be punished. Otherwise they might just keep on getting worse. I sometimes wonder how bad a person I might have become if not for my lessons, harsh as they are.
            Whenever Poppa sweeps up the lines he always leaves the one across my door. I think the Xaphan comes to my room because of a symbol I found painted on the floor under my bed. This used to be my Poppa's room when he was my age and Grandmama taught him proper. I figure the Xapahan goes to the symbol first, but once It's in the house It can go wherever It wants.
            So tonight I moved real careful, swept the line off a window ledge onto a sheet of paper. I kept the line whole then lay it in front of the closet door. After Poppa went to bed I got down on the floor. Blowing under my bedroom door, I cleared the line on the other side. Then I hid in the closet, safe behind the brick dust and salt. I even left the bedroom door ajar so the Xaphan could open it easily.
            ...I can hear them. Poppa is screaming. I don't think he's seen the Xaphan for a long time, isn't used to the lessons. And it sounds like the Xaphan is hungry, like water balloons are being thrown around the room. Pop splat. Pop, pop splat. Poppa will thank me. Like he's told me, "This is for your own good." That's why I did this. That's the only reason. I hope he learns his lesson.

II. Fatherly.
            I've got to raise this boy right. Out there is a world -- he doesn't even know how hard it gets. But he will. Too soon. I'm doing the right thing.
            I don't want to bring him up the way his Grandma done with me. My Mama taught me proper. That's how she puts it. I'd say she raised a Mack truck with all the tires flat. Sure, it can get around, but it isn't going far. She broke me then built me back up just enough to be useful. Sometimes I feel a chain I know isn't there. But she had her reasons, though knowing about them doesn't make me care for them. That is to say, I get why she did what she did, I just get the feeling things could've gone different.
            "It's our duty," she'd say, "We keep what's living in the deep dark from coming too close."
            I suspect she took no pleasure in the way I's brought up. Although, maybe that's just me hoping. She always says she's proud of how I turned out, prouder still how I'm raising my boy. If she knew...
            Ever since I's little my Mama taught me 'bout the things in the swamp. We'd hear 'em at night, creeping round and making all kindsa strange noises. Some sang real sweet like bird calls that stiffen a man, if you know what I'm saying. Others put ice chips in my blood. On occasion, my Mama and I'd sit on the porch to watch the shadows move through the trees. She knew 'em all by even dim shape. I suppose I've gotten to know 'em just as well.
            They're horrible things. Some are just slithering masses of teeth like a chainsaw made out of jelly. The rest are like the Xaphan. They seem familiar at a distance, but up close they're blends of different critters no one'd mistake for natural. Like there's these snakes with scaly chicken bodies. Those bastard always look you right in the eye as if they could kill you with a blink if they wanted to. I've seen 'em all. I've fed 'em all. And I don't want my son to have to.
            Mama said my responsibility is to go out, put blood on the totems all around the swamp. That's most important. Blood's the fuel for whatever magic keeps these nightmares where they are. Every few years though... I earn a living picking up dead animals around the city. Every day I drive around to scoop up road kill, cart off dead pets, and sometimes, if no one is looking, I use my rifle to pop off a few if needs be. Nothing serious, just nutria, big ol' rats -- I'd never pop someone's pet. After draining what blood I can, I take every last carcass into the swamps. Dinner time as it were. Those nightmares never leave anything behind. Sure, sometimes I find a little like doll made of bones and fur, but most every last bit gets ate. The thing is animal stuff only works for so long.
            See, magic isn't too far from mechanical things. The parts wear down, fuel runs out, and someone, preferably who knows what he's doing, has to replace the lot. So every few years I go into town, and I make people disappear. I only need four. That's usually enough to replace what's not working. Skulls are the most important. I do what I can to be kind. No sense making some all terrified. It's bad enough they're dying. Practice made perfect as it were, I know how to slip a knife right through the chest, cut the heart in two so a person goes real quick. Blink of an eye. Anyhow, then I put up a fresh totem. The trickiest part is removing the tendons to use them like string. I've gotten real good at it all which makes for a strange kind of pride: I'm good at what I do, though I don't like what I do.
            My Mama says this isn't wrong because it's what's gotta be done. That's why she'd sic the Xaphan on me. She told me it likes the taste of guilt. So all the times it's lapping up my blood Mama says the Xaphan is "licking at your guilty conscience. It loves the flavor, but you don't have to season a damn thing. No, no. If you don't feel guilty, you'll have no flavor."
            I think that's all bullshit. A person can tell a nine year old a lot of things that aren't true, and it should be no surprise the child buys every word. She was making me what she needed, and I did my best to be what she wanted. She said there were things I needed to get okay with doing, and how to practice so as I could be high quality when it came time. We used to get a lot of critters come through our backyard. I'd trap 'em, kill 'em, and show my Mama so she could be proud. And eventually it didn't bother me. Still doesn't. Except ya see, the funny thing is that's exactly what bothers me. I know I shouldn't be able to do what I do without feeling bad. That makes me worried what I've lost. Maybe in a way that's feeling bad, but it don't hurt the way I think it should; and I want to tell that to Mama only she's got so old now all she can do is lie in bed staring at the ceiling, all withered up she looks like that cling wrap stretched over a skeleton.
            It might kill her to hear me say, "I hate what you've made me. I hate you for making me this way."
            It'd kill her, I'm sure, and I don't want her to just snap out of life like that. Boom -- gone. No, sir. I want to watch her die bit by bit. Like watching a candle burn itself out. Although, hell, who am I kidding? Part of me is still afraid of her.
            I once heard that if an elephant gets staked to the ground when it's real little it gets so used to the chain and not being able to move alls a fella has to do is plant a stake in front of that elephant, even after it's gotten big enough to flip a car, and that big fucker won't be able to move like it's still chained.
            Anyhow, that's what I'm getting at: why I don't just pick up and leave. I mean, my wife wanted us to run.
            She used to say things like, "Let's take our son and go. We can go anywhere, be anybody. We don't have to stay here." Poor Alice. She really loved me.
