February 7, 2021 | Categories: Robotics | Leave a comment
Dear Friends!
Well, I am pleased to announce that my good friend,
Pemberton Caulfield has a brand new little book entitled
“The Dewars” which is currently being published in serial form and is now available in the Kindle Store at
amazon.com. It is an e-book.
The book is currently #35 on the Amazon Science Fiction & Fantasy list!
Please share this post with anyone you think might be interested.
Here’s the book description:
Have a Great Day!
Anonymous
-Anonymous
October 2, 2015 | Categories: stories | Leave a comment
London, SE1
Thursday, 2nd December, 10am
Jing, Jing!
The coffeehouse doorbell jingled twice each time it was opened.
Jing, Jing!
Jing, Jing!
FIONA…! LARGO-SIZED HOUSE WIV ROOM…?!
Jing, Jing!
Late mornings on Southwark Street in Borough near the market were always popular at Cheever’s Café—the “tired of work and academics after only a few hours” crowd.
Jing…Jing-Jing…Thump! Jing…Jing-Jing…Thump! and the sound system wove sitar, tamboura and tabla over and under the tables and chairs, and up above the order counter. The music introduced a variety of hard scents which battled others for nostril point of presence. Like cats struggling with furballs, the frappes and lattes steamed dairy atop espressos and sugary hot chocolates and cappuccinos. A flat screen monitor hung closed-captioned and muted on the far wall like a picture, framing the news anchor—a lopped off talking head atop a crawler befitting a platter of sorts providing even more mind-numbing news, imparting a visual illusion of intelligence upon the trendy crowd, that somehow they were all the smarter for it.
Jing, Jing!
CALLISTA…! ONE REGULAR SILKED GREEN CHAI…?!
ROBEELA…! ONE LARGO-SIZED HOUSE …?!
“S’why’s it you’re leaving London?”
“It’s really complicated…I’ve an opportunity in the states. It’s a study…about memory. Y’know, I’ve told you a bit about it….It’s all come up quite quickly….I need to leave soon…I’ve this visa, so…” She didn’t want to say. She was thinking about her sinking health, the coldness, the need for more experiences, the mental trauma of an artificial mind. To be shut away for years without anymore memories was an excruciating thought. That, and she needed to improve her health or she would suffer badly, or worse.
Emily hovered, out of concern and an unusual buildup of anxiety, as she blew gently across the surface of her coffee while waiting for her friend to get hers. Echo reached for the steaming paper cup which came wrapped in a corrugated brown paper sleeve and privately thanked the barista.
“I’ll be back,” she managed.
“When? Do you’ve a plan sorted? A timetable?”
EFI…! MIDDIE EARL…?!
“Yes…I’ve a plan…not long…maybe six months.” She took her change from the cashier, dropped the coins in the tip jar, and moved off the counter, and then both women, coffees in hand meandered over to the condiment station and waited while a man and a woman finished customizing their drinks. Emily waited wrapt for Echo to say more, “I just need to get out…of this…all this…this weather, d’you know…? So cold and wet.” Echo’s sentences were irregular, and Emily sensed an uneasiness in her voice, and that she looked unusually sickly and somewhat nauseated such that it almost seemed as though the conversation exhausted her physically as she strained at words without images. Emily looked closely at her friend: her face had lately been pallor, and her eyes had lost their usual blue sparkle, had hints of circles beneath them, and her teeth were clenched behind closed lips not so much from the cold but from some other discomfort—something transcendent. Whatever her thoughts were, whatever it was, it obviously had a tight grip on her.
“You alright, then?”
“I’m fine…I’m fine…just a bit rough.”
She looked into her coffee, then closed her eyes and drew in its homeopathic aroma, anxious for caffeine and still searching for identity.
“I have to ask, Eck, so don’t flame me…you’ve not been feeling well for awhile now—you’re pale, you look like you’re going to retch…so then…are you pregnant?”
“God no.”
“Really…?” Emily wanted to be certain that her question was seriously taken, and it was her skeptical “really” that drew Echo’s undivided attention for the moment and provoked her to fix her eyes with certainty on Emily’s, and like a tennis match where the ball is struck predictably back and forth as the competitive rhythm builds, and then a little deeper and sharper, the ball travels with a distinct dispatch of aggression, till soon, not only have the player’s shots become more assertive, but their frustration toward one other builds as well.
“Of course, really.”
“I mean you’re either pregs, or bulimic.”
“I wouldn’t be drinking alcohol, or all this caffeine for starters…I am not pregnant, and I’m not bulimic either…I’m just under the weather is all.”
She looked at Echo still more seriously, she’s sick, yes she looks sick. If she’s not pregnant then she’s had whateva it is she has for months…maybe she’s got depression…she hasn’t been all that close wiv anyone…a ghost…really hard to talk with…surprised she still wanted to meet up today.
With her calculations and intuitions completed, Emily backed off, “perhaps I’ll visit?”
“Yes,” said Echo manufacturing some vigor, “that would be great!” and then again, she looked into her coffee, smelled it—wondered if she’d remember. “I’m not running away…I have this opportunity…I’d like to go on holiday for a bit, some place warm.”
Emily grinned and gave a faint nod. She’s not making sense. She’s repeating herself.
VARIN…! REGULAR EARL…?!
The man and the woman finished, and so Emily and Echo stepped forward and dressed their drinks side by side. The condiment bar was messy and sticky from heavy use, with spilt sugar granules stuck like glitter to splatters of dried cream atop the black granite surface. Emily casually added milk and honey to hers, then blended it with a wooden stir stick, and glanced sideways at her friend to catch a glimpse, to detect something of Echo’s candid motions that might explain what was really going on. Then she saw it, as subtle yet as necessary as saffron: While Echo stirred milk and sugar into her coffee, half a tear filled each lower lid to the brim, and before they spilled over and down her cheeks, she quickly blinked them away with a few bats of her eyelids. The vessels in her eyes reddened and her lashes gathered into clumps which with two quick blots from the back of her hand were gone. More than anything that she had said, this telling gesture shifted Emily’s focus from common self-centeredness to empathy. She motioned to a vacated orange loveseat in the centre of the café, “let’s take the sofa,” as she led the way. Two weeks ago she was looking at a new flat in Chelsea. Now she’s going to the States? They dropped their bags and sat down making themselves comfortable on the slightly stained velvet upholstery. Emily removed her toque and scarf and unzipped her jacket while Echo remained bundled.
ZILLA…! ONE LARGO-SIZED CARAMEL FRAPPE WIV CHOCO AND ONE MIDDIE CARAMAL CAP AND TWO APPLE JUICE…?!
What was there to say? For the moment, anything further would have been forced, so the two women just sat quietly together taking in their surroundings—taking separate mental journeys. Emily looked awkwardly around as if searching for someone in particular, something or someone to shove into her mind to suppress her anxiousness. Echo noticed her disquiet demeanor and wondered who she was looking for, what it was that she was trying to escape into or out of. Emily began to feel xenophobic, anxious, not one much for crowds of people. She recklessly reimagined the voyeuristic humanity filling the confines of her space, the chaotic denizens who were acting perfectly within themselves, yet to her were an all-out invasion. She didn’t transition well from her online world into the real world. In one she had control like a voodoo doctor supplanting emotions and relationships, she even had that in the museum, where the members and the staff were very predictable in that the former were ironic patrons and generally pseudo-evolved, and the latter were the exact opposite. It was the Internet that skewed her view of the planet, and spending an awkward moment in a place like Cheever’s didn’t help as she telemarked into paranoia, and studied the strangers in the café, the sea of supernumerary bodies that were engaged in their own anonymous activities, their own conversations, some all by themselves immersed in a computer or a portable music player, or a multimedia phone, or even an actual book. The faces were foreign, and though she had been coming here for years, suddenly it was as if it were haunted. And unhitched from Echo, how could she see herself coming here again?
