rough drafts

The Butcher

2010-07-28T13:27:00.001-07:00

Colby brown hair was a standing there making her wish. Over grave where husband laid she promised 'soon'.
'soon I'll be right next to thee. Soon I'll lay between cold sheets eyes gone to dark from blue. Dead, get it?
'walter, walt, wall big cock dream purveyor. Love give orgasm planter of soil an singer of songs the preservation machine then we...dead!'
It's Tuesday and she's got a little brown journal. She got black slack. She got white chiffon top. She got eye swollen, tit sag, muffin top mother of 3. She got long hair messed ragged from love, life and marriage...drain draining drained.
She carries herself low now. Once tall and slender like a shadow. Now the fresh dirt, now no grass, now potted plants slumped dying. Life gone from it all, 'better their dead, better to sleep in.'

the ecstactic

2010-05-06T20:46:00.001-07:00

an i hear the voice out in the wilderness.

an i smell the wild locust an honey...

an it drifts from me. these wild things. an it drifts from me. an it ecohes out across the fake vinyl sidings of new mansions along old town poverty row whilst little black girls an little snot filled black boys play toss no parents in sight.

fast talker.

i can see her sex from three blocks away. i can see...i can just, well let me stop let me gather myself there is a job to do. my wedding ring is loose from weight loss from hard work pulling the plow. you can feel the hair on your arms rise when it is free and lying around. the hunter (though now trying to be good though now going home and praying though now starving it out through no television through no podcasts through no alcohol or fun at all) don't forget.

the silence is deafening

we are alone don't you know, if christian god wanted our company he would of allowed babel to be built. wouldn't live so long on the mountain top and most assuredly wouldn't of tried to drown us.

you see the silence, we are alone here. i can smell her through the black spandex yoga pant. hair pulled eye shades over face bent and wriggling for her weekly grocery.

my wife wag like that?

ah, you forget about time an all those tight spaces i squeeze myself out of.

it don't matter the weather. i never look back. it don't matter the phone call or nice letter darling, i never look back. leave those that are gone to the graveyard. abandoned the ship of i. we sail on. now when you catch a ride on the next machine an it don't perform like me that's the fate of a lack of faith.

i won't wink back.

i won't reach and pinch or help with the groceries only to be invited up and given fellatio.

won't do shit.

i got silence here. i got temptation of talk show.

i got candy and white flour.

i got these gray hairs.

there is not a cloud in sight.

you understand?

it passes in time. there is a wilderness here. every option at every moment. life like seeing all the snowflake patterns at once. hearing all the words at once. feeling everything at once. every possible option and outcome for every possible situation in one moment. the breath of god. the wilderness. every moment, every possible out come is playing out. somewhere somebody is pinching an ass through yoga pants.

an there there is a rainstorm. an maybe they are lovers.

in the ghetto, where i roam, there is only the bass drum. there is only the black bag booze. there is the over stuffed jeans and the savage pacing. the verbal explosions.

i will not pinch.

i will not speak.

i will think the lord's prayer.

will hope for belief will wait for converts.

i can imagine my wife on her knees a deep smile a deep ruby colored lipstick not heavily applied. the children are laughing using the things we afford from all my paid walking. cable is on. pot is on. i am almost home.

when i get in the car i will drive in silence, sunroof open not a cloud in the sky pass twelve men an hope at least seven wave hello.

maybe the phone will ring.

more stepping to go. she smelled of vanilla i breath deep and leave her behind.

4/19

2010-04-19T05:24:00.000-07:00

5 am i am going to put the last of the garbage into the can (though it shouldn't be called a can anymore since it's made out of plastic )...ahem, container. last night was a big win for those blazers and today was to begin the translating of a story from chicken scratch to blog but as i dropped the trash turned to settle into a reading typing marathon what did i see? a chicken! it's chicken head bopping about like a parent whose lost their child, 'hey you see them (bop)? you over here you see anything (bop)'.

i had no idea there were chicken in the neighborhood. so i stand at the fence feeling the oats of american freedom and industry. it seemed to me, that no where else in the world could one watch a chicken so early in the morning without fear of a dictator or a bombing or a taliban leader wondering about your dancing history.

did you ever see that documentary 'arab star' where the lady gets voted off and for her final song dances? after the song she is assaulted by a whisper campaign, rolling eyes and also death threats. this woman feels the heat of the boiling water and calls home to mommy and daddy begging to come back. her parents agree, but think that the heat of the water is too hot and would much rather stay away from them. their house get's graffiti-ed with the word 'whore' and all for a dance!

what kind of assholes are against dancing? and how does everybody go along with it?

in america i could be watching that chicken drinking like a dope, using my medical marijuana and doing the chicken. a very heady morning of celebration to our lady liberty and our great freedoms.