            I met her one day when I's running errands. She was the new girl at the hardware store -- prettiest cashier the world's ever seen, far as I'm concerned. We got to chatting. I tended to come around once a week for stuff. Living out near a swamp folks need to be handy. Natural world is always trying to creep its way back in. I left a t-shirt outside once when I's thirteen, and the next morning moss'd eat the whole thing, left nothing but a big mossy t-shirt shape. And then we got the nightmares to worry about. They're always chewing something, breeding rot and what not. All the metal keeps rusting to useless -- it's like living to prove a point, though what point I'm sure is different person to person. But anyhow, I tended to have to hit up the hardware store regular. Then I found myself making up excuses to go just to see Alice.
            Alice used to say, "It wasn't love at first sight, but I knew I could love you given the chance."
            Well, she got the chance, and she fell in love.
            Mama didn't approve. She thought we should do like she done. Her Daddy snatched some fella off the road, and they kept him tied to a bed in the cellar till my Mama got full up with me. Then they fed that guy to the swamp. End of story. The family goes on.
            Mama said, "You can't have your cake and eat it too. That girl will not understand what we do, what we have to do."
            So I showed Alice what lived in the swamp behind my home. I thought she was gonna have a heart attack. She went whiter than milk, shaking all over, and she even pissed herself. It took about four hours to calm her down then I told her how I kept them back, that it was my family's responsibility. Of course, I only told her about using animals. I left off the stuff about having to use people from time to time.
            She looked me right in the eye when I finished, and I'll never forget this, she said, "You go out there every day so those things don't come to hunt in town, and nobody knows about this? That's... heroic."
            I never thought of myself as a hero, though I'm sure she wouldn't've either if I'd told her about hanging a person's lungs from their jaw bone. It felt nice to hear even though I don't suppose it was entirely true. Still, Alice understood.
            For three years we were married. I've never been happier. Alice didn't have much family. That is to say, she didn't have much family she cared to see. So it didn't bother her much disappearing to our backwoods.
            Mama acted polite the best she could, but I knew the two would never really get close. Alice tended to ask questions Mama hated. Like, "Why do you keep them penned in? If they're so dangerous why not kill the creatures?" Mama'd tell Alice, "Gators can be dangerous. Should we kill all of them just to be safe?" I always found that odd though. See, Mama once told me how her granddad used to let the nightmares out from time to time, and how that's why we get a check once a month from the city nearby, and if that check ever stops coming I'm supposed to take down a totem, maybe not feed the beasts for a night or two; but like I said there's some things Alice just didn't need to know.
            Anyhow, it got to be one of those unavoidable situations. Long story short, I went into town, wrangled four people, and one got loose. He ran from the shed out back to the house. I thought I got to him before he woke anyone, but fuck-all if I wasn't just in time to kill him in front of Alice. She watched me stab that boy. I remember her and me staring at each other, and me looking more upset than the boy I just killed. His blood ran right up to her feet. Alice left little red prints when she ran to our room. I spent all night trying to talk to her through the door. All night she never said one word back. I talked soft as I could, explaining why over and over, why I got to do what I did and saying sorry, sorry you had to see that, and never once really caring about any of the reasons I offered if it meant she wouldn't love me anymore. Then finally, in the morning she unlocked the door. She looked at me with these eyes I never seen her have -- empty, hollow.
            She said to me, "I'm pregnant."
            That's when we started whispering about leaving.
            No one, far as I know, can see the future. Still, there are certain times it gets real clear how things are probably going to turn out; and I knew any child of ours was going to be expected to turn out just like me. I don't even want to be me. So naturally, I didn't want my kid turning out the same.
            I was scared, but Alice made it all seem possible. Hell yeah! we could go anywhere, be anything else, leave the nightmares behind. More importantly, we were going to. We were set and ready. Then I came home one day to find Alice missing.
            I asked Mama, "Where's Alice?"
            Mama said, not once taking her eyes off her knitting, "You best put that girl out of your mind."
            "What? Why?"
            Mama said, "She's in the cellar, for the time being. You can see for yourself, though I don't know what good it'll do."
            I went down there... Mama told me later she drugged Alice then used her knitting needles to stab her brain, slipped them right in through the tear ducts. We just needed the baby, Mama said. She put Alice on a cot in the basement, tied her down with old belts, and told me, "Once the baby's born you can fed her to the swamp. No sense having so many mouths to feed."
            And I did what I was told.
            That's why I gotta raise this boy right. He needs to grow up hard. Maybe I should've left a long time ago, just taken the boy and run. But I'm scared. I keep having the fear if I even think about leaving, so much as reach for my keys, Mama is going to know. How she knew what Alice and I were planning -- we were so secret I didn't even know half of what we were doing. And when Mama knows she'll just sic that Xaphan on me or worse, and that'll leave her to raise my boy the ways she wants. The way she calls proper.
            I'm being hard on him. I know I am. That's the plan. See, I figure the way I'm raising him can only come out one of two ways. One way, he grows up to hate that Xaphan so much he'll want to kill it, and when he learns there's more like it, kill 'em all. With his Grandma stuck in bed, the simplest way is for him to just walk out past the totem line, leave 'em to starve. Hell, I won't stop him. Even if that means they come here looking for food. The other way, well, I figure he might just get so fed up with the way things are, he'll run away. He'll be gone from here and never want to come back and that's just as well. Fine with me. My Mama won't be able to twist him like she did me, make him too scared to do anything other than what he's told.
            But either way I got to play along, pretend like I'm raising him proper. Otherwise, she'll feed me to the swamp, and that'll just leave her alone with my boy.
            ...there's something at the door...

