We like to sit for hours bragging
Razor blade tongues wagging
Slashing balloon animals,
Chopping snacks for cannibals,
And sloppily tailoring
The latest fashions' failing
Into tattered rags
Worthily shunned by mags,
But never gutter punks,
Hobo monks
Riding cocaine rails
Right on Liberty's tails --
So wasted they see two of her,
Never still, in a motion blur,
Headed in opposite directions
Yet always with some connections
Keeping her from getting too far
From herself -- we're in a bar
Talking about our appetites and genius,
How we've touched forms of Venus;
Anecdotes about Satanic goats;
Renegade robots ignoring remotes
Commanding stop,
And when we made the beat drop.
The beauty of scars comes off tongues
Powered by smoke filled lungs
Shifting the air
With mercurial flare
Reciting every recollection
Who's truth defies detection
Because no one can see
What isn't there, though how readily
Minds repaint the past
With a CGI cast
Taking the stage we set,
Never worrying who may vet
The details -- We're kings,
Queens, and Emperors of all things --
The show goes on as if this fiction
Has St. Aelred's benediction
Ensuring the integrity
Of the dramaturgy
Informing the actors how to present
The intended perception sent.
Last night may have merely been
Hours wasted draining poteen,
Staring at the same chipped wall
Until falling in a drunken sprawl
On a neighbor's lawn
Until dawn
When the sprinklers come on.
Instead claim to have met Khan,
Kubla, Genghis, Noonien Singh,
Or any famous king
It doesn't matter which
Because the real pitch
Centers on a quest --
We were sent as the very best.

Crossing French prairies peopled by tribes fueled by blood orange wit, we ventured to star-cut immortal jelly with a cookie cutter.  Prize in hand, we decided to bring it to Goose Island for everyone to enjoy not just the arrogant bastards keeping the joys of delirium to themselves.  We traveled a half acre a second it seemed, and soon hit evening when we paused to dine on dogfish with the three Floyds sent by the alpha King to guide us from the evil twin imperial city, New York reborn by The Sour Left Hand.  Not sure we're getting where we're going, but out of Anderson Valley take comfort in the perennials, the like minds, the sunspot feeding the green bush.  Later we'll be aquanauts braving the oceans.  But for now...

For now, we're just bullshit artists
Doing our damnedest
Reading taps, labels, and prosing
Whatever drunk conscious is composing.
As the stream flows
The story grows
With no honesty to fetter
From the better
Until it eclipses the truth
Sinks a saber-tooth
Leaving a mess of gore
The lie lives to legend forever more.

In the morning, most likely,
Before I wake up entirely,
Go zombie chef in the kitchen --
With your permission
Of course.
After intercourse
I like to show appreciate
With a culinary creation,
Though I must forewarn
After making private porn
I will rate
With what I create;
Cinnamon buns burnt
To hockey pucks weren't
The most subtle sign,
But the grapevine
Tends to twist
Ruining the gist
Of anything less than obvious,
And I prefer things propitious,
So some subtlety is lost,
But of those buns the frost
Was exquisite.
See there's a poset
I won't get into,
The comparable
And incomparable
Leading to one another
And all other
Dimensions of meaning
Whereby even the demeaning
Isn't the sole perspective,
Raw bacon as invective;
And contriwise
Fruit salad may harbor
Hidden whole cloves to mark her
Sweet exterior, but inner
Bitter.
I've fashioned:  chocolate chip pancakes,
Vanilla olive milkshakes,
Greasy English breakfast,
French toast the size  of Texas,
Salty roasted crickets,
Dry mealy biscuits,
Soul food fossils,
And sweet, crispy chicken and waffles.
As such at your say
I'll be on my way
To cook without cogitating
Subconsciously rating
The sex we had;
However, if that'll make you mad,
I could just leave.
Yet, as I've come to apperceive
The reward is worth the risk.
Do you like bisque? 

"Is this a joke?"  Ray found himself wondering more than once.  Lidia, the camera operator, signaled the start of the livefeed.  Ray put on a plastic practiced-smile as he addressed the tv nation, "Hello, and thank you for joining us.  Tonight we have an exclusive, one of a kind opportunity.  We're speaking with celebrated children's author Anthony Rockwell," restraining a grimace Ray turned to his interviewee, a grim looking fellow one would assume more likely a biker than writer of beloved children's fiction.  Ray said, "Thank you for speaking with us."

