Saturday, January 30, 2010

the loving-9

they left a week ago. they left i am here brushing hair, i am here cleaning and picking up the slack that she has carried for so many years. i am here and it is just the beginning. she is still here most of the time. she is still talking to her birds in the morning. she is still saying her prayers from the little red prayer book tattered by years of use. she is still the coffee maker, 'well i need to make it just right or i won't be able to go to the bathroom...and besides you make it to strong, you make a whole pot...just a waste of it.'
she is the collection of talents that i am not. i the work horse out plowing fields. out delivering the mail while she raised the children and keep the budget. she is the veto machine to our constant requests for dinners out, for movies for new cars or whatever fancy turns our head.
i was fond to her looking the other way when one of the children would come back from the grocery store with me holding a small toy or record. i was fond of smelling my shirt when out in the elements delivering knowing earlier she had washed, folded and cared over it. so many things...
now i take to missteps. now i get focused on the storm coming that will wash her away. now i take trips to the grocery store and stop at the local tavern. now i drink and swerve my way home. i hope to ram a tree, i hope to get there before she slips like sand from my fingers. i hate the fog and i fear that i am too weak when standing there and she has forgotten most and she has begged to be suffocated that i will, i will or worse i won't.
i imagine the dark room. i imagine her gasping through tears calling out for me to stuff her mouth full of pillow, to strangle the air out of her. i imagine she calls to be pushed from the window or just rammed through by a knife. i imagine this, the love of my life, the one who was strong enough to carry all our wishes and deliver most and i fail.
while she takes her time with the birds i drift to gun training classes. i day dream of her learning how to function a small hand gun under the guise of protection but with one eye focused on that night coming.
for me it will always be the night. the holy hours of predawn morning. the post night night when in our silk summer pajama's she will say, 'it's time love,' and i will get the case. where she will whisper for me to leave. where she will run her manicured fingers across my cheek and kiss me full tongue one last time. where we will put on our song, the song we danced to at our wedding day and she will shoot herself. where she will stand up and make one final act for her family. the good servant until the end.
we talk politics, we talk about second cars or third honeymoons and sometimes i catch her looking over my shoulder and talking to somebody else. i turned at first but caught on soon enough, that it was the ghost of her mother calling her home. in moments of clarity she will say, 'thank god it wasn't my mother in law...ha' this angers me.
while she day dreams of birthdays and anniversary dates i drink, at first secreted into coffee but by mid afternoon it is more blatant in a rocks glass legs crossed like a man. debra will run her fingers through my hair and hum as if it doesn't bother her but i can see from the down turn of her mouth that it does. i am greedy. i want to share my pain, rub it in her face like a wronged teenage girl. i want to scream it in her face, 'you let me down, you did that.' but the air is already thick with my disappointment.
while drunk i thumb through our wedding albums, our early albums and get erections. i can't forget her beauty. i stare up from book to woman and am overcome with her beauty. i want to attack her, to make love to her, to start over and have another baby, have eighteen more years of health joy and christmas.
i can feel her eyes on me and when i look she is calling to me. there are her lips and they are pursed and they are pouting big ready to be kissed. when i look there is the sway of her hips in the blur of sunlight and drink. when i look there is her chest heaving and her eyes are clear. i rush to make it before it comes crashing back.
'i love you,' she will say.
we will make out and flop across the ground heaving and sighing and breaking small end tables.
'i love you,' i will say.
we will pinch, breath, lick and slop our way to the middle of the room. it is there on the throw rug we have owned for years with her eyes cleared she will say, 'who knows how long, who knows what's next so we got to fucking enjoy it what we i love you, an i love you my damn best friend and if i got to get this then i am glad i spent everything i had with you.'
'all great moments,' i say.
i don't care that we are old and barren there is love here. there is life here. i don't care that i am the man, the head of house then. she takes me, she holds me as i collapse to tears.
'shh, it will be alright, you'll see.'
and for that, just that one moment i will believe her true.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