Fell on Black Days...

5/24/2017

When Chris Cornell died my social media feed flooded with posts about those lamenting the loss. It reminded me of previous occasions such as the death of David Bowie, Alan Rickman, and the plethora of celebrities who passed last year; online communities posting music, gifs, memes, and video clips as a way of eulogizing the departed. Then as now I scrolled through myriad such signs of mourning wondering why these deaths mean so much.

I usually feel detached from the demise of a celebrity. Even those I admire have never really affected me in any obvious fashion. It's hard for me to be overly distraught over the loss of a person with whom I had no interpersonal relationship. That isn't to say I don't have some type of personal connection, but such threads always struck me as more nebulous and abstract. For instance, throughout high school and college I listened to Pantera a great deal, however, when Dimebag Darrell was murdered I didn't experience any profound melancholy. And yet, I know for a fact that his death still affects the mood of many Pantera fans. Simply putting any of their music on a jukebox eventually elicits the attention of a CFH enthusiast, who invariably nods somberly -- funerary headbanging -- as they turn the conversation, almost immediately, to the death of Dimebag: “This is a kickass song. Sucks that he’s dead, man.” Joy of the song sharply gives way to a reminder of the dead.

Now, that may seem an extreme example, a murder is bound to hold root in anyone's mind, but the same is true for celebrities who have passed less horrifically. Dead musicians draw out the most common instance of this, really listen to the conversations people have about deceased celebrities. Talk starts out mentioning why so and so meant a great deal to an individual, but discussion soon moves towards two statements:

1. There will never be more (films, songs, paintings, etc.) from Blank.
2. What remains will often be less enjoyable; now tainted by death a song, a scene, or a photo becomes a reminder of loss.

What concerns us most is that we've lost those things which gave us happiness. The joy of hearing a song or seeing a film will never be quite as potent now that it serves as a reminder of loss. However, it's never about the person, it's about their product. To this day, people still remark on the suicide of Hunter S. Thompson in regards to wanting his writing, particularly the dagger prose with which he might stab whatever current political madness is rising. Yet, I'm willing to assume, with absolute certainty, Thompson's son, Juan, doesn't want his dad back so he could write another book. Fans can only want back that part of the celebrity they actually knew.

Our connection to famous people is often indirect. We assume a level of relationship potential based on how their works make us feel as opposed to any understanding of the actual individuals -- just because you love Kurt Cobain's music doesn't mean you’d be best friends. (In fact, the more one tends to learn about beloved celebrities the less appealing they actually become. Hunter Thompson could be a wild merry prankster, or a frighteningly explosive volcano. Just ask his ex-wife. Louis Reed may play the music you love, but he never met a woman he wouldn't brutalize. Roman Polanski: rapist. And let's not even start down the horrifying litany of offenses numerous sports icons commit from every conceivable type of cruelty to outright murder.) Because we don't actually know them celebrities can be the people we want most in life: someone who understands us; and a vicarious means to see our dreams come alive.