​Rockwell shrugged.  He shifted, and Ray couldn't be certain if the leather recliner made the sound, or Rockwell farted.

Ray said, "For years, you've been notoriously private.  Refusing interviews with noted journalists, and taking any and all legal means to prevent anyone from tracking you down."

"A few illegal too," Rockwell chuckled.

Ray blinked, "Excuse me."

"This one asshole come to my door asking if I'm me.  I beat his ass up and down the street.  Had to fucking move after that -- pain in my ass lemme tell ya."

Ray cleared his throat, "I'd like to remind you we are on live television."

"I know.'  Rockwell pulled out a pack of cigarettes and started smoking, "You gonna bitch about this too?"

Ray shook his head, "You're not, if you'll excuse me, what people expect."

"Yeah.  Seems that's more people's fault than mine.  Like I'm not responsible for what people think I should be."  Reaching down beside him Rockwell pulled out a plastic milk jug full of clear liquid.  He poured some in a nearby coffee mug, sipped it, and winced, "Oowhee, white lightnin'!"

Lidia did her best to stifle a laugh.  Ray held a look of neutrality the way drowning victims cling to rope pulling them up.  He shuffled his notes to give his brain a moment to compose thoughts.

Rockwell said, "I got to thinking lately about retiring, see how long that lasts.  However, I wondered if answering a few questions might stop the goddamn letters I keep getting.  How the fuck everybody thinks they're the first one to ask the same old shit is just beyond me."

Ray ignored the producer screaming in his earpiece, "Stop him from swearing so much."

Instead he kept the interview moving, "What are some of those questions?"

"Where the stories come from, that's a pretty routine one."

"So where do they come from?"

Rockwell growled, "I dunno.  First one just kind of happened by accident."

Ray didn't have to consult his notes, "You're referring to 'The Wildly Witless Wallaby.'"

Nodding, the author said, "That's the one.  Man, that fucker changed my whole life."

Ray probed, "You said it 'happened by accident.'"

Rockwell took a sip, "Yep.  See I's in this bar up in Oregon.  And this guy, dumb pigfucker that he was, started a fight with a buddy of mine.  Anyhow, we took him out back the alley, and just smashed him to pieces.  Then later that day we're laughing about it over mezcal and acid."

"A-a-acid?  As in LSD?"

"No that kind what burns shit.  Of course, LSD.  Can I finish my story?"

"Please."

"Yeah, well, we're laughing, and I just sorta started telling it like the way you'd go about telling a bedtime story.  I dunno.  Chick I'm bangin' at the time her kid thought it was funny as hell; next thing I know it's a best seller.  What can I say?"

Ray glanced over Rockwell's bibliography, "Are you saying there's a dark origin to all your stories?"

"Oh hell yeah."  Rockwell stroked a foot long beard, "Like 'Mrs. Muggin's Muffins.'"

"I love that story," Ray's neutral expression cracked a tick, "I read it to my kids."

"Awesome.  Thanks for the money.  I wrote that about my first wife.  She got into cooking up drugs.  That's how we met.  Anyway, Mrs. Muggin having to go to the wise owl and learn how to make muffins as good as Dr. Badger is basically my first wife learning from this guy called Coyote how to make, well, all kinds of shit.  I mean mind bending stuff.  If hallucinatin' counts I have been to Saturn.  It's beautiful." 

Rockwell pulled a switchblade out, and cut open a gas station cigarillo.  He then proceeded to scrape out the tobacco, fill the empty paper with weed, and rolled a joint.  Lighting it he murmured, "You ever read 'The Man with the Clockwork Hands'?"

Hesitantly Ray said, "Yes.  It's my favorite."

"So one time I cut this guy's arm off with a machete..."

Ray cut in, "We'll be back after this commercial break."

The camera operator said, "And we're out."

The producer shouted thru the earpiece, "Stop him from swearing."

Ray said, "So it's going good so far."