the loving-8

you get bored, alone. you get tired of the waiting. you get to the point where you just want it over with so your memories are not stained to ruin.
can she hear our children's wail, as babes, because of tooth pain or frustration?
i watch her, watch birds, and wonder what is fading away. i watch her and wonder what has already disappeared.
she still hums and sings, we still make love and afterwards talk intimacies.
though as each day passes i wonder what has been checked off, thrown to the fire or swallowed by disease.
this is getting harder.
i have dreams of pills, nooses or toasters in water and try to push them away. i have dreams that it is contagious and i, too, am infected. i have dreams but mostly fears about this thing eating away at her and me alone with her. i do not know if i am strong enough, i do not know if i can love her all the way to the end.
it is the beginning and i am surrounded by mirrors and microscopes dissecting myself and exploring the woe in me.
i watch
i study
i suffer
i think of me me me.
debra the sacrifice. first to her husband, then to her home, then to her children and now to this. a woman is the pillar supporting the home and like most pillars spends her life being pissed on graffiti and leaned against.
debra i try to watch you. i try to study you. i try to lift you, support you and tend to you. i try but already the focus shifts to me how this will affect me and whether i can weasel out of the tough parts.
i try to trace her face, not trace but chisel into the granite of memory. i try to remember her strengths and beauty. try to take every available kiss and open hand. i try to love with the strength she loves us all but end up nervous and taxed like a spoiled child in the pew.
'it's okay, listen it's okay if you can't do this. it's okay, i know i am sick. it's okay if you can't handle this, if you can't take care of me. it's okay, i know it's hard. it's okay we will find away, this would be too much for most anyone. i understand.' she says.
we are in our bedroom. we are just returned from the doctor. we are fresh with the language of impending doom. we are inbetween spells. the afternoon whistle of the robin rings out the three o'clock hour. she is cross legged on the bed in her flowing black skirt and smart white top. she has loosed her hair, she has removed her shoes and lazily rotates one foot in the air. debra is young at the moment with her hands at her side lock armed and staring deep into the horizon as a warrior watching the path their enemy will take.
'it's okay, it's too much, it's okay i will be fine,' she says.
she is stoic filled to the brim with the fierceness, with the giant red blood pumping heart that i adore and admire. she is bathed in sunlight as i am overtaken to overtake her. it is while our granddaughter watches her movie and plays her video games that we made love, that we weep that we promise.
'in for a penny, in for a pound,' i say.
'i am scared.' she says.
'so am i.'
'i don't want to lose these things we love. i love you i love you i love you,' she moves close to say.
then, while holding each other, while i felt her body move with tears that i promise.
'i won't abandon you.'
'really, i won't be angry if...'
'i won't abandon you.' i say firmly.
it is in the silence, after the statement, with the muffled sounds of cartoons that i felt the cold chill across my back and arms. it was then it came whispering across the ether to my ears it's snake tongue and body slithering from some dark reaches...
not enough
i try to bat it away.
not enough
and as i feel her breath steam my skin. as i feel her lashes blink and butterfly kiss my skin...
not enough
as we lay at the foot of the mountain before us we share a thought. it is the moments that come often when people have been together long enough, like telepathy. i may not be able to lift that promise, but i'll try. i may not make it to the end, but i'll try. i am not her strength, but i'll try. i am not enough and already am thinking of how this all effects me, but i will fight, i will try and hopefully i will carve out enough space to think of her us we.
we lay.
we are silent.
we fear.
we pray to the muted sounds of a cartoon band.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

the loving-7

it was autumn when we were married. i don't need to photos to remember. debra wore a strapless long white dress, she wore a veil that flowed off the back of her head while her auburn hair was corralled in an up do. i was a mess from being single too long, we were 28.
everyone is asleep now. there is the sound of crickets and coyotes in the slow summer southern oregon night. it took a few years but she finally got me away from drinking and high calorie foods. i can recall her teary eyed reading about the male body type most conducive to heart attack.
'i am worried, you carry all your weight in the middle.' she would say.
'oh, so you think i am a pig?' i would half joke.
'oh no, oh no i think your perfect...' some tears 'and i love you so much i just don't want to lose you.'
'ah, you will be fine i want you to remarry.' i would say.
there would be a soft wheezing silence as she held her head in her hands. there would be the slight bob of her slender shoulders made beautiful in the light. there would be the passionate anger that would cause her to rise and walk towards the bedroom.
'you don't care.' she would toss over her shoulder.
there would be me left alone, stewing, staring at my reflection in the large bay window. my shoulders slightly slouched forward my back curved and a pout belly pressing against the fabric of the shirt. i would consider the television show, i would consider a drink, i would settle on the idea that your married and you have to go into the room lay beside her. i would settle on laying beside her and holding her about the waist as she growled and barked.
'i can't believe you,' she would say.
'a joke, joking c'mon.' i would giggle.
'this is no joke, i mean i would never remarry. would you?'
'it depends on how old i was.'
' i knew it, a man can not be alone.'
we would roll towards each other so our foreheads touching as i kept my grip about her waist.
'i spoil you,' she would say, 'you wouldn't know what it would know what i hope that when i die, god forbid, you do remarry so you can see how good you had it.' she would say and tuck her knees into her stomach.
it is quiet as i watch the moon through our skylight. it is quiet as i remember such things. it is quiet as i see addison stumble into the front room hair askew from sleep. she shuffles across the floor and make her way to my lap. she places her young head against my chest, stretches out her small legs, sighs and stares out the skylight to the moon with her young round face.
we remember our separate visions together. i hold her with one arm about the middle and rub her head with the other.
the great question of life on our minds, 'what's to come?'
as we sit i break the silence.
'our father who art in heaven, hallow be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven. give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us. lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil, for thin is thy power and glory of the father and the son and the holy spirit both now and ever for ages and ages, amen.'
i kiss addison on the top of the head. she lazily twists a cord on her pajamas. we stare up and out, there is not a cloud in the sky as the moon light tumbles down. soft, silent light that highlights our colors and makes us appear clean.
'if anything happened to you i would just die,' she would say knees tucked against her chest. ' i have to go first, i could not live without you. you'll be fine, men always find someone else another woman to take care of them.'
'let's not think of these things.'
'promise me that you will wait a little bit, so people will think you really loved me.' she said.
'i won't get remarried, after you there is nothing, when you go i am going. actually i have to go first, why do you think i am trying to have a heart attack?'
i smile at her until she smiles back.
'promise you'll try, it's just because i love you. i just got you, i don't want to lose you.'
'ok,ok,' i say, 'enough' and pull her close.
we make love.
it is good.