So it's no wonder those products become tainted. Hearing a beloved song by Bowie is a constant reminder that the man who wrote it, who seemed to speak to your very soul, is gone. Watching Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, depending on your inclination -- Jane Russell or Marilyn Monroe -- means that vicarious sex appeal really is just a dream because the actors are dead and gone. There’s no one living it for you, and though films are always fantasy, they seem less so knowing the performers are alive somewhere in the world. In essence, what’s lost isn't so much the celebrity, but a degree of connectivity to others as well as dreams.

Abstract though it may be art unites at a subconscious level, so do sports. At the minute details our preferences become subjective; however, broadly speaking they involve general themes. I may have turned on "Becoming" because of my own particular reasons, yet it speaks to any other Pantera fan who hears it, in essence giving us proof we aren't alone in life. There used to be someone who created something that connected strangers to one another. It's a profoundly unique accomplishment. So it's no wonder the loss of that focal point leaves us adrift for a while. Such communities orbit the celebrity, and without them a real threat seems to emerge: the lynchpin is gone, so the whole cosmos may fly apart. Yet, now is the beginning of true immortality. The memory sustained by devoted fans, the legends turn into mythical gods, holding the universe together.

#

I get how material is tainted by the loss of a celebrity, but I've always been comforted by the fact those same materials still persist. For instance, Chris Cornell is gone. I can still listen to his music, and though it may stir some darker sentiments than before, his absence doesn't change what it once meant to me, and will mean again. That thing which was significant to me still remains, so in a way is comforting. Still, I find it hard to cry over the loss of a man I didn't know. Loving his music doesn’t mean loving him, and I haven't lost his music. In fact, I haven't lost anymore of Chris Cornell than I ever had, while his friends and family have lost an entire human being from their lives.

Others aren't likely to be as dispassionate as I am. I'm well aware of this. As such I can't help wondering if I'm missing out on something. While no one ever wishes to grieve it seems like those who do, in these instances, who are not his immediate friends and family, have lost something profound. It’s entirely possible I’ve missed out on a depth of feeling of some significance, and I sometimes worry if that means I lack something human not having that. Still, it may simply be that I'm more connected to the moments of my own life: at this movie I got my first kiss; this album acted like the soundtrack to that horrible winter; her book inspired me to be a writer, and his showed me the way to my voice... it probably sounds incredibly narcissistic I'm sure. Unless one considers it like this: any kind of death is mostly a reminder of our own mortality, so although there'll be no more elegant plays, films, songs, or whatever, recognizing the loss should serve as inspiration to spend time with the real people in our lives.

Sure, let Bowie be the soundtrack to your adventure, but make sure to have one. He certainly did, and who's to say you might do any less? Missing the words of Hunter, what's wrong with yours? Alan Rickman can't share that sonorous voice, so I guess it's time you did. There's an absence in the universe that needs to be filled, not because of some selfish desire for fame, but because maybe you can make someone feel less alone carrying the torch a celebrity dropped when they died. It doesn’t even require being a superstar.

Going back to Cornell, there’s someone out there right now who feels a bit of worry. The creeping dread flickers at the edge of their mind-sight threatening the possibility there will never be another Soundgarden, or Audioslave to sing the songs which made their life shiny on dull days, brilliant in blackest night, and endurable when torturous… yet, perhaps, it takes a simple visit to kill such bleakness.

Put on an album. Pour some drinks. Share some memories, while making some more. Because it’s never really the musician, the actors, or the athletes we’re remembering. It’s seeing that film where a first kiss happened, hearing the music that made high school bearable, the bonding chats at the ballpark… escapism in real time, flavoring the days.

The seasoning tastes a bit different, but it’s still there. That’s life.

“Someone tried to tell me something
Don’t let the world bring you down
Nothing will do me in before I do myself
So save it for your own, and the ones you can help.”

Well said Mr. Cornell. Thanks for the tunes. They’re more precious now, though the cost is too high. Yet, unable to change reality, the only thing I can do is what I will do. Keep playing those songs so a rock legend becomes a rock god, and so, in a way, immortal.

Pleasant Dreams -- Proof

5/17/2017

"Pleasant Dreams"

A dream I had
Once drove me mad,
But I'm not starting to pray.
It made me glad --
The loss is aching bad --
I just wanted to stay.

Never sure of the start
Stekel's headline may say
Anchored by a full heart --
Trapped in an empty world
I arose (a rose) in the wasteland
Any tongue I could understand.
Molding molten glass by hand,
Shapes inspired by Chateaubriand:
Fractal forests and a Taurus
Playing djent metal jazz
To nymphs with eyes
Emerald, and topaz.
Plucking a gem
I cut myself, but never bled.
I ate poison, and felt well fed.
Then as my skin shed,
I awoke to the joke --
I was still in bed.
Vague pieces in my head
Told where the dream led
Breathing underwater
Shark born to slaughter
Tearing thru a parade
Of siren mermaids
I paved a highway
With blood and bone,
Never looked back,
Never once felt alone.
I worked a nightmare factory
For a blessed whole century
Pleased to build
The horrors who killed
Every child's evening.
Sure some monsters thrilled,
But that's just fear they gild
To enjoy how it chilled.
Then a satyr dancing in the abyssal womb
Of the queen of carnival creation
I evolved to a higher station
The night of her cremation
Composing threnodies
To pull rain from heavenly bodies;
I recited for gods
All the truths I shouldn't

Regina Saturnalia agunt de animabus pereunt...