"I think so," Rockwell sucked in a dense cloud.  He offered Ray the joint, but the journalist declined.

"My producer needs you to swear less."

Rockwell chuckled, "Good luck with that."

The operator snickered.  Ray shot her a look.  She gave him the finger. 

Rockwell smiled at her, "What are you doing later?"

"We're coming back," she said.  Silently, she gestured for Ray to resume the interview.

Swallowing hard, "Welcome back.  If you're just joining us we're interviewing famous children's author Anthony Rockwell.  Since this is the first time in your decadal career you've consented to an interview I was wondering do you enjoy what you do?"

Rockwell seemed to consider the question deeply for a moment.  He furrowed his brow then said, "They told me not to swear so much, so I'm choosing my words carefully."

"We appreciate it," Ray said.

"Yeah."  Rockwell licked his lips, "'Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.'"

Ray pulled the earpiece out as his producer's shriek stabbed a sonic needle into the eardrum.  The camera operator started laughing loud enough to be heard across the country.  Rockwell looked straight in the camera, and winked at America. 

Ray said, "Sir, there may be children watching."

"I'm sure there are.  Kids, George Carlin can teach you a lot of great things."

"Do you like children?"  The question popped out his mouth as soon as Ray thought it.

Rockwell made a so-so gesture, "Kind of.  I mean I got two or three.  I think the trick to parenting is getting to the point you can't imagine your life without them.  I never got to that point."

Ray paged through his notes.  He needed a topic, anything to put him on track to a silver lining, "You've famously worked with one artist to illustrate your work."

"Yep, Sam Banneker.  Met him in a brothel down in NOLA.  He used to hire hookers to pose for him.  He drew all kinds of furry porn -- still does.  It pays the bills, so who's to judge?  Anyway, talent is talent, don't matter if it's drawing generous trees, or fox cocks.  We kept in touch, and when I got my shot I reached out."

"Do you think your fans are better off knowing you're like this?"

Rockwell scowled, "This is who I am.  Got a problem with that kiss my ass.  What they should be thinking is, 'If he wasn't the way he is would I have those books I love?'"

"Accarezzevole"

Clothed by an aria delicate as lingerie
Hear her voice sashay
Like a lithe ballerina
Twirling in a cantina
Dancing with smoke
Every lusting ear she’ll soak,
Cause to anthropomorphize
Till we see the nymph’s eyes
Nach und nach belebter
Und leidenschaftlicher.
Her cabaletta
Like a cheetah
Seductively dangerous.
Devotees die to service
Provide a red carpet
Target for a sharp hit
So a foot immaterial
Can stroll on imperial
Never touching the ground.
Fawning over the sound
Of a vocal sketch
She can casually etch
Teardrop breasts
Leaving lovers praying
“God free me from abstaining
I don’t care who detests.
Hearing her sing
Got me turgid wondering
Could I fuck a voice?
It left me so moist.
Lord follow and figure
No vulgar trigger
Aiming a pole
Down a throat hole.
Jesus have a little class,
Angelic choirs en masse
Silence for her solo
A soaring legato
Melting body and soul --
Christ, I’m losing control.”
Lovingly insane
Turn to the arcane
Chasing the ethereal
In hope it can be real.
Penning in blood
Notes and lyrics flood.
Accarezzevole like Scriabin,
Mystic chords for the win.
Akkord pleromy
Providing more than imagery.
Still can’t grip the
Musical vista,
But this Prometheus chord
May well afford
A chance to hold her
More than aurally
I’d so prefer
Something physically
Hand in hand…
Is that so hard to understand?

"Pub Crawl"

I.
Try not to leer
At the chandelier
Covered in lingerie.
Admiring the array
Recognize that bra?
Pick up your jaw.
Then if you think they’ll hear
Call a bartender near.
The bi queen of Tom Boys
Making men her toys,
Or wave to African Moses
Working beer hoses.
He’s kind as a panda,
And friends with Amanda
Who’s been known to go
Down for a shot so –
Just make it tequila,
And take it like a fire dealer
Living for the burn.
(Some never learn
As if 42 bucks an ask
Might ensure the task.)
Blink.  She drank three.
Don’t look at me.
I’m just happy to see
The joke’s on you.
What’d you think you were due?
It’s that kind of think
Got you teetering on the brink
Of blue ball delirium,
But don’t be glum
We’ll get black lipstick
All over ya dick
Before the night is done.
It only takes one.