RANI…! ONE LARGO-SIZED ENERGY AND ONE CARROT JUICE…?!
Jing, Jing!
Anyone who knew her could tell you that Emily wasn’t prone to fluster. She was as composed a person, as unflappable as they come. Once she attended two funerals on the same day, and even attended the potlucks for the families. Four years ago, she happened by the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street when in broad daylight a pale and sweaty business man in his middle thirties came running toward her—he had a frenzied forlorn look like a flushed stag, when suddenly part of the man’s neck exploded in a fountain of cochineal, and his eyes emptied as he fell to the sidewalk just ten yards in front of her. He was a bank analyst and was taken out by his lover’s husband. She looked down at the fallen man and then up at the shooter standing beyond, then rushed over to the victim’s side while everyone else scattered. With no further bones to pick, the assassin put the pistol into his pocket and walked right past the horrific scene, varying his gait to avoid the river of blood. She caught his eye, and what she saw in his face was that the plot had turned on him—that at that instant he had transformed himself into the flushed stag, and so he departed with a sharp rhythmic tap which accelerated and diminished in syncopated intervals. The victim lay drowning, his voice box gurgling some broken language as if he had important instructions to give her, as if he were the one helping her. His white shirt vanished into the dark fabric of his suit as she loosed his tie and wrapped it round the amateur wound, then rolled him on his side in hopes of clearing an airway. She held his left hand—there was a ring, two victims, she thought, perhaps more. She wondered if they had any children.
MARILENA…! ONE MIDDIE HOUSE WIV ROOM…?!
For a moment, she had forgotten where she was and swiveled and jerked her head like a nervous starling tracking the many strangers’ movements.
BEATRICE…! ONE MIDDIE HOUSE WIV ROOM?!
ALICE…! ONE LARGO-SIZED HOUSE AND TWO APPLE…?!
Jing, Jing!
A hip hop hopeful sat in a tufted paisley wingback playing games and listening to music simultaneously on his mobile. He was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap, large enough to cover the tips of his ears. He retained the manufacturer’s sticker, a silver hologram logo stuck to the top of the visor, the bottom of which was a light grey and had a dark circular stain worn in from repeated gripping, and repositioning.
Jing, Jing!
SUSAN…! ONE MIDDIE HOUSE WIV ROOM…?!
An older man dressed in a navy peacoat with thick hair and a swarthy complexion made laps round the cafe, showing anyone who would give attention a small photograph that he had taken of the new Prime Minister. The man was blessed with a bombastic vexing baritone that he wielded as he approached complete strangers… “Do you know who this man is? Is he a publican…? Ah, you recognize him! Yes, that’s right, I took this photo and do you know what…? The Mirror has offered me ten thousand Pounds for it. They want to use it for a magazine cover.” Up close, his hair had a buildup of oil so much so that it most certainly waterproofed his scalp. “I told them…” and at this point the man would lean in as what he was about to say was meant to be the real proof of the legitimacy of his claim, “…I told them, I will send you the original after I receive a certified draft for ten thousand Pounds.” And then focusing his audience once more on the picture print, “Isn’t that a great smile? I said to him, ‘Sir, how about a smile for the commoners?’ And look! He did! What a great smile…and when I showed it to one of his staff last week, do you know what they told me? They said that if they could use this picture, the Prime Minister would make me the Ambassador of Chile. Did you hear that? I have been offered the Ambassadorship to Chile!”
The story was repeated verbatim, in two or three person intervals throughout the café, and Emily and Echo politely sat through the story as well.
Jing, Jing!
ARCHER…! ONE LARGO-SIZED JAVA AND NUTMEG LATTE…?!
Jing, Jing!
An attractive slender woman—tall—walked into the sudden silence left behind by a group of three men who instantaneously let go of their heated conversation in their best attempt at horn-dog subtlety. Like a trio of synchronized puppies eyeing a bone, the men stared single-mindedly and completely unabashed and fully disconnected from one another.
Jing! Jing!
Jing! Jing!
KAJORI…! ONE MIDDIE HOUSE DECAFF WIV ROOM, AND ONE MIDDIE BENGAL BLEND…?!
There was a stocky young man—somewhat athletic, short, cocky, balding, expensive nonprescription glasses on his forehead. He was the type whose workout regimen consisted only of bench presses and bicep curls, claimed ownership of three fledgling “can’t miss” business ventures, and had the latest Japanese mobile, not yet available in the UK and costing him a small fortune. He was dressed in a black leather car coat which was a bit too long in the sleeves as they caught his palms whenever his arms fell to his sides, which presented him with a struggle each time he attempted to display his large wristwatch, as he kept checking to see what it said. He wore pleated and chalk-striped charcoal trousers and black dress shoes with squared off toes. He was frumpy, though he had passable taste which unfortunately belonged to someone else. He didn’t seem to know his actual size. The slacks were cuffed and had such a break to them that they broke several times in a pile atop his shoes. He was on his mobile while waiting on line, a human cliché—for he was one of those self-centered blokes who talked on the phone loudly for all to hear. With his free hand he attempted over and over again to jerk the watch out from under the generous lambskin sleeve while fully extending the elbow of his other hand (the one with the Swiss Army knife version of a mobile) out perpendicular to his body and level with his shoulder so as to exaggerate his size like a male peacock does with its colorful plumage. He looked like a garden sprinkler head when he torqued and turned his torso to catch any gazes that his antics might attract, no matter the sex, no matter the reason, because underneath this macho jet setting ensemble was a young man who was unsure of the interpretation of his many private man-crushes.
Jing, Jing!
Jing, Jing!
DANAYUS…! LARGO-SIZED JAVA AND NUTMEG LATTE…?!
Jing, Jing!
PHILIP…! LARGO-SIZED CHOCO-LATTE…?!
She felt emptiness sitting beside Echo, a woman without a tactile clan or sisterhood, and with that thought, anxiety crept back into her head. The small world wasn’t so small when matched against the physicality of friendship, and she clearly felt part lovesick and part homesick. She began to realize that Echo was what made Cheever’s all the things that it was beyond delicious coffee, and that without her it would become the isolation which she so often resoundingly represented, that she subscribed to. How could she be so callus to adhere to the new social order of indifference? When had she lost the true value of real friendships, real bonds? Where had her friendliness gone? She no longer talked in lifts anymore, the tube was a lonely place, and unlike so many things in this posthuman world, she couldn’t manage dispensing with Echo out of hand or disregarding her behind pseudo-introspective accoutrements like a pair of shades or ear buds or designer canines, plastic surgeries, a private car, the Internet—where had the sympathetic hostess who hugged so many in comfort of loss gone? Where had the woman who pressed a bare hand against a bleeding man’s throat, disappeared to?
“I’ll miss you…” Emily said, homing herself.
Echo teetered on the edge of confessional, for what she was holding back was significant, yet still she didn’t cave.