...though what exactly is gone.
Forced to carry on
No clue how to return
The only way to earn
A hint if it's possible
Burn my soul like coal,
Exhale a brown cloud,
And howl thru a keyhole.
Hope to summon
Some numen
Who could take me back
To a world that doesn't exist,
A land of ghosts and mist.
I'd rather be the panegyrist
Eulogizing that purest
Impossibility
The glorious infinity
Of fantasy;
I visit nightly,
And lose daily.

Because I think it's the loss I love.

"Proof"

It would be judicial malfeasance
To ascribe importance
To these circumstantial offerings
Priceless as pencil shavings.
Objects little altering
Perception of the raving
Claiming these are paving
A collective abstract impression
A mosaic human conception
Fully fleshed and present.
While the court may assent
This apartment reliquary
With various types of library --
Musical, cinema, literary --
And collections of clothes,
Art, and furniture compose
A sense of someone
When all is said and done
Aren't these borrowed forms?
Piling up what conforms
To the desired expression of self,
Many set on a dusty shelf.
See what I've read, watched, heard;
This painting: Cubist Bird --
Fallen asleep admiring.
Always acquiring
Others' expressions
To inspire impressions
Of being this and that,
Aligned to a format.
Ready to flow
With the rebel psycho
Status quo,
Quote with Infinite Jest
Instead of daring to manifest
Fresh seeds to sow.
A turn of phrase like fingerprints
Offering some subtle hints
It isn't a tape recorder,
Or MP3 on repeat,
Thesaurus masked trending tweet,
IKEA floor show,
Cardboard Millennial
Joe Blow.
All the free trade coffee can't prove
There's a decent human being here,
Just a tasty cup of hot Columbian tears.
And that grass clipping beer
Settles no existential fears,
Though it keeps the fridge full
Of the right wool
To pull over eyes
About to glance in a mirror
Because you can't risk seeing clear:
The cracking veneer...

Except as sarcastic hashtag
Then able to brag
What lies beneath is hideous,
But fashionably monstrous,
On march spectral wisps of humanity
Cloaked in thrift store finery
And artisanal
Chipped porcelain masks
Under which they bask,
In communal seclusion
Instagram cracker occlusion
Keeping out any semblance of hostility
Cattle prodding towards
More fulfilling possibility.

Mother's Day 2017 -- Bring the Wandering Words Home

5/12/2017

We sit together correcting books. It's her favorite pass time. I remember her sitting for hours snipping the "wandering text" from one book, and pasting it back where it belonged in another. Passages blending together, sometimes seamlessly, other times, well, as Mom used to say, "It's the writer's fault for stumbly words."

Yet, always the wonder of seemingly familiar lines transmuted into something all together different -- The Great Gatsby's Naked Lunch:

"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Shooting PG is a terrible hassle,' he told me, 'You have to burn out the alcohol first, then freeze out the camphor and draw this brown liquid off with a dropper -- have to shoot it in the vein or you get an abscess, and usually end up with an abscess no matter where you shoot it. Best deal is to drink it with goof balls.'"

Growing up, it was years before I realized Dr. Seuss never wrote:

"I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees.
I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues.
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
I know the voices dying with a dying fall.
Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy."

Only she could weave T.S. Eliot with Silverstein, and Seuss, somehow having it all make sense -- The Love Song of the Lorax Giving Tree. Our home library, vast though arguably inaccurate, amounted more to a décollage than a collection of literature. Yet, I can't help feeling it offered more than the simple originals. Books usually leave an impression on a person, changing them. It isn't often for a reader to change a book.

Watching her now it might as well be decades back.

She sits in a small chair humming softly. A pair of scissors in her lap, Mom scans through a book. Every so often she smiles, and delicately extracts the wandering text. Why it's left home is anyone's guess. She's surmised any number of reasons, though is always cautious not to say anything with certainty. After all, every passage has its own reasons. Feeling bored some go off in search of new frontiers -- "Oh, no, my dear, I'm really a very good man, but I'm a very bad Wizard, I must admit. People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them up was a bite from a sheep." Joyce apparently having seduced bits from Baum, not to mention several others with his brothel of belleteristic phrases, aesthetically pleasing yet, Mom snip, snip, snipped away, hours upon hours clipping the strays and pasting them back where they belonged.

Sometimes I helped her, and as such, perhaps merely for a bit of nostalgia, I sat helping her again. Whenever she found an out of place passage, her surgery complete, she passed the text-graft to me, and I dutifully pasted it where she instructed. I think, also, I missed these hybridized books. That's why for Mother's Day I brought over a few used editions, handed them to her, and asked, "Would you care to correct them?"