soon after the chicken comes a rumbling truck. an ambulance. it slowly grumbles down the street with a flood light reading the house numbers, not moving fast enough to be a real emergency headlights dimmed as if trying to be polite but ruining it all with the floodlight.

after the ambulance comes a fire truck. nobody is moving quickly save for the chicken. being unsure whether it's good manners to stick my nose into the scene i watch around the tree at the corner of my yard. i can't tell anything. something happens doors are opened the firetruck backs and leaves. the ambulance goes up the street maybe 120 feet stops has a discussion with somebody in a hooded sweatshirt. i assume the murderer now allowed to leave scot free because there was not enough evidence only to later be caught by portland csi who will find a snot bubble dried in her ear that has enough dna.

so enough. it still hasn't moved. i don't see any body screaming or crying none of the neighbors are rattling their blinds and i have to use the toilet. as i turn i think about the chicken. it seems confused about what to do, as well. so i throw a pine cone in it's direction, one must always be aware that freedom comes at a price. we both scatter to our homes.

update.

the ambulance finally has left.

i have decided to call one person a night. a new leaf in personal involvement hope i still have the white pages, though everybody has unlisted cell phone #'s now. random 10 digit dialing!

i am beginning to build apps for the iphone! go blazers! start story translating tomorrow or more off the cuffisims!

albertson

2010-04-08T05:42:00.000-07:00

i dropped dead after being struck on the head by a raccoon. it seems that, while i was nature hiking around mt. hood, an eagle grew tired of carrying it's heavy load and dropped it's dying lunch from it's talons. while studying the growth patterns of the blue pine a shadow grew over my head. i looked up, wondering if a thunder storm had moved in only to find a terrified teeth baring raccoon heading straight towards me. i ducked, covering my eyes and throat only to have it crash upon my head and start squealing gnashing and clawing about.

most men would have frozen up here but not i. back when i was 11 it was the pacific ocean and we were on a disneyland vacation. i rose from the water only to feel, what i thought, was a plastic bag on my head. it was no plastic bag but a giant three foot wide jelly fish. i coolly tossed him off and went about the business of evacuating my bladder while doing my best imitation of jesus christ and sprinting out of the water.

if you asked around and anyone told you that i screamed, well they are surely liars. what i did do was pull the animal from my scalp and toss him towards the woods. it was then that i turned, tripped over an overgrown log and tumbled off the side of the mountain.

i remember the fall but i do not remember the impact. if there was pain or embarrassment of any kind by soiling my fine hiking shorts or wooly socks i can not recall. what occurred was a falling, no screaming of any kind, then black and then i am here.

'where or what is this exactly?' you ask dear reader.

well we will start from here next time and begin, like inspectors with our fine magnifying glasses to figure it all out. for now, duty calls.

wml-2

2010-04-07T05:28:00.000-07:00

carol hampson was a tough nut to crack. she could not stand the idea of harold choosing his mustache. she was a plate thrower, a pure blood american woman. she could allow her husband his wolfman appetites so long as they were a team. 'damn you,' was a well worn carol hamspon phrase. she would damn harold for buying the wrong color curtain or working too many days and not spending more time with her.

my grandmother lover her husband. she was always presentable, hair combed, face washed and clothes were never sloppy. carol hampson would smile baring all her teeth, her cheeks would flush and her eyes would flash a spark when ever the thought of harold would cross her mind. she was a double armed squeeze hugger i can remember appearing on weekend or other school breaks to be swallowed in those arms before being presented with a snack or candy of some kind.

the hampson's followed the pattern of the wolfman before them. harold was very successful in the farming field but their true money was made in buying stocks just before the market was restored after the crash of 1920's. their home was massive and sat on hundreds of acres of land.

it should be stated that harold hampson, my grandfather, kept in his wallet a small collection of hair and on the entry way wall a large picture of himself sporting a large fluffy mustache. though i had only known him as clean shaven.

stories were whispered through the years about said mustache. one had it being an award winner of the highest grade, the other having it being the great devil of their relationship and almost the cause of it's ending. one could never be certain. carol hampson could put her foot down, and had left once whether he shaved and brought her back or she came back on her own accord you can't be sure but i am wagering on the former.

my grandmother was a great baker but either had a fantastic metabolisim or never ate more than a crumb of her cooking for she held her fighting weight all the way to her final moments. my grandfather, on the other hand, had a fine pot belly that would stand at attention and make a great empty barrel rattle when ever given a firm pat.

carol would always sit close to her husband and take his hand. he would never protest or refuse and it was the warmth of that love that caused not only their life but that of their children to prosper. she was a quick hot burn when sparked but never was anything but supportive when the full moon appeared and the hampson men would take to the fields howling and werewolfing about.

my strongest memory is during the summer night while the eldest hampson had his man paw across my shoulder. he was giving a dissertation on the most humane way to kill an animal. while listening i happened to glance over my should up at the house to see carol hampson in the window. she gave a thumbs up and a proud smile as i sank my teeth into the chicken's throat.