What is it? Emily obsessed inwardly. Is it me? She looked down at her cup which she palmed with both hands. Then she lifted it up, hesitated, and then looked compassionately into her friend’s eyes. Like a mirror Echo returned the look with immediacy.
“…I’ll miss our silly coffees.”
“Here’s to silly coffees!” Echo mustered a mock toast, “Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
She knew that leaving Emily—leaving London—was inevitable. Any way she looked at it, it couldn’t be helped, but at the same time, it wasn’t a situation which she could explain—nor was she willing to.
“So how are the websites?”
“They’re good…they’ve gotten me so busy! I’m up all night. Without them, I’d either have to move, or quit the museum. Loads of people have come across my channels and watched in. Do you know that I have like a quarter million people that think that I’m best mates with them…as in real life?”
“That’s how we became mates…”
“Which is very, very unusual. Most of the people fall into one of two categories: they eitha subscribe to my sites so that they can promote theirs and get me to be one of their subscribers…or they really, really think that they’re creating a personal friendship with me, like that’s how they go about making friends! It’s really weird. Do you know how many people spend the majority of their time on the Internet with people that they have neva, eva met compared with spending time with their real mates in real life? Tons of them! It’s so odd.”
“I’ll never understand how you can become ‘BFF’ with someone whom you’ve never met. I suppose it’s cool and all that you can have discussions with people from all over the world, but what about learning to be with someone? Spend time with them in three dimensions?”
“Exactly!”
VICKY…! ONE LARGO GREEN…?!
“At the same time, I have probably hundreds of people that hate me.”
“Hate you?”
“Yeah, and they’ve neva fucking met me! It’s called ‘Hate Watching.’ They watch your videos, or read your blog or whateva so that they can basically hate you. There are whole websites devoted to the obsession of hating someone by watching their every move.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I get flamed every day by somebody.” Emily shrugged her shoulders, “That’s the Net for ya.”
They both smiled. Emily was the first to look away. They both drank. She hoped Echo would tell her more, but the conversation drifted and soon they were caught up in a variety of small talk and first-rate people watching.
Two men in handsome overcoats were standing outside. You could see them through the paned-glass door and shop front window. No hats but gloves, scarves and more than likely cashmere for the generous coats. They were talking and occasionally they laughed, their breaths freezing in the air like two Spanish bulls waiting for the moment of truth. It was going to snow at any moment, and it was a wonder when you looked into the sky how it was that it hadn’t begun falling yet.
Jing, Jing!
One of the men went in while the other remained outside to take a call on his mobile. The man unbuttoned his coat and queued up behind an overdone, extremely orange middle-aged woman who chauffeured a contemptuous sweater-clad Yorkie which was reclined in an air of entitlement atop the inside bend of her elbow and licking the hot pink varnish from the woman’s nails. Her clothing was spectacular, starting with tight black stirrup pants which were tucked into trendy calf-length shearling moccasins and trussed the full length with suede twine much like a butcher cinches up a tenderloin. The culmination was an extremely risky diamond-stitched goose down anorak with a gold and black faux leopard print (gold elastic belt, included). Accessorizing the ensemble were a gold vinyl backpack purse, a pair of turquoise horned rim glasses, and long pinkish-blonde hair covered by a faux tiger print kerchief. She loudly and with an unmistakable smoker’s gravel over-dramatised her special beverage requirements:
“Could-ja give us an Indonesian blend Latte—a small one? Yea, but here it is: don’t give us any milk, right?” she said, sounding more like a flower girl than anything. “Instead, be a good little bint and steam up some soy in there, right darling..?”
The barista yawned with her eyes, and everyone on line slumped and looked round not only to see if anyone else besides them was getting a good look at this spectacle, but to see about the possibility of another queue, which there wasn’t.
The perfume was stiff—she and the dog were both wearing the same scent. What Echo and Emily had been witnessing was the arrival of one god-awful creation whom they affectionately dubbed, “Dame Edna’s Lovechild.” This was an absolute prize diversion from an otherwise emotionally draining farewell.
“…and give us an ice cube—s’always makes um too hot for little Jacinda here, right my tidy little toy-toy?”
Mmrap-mmrap! The dog agreed.
ELIZABETH…! ONE LARGO EARL WIV ROOM…?!
Echo and Emily snickered with very little restraint, for their emotions were raw and the irony was much too rich to take a pass. At this point they had little interest in self control.
“Just one cube, though. It’s brass monkeys out there. I want it warm, not cold ja’know. Oh and tell us there duck: do you still have those lemon bar samples like you use to? We’ll take two if you’re not bog all out.” For everyone’s sake, the barista immediately filled the woman’s order, and so with that, a coupon, and a debit card, she was gone.
Jing, Jing!
When the sideshow ended and the perfume dissipated, the well-dressed man who was next on line order two teas. He paid, then tipped for himself, his associate, and the overdone cougar. He walked back toward the door stopping briefly to rebuttoned his coat, then he went outside and waited with the other man who was still on his phone call.
Jing, Jing!
In came a vagrant carrying an old newspaper and everyone stared covertly as he made his way to the back of the cafe. He came in to escape the cold weather, to warm up for a few minutes and to use the toilet. He didn’t even bother trying to blend in, though if nothing else his strong body odor would have given him away should he have even tried, and so he knew from past experience to keep moving.
GATES…! TWO LARGO EARLS WIV ROOM…?!
Jing, Jing!
The well-dressed man came back inside to pick up his order. He spotted his name on two steaming cups resting on the pickup counter next to a few others, and took them and walked over to the condiment bar and put some milk in each cup and then left again.
Jing, Jing!
Outside the second man had just finished his call when the first man handed him a cup. They looked to be in their forties with nice hair, clean shaven, very nice suits, and shoes—top drawer all around. They lingered for a minute or so, chars smoking, breath blowing clouds into the tight air, then they walked south in the direction of Borough Tube Station.
And so it was time for the two women to leave as well. After they had finished most of their coffees they got up and went out the door and stood on the sidewalk in the same spot where the two men had just been standing. The city buzzed. The traffic crept along, headlights burning in the dim daylight, ever creating ephemeral plumes of sooty winter fog that were it not the present, surely Victorian. Echo shivered. They drank a brief communion together, and then they hugged, and kissed their goodbyes.
“When do you leave?” asked Emily.
Echo had dreaded this. She looked at Emily—arms crossed to stay warm—then looked down shamefully, and rocked her body slowly back and forth in a spontaneous display of emotional discomfort. Emily read the body language as Echo looked back up at her.
“Tomorrow.”
She broke her bead on Emily and looked awkwardly out into the street at nothing in particular, trying to shake the guilt and the sadness and the frustration that was welling up once again inside her. Emily stood waist deep in disbelief.
Tomorrow?
She felt an undertow. Her face went numb. A second ago, this had been one of many coffee klatches still to come. Now it was the last. She tried to think about what tomorrow would be like and the day after that and so on. The waves kept coming, pounding her over and over, and she momentarily lost her footing—she was miles from shore and drifting up to her neck in briny water.
“Tomorrow..? Morning or evening?” the inquiry came part brutal and part dejected.
Echo shook her head.
Emily was very close to losing it, was fighting back her own nausea but held fast, which was her signature panache that every adversity that she faced, whether mental or physical, remained buried deep inside of her. She moved her windblown hair out of her face and mouth and put back on her toque, then looked out at the traffic and the mass of people, the two women again engaged in solitary thoughts. Then she panned up at the buildings that appeared to be leaning inward against the backdrop of cold and heavy achromatic clouds. But the city gave no advice. In her bout of hesitation, she tried to resolve one thought, to land on one thing that made sense, that would be brilliant and mature. It was her turn to say something, and again she looked at the buildings, then once more at the traffic. She had nothing except secrets.