"Only if you'll help," she smiled. Dad grunted his approval then waved us out of the room. Another soccer game about to start, he wanted to be left alone, his glares focused on the game. So Mom and I went to our familiar nook.

I sat on the floor, nine years old again. I didn't always treasure these moments. Not in the way children are predisposed to such failings, having no idea just how precious certain instances are, rare and unrepeatable; I didn't treasure them because for a long time I resented them.

Not knowing the alterations were, to put it kindly, unnecessary, I used to use Mom's books for school. My reports invariably got bad grades, and no teacher could be convinced I'd actually read the books. That is until around the seventh grade I finally encountered an educator with an actual education. I'd gotten into the habit of quoting in an attempt to prove a book report's authenticity. My teacher discerned the blend -- "Maybe the two different worlds we lived in weren't so different. We saw the same sunset. The reality is in this head. Mine. I'm the projector at the planetarium, all the closed little universe visible in the circle of that stage is coming out of my mouth, eyes, and sometimes other orifices also." Seeing through The Crying of the Outsiders, my teacher gave me a copy of S. E. Hinton's book from the school library.

Reading the unadulterated text... I felt betrayed. At first by my teacher for shattering the illusion that my Mom fixed books, then by my Mom. What she did no longer seemed sensible, her fairytale notion of wandering texts turned into something toxic, a corruption of the original narrative; and years of bad grades, alongside the often unsubtle contempt teachers express towards such students -- not paid enough to worry about a born loser -- suggested I'd spent years being punished for her failing. I began a secret library, gathering the pure version of stories I thought I knew. And whenever Mom asked me to help her fix books, I refused, sometimes rudely just to jab at her. She chalked it up to normal adolescence, though I remember a few times tears fell while she tried smiling off my barbed words.

Years went by. I moved out. Then one day, a girlfriend plucked a volume off a shelf. She flipped through it.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Oh, my Mom gave me that as like a house warming gift."

"This is Catcher in the Rye?"

I glanced at the cover, "'Catcher in the Rye Conquest of Happiness.' I think it's supposed to be a play on words. Rye for wry."

"I get it. I'm just saying, well here." She read a revised selection, "'There are two motives for reading a book: one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it. If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is in adolescence, I hated life and was continually on the verge of suicide. Now, on the contrary, I enjoy life; I might almost say that with every year that passes I enjoy it more, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.'"

"Yeah so?" I grumbled, already embarrassed by the prospect of explaining the book's origins.

"It's feels a little like a different story. A different voice."

"It's not the right story."

"No, it seems more interesting." She turned pages, "To me anyway. It's like an alternative angle to something familiar. There's something about being able to see something two ways at once -- I dunno. Did you make this?"

Shaking my head, "It's something my Mom does."

And we sat there flipping through the book, rediscovering it in a way. Not just Salinger's work, but my Mom's. In many ways, she wasn't polluting plots, she was connecting themes, the elements different books shared. In essence, she made their connective tissue more plain, less abstract analysis. Afterwards, I appreciated what she did. A different perspective will often inspire new feelings, or at least rekindle old ones. More importantly, I recalled how happy this work made her, and I started to wonder whom she hurt, if anyone at all.

Since then I've made it a point to buy Mom fresh books whenever she runs out of pages. So this Mother's Day, we sat together returning the wandering text. We barely spoke, but we didn't need to say anything. I kept thinking of line by Steinbeck:

"'And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.'"

It says enough I suppose. However, I think Mom can improve it. That's what she does.

Fading Friendships -- Brawling -- Arrested on Sight -- Reconnection

5/3/2017

{Author's note: I'm still hitting up storytelling events around Chicago, but will be getting back to fiction shortly. Meanwhile, enjoy another transcript of the nonfiction story I told the other day. I do have plans to records these... soon.}

Despite growing up in the Chicago suburbs, I spent most of my teens hanging out in Mundelein, a town more rural Illinois than urban. A close friend in high school moved there when his parents divorced, and I ventured there almost every weekend. The subdivision he lived in featured an assortment of folks from several walks of life, and this hodgepodge of humanity extended into the surrounding town. In one driveway find a rusty pickup truck with a Confederate flag bumper sticker, and across the street a lawyer is pulling away in a luxury sedan. It was a pleasantly unpleasant place to be.

Although we came from various backgrounds, my friends and I primarily shared a point of view molded by our attraction to heavy metal, and a burgeoning alcoholic nihilism. We were too young to realize having something in common didn’t necessarily mean we had to be friends. We seemed alike because we needed to be alike, since apart from one another we related to no one else. So we made our friendship more than it really was.

Our paths diverged when I went to college, and it was a year before I got a chance to visit my old comrades again. It felt good to be back among them, but I also couldn’t shake the feeling these friendships were fading. We’d always have pleasant memories of the past, but whatever connected us felt less tenable. Me complaining about the stress of finals didn’t matter to a buddy who recently found out he couldn’t get an MRI for his knee because working as a machinist left metal particulates in him. But safe in reminiscences, we obscured the obvious fact of our increasing disconnect. It felt like old times because that’s all we tried to talk about.