Monday, January 25, 2010

the loving-6

family is about the faith, the commitment and the healing. with this sickness poisoning her, family, is about the waiting. we will clean, we will have a watchful eye. the great regression in life. the returning to the innocence of a babe stumbling about and breaking things. hannah has been here a full day and she is already exhausted. i have no chance.
i watch debra while she combs her hair. there is sunlight here, it plays and slides about her silver locks causing them to sparkle, shimmer and shine. i watch her hands slow and tender to grasp strands of hair hold them away from her scalp and as she runs the brush through she allows them to drop fine into place. i watch as she hums and brushes smiling to the day her blouse pressed white and clean her slacks fine tight and black no shoes toe nails red drumming against the carpet. there is joy here. then it stops, like a record that skips or a faulty satellite signal her hand drops to the vanity as she studies her face then her hand then her arms sucking her teeth wondering where these band aids have come from.
i watch and stretch from the bed. i hear stirring as addison comes bowling ball down the hallway calling out 'good morning' on her way to the deck where she will have her breakfast and write her study of the morning birds.
it is the effect of youth that causes debra to say, 'oh, that wonderful child,' moving away form her mirror and making her way to the kitchen, 'you rest and i'll get the coffee ready.'
'oh no don't worry i am up, i am up let me do it, you watch the birds,' i wait a beat to see if she says it when she doesn't i add, 'hannah is here.'
the watcher he holds his breath, he waits for hope to come tumbling from her lips. debra pauses at the doorway, 'well what a great day,' she sings and moves down the hall.
we will lie, we will misconstrue the facts and we will consider this a success that she knew, the she smiled, that she remembered.
they say that this disease is an eraser. they say that it starts at the end and works it's way to the beginning. they don't know at what rate it is erasing, at what speed this black snake is swallowing her memories, all they say is that it is usually complete before the end.
life is always hurtling towards the end. as i stretch. as i move through my morning routine and toilet i consider the years we have had. i sit and break down the years to months the months to weeks and so forth until i get to this 15894144000.
the hourglass has turned. as the shower goes on in hannah's room, as debra and addison laugh
i reflect on what was and what's to come, while in some dark regions of my mind the clock it starts...

Friday, January 22, 2010

the loving-5

there is the doctor in his fresh white coat and striped tie. he is a athletic man, hair streaked silver and black rimmed glasses sitting on a gaunt elegant face. there is a buzzing in my ears as he speaks, i can not hear. i will not be allowed to hear the verdict. there is a belief that what you don't know can't hurt you. she is not what they say if i can not hear them say it. she does not have what they want me to hear if i am deaf to it. there is hope in the innocence of belief. there is hope in the naive.
i watch my daughter's eyes as they leak. i watch as she squeezes her mother's hand. i watch as she crumbles. she the tower of faith, our touchstone destroyed there is only me. there is only this deaf old man legs lazily crossed watching their lips move and refusing their prophecy.
i chose my lucky green shirt. this is the shirt i wore to all my children's births. this is the shirt that i wore whenever danger lurked. this is the shirt, on the day the boss called us in to inform us of lay off or keep on. it is beyond ironing, it rides up my arm when i extend my hand, three buttons are loose and one is gone. i sit below the clock stretching my left arm behind my wife and believing in miracles.
there is the slow heavy drop tic of the minute hand, there is the scribble of the doctor's hand and there is the acceptance. my daughter, my hannah, our love and our hope causes my heart to break when she takes it in. hannah the one who invited the devil to stay. who believed and made it true.
somewhere in the yard under the watchful eye of our cleaning lady is our granddaughter. addision somewhere bathed in light spinning slow ovals arms extended scraping petals off fresh spring bloom. somewhere healthy watching her grandma's birds and keeping track of their flight.
here there is debra. she is cigar store indian stiff. she is not paying particular attention. she is under attack and her defenses are down. i rub her shoulder, nothing. i watch hannah grasp her flat palmed hand and squeeze it white, nothing. i see the doctor with his pen light and finger before her eyes, nothing. somebody left the lights on before heading out for the night. somebody trying to keep the burglars away.
no use. no use. no use.
there are nurses and more time. there she goes beyond the door, there she goes down the hall hannah at her side. there she goes, and i am tired. i am beyond tired i look down and notice another button gone before i close my eyes.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