Finally looking back at her friend and managing a gracious smile she said, “Well I’m glad that we were able to get together today. It was the right thing, Eck….was choice to meet here…in person, rather than the mobile or email or text or something, d’know?”
Echo nodded freezing and lethargic….
“Cheever’s was the first place we ever went to together, when we skipped work, remember?”
Echo nodded again. She would take whatever Emily would give her no matter the tone, no matter how trivial. Emily searched with a pained squint, looking one more time for that familiar sparkle in Echo’s eyes, but all she saw was a weary eyebrow flex, and so resigned to conclusion, she embraced her—and with a hug to the side of Echo’s face whispered in her ear. They kissed and then unhinged from each other’s space.
“Bye Eck….” Then, she looked at her watch, “all the best…good luck.”
Again she looked at her watch, planning her exit, and with nothing more to say, and her nose beginning to run, she sniffed. She felt a slight panic build from the flood of pumped blood, and she snorted to mask her hyperventilation. She looked toward her appointment, and then back.
“I better go…I’m going to be late…” She wanted to say more, she wanted to offer more. “…Good luck Echo…I mean it, girl….” But she couldn’t conjure anything that truly meant goodbye. “…Keep in touch!”
“Bye, Em.”
Emily grabbed one more empty hug, another touch for her, another memory for Echo, and then she wheeled round and headed north toward the London Bridge Tube.
Echo watched her go in the silhouetted motion of a well composed posture, and then she called out again, “I love you, Em!”
Emily’s spirit flinched, but she did not stop, and as she bobbed along, she gracefully flung her scarf round her neck, purse floating at her side and gradually disappeared into the foreshortened crowd, and with her mascara running down her cheeks, she started running like an doe in spring.
A small card lay on the sidewalk directly in front of Echo’s feet.
It began to snow.
July 14, 2015 | Categories: stories | Leave a comment
Gramps was a Scotsman living just south of the Garden District in New Orleans. He led the charge as my principle male role model, as also occasionally did my second cousin Robert, who was better fitting the age of a great-uncle than a cousin. My memories consist of a few choice moments that pretty much wove the tale of my life as a youth left fatherless by a car accident at age seven. These two men represented the end of the living bloodline from which I was descended, and the two biggest reasons for my neurotic outlook on life.
I wasn’t the only one affected by them, but I was the only one that couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I was trapped. At thirteen, I remember sitting in Gramps’ car as we were just about to leave for the bars to go drinking (Gramps always took me to the bars with him to watch him drink), when suddenly Robert pulls up, half blocking our way and yells out his car window at me in a thick Scottish brogue, “Crrraigh! Get o’er here! Yer commin’ wit me!”
Before I could even react, Gramps shoots a look and an index finger into my face and says in a life-or-death tone, “Dunt moove a muscle, retard.”
He called me retard because he thought that something wasn’t right about me. I didn’t talk much at all, I ate too fast, and I moved too slowly for what Gramps considered “normal”. Therefore, to him, I was retarded; and he was going to help make me normal. So I sat frozen next to Gramps’ while my cousin heckled me to come with him.
Gramps shouted, “Ee’s not goon’ wit’ya, ya jackass!”
“Fuck if ee ain’t!” Robert yelled back.
There I sat with my two mentors cussing each other out over which one of them was going to get to take me with them to do something meaningless; neither plan being anything remotely of interest to me. I was being slave-traded by two crazy old relatives who had nothing better to do.
Finally, Gramps sped triumphantly around my cousin’s car hoisting a rigid middle finger well above the roofline, leaving Robert stewing all alone in the driveway.
So off we went to the bars, and away went Robert back home to pick up his shotgun; and from there, he went out looking for Gramps and I. He crisscrossed town looking for us at all the usual places. But before he found us, a cop spotted the psychotic degenerate hauling ass down Tchoupitoulas Street with one arm on the steering wheel, and the other gripping the erect double-barreled muzzle of a twelve gauge sitting next to him. Gramps was supposed to die at Miller’s Tavern that afternoon, but didn’t; all because Robert was just a little too crazy to get the job done.
Robert had always been crazy, and it seemed to stem from his being just plain morally bankrupt. As a kid he was cruel and found for himself plenty of cheap entertainment by way of terrorizing other people; anyone. An old blind woman used to live in the neighborhood, just down the block from Robert. In the hot summer evenings, she would sit out on the steps of her front porch and relax; try to keep cool and have a soda. One night, Robert walked over to her house, stood in front of her, unzipped his pants and peed on her.
Later in life, he collected Nazi memorabilia. Now, there are obviously all sorts of ethical issues regarding the collecting of such things in the first place, although there are many people who do. But Robert took the hobby to an all-time low. He amassed his collection while soldiering in World War II; he stole all of his artifacts from the bodies of dead and wounded German soldiers. I think that that alone was enough to curse Robert for the rest of his life. On my tenth birthday, he gave me one of these scavenged objects as a gift; a Nazi ink pen. Right in front of Gramps and my poor mother, I open this little box; and there was this relic from the Third Reich.
Mother almost had a heart attack on the spot.
Gramps was lit up; “Watt the fuck’er ya doon’ Roebit?! Givin’ the retard a Hitler aink pin! Roebit, yer goddamn insane ya are! Tek that thing bek, raight away!”
This was not a good situation; a calamitous birthday celebration. Robert and Gramps were going at it, yelling obscenities at each other. Those two were always going at it. They hated each other. Soon, Robert left, but the Nazi ink pen remained behind. Later, I had to beg and plead desperately to convince mother and Gramps into letting me keep my cousin’s present.
“Better me than Robert” I said, which seemed to make a lot of sense. At ten years old, I couldn’t imagine a cooler gift than an actual Nazi ink pen, stolen from the body of a dead or dying German soldier.
Gramps faculties weren’t much better than Robert’s; not by a long shot. And being Robert’s uncle, he was obviously the wellspring for all of our insanities.
Years later, Gramps would be shocked to learn that I was working on my Master’s Degree in photography, seeing as how I was a retard and all.
“Yer goon’ to skewl to learn to tek pikchurs?” He says to me. “How’re ya goon’ ta gait a job tekin’ pikchurs?” “Ya tek pikchurs on vacation, not win yer at werk ya retard!”
Nevertheless, when I graduated, Gramps found it within himself to feel proud of me, and so he took me to get a whole new set of clothes so that I could look presentable when I went out on job interviews. I couldn’t imagine this project going even remotely well, but figured maybe I could at least get a nice tailored suit or something out of the deal. But Gramp’s idea of clothing, and dressing presentably was way different than mine (and that of most normal people).
The retired Scotsman golfed nearly every day of his life, and therefore old-man-golf-clothes were to him haute couture. So off we went to “Sansabelt Heaven;” home of the belt-less trouser and coordinating polyester v-neck golf shirt. Truly a nightmare; here was this old man running in and out of my dressing room handing me article after article of wrinkle-free leisure wear. I settled on a pair of brown Sansabelt slacks with the six inch wide girdle waist band, along with a cream-colored poly-blend shirt and a light green nylon sport coat.