Then R---’s phone rang.

R--- recently started seeing a woman in Round Lake. Her previous relationship didn’t end well, and her ex-boyfriend didn't like “his woman” dating a Puerto Rican. Mainly because, according to him, a brown man fucking a white woman turns her vagina into a toxic wasteland – the Love Canal of vaginas. On this particular evening he stopped by her house to shout at her front door how she couldn’t leave him unless he said she could. Why she broke up with this blossoming asshole, one can only speculate. In any event, his visit inspired her to chug booze until her tears reeked of tequila. It was in this drunken, sobbing state she phoned R---. And so we immediately piled into my car to go spend some time with her in hopes of cheering her up.

We got to her place, and the minute we rang the bell, a pickup truck pulled into the driveway. The ex-boyfriend had returned. He saw the seven of us, and promptly drove away.

Crisis seemingly averted, we set about comforting the young lady with a certain degree of success. However, twice I went outside for a cigarette. Both times I saw the Ex’s truck cruise by the house. I asked the others if they noticed him too. It seemed the last half hour he’d been circling the block. We decided to keep an eye out, but tried to remain optimistic, especially when some of the young lady’s girl friends arrived. We appeared to be on the verge of an impromptu party when once again the pickup pulled into the driveway, followed by a station wagon full of guys, and a sedan loaded with more white trash all of whom proceeded to pour out onto the front lawn.

A guy once tried to stab me, and I was less certain of his violent intentions than the impending assault. We met them on the lawn. Obviously outnumbered, my buddy Zeke pulled out a church key (bottle opener), and in what I can only assume was an intimidation tactic, stabbed himself in the shoulder. Him standing there bleeding actually made me feel better about our odds. There’s an old adage I’ve come to find is very true: “you may know karate, but I know ka-razy.”

Then the cops arrived – four squad cars and a K-9 unit.

Anticipating the bloody brawl about to ensue, a sensible lady inside called the police. It was the right thing to do, and we never forgave her for it because when the cops showed up, they immediately started cuffing me and my friends. They saw two factions about to rumble, a row of heavy metal kids facing off with a group of rednecks, and they knew what needed to be done: cuff those metal freaks, let the good old boys go.

Sitting on the curb while the police ran our IDs, a recent addition to the group, a guy named K----, said to me, “Dude, I’m on fucking parole. I wasn’t supposed to leave Ohio. I cannot get arrested.”

It then occurred to me our group wasn’t exactly a collective of innocents. One was on probation for taking part in a burglary that turned into a kidnapping; another was technically on house arrest for assaulting a security guard while shoplifting; and one night I had been arrested for drinking as a minor, drunk and disorderly, drug possession, and carrying a concealed weapon. The chance of us explaining the situation, in a way favorable to us, was evaporating very quickly.

Yet, by some stroke of luck, instead of taking a deep journey into our various nefarious backgrounds, the cops simply investigated the validity of our IDs, apparently trusting the system to tell them about any red flags rather than outright searching for them. Realizing this, when a cop radioed in my info I sat smugly waiting for nothing to come back. The radio replied hissing out a string of police code.

The cop walked away, and started what became a ten minute conversation with dispatch. I couldn't hear it, but the look on his face didn't bode well. He then came over to ask questions like: What are you doing here? If I open up that trunk, what am I going to find?

I answered honestly, which is the most infuriating thing you can do to a cop because it doesn’t confirm his suspicions about you. However, he eventually let us leave, though not without saying to me, “I don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

It turned into a minor mystery we would speculate about on drunken evenings – “he’s a serial killer!” We would never know the answer, but the whole experience refreshed our bond. It reminded us that rebels without a cause are still in it together. Whatever the hell It is.

Heroics: The Stabbin' Factory

4/27/2017

(Author's note: I recently read this story at an open mic hosted by Do Not Submit. It's an interesting experience, and I highly encourage anyone to not only participate in one of their many open mics, but to also simply attend. You'll get the singular opportunity of hearing variety of tales. That said, though I often dip into surrealism in my fiction, this story benefits from being simply the facts.)

We all know what we think we'll do until we actually have to do it.

Back in the day when winter still meant snow, the white rain fell for hours, and inside my local dive patrons secretly prayed to get snowed in. Then there’d be no last call because, well, Mr. Bartender, sir, we’d love to go elsewhere, but seven feet of snow is blocking the door. Guess the only option is another round? After all, it’s been the kind of evening one doesn’t want to end.

Granted, it isn’t the perfect night. That would mean a traveling burlesque freak show wandered in, and started performing. Tattooed ecdysiasts and chainsaw jugglers -- you get the picture. The point being, some places just can’t have perfect evenings. See, this is the kind of dive where lunatics self medicate, whiskey rather than lithium; school teachers follow their noses to cocaine overdoses; and white trash royalty drink twelve hours a day, nodding their heads in bemused approval of the antics of a drunk pregnant woman -- queen of the fools. Mainly, though, enough people have been stabbed at this location it's known among my friends as The Stabbin’ Factory.