the loving-4

somethings move like a mudslide and some like a glacier. we held on until friday, we held on until our daughter was standing in the entryway. i held on until i saw her watching debra watching the birds chatter when she used to rush forward grasping, holding, hugging and kissing.
it causes me to drop. the anguish and weight of losing. my tears and gasps for air in time with the grandfather clocks tic toc. i hold my head i try to cover my eyes and mouth but it is for naught. the daughter moves to a hand on my shoulder, moves to hug and whispering. it is dark and warm in her embrace, feeling her love heavy and weighty with the strength of history. i shake and snort while she comforts and yet through this the focus is on the absence. i can hear her mind wondering why mom hasn't rushed to help. i can hear her wonder why mom has yet to say anything.
as the waves of wonder come upon her we double in need of comfort. her skin goose pimples with the chill of fear. my daughter, hannah moves her face that mirror image of her mother's on my shoulder so as to face her mom. i can hear her softly call out 'mom?'.
there is just our breath. there is no sound of movement yet.
granddaughter comes and we try to hide. we cough into our hands rub our eyes stand and talk of everyday things. she skips past, 'grandma', she calls and reaches for debra's hand. they hold each other in silence for a moment then debra turns and looks down, 'hey little darling these birds sure are something today,' she says.
'a lot of talking going on,' my granddaugther says.
debra looks over her should and sees us, red faced and wide teeth baring grins.
'looks like you two are sharing secrets,' she says.
debra glides across the floor and grasps her daughter, she holds, hugs and kisses her head and cheeks.
'so happy,' she says.
this time there is no effort to damn the water and emotion pours out of me, us three.
we are there for too little time then debra says, 'i'm going to make coffee and then we will sit down and you can tell us everything you have been up to.'
as she leaves i can feel hannah, her eyes and they are angry. she is crossing her arms, she is telling me in no certain terms am i to keep this from her again. she is going to her purse and calling her boss, she is taking week leave will work from her lap top.
'we will see the doctor on monday together,' she says.
i try to protest, i tell her it is nothing, a hangover from a bad cold but she will hear nothing of it. i tell her not to put her life on hold, to go home and i will call after the doctor but it is a weak protest and she demands to stay. as she goes into the spare bedroom to call her husband a wave comes over me a warm rush and it is gratitude.
debra hums in the kitchen, hannah comes out moves to her daughter 'hey sweets i have a surprise for you...we are going to stay for a week. what do you think?'
there is a shriek a spin and two tiny arms weight from the strength of the hug.
'coffees on,' says debra.
'well honey, our daughter, has some news for you,' i say.
'is that so? it better be good.'
'mom,' she says and takes her hand,'i have decided i needed a break and am going to stay with you for a week.'
debra gasps and pats her chest as tears come to her eyes, 'really, just a break for a break and not trouble?'
'oh mom, come on, just a break, just a break everything is fine.'
'happy day.'
we sip and chatter like the birds on the line outside.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

the loving-3

i won't leave her alone. we spend our time close but apart. i am the watcher, the overseer. while she stares out the window, while she runs her fingers against the bare fruit tree limbs or while she pushes a grocery cart through the store aisles there are always moments.
debra is a stunning woman. she was a dark brunette with olive skin and a slender hour glass frame. debra is a stunning beauty with her streaked gray hair, with her still slender frame and olive skin her eyes wide and doe like. she is a bargain hunter after a life on one income she can find the deal beyond the deal using coupon with clearance with end of quarter readjustments. debra is strong, honest and loving. a lion pacing the floor always aware always tendering to her cubs.
now is the time of our second act. now is the breeze through the reading room once kids bedroom. now is the long walks or the sailing trips. now is the dreams we had for all these things lay ruined.
the first time was the grocery store. she was gone for hours. can you imagine being struck dumb, alone pushing a cart full of food? when one is lost, you either scream for your guardian to find you to hold you make you feel secure or you follow the other people around.
debra, they told me, wandered about until the ice cream began to melt, to leave tracks atop the linoleum floor. they told me it was a mexican grandma who began to watch her, who began to follow her and who began to recognize the similarities to her husband.
i am watching the game when the phone rings.
it has been two hours and i have forgotten to worry.
they found our number on the check book. they tell me to come collect her. when i arrive she is sitting cross legged on a bench near the bathroom. she is beautiful there, like an immigrant innocent, confused trying to understand it all.
she sees me and squints as walk towards her. she sees me at first there is no flash of recognition. she sees me and keeps watching because i am smiling, because i am heading towards her. i try not to rush so as not to frighten her but i am scared. soon i am walking fast, soon i am running towards her. debra's body, my wife of thirty five years, her body goes tense when i hold her. she does not scream or fight but i can feel the muscles contract. i do not know what to make of it.
'i love you, are you okay?' i ask.
i hold her and breath through her hair, silver brown strands filling my mouth.
'what happened?' i want to know.
i grasp her tight her neck stiff against my shoulder. we are there for two minutes. she begins to loose, like cold clay slowly becoming more malleable. her arms begin to wrap about my waist her head finds a place on my shoulder.
'you...' she starts.
i am scared. i am grateful. i am lost for what to do so i begin to hum our wedding song and we dance.
the noise of this place fades. the rush of the wheels and feet mute. we spin in our small slow circle as i close my eyes hoping this was a one time thing. i close my eyes and try to force the word out of my mind. the old woman who watched her, the old woman who found her phone and check book to call. the old woman in her drab house dress and pulled tight silver hair. the weathered faced old mexican woman who did not blink when she talked of her husband. this old woman who said something i will not allow myself to say. not yet, not now not to us.
'i love you' i say as we spin.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