'oh damn we are going to get.' i heard my grandfather say.

'why?'

'prize chicken, old lady hampson gonna take a wack at us. best thing to do is to tell her straight away.'

so we rushed to the door. i took my seat on the floor before her and as we told her of my mistake i did not feel the blast of her anger, instead her hand scratched the back of head near my ear as she sighed, 'oh well, we all make mistakes.'

'what is this? are pigs flying? carold hampson gone soft? maybe i should regrow my mustache,' my grandfather said smiling.

'you regrow that mustache and see whose gone soft,' my grandmother said and the tension in her fingers reinforced that she meant it.

'well harold a man's got to know when he's been beat.'

the rest of the night was spent in front of them, as they sat close on the coach her hand wrapped about his man paw her other hand scratching my wolfman head as the insects chirped their insect gossip along the night air.

wml-1

2010-04-06T05:11:00.000-07:00

my grandfather was a son of the soil. his joys were found in the pushing of the plow and the farming of the land. a wise old owl he figured out that if you had animals of your own nobody would care what you did with them.

during the boom times harold hampson thrived, during the lean times he did better than survive, for we all have stomachs to bow before. harold hampson grew hemp, he grew corn and various other fruit, vegetable and nuts. besides a mighty strength, the wolfman, maintains a superior night vision and incurable case of insomia. thus, while the other farmers were sleeping or out dining with their wives harold was in his field weeding, picking or any of the other demands a farm could bring.

it must be stated that harold hampson life was not all light and joy. he battled with his first wife over the existence of his mustache. she pressed upon him the joys of a clean shaven life and he upon her of the joy of the calloused hands and the stroking of a fine plump mustache at the end of the working day.

carol would shoot back, 'a woman could do no worse than having to kiss such a furry beast hello every morning.'

harold hampson would go for the throat with, 'well the door locks from the inside and there is no guard at the gate. if your looking for a clean shaven man, i suggest, you start your adventure as soon as possible for women only have so many child bearing years.'

'how dare you,' was a terse response.

harold hampson sat at the dinner table sucking the juice and blood from his steak. carol hampson would stand, would tap her foot would await his apology that was not coming.

'you rotten so and so, it would be a scandal,' she said.

'the tide is always changing, even rocks can not last forever,' he would respond.

'love cannot speak to you, your heart has gone cold to this...mustache?'

they are silent. harold hampson leans in his chair, mind drifting from answer to answer. developing a way to ease her mind and fill her heart with light and joy. hampson was developing an apology closing his eyes to formulate the proper words.

the silence was almost perfect. to raise it up to the level of absolute harold hampson hand absent mindedly found the mustache and he began stroking the sides. while his mind drifted he moved from the thinking man to the sleeping man. he supposed it had been a light cat nap, but when he awoke he found the morning sun had returned and that the night had swallowed dera carol hampson.

'all good things must come to an end,' he thought and returned to stroking his mustache listening to the sounds of the farm come alive.

4/2 wml prelude

2010-04-05T05:14:00.000-07:00

i come from a long line of wolfman. the appropriate way to say, when talking of a group of us, is wolfman. there is no plural. we, wolfman, would appreciate if you could take this to heart. thank you in advance.

my great grandfater was a clock maker in london. i have never been to london so will not go into any great detail about cobble stone streets or terrible warm beer. as a matter of interest i have never been on an airplane for any great distance. i fear that a full moon could appear at any moment during such a long flight causing me to change and maybe eat the pilot. it was family lore that my great grandfather hid in the boiler snacking on mice and the loose negro attendant.

his name was harold hampson just as my father's name was harold hamson just as my name is harold hamson, the name goes down the family ladder as well as up all the way to the first harold hamson whose real pronunciation was whatever they translated harold hamson to. harold hamson the great grandfather to yours truly, appeared in new york and immediately felt the draw of the west. he would sit on a stone in the out lying lands and dream of what could be. he traced the moon light with his half man half wolf paw hands out over the expanse of tree to the black of the unmanned space.

though the forest and thousands of miles of land was not completely unattended was a fact based on your opinion of the indian. i, for one, have always believed in the equal standing and treatment of all humankind. why the atrocities faced by the red man and the negro would have sent me into a frenzy.

if you look through your history books, deep enough, you will find a hampson in the middle of every struggle for human rights. as wolfman of distinction and more than a little economic success we believe in giving back. not only for the christian ethic of our soul but also to repay the community, to reduce our guilt burden for the moments when our better angels have seceded from the body wolfman and we may have eaten the random orphan or working woman.