Inasmuch as the experience sucked, I figured that I ought to be appreciative of his kindness. Gramps was just trying to do something nice for me. I thought I can always return them, or give them to the Salvation Army in a few days without him even knowing it. But Gramps wasn’t through with me just yet. He had other plans for me and my new wardrobe.
As I proceeded to remove the stain-resistant, waterproof sport coat and change back into my old clothes, Gramps says, “Wut’re ya tank yer doon’? Put thet coot baik on. Weer goon’ ta dinner, so don’t chainge.”
I stood shell-shocked for a moment as the concept of this laughable attire suddenly changed from generous donation, to working wardrobe. I had been distancing myself from the clothes, thinking that I will never, ever be caught dead in them- never, ever have to wear them again. I had allowed the fashion rape to occur by putting my mind in another place, a safe and happy place; blocking out the wave, after wave of Muppet-fabric trousers consuming my hips, thighs and crotch, over and over again. I allowed dusty nylon disco shirts to consume my torso, and “caddy shack” country club blazers to maul my back and arms.
“Thet’s raight, weer goon’ ta dinner o’er at Bill’s and Margaret’s, and Bet’s goon’ to be there too.”
The Solano’s are my Gramps’ neighbors, and Beth is their beautiful daughter who I had always had a crush on.
Any flame that I had ever hoped to kindle, any dream that I had ever kept alive, was completely and utterly extinguished the moment I arrived for dinner that evening. Looking more like I was playing the lead role in a community theatre production of “Saturday Night Fever at Pebble Beach,” than a typical college graduate, Beth became visibly sick and excused herself to another part of the house for the rest of the night. I think that her parents even got a little sick.
Mr. Solano just stared at me all throughout dinner, and I could tell what he was thinking. He was thinking to himself, “Poor retard, doesn’t even know how to dress.”
June 29, 2015 | Categories: stories | Tags: humor, short story | Leave a comment
The sun sneaks in underneath the sky,
Late to make a day, neither broad,
Nor light, nor morning, nor night.
Exposed airy dew, charged by searing
Gas lamp artifacts, a spectrum of mist,
In moiré, almost precipitated.
The anticipation lubricates this world,
And the night retracts its cover,
And a brave bird reveals her kind.
Saturated benches, sills, and cars begin
Again, amniotic, hermetic, unbroken seal;
Soon she will wipe them dry with her stare.
Diffused, she gathers her parts, and lights
Her flame. If she doesn’t once again
Make magic of a tardy day.
May 3, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
Sonic 1
Film Paris to cheer with this error in case,
Debt thereby duties rose might never die,
What has the right to shoot by time the stance,
It then there it might better at an RE:
But sell contracted to nine or by A’s,
Deepest day lights and we see substantial new,
Making the game and we’re a bowl it’s nice,
Die sale the eighth pole, and die sweet save tool.
Vale I it now with its British on it,
And only a lone tool that goes with spring,
Witty and on board to bore used content,
And, tender test waves in the data been.
But did the wit, ordinance gonna be,
To it the world’s two died today NT.
Sonic 2
When the 40 interns shadow my bow,
And the deep trenches in that stays be a,
Tell you not so very, so gaze on how,
We’ll be a driver we’d, a small would hand:
And being taxed with art die tutee Nuys,
Where the trail issues diagnostic dates;
To say, what and din own thee suffer highs,
We’re in all the team share and did this space.
What’s more plays guitar Diablo to use,
If Doc wants (an) answer, ‘this Fitzgerald’s name,
Sailing might count, and make mat ward excuse,’
Proving he’s due to buy stock station nine!
This weird to be in no meant when Dow fold,
And steep dive brewed why I tell the used code.
Sonic 3
Milk and like less and ten days dealt the list
Knowing that time that this should form another
Who was fresh repair if not all the note the nosed
Dole goes to the delta what all the best of some mother
Foliage to sell to a close unneeded warm
Tuesday and as the DH of the husbandry
ROA is the sole fund will be the two am
Always self rule to stop post Derek D.
Diet time under glass and she and the
Calls back to know who the 8000 of the time
So ballot title windows of time they should state
Does that offering goes to use the record and time
“if the only if calling them voted not to bid
Days singled and a new image days with D.
Sonic 4
Other thrifts date will retain its widest lost and
Opponents at a sale fly duties legacy
Nature that the quest gives nothing but Dole’s land
And the infants she needs to those of the
Then the dubious need a white dust bowl to use
Profitless to steer what does to allow us
Soap gave us almost owns the IP const naughty of
For having to traffic Wes nye sue for loan
The old face if this week said of dust did C.
They now winded to cost the to be done
Quality exit to Bonilla dates can still leave
Date on used beauty of most of the Talmud with the
REITs used is the executive to be
Sonic 5
Those are stacked with gentler to get through an
The those early days when every eidos away and
We’ll today that dates to this very same
And to it than fair ways fee if the Dole has exceeded
For one dealer esteem time it’s so my role on
Terry is a wheelchair and confounds him either
Sap select what fast and must do the it’s quite call on
It’s yours snowed on Benes ever were
Then would not so was the station and if
Any quick prisoner and Tim Wells class
It is effective PTA where they left
No its Nolan only member and swallows that was
But that’s just didn’t know they will win to meet
The A’s but their Scholl this substance to these wheat
Sonic 6
Ten let the twins to circuit and it fits
And the best summer that it out beast to Steve and
Next to it sounds I’ll cherish it does some to this
What did Tuesday Sherry A. B. Cete kid
That uses not forbid a new study
What’s happy as does the date the winning on
That’s for this says to be identified the
“And then set be at the attend for on
Then the instead said for a happy act and the light
If ten of the day and time Smith did get the
Then what “tiff do if done should step back to
The things the the thinking posted at the
Dino itself lived for the out much to fan
To be against conquest to make qualms time did
Sonic 7
Hello India are and when the great issues like
This up his Manning said each Monday by
.on the edge to is knew of the ringside to
Serve with looks these secret majesty
And having climbed to steeper and the hue
Resembling strong views in his memory age
Yet more to Loucks and or his duty still
Attending on his golden.tribnet should
But when the hindmost pitch with query car
Lengthy bolted Hera units from a day
The Allies for deterrence now committed are
From his note tract and look another way
So now nye self audit calling in the line and
On milked on dearest on this will get us on
Sonic 8
Use it to hear why here’s to the music said they
Suites with suites for not joining didn’t enjoy
Why the list, that which will receive this not commonly
Or else misused with pleasure at time and only
If the true and Concord of whipped and sounds
By unions married to offend the new year
They do but sweet a chant the whole confounds
In seamless the parts that Powell should stick their
Mark, one string suite husband to another
Strikes each in each minute rewarding
Resembling siren child and help the mother
Whole wall in one want the zing note to saying
Who speaks the song being many seeming one
Since this to the Dow single that proved non
Sonic 9
Is it for Thea to let away as I.