the loving-2

i can hear her. i. can feel her feet writhing through the blankets, toes battering against my calves and shins. debra uses her hands as battering rams against my arms and torso. i want to hold her through it all. i want to kiss her on the left cheek and whisper, 'all ok' into her ears. i want it to be ok, but she is going.
i tried once, when i was naive, to grab her to hold her, to try and soothe her. she screamed and launched herself from the bed. she muttered and spun towards the door but in the dark found a nightstand. she raced towards a freedom away from me only to trip only to moan and bleed in a tangled mass on the floor.
i never ask if she knows me. i don't want the answer. i know when the fog has settled in. debra has green eyes when clear and steel grey when confused. at night when she attacks, at night when she mutters and smashses against me i lay still, i absorb it, i try to slow my breath and become a ghost. try to become a piece of furniture that she can find some comfort in. she is old, we are old and tire easy.
i will sleep eventually. i will be rocked by her blows into sleep. the things we get used to, the things we accept by our loves or life partners. i will be rocked by my wife of thirty five years. i will be rocked until the fury is gone and we will sleep. her voice will still and her head will find my chest her breath painting my neck her saliva slowly staining my shirt. it is here in the quiet that i know love does not get sick just locked up and guarded abused but never killed.
down the hall in the heavy sleep of youth is our grand daughter. down the hall with thin limbs tangled in a hand made quilt she dreams. she is innocent. she has never waited or never noticed when she calls grandma to come. it is summer vacation and it is nearing it's end and i spend my time in prayer. i pray to god the storm will wait until she is home, back in school. i pray this summer is the great memories she will carry of grandma for life.
in the dark her head heavy and warm. i pray.

Friday, January 15, 2010

the loving

she was watching a show with her grandchild. her silver hair, once tucked behind her ear, lay lazily across her eyes. her steel blue eyes staring out into empty space. the child sat enveloped in the show in the dance of colors and song while her grandmother's left hand stroked her hair then stopped and stayed atop her auburn hair topped head.
the granddaughter is hungry, the granddaughter scoots from couch down the hall to the kitchen. she is going to make a peanut butter sandwich, she is going to make it with jelly and cut the corners off. the old lady, with her unblinking eyes and hand dropped next to her side is groping as to where she is.
i am here in the corner. i was reading the paper. i was listening to the sound of children's programming and feeling the sunshine against my cheek. i was peeking at the end of every paragraph to my wife. to the love of my life for the last forty five years. i know that something terrible is coming. i am slow to react, slow to accept, slow to invite in this new terrible future.
there is grandfather clock in the entrance. there is the sound of it's chimes ringing in the afternoon. it is summer in southern oregon.
she returns to her seat, against my wife, she returns with her sandwich and the jostle of youth against the skin causes my wife to restart, like a classic car. her fingers flex and arm jumps twice before returning to stroking her hair.
'isn't this just lovely?' she says to the television.
i return to my article but the safety is gone. i pray she holds until friday, until our daughter comes to collect her daughter. i hope she holds until monday when she will see her doctor. i hope she holds until we are both buried.
the pain we will must accept in the memories she will forget.
though i am behind, i make a promise. i will study, i will implement, i will repair.
there is a draft that causes her skin to goose pimple. there is an echo to the television. there is danger here. i loose focus, count my breath and try to will her hand to continue to stroke, her mouth to continue to smile her eyes to continue to stay clear but even from here you can see a slight twitch at the edge of her lips.
our granddaughter gasps and claps at the screen. she pushes herself from the couch and spins to the music, her sandwich flopping in the breeze. my wife claps and hums along throwing tender sideways glances at me. i fold the paper uncross my legs, lean forward and breath it all in.

the night.