it should be noted, right up front, so no one can call your dear author a phony or a crafter of half truths, that wolfman maintain a constant struggle against their animal hearts. we are a community of aesthetics. we enjoy the arts and support them mightily. we enjoy reading on current events, political activity and taking part. yes, wolfman, come from a culture and familial history of interest and involvment. one could say that the ideals of the wolfman family have been coopted and applied by the most famous of american family. president kennedy would write to and on the rare opportunity visit with harold hampson to discuss matters of great national import.

it was a hampson that demanded the pursuit of the moon. it was the wolfman sent to cuba under the blanket of night to strong arm a young castro. why every president has been able to call a harold hampson a friend. this tradition was lost during the last two term president, who shall go nameless, that brought with him the witchcraft bastardization of american born again christianity.

for the last few years i have been hiding out, living in the portland oregon dreaming of the life to come. was this the end of the hampson life style? to go forward we must take time to reflect. there is more than a little to be gained by watching the river ala siddhartha and seeing where it might lead. when we have studied to our satisfaction we can then wade into it's deep waters of evolution and see what our history has for our future present in store.

as i sit on a stone in a small cave nestled in the bosom of mt. hood gnawing the femur of a fallen climber i return the western gaze of my grandfather from so long ago.

for whats to come we study what has been...

wml redo

2010-03-18T05:13:00.000-07:00

it was the mustache that sent me packing. while others in my age rage could only grow a small clipped banker style mustache i had the ability to grow the behemoth. it was raven in color and came past the edge of my nose. it was full and fluffy like the pillow in hookers bed. magnificent and well worth the price of admission, this mustache, was also my downfall.

it should be noted that, i am, a wolfman. i am a werewolf descended from a long line of werewolves. while most, now a days, are converted from the werewolf bite i was born to a fine pair of monsters in the late seventies. i was born to cynthia and hamsun strasse at st. luke hospital in boise idaho during the early hours of the first day of march. this was not a full moon.

not only was i descended from a long line of werewolves but also from a great tradition of mustachios. it was great great grandfather, walter strasse, who invented the ax handle mustache. he wrote in his diary on that day, 'dear diary, today has been one of fantastic discovery. while i was out chopping some lumber i happened upon a nest of bees. in previous encounters all would have been lost for, as you know, i am allergic to their sting and especially sensitive about the ends of my lips. as they launched their attacks i figured all to be lost, and what a way to go out! for you see i had developed quite a hideous looking rash on each side of my lips from eating too much raw meat. so, instead of looking like a monster, i had grown facial hair about each side of my mouth. now when i am laid to rest and they open the casket all will recoil in horror at my final state of dishevelment.

'just as i had begun to fear the final moments and hear the mighty roar of the bee army a most magnificent thing happened. it seems that the side growth on my mustache repelled their attacks. not just defending me from their terrible sting but almost cutting down their soliders like an ax to a tree. you see that while they strike against the face their stingers get lost in the hair, get tangled and removed leaving them buzzing away stingerless and dying.

'with this discovery i am, soon standing with confidence against their weaponry. i laugh in their tiny bug faces demanding to know if this is their best. if they have must continue their attacks them let them fail, let them die for their is no way to survive my ax handle mustache.'

with this entry, the strasse, went from a rather private quiet multimillion dollar family to boise's cultural champions and the first name of idaho's mustache society. it was this event that started the slow ball of fate to roll. it was this desire to foster the mustache, to study and perfect it, that has left me laying in the woods bleeding shot down by charlie simmons.

we will come to that in good time.

3/17 the wolf man lament

2010-03-17T05:08:00.000-07:00

it was a silver bullet through the night. that son of a bitch used a silencer, i should have known, when i heard the twig break, that rotten bastard charles j simmons was behind all this. that fat grey haired mess of a man. that sore loser. i should have known. as i lay here bleeding out, feeling my life sliding away my mind drifts back to the beginning.

my father was a whiskey drunk and my mother a wolf woman desperate for a baby. it was boise idaho during the go go seventies. it was boise during the window boom and, my father, was rolling in dough. he owned a seasonal weather window company. these were wood framed double paned windows of the highest class.

my father had a name, jack, and a physical beauty that could stop a woman in mid step. there were pleas from the crowd to run for office. there were many advances from woman, married or otherwise, on the job sites. some he accepted some were denied. my father was pro mustache and anti bell bottom. he would wear carpenter pants a many pocketed field shirt and a neckercheif. jack kept his hair well groomed, he was a tall athletic fellow with a wry sense of humor. he was a man who could stand out in anytime and the only thing that anchored him to this time, the seventies, was the side burns and car model.