​II.
Try not to sneer.
Isn’t it dear?
Are they asleep, or are they dead?
Where they lay better than any bed
The regulars, Kings of the bottle
Noses rouged a rosy mottle
Swill swoll livers birthing bellies
Eyes glazed gazing at tellies
Absorbing baseball scores
Vacantly until the stores
Of beer in their bones
Demand repayment of loans.
Time paid in advance
With a promise one day to chance
The risks youth said would always be there
Just in reach if a hand was willing to dare.
Decades gone hands arthritic
Hardly grasp a glass.  Comically tragic,
Perhaps, but don’t laugh at the tears
Salting their beers
Because the loan sharks
Won’t miss their marks
Inflicting grievous harm,
And no kind of charm
Lucky or otherwise
Can resist the surprise
That shouldn’t be surprising
The guillotine rising.
Pay respect a shot at a time
The crime
Won’t be regicide
It’ll be suicide.
We owe them for not being us.
Then get on the bus
Headed west
Doing our best
To stay with sunset.
This crawl isn’t done yet.

III.
Trip over a crack inches long canyon deep
Laughing on the plunge fall asleep
Before hitting bottom.  The rocks won’t break
Though the skull may feel a need to make
A grab for the glue.
Liquid stitches sew it good as new.
Orange juice,
And a sworn truce
Pledging if the stomach doesn’t spew
Won’t fashion a brew
So same can cure same,
Hair of the dog, a more common name.
The treaty breached,
Sink barely reached,
Slug a beer to prove
There’s always a countermove.
Jagged jigsaw pieces stick together
An abstract foggy view with no tether,
Bits lost like a dream,
But it would seem
Devils got angels to slip them
In heaven for some mayhem.

One night my neighbors asked me to babysit their kid. 

“Normally, you’re the last person we’d ask,” Tony is honest to a fault.

I could only reply, “I did try to burn your house down.”

Melissa said, “But we believe you when you say it was an accident.”

“I had the wrong house.”

Tony waved it off, “It was dark.”

“I was drunk.”

Melissa forced a smile, “These things happen.”

Parenting is like deep sea diving, an exhilarating treacherous ordeal only a few people can really do well; a constant strain requiring occasional, however temporary, relief.  After a long spell in the deep, sensing a chance to surface, their bodies go into a kind of quivering rigor mortis like a champagne cork anxious to explode.  Tony and Melissa stood in just such a state of twitching desperation, desirous of any chance to talk about something other than the latest exploits of carton ponies, or the creepy behavior of imaginary friends – “Ginger doesn’t need eyes.  So she pulled them out, and threw them away.” 

Fate, it seemed, had conspired against them leaving these two suburbanites without anyone to watch over their precious child.  Being their last chance to temporarily abandon parental responsibility, I sensed an opportunity, “Twenty bucks an hour, and I can go nuts on your liquor cabinet when you get back.”

“Deal,” Melissa said before Tony could haggle.  She tossed me their house keys, grabbed Tony by the wrist, and tossed him in the passenger seat.  The two then burned rubber out of the cul-de-sac.  I calmly finished my beer then headed over. 

I found their spawn – Jaimie?  Amy?  Circe? – much as I expected:  zombie eyed in front of the TV.

“Hey,” I said.

The kid glanced at me.  She waved.  Eyes went back to the screen, and I figured this should be easy enough. 

Plopping on the couch I said, “I’m the sitter by the way.  I don’t have a badge or anything, but you should get in the habit of asking folks why they’re in your house.”

“Ok,” the kid said, and I felt like I’d done my part to make her a better person.  It seemed like a lesson her parents should’ve already taught her, but I digress.  After about three hours I decided eleven o’clock is late enough for a six year old, so I informed the kid it was time for bed. 

She yawned as she protested, “But I don’t wanna.”

I said, “Aw, how cute.  You think that matters.”