But on this particular evening, smiles are spread wide and unguarded, some with teeth, many without. Every jukebox pick is a crowd pleaser. The toothless hillbillys aren’t in screaming blackouts, twisted on a mix of pills and tequila. The regular choir singing with the jukebox is magically on key for once. There’s cheeriness to the room, the warm inviting sense one sees in silver screen happy family Christmas parties.

Then a curvy Hispanic woman in purple pajamas burst through the front door. Running at top speed, she trips over her own feet, and falls flat on her face. The dozen or so patrons erupt into a frenzy of hyena laughter. A few slow claps start up.

“Nice one honey!”

My buddy says to me, “She on drugs?”

It almost seems like a rhetorical question. Outside the temperature is probably ten degrees, the snow is ankle deep. Someone’d have to be on something to be running around in just P.J.s. But then, almost as if to answer the question, into the bar walks a stick figure in khakis and a white t-shirt. He storms over to the prone woman, gets down, and starts beating her. Hammer slaps coming down like a drum player. The laughter dies down, though some are still giggling -- the reality hasn’t sunk in yet. The Skinny Man grabs her by the hair, slams her head into the floor. The laughter stops entirely.

Eyes of the patrons drift around looking to see who will do something. For some reason, although everyone is against what’s going on, no one wants to be the first to act.

The bartender shouts, “Hey! Don’t do that,” and finally the room springs into action by echoing the sentiment.

Immediately Skinny Man jumps up, “Fuck you. This is none of your business. You don’t know what’s going on. Fuck all y’all.”

No one is laughing at this point. That needs to be made clear because he then said, “Especially that motherfucker in the hat. Don’t laugh at me. This ain’t funny.”

Now, there were only two people in the room that night wearing hats, and since neither of them were laughing I felt it necessary to ask, “Which motherfucker in the hat?”

Perhaps due to the tension in the room, folks took it as a joke, and some started chuckling. Obviously they didn’t realize, Skinny Man did not like to be laughed at. So he ran over to me, pulled out a knife, and it seemed my time to be stabbed had arrived.

He slashed at me a few times – I can't say for certain how close he got, but when you can feel the air move because of the swipe, the blade is too close – but mostly he stood in place making these hesitant jerking jabs. He kept saying, “Come on, I’ll stab you. Come on.” As if it were somehow my responsibility to move closer to him. Perhaps that’s the way things work, I don’t know, this was my first knife fight, and frankly it was a bit unfair, I didn't have a knife. That said, I think maybe it started dawning on him how deep a hole he was digging. Because an expression flashed across his face, and slowly, he started backing out of the bar. Once outside he took off running, disappearing into the dark.

We locked all the doors, called the police. The cops did nothing, but that's a whole other story. As for the young lady, she was understandably shaken, but insisted on going home. I asked where she lived, she said Roger’s Park. She’d been picking her boyfriend up from work when they got into a fight in the car. He started beating on her while they were driving, she jumped out and ran.

As such, it was necessary to walk back to her vehicle several blocks away. I suggested this might not be a good idea, given that her armed and dangerous, asshole of a boyfriend was lurking somewhere in the neighborhood like a khaki clad Wendigo. But she remained adamant about leaving. So I volunteered to walk her to her car.

One of the regulars offered to join us. I figured why not? If shit goes down I can use him as a human shield. Oddly enough, en route to the car he said, “If shit goes down, use me as a human shield. I don’t care if I live anymore.” But we got to her car without incident, and she drove off.

Back at The Stabbin’ Factory, patrons were already revising events to make themselves sound more heroic:

“I was just about to knock that fucker out when he run outta here like a bitch.”

It’s the revisions that bother me the most. Even I’m guilty of it sometimes, not implying I was about to perform some action movie martial arts takedown, rather, telling the story fondly. But I suppose the bright side is preferable. I'd rather tell the tale with a smile instead of a tear, “Hey man, remember that time I almost got murdered?”

Get the Juices

4/20/2017

Born in the doubt
Of wild youth
Biting hard
With a rotted tooth.
When the fang stings
Instead of brings
The blood flood
Dud thud
Drought is assured,
And the only way cured
No choice but to voice
Pleas to the sky
Beg it to cry
Cuz the heart can't pump
From the river run dry.

What's empty is always
Willing to hide,
But may very well
Rise with the tide.
Out thru the inside,
Leave bones underground.
The message in the bottle
Floats till it's found.

Chthonic
Euphonic
Catatonic inducer
Laconic
Hedonic
Aphonic producer
Whispers on paper
Solid as vapor
Wake the vacant gaper
For another reckless caper
Steal a chance
To be a world shaper.

Toothless
Hardly useless
Turn those hands into knives
Ruthless
Get the juices,
So tomorrow thrives.