juliette, was my mother. she was a wolf woman during the full moon and a model the rest of the time. she was tall and lean with chestnut hair. she would try to stick to a vegetarian diet but during the full moon found herself chewing whatever meat she could find. it was because of this that she stopped owning cats and leaving near farms.

my mother was beautiful. it was her beauty that kept the men at bay. no one dared ask her to the dance floor or out for a nice dinner because they were certain she was attached or just out of their league.

jack bumped into juliette during a st patricks celebration. he had ordered two irish car bombs, one for himself and the other for himself, and while backing away from the bar they met. they collided, is more accurate, causing the drinks in his right hand to slosh and almost spill.

there eyes met, there was a spark and from there they moved as if by providence.

'for you,' he shouted.

'to ireland,' she shouted.

'cheers,' they said and drank.

3/15 intermission

2010-03-15T05:18:00.000-07:00

the shepherd left the gate

gone savage

my sheep self

to the wolf grass

and temptations

gone to

stomach growls

to booze

a calling

to the whistle of

the all american

ruby red lips

that catch a heart afire

who to blame

out here baahing

sticking my nose where

it ought not to be

a preist can't have it

all

you know

cat call from the stage

'be good or be damned'

without responsibility

blame the sheep

or blame the shepherd

or leave it for

the judge

at the throne of heaven

i can't keep track of it all

my mind a mess

i push rocks

i push mail

i stare at things that

need to be fixed

if you don't want

you wont be

ashamed at what

you don't got

blame the shepherd

for rushing home

to his wife

and children

blame the sheep

for eyeing

the horizon

and thinking

what i want has got to be over

there

christ is coming

christ is here

chirst is looking for answers

any or all of the above

it is never any good

one must conclude

to take your eyes off

the floor

and wonder about more

than gnawing grass

__________

i have no reason

to write on this thing

my ear hurts

it is five thirty

and my teeth are

going bad.

no one told me how

poems go

why they rhyme

i don't stare at anything

par

ticular

but sometimes happy

children dance or laugh

in the recess of my mind

i can smell

idaho

on the breeze

i use to think i should

be a divorce lawyer

to the stars

i wish i could work

at a cubicle

and have no compulsion

to tug on strings

or imagine things

i watch my son

i watch my daughter

i watch my wife

good people

hope something is got

to pay off

right?

_____________

should be more honest

pray for

fallen leaves

and the evicted

milk men

things change

evolution

even us christians

can

acknowledge that

3/11-7

2010-03-12T05:12:00.000-08:00

she sits, she crosses her legs, she sucks her teeth and twists her hair. if she had gum she would pop it. her leg bounces on her knee. nervous. she hasn't brushed her teeth, this morning. she hasn't used the bathroom this morning. she just sits and waits for the other one to talk.

the other woman, the wife, is slumped in the tan rocking chair. her eyes are open but she is gone staring out through the window, down the road and over the horizon line.

she wants to be polite but sometimes you just have to pee. she HAS to pee. she stands up her clothes are young, short and tight. she has a sweatshirt that she doesn't want to wear but feels the need to put on. she wants to be polite, make a good impression if that makes sense. she was a good student. she made it to the city college and has begun to study business.

the other woman does not stir as she passes by her. as her body rubs against the wall with all the family photos. it is quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock. she had no where to go or she wouldn't be here. it is too late in the semester to get a dorm, besides there is no way her parents would pay for it now.

the porcelain is cold to her flesh. she has a job that barely covers her costs from home.

'now what?' she thinks.

this is a large house. she could live here, if they would let her.

'how they gonna let you live here? c'mon,' she thinks.

these are desperate times. her friends may let her crash for a few days, but couch hoping is no way to get through a pregnancy. there is no telling how long her dad will punish her. he was mad. m a d mad. she has images of his slumped to the couch crying. she has images of him banging the table. she has images of him throwing her clothes onto the ground. he did not care enough to pack them. it was her mother who came ten minutes later, it was her mother who suggested bringing the test strip and showing 'the father of this child what he has done,' and it was her mother who watched her eat one last sandwich while tussling her hair.

at first she left. after that sandwich she was gone, clothes left on the porch splayed casualties to the fire fight. later she returned and scene had been scrubbed clean. there was money. there was a note. there was no one around. there was nothing more to do.

the knock surprised her.

'honey, you hungry?' the voice was weak, tired, worn.

'yes, ma'am,' she said.

'listen, i do not know how we are, but we are going to make it through this thing. okay?' came the voice, her voice it cracked but did not break.

'...' she listened.

'we just got one ground rule, one rule between me and you.' she said.

'...'