The Dow so must the cell and single line
, if col issued this sound hop to die
The world will wail of the Nike making his wife
The world will be the time window and steals wheat
The Dow no form of the last left behind it
When every product with two women keep
By children’s highs who has been situated
Local web in on drift in the world dolphins and
Shoots by his grace force to welded Julie’s it
Bolt beauties waste half in the world in and
I’m kept unused the using so destroys it
No amount to a lid on this mean that bulls home sits
That on the names of such bloodless name com it’s
Sonic 10
For Sharon denied that the owl bears to halt to any
We’ll for myself or to sell on provident
Amount if not with it now I won’t beloved of many
But that now than on the list is most evident
For a lot sole cause us to with modest hate
The game starts of the owl sticks to not to conspire
Seeking that duty as a rule to loan eight
Which to a repair a short punt on chief designer
A whole generation awards that on many change my mind
Shell hit eat beef and long did that and gentle OM
Be as nine presents his graciousness, a kind
Or to nye self at least, and hope that move
That beauty stew amended nine or the
Sonic 11
Has asked the washout Wayne so fast, grossed out
In one of nine from that which now the contest
And that fresh blond which you only now it’s the most
The minced called I’m away and now from you, the test
Him let’s wisdom duty and increase
Without this fall the age and called seek a
Youthful one minded sell the times short seats
And the score you would make the world away
Let those whom nature-all made for stole
College feature this on renewed baronet parish
Look warm she’s best rebounder she gave them all
Which bounteous gifts Dow should still inbound the Charisse
Chic, that the form the CIA and meant to them on a
Now should stick trend mall not let that copied I.
Sonic 12
Women to count the cockpit as the time
And see the braved a sunken he’s not
When the whole the violent past crime
And sample Cosell sue lowden Oro would want
When all the trees IC band of Lee’s
Which airs from he’s did it cannot be the hand
And some as green or granted up concedes
Bone on Libya with wide and Bruce the BN
The Nevada UCD line question may
That now among the waste of time must go
Since suites and duties to them selves forsake
And eyes fast as they see others growl
And nothing against times size can make defense
Save Brite to bring him when he takes the hands
Sonic 13
All that you will yourself blocked love you will
No longer yours then you yourself him that if
Against this Corning and who should put to
And you’ll suite some hints to sell most of the of
So shouldn’t have to do you see which you hold in the use
Find no determination was then you were
Yourself in a few cells deceased’s
When you owe sweet issue your sweet form should bear
Who gets so found a house full to take a
Breach husbandry in the home a light of hold
The games list only gusts of wind Tuesday
And Baron ray each of deaths in town hall cool
I’ll have none does on thrifts DM I love you know
You had a form of a fuel silence is no
Sonic 14
Miles from the stalls July 9 judgment Clark
And yet rethinks ihop has shown only
But not to tell of the Cold War you look
Of plans of this all seasons quality
Dole cannot afford to run to brief minutes to
Pointing to teach his son to rain and wind
All say with prince’s if it’s not go well
Last predicts that I’m having fun and
But from the line on as my knowledge I do on
And the constant stars and am I the church hot
*and use a shell to get to thrive
If from the ice health system will sell woods convert
Or else if you use solely through a law student
Ramses roofs and duties to mandate
Sonic 15
, consider the thing that grows
Holds imperfection bottomed out and comment
That this usage% of not the cellos
We’ll start in secret instance, comment
What I perceive the man as pounds increase
Choose insect eaten by a self science,
Along to the new south and height decrease
And whether brave stayed out of memory
Then the conceive of this in constant stay
Says he will switch in use before my site
We’ll wasteful time to take his with the Kay
To change O’Dea has used its only 98
And only war was time for those of you
As he takes form you on graphics you do
Sonic 16
Of 24 to now you in the 90 way
Bancorp owns this bloody tyrant time
The force of Congress elfin you’ll take a
This means more blacks that Montana ruling
Now stands you on the top of happy house
And many making gotten Seattle and Cete
With such as wish would then deleting flaws
Much like a venue painted col to fit
So should the lines of life that life would have
Which this time spent so for my people can
The city and in what was flawed with fan
Can make you this yourself in the lives of man
To give away a set of kids who self still
And you must have drawn by your own sweet skew
April 30, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
tracks undeniable in tents
we caved our way
to unloaded prehistoric
promises I made
handfuls of romantic
golden lies lectured
in hypnotic magic messages
of breakfasts served
give me now and talk
about tomorrow tomorrow
put away those breadcrumbs
and labyrinth strings
laired up in neanderthal trappings
a fay wray playmate
that right now I want
and later may not
April 28, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
I have antlers
That grow from the pain
That I harbor, and the fear
I labor to repeat.
Emotions calcify
On limestone pastiche
That is a stalagmite birthright,
And growing brain-freeze.
Then the fighting—
I realize why I have antlers.
I have evolved to defend
To the end of this race.
I have scars
And bare flesh from wars
That are attacks
From other racks much bigger—
Bigger means bitter,
And my wounds soothe them
Like music and the savage beast—
A release and horn sharpening.
Then the predator—
I flee with the others hunted.
I am the wild that they wild for,
And my kind desert me.
I am tracked
By trophy hunters
Looking for the glory that I hold,
And the gold that they covet.
They choose to take my hooves
As proof that they are wise
And great, that no one will find
Among their kind a better specimen.
April 27, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
the elements
so smooth
so thoughtful
lullaby sea
air
and land
without
schedules
or reactions
bigger than
rocketing around
the sun
kept from
space sickness
by transom
grandness is
universal
grandness is
universe
it’s all night we really
travel
when the sky blinks
April 25, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
(more…)
April 22, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
The bleach of wicked tears
stings the lips of lovers
one to the other.
Hearts bob anchored, alone
markers for departing ships.
One a new life
and one a new name.
Slipped past and under
the falling curtain of the day
April 21, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
succulent
desert lust—
coyote and
javelina
in moonlit
river bottom
cruising
pass quail eggs
silent as stones
hear crickets
count temperature
hot and fast
under saguaro
silhouette
sits solitary
truck-bed
beneath cosmic
night lights
staining the world
deep blue
and shimmer
sweat gets sucked
up into
desiccating
skies
dry winds
chap skin—
this is
desert love
and comet
carpooling
April 20, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | 2 Comments
why have they not named you
moon
suspended
anamorphic
empty
void identity
milky calf of Gaia
does anyone crave your sympathy
lantern at night
lunar
satellite
writer’s inspired spine
every human eye ever every generation
has seen you—
studied you
beheld reflected antiquity within you
still wallflower blurry hero
black hole piercing
Io, Ariel
Juliet—
all asteroid hotties
do their planets love them more
than rock and crater
heat and cold—
know their every move
and favorite color and food
so much made a moon name
yet you upon Junkets’ throne—
anonymous companion
nomadic panacea
broken heart
bleeding
presiding forsaken rites
on passed over battlefields
there where men cease writhing
glorious ribbons
patches and pins—
calling ghostly families
searching urgent sky
swallowing for home
there atop icy peak
lost
broken
frozen
mistaken disoriented descent step stranded
except for lunar glow—
touching pacifier
peace of abandoned abyss
there aboard instant shuttle
calamity
transfixed view
of heaven from heaven
of you
dark traveler in limbo
choosing you over home
ending with lit up smiles
in a trail of solid fuel
there in semi-private room divider set
sheers and lots drawn
late between shifts
past visiting hours
basked expiration in comforting luminous flux
devoted pearl to pride, parliament
sounder
cete
skulk
nye
and tyrannosaurus rex
celestial crescent counselor
to sunbathed full—
Ramses/Caesars gaze at your face
voyeurs
covetous
and Godly
flimsy moniker intimate requests
made Machiavelli’s patron
of kingdoms and power—
denying her affection
ignored orphan grief
faceless whore
Degas girl
standing opposite interior door
one and only shiny-dry tears
rumored pregnant
sickly green as cheese
and wormy holes
orbiting box seat witness—
blowing each other up
Y2K torn
poisoning all things breathing
riotous and selfish
planet train wreck—
embarrassed to call your name
…do dance in your dust, dear moon
elegant light
no other can match
in mood—
flood me with your beam
and I will name you tonight
and marry you
and honeymoon till
the last of me is spent
April 19, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
(this goes without saying)
Mendelssohn flashback
preamble dimmer switch
wafting windrow
strings
hours woods
roll up the swather
this is the end of Genesis
where petals
chariot vested
Greek Gods in chlorophyll
descending paths in history to eclipse
wonders of the whips
in time
abandoned great walls, feats of stone
looming towers
languages
disconnected
discovered lost desired
reconnected
inherited
transitory gold between green and brown
bronze Amish fashion
fascinating
heavy
blue stitch velour
Coco couture
on bleached wicked tears
stung lips of lovers
one to the other,
symbiotic recycled
chaff chafed sway
as a name slipped past (and under)
the falling curtain of the day
* * * * *
analyzed, devised strictly
hubris and haughty, the head
has left the body
too desperate to see
the coming freeze
an end to balmy lotions and cheated days
she sleeps cool
to the touch
in xanthophylls
(waiting for a kiss)
atoning for nothing
head lights
power seats and steroid grocery stores
today, they’ll be in paradise
* * * * *
one shiny dry tear
pregnant
sickly green
wormy with holes
box seat anthocyan drama
(selfish) planet train
wreck
tragedy is man’s doing
(and undoing)
what would an earthquake be?