Monday, January 11, 2010

1/11-the vomitorium

damn swordfish.
i closed my eyes at midnight after getting sucked in by this travolta movie...okay maybe the bottle of red wine did not help...okay let's be honest here, for a limited time i have all the movie channels at my disposal. so i started with gran torino which was very good, then this damn movie comes on another channel so i am hooked.
anyway here i am sleeping until four in the morning when my son starts crying. i discover that he wants to drink some milk. fine. after the milk all seemed good. ten minutes later he is crying again, this time it is teething.
teething is a terrible, seemingly endless torture. quick, run your fingers along your teeth and imagine that each one has to erupt from your gum, tear a hole in your gum line and slowly descend. worse than water boarding, i am sure.
thank god your brain does not start recording your life until three or four. so if anybody tells you they can remember things that happen to them at two, come on they are just flat out liars, like the person who knows who you are but tries to act like they don't or don't remember your name when you can see they clearly do. what the hell is that about?
so i am up at four, my son's teething wakes up his sister who wakes up the wife who has to feed the baby. so now, after all that it is almost six and while they have been asleep a good hour i am still here reading internet articles and getting that itch on your head and skin when you haven't gotten enough sleep.
i can't write anymore. there use to be a class, a real talent that rushed from somewhere deep inside and out the fingers. now i just slam the keys about, abusing them and sucking my teeth. there is too much that rushes forth drowns itself collapses thoughts into mud pools of fifteen ideas all drowning on one another.
i forget how to create proper sentences and paragraphs
i forget about words i should know, their meaning and use them in odd places. my sentences are to herky jerky, too long or abrupt. it seems the train i should have caught to fame and fortune has passed me by. now i work at the station as a bag checker and am slowly driven mad by the ideas i can not write.
you see it's a lot like cooking you have to practice. but long ago some lady kicked the shit out of me and salted the earth where my hopes grew. now i may be too old to go back and plow the sucker till the soil and try to bring back a healthy garden.
i curse my paycheck and house i curse at my flab belly and old man creaks i curse that i have no days off but when i do get a day off i curse everything i am around for the inability to fix it. the christmas tree is dying on the porch, what the hell i am supposed to do with that? i don't have the time to take it somewhere and i am sure the neighbors are gossiping about it, about how i use to mow the lawn and rake the leaves but now it lays in disrepair. i hear people and they say 'oh it's winter nobody expects you to do such things,' but i know they are lying. they don't want me to do it because it would put pressure on them to do something.
i should shop alone. i want final say. i want to go to bananna republic and buy a full new wardrobe but what the hell with only one day off and nowhere to go how much am i actually going to wear? secretly i want to always look good enough to have the option of finding a new woman. see that way it keeps her on her toes. she thinks other ladies are looking at me as a viable option then she won't go the way of frozen dinners and abstinence.
i am not happy with obama. i am not happy with the shit style of the health bill. it has no balls. i am not happy with the lack of jobs. if the republicans can find a half decent non lunatic to run i may be interested. i wish clinton would run. she has the guts to make a stand.
how can you send a bunch of young kids off to the mountains to die for something that isn't there? shame on him for that.
well it's not only national, portland should have a blood letting as well. i hear chris dudley is running for gov. really? come on. how can we vote for a guy to fix our problems when he couldn't solve his freethrow shooting?
thinking of the blazers let's get real. alderidge stinks for this team and is in a got's to go situation. pritchard built this team that has too many tires and not enough doors so he has to go. oden should demand a trade because the team can't keep his body healthy, and the fact that the training staff is still employed would bother me if i was a player. i should also add that c frye's success in phx is another reason pritchard should be let go.
think about this, if the oregon ducks would have gone undefeated they would still have been playing in the rosebowl against OSU. what does that mean? it means that kelly should only be measured by pac 10 titles. the winner and loser get the same check from the bowl commission and if there is no championship title chance than who cares if the ducks ever win a bowl game?
oh yeah, beaver fans should not be happy that their coach is happy with status quo. riley only has to make a bowl game to get a year added to his contract? that's redonkulous. i wonder if those low standards also apply to the admissions board?
as it moves towards 6 20 i am running out of steam.
i was so angry with fat rich white old suckers talking about the ownership of christianity that i made a shirt that strikes fear into the better than thou christian phoney sing along new age monster church bastards. i wear the shirt and feel vindicated by the power it exudes and the look on their jerk faces. eat it.
as my final flickers of anger burn out...
clear wireless sucks the big one.
peace out.