'my husband, is my husband. we are not going to share him. this is my home and my family. now i know what you got growing. i know what you got in your life and i know his responsibility to that. but it was just one night. so before we move on we got to have an understanding that you are no longer interested in him, that you are not going to pursue him, that you are not going to make this mistake anymore,' she said her voice straining.

she is on the other side of the door waiting for her answer, face red, eyes wet, trying to hold back the fury that is boiling inside. trying to hold back tearing the door down and strangling her.

'if she says no, then it's over,' the wife thinks.

'if she says no then i gather the kids and we go,' the wife thinks.

'if she says no then i get the best lawyer, then i crush all these hopes and futures, then i tear that picture wall down,' she thinks.

'if she says no, what about my kids? you selfish little ____, do you know what you could do to my kids? they are innocent. they don't know better. their father their hero. do you know what you are going to to do to us?' she thinks.

'alright...' comes the voice.

there is a pause, but before the wife can push away from the door.

'i'm sorry. it won't happen again,' she says.

there is a silence.

'honey, you want a towel, you want your bag so you can shower?' the wife says.

'yes ma'am.'

the door opens. as the bag exchanges hands their fingers touch. there is a pain to it. their eyes meet there is a sadness there.

broken things can heal. just got to take some time.

'kids are going to be home soon. i got to make breakfast. it will be alright. if i don't break down and kill you. or kill him. ha, don't worry....hard, but alright,' the wife says and retreats to the kitchen.

the young girl turns on the water. she cries. the warm water feels good to her skin. with one hand she holds herself up while the other absentmindedly rubs her stomach.

3/10-6

2010-03-11T05:10:00.000-08:00

cold. the dew stains through her shirt causing the fabric to cling to skin. cold causing the hair on her harms to stand up. cold. she is feeling the rocks through the grass now. slowly her eyes fluter open. she wonders for a moment if it had been a dream. she wonders for a moment how she ended up out here instead of in their bed.

she is connected to something. there are heavy arms wrapped about her waist. she is pulled or cuddled close for warmth. he is wheezing, moaning and the dried blood about his face causes his nose to whistle. she pulls herself free. she stands. they are not far, few football fields away. she can see the top of the roof, she can see the chimney.

'let's go,' she says.

he opens his eyes and is startled. he tries to stand but loses balance.

'____", she thinks.

she will hold him. she will carry him. she decides.

he keeps his eyes closed.

all hard breath and sweat. all tight muscles clenched beneath the damp cloth.

'_____ together,' she says.

there is the sound of dogs barking. there are no cars. she has no watch to put the time. the only noise that is close to them is the sound of feet. two feet walking. one foot stepping and one foot dragging. beyond that, their breath then we must go further out to find more noise.

'why now?' she thought.

'why me?' she thought.

there were moments were she could have let him down. she could have dropped him into the ditch beside the road they were walking.

'it is not like i never had my opportunities,' she mutters her brown hair clinging to her sweaty brow. her clothes clinging to her skin. she is a mother, things will always be clinging to her, always leaning on her, always depending on her kindness for survival.

'there was ___, i should say, there is ___. he has been after me for awhile. maybe i should just do it. i mean what is this marriage now?' she says through clench teeth.

the moon does not rise or fall but loses it's importance as the star begins to appear. she begins to see the black of night lighten, the first hint of day erupting for the eastern soil.

'he is always at the coffee pot when i am there. he is always at the same lunch table or near the same tree. he keeps coming at me. what is that? i use to think the devil. i use to think this is the test, the temptation of a marriage. i shouldn't say use to. this is how i think. but now what? maybe he is a good man. maybe this is a life line to set me free. from this, from you. maybe. though you were a good man, well you are a good man. everyone has doubts. everyone has moments that test or push our character to it's limit. some fail. some fail but that, what does that mean? we've been in love, we've been sweet hearts, and we've trusted for so long. is it one mistake? is it an eye for an eye? is it the universe moving us apart so that i can actually find my true partner? what about the kids? we can't napalm their life. this life. this life is about their life now, as much as my freedom and joy.'

she can see the top floor. she can see the rocket curtains that decorate her children's room.

'everything is set in motion. everything is set up for this, for us. now what?' she bites her lip. his eyes are still closed, he is wheezing. he is leaning. he is drag footing but still she does not let go.

'it's about trust. it's about knowing i can whisper secrets to you and they won't get repeated. it's about mutual sacrifice. it's about sitting there on dead head nights and giggling over the television cuddled up. now what? i don't want our children to get sick, to put our heads together for a solution and think the idea you are giving me aren't just yours but yours and this new voice.'

the first floor is starting to rise from the bend on the road. she can see the windows all dark, save a corner, the living room where the television is on.