a scythe is named among Virgos to go even
unto death
that which makes the swing
knows the moon
presiding a flame
on redoubts where men doubtless writhe
glorious ribbons, patches,
pins
genuflect death
calling ghostly families
and swallowing for home
transfixed view of heaven
lit up astro-smiles
in a trail of tiles and solid fuel
semi-private room
divider set sheers
and lots drawn
late between shifts
past visiting hours
tanning bed
timer luminous flux
* * * * *
there are too many trees on TV
and working honey bees to break the spell
of cataracts
and a lover’s smell
a wedding dress by Nike
swans and ice cream cones
standing
brain-frozen and sticky-handed
in the grimy air that is embarrassment
and Lohengren
glow sticks bounce in the night
woven by ecstatic breath
dilated majorette
black lit techno band
spun spectral planchette language
permanent protection tan
flax scent strong Wicca
orange chill Sleepy Hollow dinner parties
and the chase of the gilded nye
* * * * *
the purged orchard falls
vines stare
vacant
the roots withdraw the battlefield
saw across the wall
in cyber malls
where the last child played under street lights
is dead to the .wav
of SimCity
Instant Messenger eulogy—
ersatzman sez:
😦
and then u and then they
and then he goes
and then they and then he
and then she and then im
and then she and then he
and then i go and then she
goes and they all
and he goes and u go and im all
was sed wat sed i sed
wat sed i herd wat sed
u herd wat sed
he sed she sed they sed
i sed wat they sed :-)lol
we will be talking of this meme
this evolution in carotene air polluted fashion blather
narrow skies
(carrier) pigeons, did Carthage fly?
gravid season pain Apgar shaman waits
for the coroner of civilization
to procreate
grist for the mill
low rated
telethons in mythologies
nearshore carapaces
boarding selective societies
exacting a garish charge to see the stars
and the moon will be ten dollars (with photo ID)
she is pale, bland, and sad
sees the grindstone sweep
glial cell dust on mistral winds
and apathy will dismiss it all
like the grasshopper did
ignoring his haul
instead playing all summer
and through the fall
where his dignity slipped
and he ate up the ants that winter
for dinner
April 18, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
inside green, slanted, fold
the brightness slivered
dimension-able bottomless tower
bold candles of life swim
waterless buoyed by pre-life
half-sphere, post-past
a muted singer, undeveloped
shuffle planned…
as it goes, or beforehand?
a secret unknown, how?
a mark invisible, why?
a space existing soon, when?
the analog of candlelight
April 17, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
it won’t take much
for the fence posts
to fall
and the rails
to become
no more than
speed bumps
beneath the longhorn
and raging hooves
yet she stands
as ever
without
a second thought
and the weather
doesn’t notice
the frailty
in its path
April 15, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
In one night,
One singular aberration
Decides my whole life and the dressing of it.
In one night,
One solitary rumination
Wakes me to incarnation that is tomorrow—
Of whom it will be,
How it will be,
And why it will be.
In one night,
I stake my life on a vision—
An eternity that is at hand.
In one night,
All I have is now,
And the precognition of it.
In one night,
I die a thousand and one
Times in pitch black sweat.
In one night,
I dream of mornings to come—
Of light and love.
In one night,
I am free of all calamity,
New me out of the old,
Fortune already told,
A grave not yet cold—
In one night.
April 14, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
Petals ride soft leaves
Greek Gods poised on chlorophyll
Chariots of Spring
April 14, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
Rhythm, a sequence in time repeated, featured in dance: an early moving picture demonstrates the waltz. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In hell, the days are different—
you have to wash cars
or shave shirts, etc.
The rhythm in crime waves
expels
a desiccant
a cheat
to thrill
and if one kills one,
who goes there?
And if one
just now fucks up
and dies
does mercy hide it?
Sex is rhythm too, so is
making love
and masturbation—
the pacification of
to and fro
of up
and down
and in and out.
My routine is rhythm and I
know me, and when it
stops, I stop too.
Hell has
no rhythm, you have to smoke
stars, or eat ribbon, etc.
The dog resting barrel-rolled
on the cool
covered
concrete
chest rises and
falls
a snort
and a little heart
beats.
A pour without
spilling
a slow dance
reciting the Pledge—
all rhythms.
The days are
different in hell,
the moon can’t clock them, what is
probably
missed most.
April 13, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
Falls of flower vines veil
The ceiling unobserved
Buried in their growth—
Call these the first revision
Elysian lath walls
The cool concrete floor
A square space softened LC4—
Composed revision two
Her figure blurs the white wash
Whose shadow looks back
For the moment to reveal
The convergence of patterns
She waits sacrificial for the flash
Or else temptation wrapt
Corporeal approach
The steel worn necklace warmed
Her foot braces the corner
Plain moulding divides her
She uses memory to loose
Her elevated legs
And the balanced leather glove
That is revision three
April 13, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
I saw a place that lived and died—
Where crows flew in the same constellation
As years before, and mothers
Collected mechanical memories
Fastened to rings and scarves,
While wives read letters and cursed their Gods.
Daughters and sons fixed buttons to holes,
And dogs reminisced on obedient scents—
Searching a final command
Amongst scattered stone cold masters.
Projected in my mind, the tactile
Rock and sweat, the muddy earth,
Mopped grass tufts and raked coal scuppers
Leaning two sides instead of four,
And a shaken tower facade
Shaping the broken landscape.
The tracks ended abruptly,
They fell in a swirl of weapons and fists,
Of boots and metal and markers.
Steamy rusted blood had waft its last
Across soggy open pitch
Where cemeteries claimed their place
Rising from the mire, plotted
Upon the wake of will and weapon.
Last April they washed them clean,
Hauling away men’s stones.
I watched the signs of fortification
Stir across the space with attrition,
Precision and blind religious faith—
Ten more feet by November
And every year is antebellum,
This place filled with holes
And roads piled high with bones
And ancient standards desecrated—
Time does not heal these.