Friday, January 8, 2010

the comedian 5...

i use to work the graveyard shift at a gas station. graveyard is when the drunks come, the drugs come the shadows of human beings come. it was after i committed to wearing the bag but before i was fully committed to performing.

a joke
drunk: what happened to your face?
comedian: your girlfriends crotch.

there was always a police cruiser going by the station so fights would be quickly broken up. the fights themselves would always be blamed on the drunk or the doped up, who then were booked on a d.u.i.
the owner of the station was a semi rich asian. a first generation short man with hard slick black hair. he would rarely come around during my shift and if he did it was more to assure my well being than to watch over me.
this was during the summer when the nights were warm enough to stand all shift in. the burlap covering my face would cause the skin to sweat and burn. my uniform was of my choosing save the attendant work shirt which i wore over my pale blue suit. one must always be aware of what one is pursuing.
i remember my third open mic i heard a groan in the audience.

a joke
why are asians so good at math?
no r's.

it was afterward that i handed over my work shirt with a heavy heart. he knew it was a joke and not a true heartfelt position but there are just some bridges you can not uncross. i appreciated the help that mr. lu had given me and took the position that god's will be done.
it was late august and i was now left with only the comedian.
i am thinking of this outside the blue parrot. a traditional karaoke bar but a live mic and a stage is hard to come by so i take advantage.
'that was funny,' came a voice from behind me.
i turn and pause for a moment to readjust the sack. when i can see and breathe i discover wanda smiling back at me.
'that was funny. i had never heard margaritaville performed so blue. i never even knew he talked about current events or why dogs are angry.'
ah, i never saw you. sorry.
'no, it was good. you want to come in for a drink?'
boy that sounds great but i...
'c'mon i came with some friends from work. it will be fun.'
it does sound great, really...
'i'm buying.'
huh, well i can't turn that down.

a joke
what do you get when you drink five irish car bombs?
to drunk to know the answer.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

the comedian 4

a routine:

good evening ladies and gentlemen. well i am supposing that for you, for me it has been a shit evening. yes i have a sack covering my face. i dream of one day using a nice lace or silk head piece like those ladies in the middle east, but for now i am too poor and even this had to be fished from the dumpster. so now, my neighbors, think it funny to holler out, 'you stink like your act!' when i walk by.
i can't think anymore. i use to have long monologues about how the trees leaned or long meditations on the idea our always are always staring. matter of fact i was not able to sleep for three days because all i could think of was that my eyes were not shut just staring at the back of my eyelids. our body is fascinating. the constant things we forget. do you remember that you are breathing? or that your heart is pumping? or that even the prettiest girl you see has a place on her body where shit comes from? bizarre.
i use to have a lot of thoughts. i don't know if this is true with you, but now when i try to think all i hear are sports updates and television shows. someone screaming the president is failing the country is dying, someone screaming the last president failed and the country would have died saved the new guy.
when i try to imagine, i don't see aliens with huge faces and long pointy fingers waving hello from masterpiece spaceships before they blast off to whatever galaxy they come from. instead i see fat pigs sweating it out in the gym. i see a bunch of television actors in situations where they are all trying to be witty.
oh the life of the television show. we stand around like nothing bothers us and we out smirk each other while having a menial job that somehow pays a million dollars a year. that or we are every day in some unbearable drama our best friend has overdosed while screwing our spouse! or the neighborhood macho man has come to put my marriage in question while my husband suffers from cancer or my kid is handicapped.
the extremities of so called life, am i right?
i don't remember any of these things.
i can recall the bills come due and not having the money for that and food so i chose food and stuffed the bills until next month. i can recall the car not starting so my dad has to take the bus to work.
there are these magazine articles, newspaper articles and television reports about how television and movie stars are out of touch, how politicians are out of touch. well if your life is a fantasy and some point you begin to believe it.
i have always wondered about actors. i have always wondered if they are nothing. if they can become characters because there is no there there to stop the growth. is today's cinema star really a bore who can thrill you as spartacus because he has no character of his own to bleed through?
i think what it comes down to, right, like those jerks that come on and talk about the mysteries of religion as if they have the answers! ha! two thousand years and suddenly they were inspired with the truth that you can obtain in a book or movie series. this is is a side track but one moment. how can you trust anybody to lead you in faith that has so many material things? that has a church built of the finest things? a desert faith practice in the dirt seems a little whored out in the american palaces of more preached from two thousand dollar suits or sang from a twenty thousand dollar sound system.
off track and my time is running low, but what i think it comes down to is that life is survivable. it is not hard, it is not easy but just a disease we live with. go pursue your dreams or stay in your rut or do what ever there are no other answers but what your working on and if times seem to tough to bear pass gas, that always seems to make me laugh.
good night.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