'i don't want to look like a fool. i don't want to say x and y are our family beliefs. i don't want to say to people i know, i work with, inlaws, anyone that our family is x and y that is who we represent. i don't want to trust that to you and find out it was a lie. find out you are running around town like a rogue with a whisper campaign that describes yourself as an independent agent. i have to trust you're a part of this thing. you're the husband and father that we are described as. trusted as...____ it's now that i am the fool. now i am some wounded sick thing. now i must be attended to. even if i move on. even if i go with ___ or never choose another man. people are going to walk on eggshells around me. some fragile thing that has been dealt a blow.'

they are on the porch.

'so with all things being equal. before all this i would not choose another man. before all this you were my soul mate. my one true love, father to my children hearer of my secrets and catcher of my tears. with this, i don't know. but the fact that i don't know means there is a chance, the fact that i don't know means you are still close enough to be considered. for my children. for that one chance. for that closeness, for that history i have to stay.'

she opens the door. there is a rush of heat. it feels good to be home. she sees her curled like a child on the coach, television light dancing over her eyelids, blanket pulled tight to her chin. she almost drops him. she almost vomits. steadies herself and helps him upstairs. she puts him in bed. she kisses his forehead.

there is a violent anger that swells but she white knuckles the door frame. but she takes a deep breath. it is not gone it is caged. she heads downstairs she has breakfast to make her kids will be home soon.

3/9-5

2010-03-09T05:18:00.000-08:00

saturday. he has a hard time seeing. he can't remember how he got back to his room, their room pictures of a family line the wall. pictures of a couple on the night stand. the night stand dark wood that he put together while she rubbed her pregnant belly so long ago. he moves through the sheets and everything hurts. he is alone.

there is the noise of voices. there is the sound of pans and dishes rattling. there is the stomp of feet. as the sun creeps through the blinds, as he tries to sit up but gets dizzy and has to lay down again he would like to think it was a nightmare but the pain tells him different. he fades out.

he wakes up to the sound of a car. he wakes to the sound of children laughing and running inside. he can trace their path as they move from the porch to the front room. as they move and call out to their mother. as they are greeted as they are held and whispered what happened. or a story of what could happen.

he has one eye swollen.

'____ so ____ stupid,' he says thinking about what he lost as he traces their wedding picture with a bent finger.

'dad,' they call. they move quick, they jump to the bed they hug him and he groans.

'careful,' he can hear a voice say.

there is a movement in his body towards vomit. the pain causes his vision to go white. he wants to hold them, to kiss them. he wants to feel the power of youth in his children. he wants to be loved and express love. 'careful,' comes the voice as he curls and moans.

they retreat.

there is the sound of the door closing. he looks, but is too late. there is only the folded upon itself white robe. the one with his name that she wears. it was a wedding gift. there is only the copper door knob that he fixed when they moved in. he can remember kneeling before it screwdriver in hand.

'what's next?' he thought as he unscrewed the knob. as he held the piece in his hand staring into the hole looking for what could be a problem.

she was there, at the edge of the bed, long auburn hair then. she was there indian style on the bed watching with baited breath. she was full of victory kisses. she was full of victory hugs. she was full of love to dispense on him, just waiting for him to give her a chance.

'what is going on?' he wonders the drifts to black.

he wakes up to the sound of laughter. he wakes up to find a dish with a sandwich and water on the night stand. he wakes up and has to use the toilet. it is slow but he moves. it is tear inducinng painful but he stands. he holds the wall like a drunk and teeters sliding across the floor. he braces himself for a few steps. he moves forward gaining balance. going from touching the wall to standing on his own. he sucks his teeth and groans but makes it across the floor to the tiled bathroom.

he does not want to see the mirror so looks straight ahead. he wants to focus on the grey wall. he wants to focus on the deep brown shower curtain. he wants to turn his attention to the tissue box atop the toilet. he is successful but for a split instant, out of the corner of his eye when he can see the purple, the red, the black and the blue. it is glimpse, it is swollen it runs down his face spilling across his chest across his arms down to his legs.

he holds himself as he urinates. he sighs. tears come and he has to use his free hand to prop himself up. he palms the wall openly weeping.

there is the noise of family down stairs and as the day fades towards the night he wobbles back to the bed. as the day fades to night and he can hear the clink of dinnerware he chews a bit of the turkey sandwich, drinks a bit of from the water glass sucks the snot through his nose and rubs his tearing eyes.

as the day fades to the night he leans back. he groans. he listens for a hint at what has become. he listens for anger or violence. children are laughing the television flicks on and as he fades he wonders what he has done.

he wonders what is to come.

somebody laughs. he is back to sleep.