I saw the murder flying through the pasty sky,
Felt the icy clay in my fists go numb,
And cold gauzy darkness overcome.
On my fixed horizon loomed Alcazar,
Built by Tantilian soldiers.
Three quarters is not enough
To save men’s souls,
Yet two more seasons at least were needed
To groom the boys as men.
April 12, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
Angular temperature
rigged into a point in time,
I see you but you
can’t see me. I have
opened a thermometer
and climbed into
the mercury. “I
climb in.” That should
tell you that it
was my dream, because
there is no future definition
of “climb” that is “in,”
and the mercury ate
me like mirrored lava.
I call this dream up
so I can watch the
Mungo family from Decatur
thrill themselves
with their own dreams
of an erotic razorback
gang-bang.
April 12, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
Large master
over the wedding, over the dances
presses me to do the right thing.
Which I thought was dancing
and craving the adoration of
the paparazzi.
No.
The Large master does not think so.
He wants my dancing to stop
right now.
So I slow down to just a move
or two.
He glares and I stop.
I’m not even really that good.
Why does he need to stop me?
He’s the Large master, not religion.
What does he care?
My moves must be getting good.
April 11, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
Packed for courses of aggravation and joy, watching the light’s command a go-cup band waltz
down cobbled gutter trims and walks. Viridian deco-glam adventure, fluttered chests all into
the heart of genius. A mass of movement like turnstile drain water, a postcard carrot, and life
savings from bed to bath to breakfast to camera to car to park.
Pictured rush of regret, the moment not lived but captured like birdwings high on acetate.
Elixir streams meaning as a separate thing, entwined, threaded, codified; reached out into
the underpinning, reconstituted, humidified, stretched. Dangled strands stripped and
lifted thumbprints along the edges with no end, magnificent pumpkin skin and tomato red,
so long as the machine can bend.
Heavy scented pulled greedy, masked waxed sorted and sold, the isle-way of captivation with
gangly appendage gossip eye last-last mile withers then rallies. Smell American breeze and
foaming agent floated six feet up, serpented determined lantern genie turning, communing as
one third of the Trinity, turning to taste backwardly from nose to mouth; a swallowed breath,
a filtered smile.
Chasing clumsy leaves with eyes, idol worship wishbone service a cart, a red vine, a metallic
pair of understandings, pleadings and beggings; a handout, a ride, anything—“just give me
your ears!” Backward walking, looking, blocking; too much is going on: the mountain,
the stream, the river, the caves, the witchcraft repeated. Don’t go solo for there is much to be
frantic for. Barely walking, reflections tying up the unwanted; let’s go.
So the pull and stretch continues forever; and folding too. A motor hum cannot be heard,
it is seen and therefore it is heard. It has been heard before, years ago, going just as slow
and monotonous. The racked sinewy syrup will never be the same again; the lust swells, saliva
pours like squeezed lemon juice, knowing nothing—no answer. There is no incense lit amongst
the mob, only joy like the lottery. Do not stop. Slow, but move onto still other treasures
and pleasures of the senses. Do not be alarmed walking in a crowd of strangers when every vessel
is an alien; not one familiar go-between, not one.
Pavement too, domineers; unrepentant, over again if he wills, “come with me up this hill!”
Then the birds like robots appear, not because they have arrived, but because they are seen
and heard. The verdigris trees they sing, sing, sing. Too spirited bebop wagon dragging
cowslips pitooty, laugh, laugh, laugh; my popcorn birdsong into other-worldly chorus like an
unchained gang. The overture quells them—where has the sweet seaside aroma gone? It has
de-threaded the skull and returns to the sky, along with sunshine, books and sounds.
The door closed unnoticed (it does this every 13 minutes every day, every year). Not being
enigmatic (the door), but the use of it over and over, and still without proper confections.
Is there any hope in spinning static? Better dreams were dreamt for this sweet sand. A cauldron
of dancing webs, and mystic wand hovered romances. Do not stop; despair, for there are
many pagans tithing for a taste of this algodon magic.
Half of the obsession is on the ground, stuck and fluttering like a wounded moth, wondering
where has the light gone. Concocted rush is more reflexive, it is unkind and untamed
as domesticated fealty at the trough nosing through a fare of ash can delights fueling that wafty
park air with its permanent sticky overuse. Overuse as in “never closed” like a theater’s sticky
floor; vaporized, imbedded in my clothes.
Stolen by fantasy, swallowed up in triglyceride heaven, wrist band moniker dismantled walls
not quite a nightmare, though the price kills me. Consider pyro stars and balloon planets
albatrossing across the walk and glow worm skies. Once you take it, where do you go with it?
What rainbow pot do you choose? Step forward in queue in a crushy atmosphere at nine.
The cool air can be seen just ahead; not really seen, but the reaction of those heading in can be
seen reaching noses toward the vents grinning and everyone goes quiet.
Humanity’s sea has organized a rip tide taking the light ones away across the terrace directly
toward oncoming experienced flocks of cigarette holders, snow cones, tarts, fanny packs,
lamp shades, tears, mustard stains, Altoids and liquor. Determined Coriolis of worn out well
wishers fainting on the tarmac, sending distress signals up skirts and into halls, fracturing
sound already in there.
Ringing leap from the beaten drum, hula hoop bubbles floating relentless through every
diaphragm, stopping; some make way. A savage sound excites the soul. Every island
abandons reverie to behold the intrusion like sky writing, “Surrender!” Every conscious being
sips the same cup, in the same boat, same cooked stew. Everyone listens, sameness,
no translation necessary. the edges of reality vanish with every wave, congregational
tunnel vision ears, augen, heart, clasped hands dissolve from grips; fatigue lifts
and a dazzle begins.
Euphoria blows a kiss, a favorite trade wind, a whisper of a mother to hear in the heart
the wonderful hug of breasts and shoulder rests. Harmony of smell, sound and memory-
played phosphenes and a smile. On marches a dale and floats, a mushroom at sea,
a banshee on rails; a symphony. Lively; speed of a funeral, drawn by imaginary majorettes
proposing to every face.
Behold the beaded windmill with silken paddles; Icarus dirigibles front the spectacle bouncing
and bounding, a unified gasp, so much so to slow. The tribe goes triumphant, a picket
of children holding hands sideways crossing.
Louder still the colors, the sounds, a thousand and one conversations in red, blue and yellow
smoke topped out and transfixed. There’s more— steam shovel arms streaming powerful
totem women flapping in Cheshire doubloons— a movable feast.
From hollow cloistered sound coaxed to toast the town; at first distant, directionless, then
mighty and heavenly as an opus. As each one drops, a new leaf grows.
An invisible dome of treasured sound awakens the mad creation; a wonderland and beyond.
The eye of the spectacle is nigh.
Red carpet tongue unfurled, studded, a crossing grate Eiger, vaunted spire; orgy.
Electoral feasts aqueous transmission impaled in glory, conductor of them all.
A cello roars a rubby moan up, then down, then back again.
Then a rowdy violin gives chase through slalom course.
The tail floats through on kite, rippled and graspless;
a signal for the mind to go home, a new moment alone;
first in xeriscapes wide of lost lesbian shores,
onanistic, vanished verse.
Then, out of sight.
April 10, 2013 | Categories: Poetry | Leave a comment
Anonymous Sarcophagus 