“Will you play me a story?” she asked.

“You mean read.”

“No, play.  Mommy and Daddy play me a story every night.”

Intrigued I inquired, “What do you mean?”

She led me upstairs.  I helped her into an adorable set of tiger themed pajamas then she got a tablet off an empty bookshelf.  She held it up to me.  Turning it on revealed a folder on the main screen inside of which a set of audio files waited to play.  These included all the children’s classics such as Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White as well as others I’d never heard of like Juan the Frog Hops Away from Racists. 

“This frog’s got the right idea,” I said.

She nodded several times, “He hop, hop hops and never stops going away from bad things.”

“I see that.”  Scrolling through, “Hops away from Strangers… Drugs… the Bad Touch… Unsavory Lending Practices.  I guess the well is running dry.  What do you want me to play?”

“Can we play one I never heard?”

“Which one haven’t your heard?”

“I don’t know.  I haven’t heard it.”

I sighed, “Look, Groucho, my buzz wore off an hour ago, so can the funny shit, or we’re listening to Juan Hopes Away from the Love Canal.  That seems oddly specific.”

“There’s one Daddy never plays.  He says he got it by accident.  He thought it was some other story.”

“What’s it called?”

“Chelsea Grin.”

I found the file.  Shrugged, why not?  Tony didn’t delete it, so how bad could it be?  A lot of parents are overprotective anyhow.  The old fairytales used to be grim – no pun intended.  I tapped the icon.  While it started I tucked the kid into bed.  She pointed at a stuffed, plush fox.  I handed it to her.  She smiled.  Eyes half closed she listened. 

A gravely British voice spoke:

“Used to be a girl lived down the lane
Both parents nine kinds of insane.
She was never known to complain
Even said, “We only get one brain,”
Though her eyes sometimes seemed to form
A raging storm
Dour shower
Sour glower,
Perhaps to drain the damp that molders,
Then a shrug of the shoulders
Her sky clears,
No more sign of tears.
She sighs a bit,
But having lost the fit
Skips home
Shiny as chrome.
Until one night
The house all alight
Every bulb burning
The girl learning
The depths of Dad’s abyss.
Thought he’d been remiss
In protecting his pearl,
Lovely little girl
Needed what’s best.
Kept closely appressed
By Mum, who’s folie à deux
Easily afforded a view
Of the sentiment,
It’s intended betterment,
In giving their girl a grin
No cruel could ever win,
Stripping it off her face;
Her parents told her to brace
For surgery.
At no risk of perjury
On the kitchen floor
They committed the horror
Sliced a Chelsea style
Bloody gaping smile…
And she wore it every day
With only kind words to say,
“They meant well.
I see no need to dwell.
What’s done is done.
It’s not like they had fun.”
Such kindness
Inspiring blindness,
No neighbor noticing sight or sound,
Voiceless to a visiting sleuthhound
About any ax strike
Proving the girl a shrike.
Once, twice, three, six times
Repaying all the crimes
Of her family she tried to bear
As if without a care.
Misery well vented
She walks the lane contented.”

A hiss of crackling static ending in a pop, and the audio stopped.  The kid sat in bed wide eyed clutching her fox.

She said, “So her parents cut a smile in her face then she killed them with an ax.”

Perceptive kid – I nodded, “That is the gist of it, yes.”  I added, “Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve let you listen to this.”

“I liked it!” She beamed, “Are there more?  More like that?”

“Well let’s see – shit!”  I saw a car pulling into the driveway, “It’s your parents.”  Snapping off the bedroom light I said, “Keep this between us, and I’ll find you more.”

“Okay!”

I hurried downstairs to meet Melissa and Tony.  Pleased to see the house intact, Melissa floated upstairs, while Tony paid me. 

Tony said, “You want a drink?  I got some good stuff here.”

“Well…”

At the edge of my hearing I heard the soft conversation upstairs:

“Hi sweetie.  I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mommy, I want a Chelsea Grin.”

“What’s a Chelsea Grin?”

On that note, “I should really get going.”

And I raced back to my house.  Locking the door I sighed, “This is why I can’t have kids.  Motherfuckers don’t know how to keep their goddamn mouths shut.”