the comedian 3

i spilled soup on my pants while working on a bit about grandparents. my blue performing slacks now have a line of white that looks like i visit jack booths. i have had an awful time of keeping this sack on my face. it slides to one side, making me appear lazy and disinterested. it covers my eyes so i can't see and run into things, the mouth hole closes so i almost suffocate and the causes me to sweat profusely.
my mother called to talk about this:
'how are you feeling?'
'you know there is a cold going around. are you wearing a scarf?'
'i sent one out, did you get it?'
'well don't complain to me if you get sick.'
'how are things going with ____?'
we decided to break up
'she was a nice girl.'
'when are you going to give me some grandchildren?'
here i can hear my father from the back ground.
'first he needs a job. then you get the woman, then you get the kids. nobody wants to commit to a bum.'
'harry, you shush, he has a job. he's a...what do you call it?'
'comedian, thank you.'
'a comedian? hah! now robin williams that is a comedian. a comedian? i never heard of a famous comedian living in portland. they all live in new york or los angeles.'
'well there can always be first one.'
'you know jerry is doing well selling insurance.'
'harry, he doesn't want to sell insurance, do you? but really, he is doing well. we could call over there. i saw he was driving a new s.u.v and you should see his wife, beautiful...'
it is about here i place the phone on the ground and pace my studio floor staring out at the city's downtown streets watching overcoats and umbrellas tread through weather to work.
i lay down and tongue the ruined spots of my mouth. i watch the light trace itself across the ceiling highlighting the water stains and dust. through the buzz of heater i can hear my mother go on, she is talking about my sister and her success in the film industry. she is talking about my brother and his awards from the banking industry. i hear of beautiful children and gorgeous new houses. then there is silence.
i pick up the receiver and can hear her breathing. it is the breath of someone trying not to reveal they are crying.
'i just want you to be happy.'
'i do not why you decided to do what you've done. my beautiful boy. i...'
'say goodbye darlene.'
'i love you honey.'
i hang up the receiver.

a joke
i have these two friends.

a joke
i have these two gay friends who told me they wanted to get married. i asked 'why?' to which they responded, 'because we want to be happy.'

when the light turns from sunlight to head lights i rise. i drink some water and head out. tonight is tuesday, it is open mic poetry night at the latern post. with the lack of comedy clubs i take my stage time where i can get it.

the latern post is full of fat broads in plaid shirts. it is filled with dark rimmed glasses, with pale and pasty huddled masses. there is no confidence amongst them. scattered about the tables they are tender and hold their journals slightly tilted, when they grab the mic. they are quiet for the first few lines and then move, emboldened, on fire with the idea of being the star. being the center of attention. in five minutes it is over, in five minutes they return to their chair, slightly different from the applause secretly waiting to be congratulated to be admired to feel powerful.
i am here and the bag over my head has to be adjusted. the stain on my pants stands out pointing to dark secret perversions. i am third in line. i can feel them watching me, i can hear some whisper wondering if it is a gimmick.
the gate keeper is a beard belly of a man. he has a pony tail and carries his poems in a 5x8 spiral notebook. he is always the first and last to go. he always talks of being young and wandering the forest.
after the host is a wisp of a girl. she looks more apparition. wanda, her of raven black hair, her of raven black clothes and eyeliner. she will smoke until her name is called. she will float through the crowd untouched or unable to be touched. she will talk about cutting, she will talk about meth and dispassion in sex.
i am next.

a poem
shit. i am on fire
the clown
with the bubbled skin.
think that's funny
you should have seen
the skin i use to be in.

i am sweating, blind and suffocating. choking my way through. tottering like a drunk.

a poem
i used my paycheck
on this monster of
a black broad
i tipped her half
her pay
and still
yet still i mean
she laughed
when i pulled out my sex
naked save the sack
on my face
say 'come get some.'
you can't win
i tell you

there is wanda. she is smoking outside as i leave. as i gasp the fresh air. as i lean against the light pole and adjust my sack.
'i liked it.'
'that second poem. i liked it.'
oh, thank you.
she uncrosses her leg. she rises from the curb tossing her cigarette in the street.
'you should be a comedian.'

Friday, January 1, 2010


alright you son of a bitch here we are. squaring each other up for the first time. i want no hassles or problems out of the box. i got me one of those head aches from sleeping on the top of a book and can't put up with your lip.
the last sucker that just left, he got me a few good shots to the stomach but overall we had a good time. there was more than our fair share of belly laughs. we are taking a year off so i don't want you going and making yourself the year of the newborn, save that for the next fellow.
now let's get this straight, we are going to make some big cash and go on a fancy trip to europe and then buy all them damn expensive clothes so when we come home we get to rub it in these poor bastarads faces.
let's get this straight, you can't whip me on the damn mail streets for much longer so you are going to go along with whatever i am pursuing and make it happen with very little trouble. i am going to buy a new damn car and extend this house so we look like we got the big bucks and everybody is whispering about how it all came together.
last year, that son of a bitch, had a lot of people buying lots of stuff and those jerks were walking around rubbing their materialism in my face. i don't give a damn about your junk but my wife wants good stuff and to show off, hey you should be able to show off when your the most beautiful woman around.
i think your going to be the agreeable sort that lets me get to LA and audition for extra roles in commercial and film. i am going to go there do disneyland with my family and audition in sunglasses.
after that we are going to see my old man in his new home in mexico where we travel to the sea and catch big fish.
your the year we get a hefty treasure and rub it in our friends and families faces. this is the year we don't feel obliged to go to church just because, hello, we are orthodox christian and you know you have to kind of walk what your talking. courage of your convictions.
listen i am not going to be the same dumb bastard that i was yesterday.
so welcome new year.
may we all be better at posing and have more than everybody else we know. and may we invite them over constantly to rub their faces in it!