3/8-4

2010-03-08T05:05:00.000-08:00

it's the crunch of feet on grass. it's the crunch of face on grass. he don't talk out of the car. he don't say nothing but make low guttural noises. he sound like an animal on the attack. a wild thing crushing this man to the ground.

stomp stomp stomp goes his foot to the man's face.

his wife, the walker, the one in anger, the one with sick built up in her stomach. his wife the offended party. she sobs and screams for his safety. she wails into the night air. she jumps the jumper landing on his back. this under the starry wide open night. there is the orchestra of bugs and other domestic creatures cooing, crying and trying to find romance. the moon is full, the moon is casting an unwavering eye upon them recording their deeds for some future playback to some future judge.

he screams under the wailing. he knows it has come home to roost. he thinks of her, he thinks of his wife the witness. he can hear her screaming as she is thrown from him. he can hear her scream as the other woman attacks. he can hear a small child crying. he can hear 'go back to the car,' being shouted. mostly he can feel the attack.

'i didn't know,' she says uncontrollably sobbing.

'daughter,' the other woman cries and slaps and pushes.

'i thought he was a good man,' she says and falls to her knees.

i...he was a good man,' she says.

'good man,' she says.

the other collapses next to her. the are mixing in tears as grass stains clothes. rolling sobbing and holding one another.

'she's a good girl.' she says.

'my girl,' she says.

'no!' comes the verdict from the man. he is heaving, he is full of sweat causing dirty blonde hair to stick to his forehead. his glasses are askew and his shirt has come un-tucked exposing a plump purpling middle age belly. he is holding down the guilty. he is staring at the women, there is snot and spit dripping from his face. gape mouthed gasping for breath. the other man barely registering, barely conscious.

there is silence now, save for the heaving, moaning and crying of a child.

'you want her, you want to act like the man to my child? you want to get her drunk? you want to rape her? you want to get her pregnant? you want those things or take the risk for those things? then you get her, she's yours and if you do not keep her, if you do not help her through this life i will press charges. i will make it ugly and take your job. i will come back with a gun and shoot you dead right in front of your wife and children.'

he takes a moment, he stares them all until they blink. he points to the wife and then to the man. the man in a heap on the ground.

'that was my daughter, she was a good girl,' he says, 'i am not right, i will never be again.' he says, 'i don't talk to threat, or talk to hear my tongue flop. what i say is a promise. jail or the threat don't mean ____ to me.' he says.

the wife of this man starts to cry.

'honey, listen now, this ain't good bye. you see you got our daughter, you took her like a thief. you didn't ask permission. you did not come to me and say, 'larry i am in love with your little girl and would appreciate your permission to date her,' you did not say those things. you just snuck in like a fox in a hen house. it's going to take time. you got our daughter. you got our first grandchild. you two, you two are going to have to work to get back into our good graces. you two are going to have to work to help us get over this. to get to the thanksgiving table. to get to the delivery room. my wife there she wants a grandchild real bad. she wants to spoil that thing. i can't lie, i do too, i do too.'

they are watching him. the wife clasps her hands together at her chest when the grand child is mentioned. she lets her tears fall and can't keep a smile from her face.

'we are not happy how this happened. but if you are a man, if you can take on your responsibilities then maybe we can heal. that's what families do, right, we heal and get tighter, tougher from our scabs and the scars they leave.'

the man rises. he takes his wife's hand and pulls her up. 'good night,' she says. they move towards the car. he places her in the back and she holds the crying child. she moves her mouth towards his cheek and ear comforting him with kisses and words. the man pops the trunk so the lid blocks the window view. he reaches in and takes out a long black double barrel shotgun. 'this is what i'll use,' he says, 'good night.'

he places the gun into the trunk, closes the lid. the car makes a squeak from the shock as he sits into the front seat. as suddenly as they arrived they had gone.

the wife in a bath of moonlight and red brake light makes her way to her husband. he is curled, broken and moaning. she moves towards his cheek and ear comforting him with kisses and words. they lay, they fall to sleep comforted by the orchestra of wild things, some songs of joy and others songs for the dead and loved ones that left home never to return.

surely there are bug wives widowed from war. widowed from the unforseen torture of the magnifying glass, eagle beak or inadvertent shoe fall.

surely there are bug wives who cursed their husbands for their failures. surely they can watch this and understand, sympathize and maybe bend a note their way. surely seeing her holding him until they sleep her hand brown red from dried blood her face tear tracked and her body curled against him until they look like a crescent moon reflected on a rippled pond, they could understand. right?

3/5-3

2010-03-05T06:21:00.000-08:00

'hello.'

'...'

she rattles doors, she rattles pans as night is cast across the floor through the windows filling the spaces consuming the light. alone to the kitchen. alone to the fridge it's bulb cutting through laying an equal lateral triangle of yellow. pulling the cover exposing feet, eyes and floor. she moves in. face first lifting foil, rattling ketchup, knocking milk bottles searching like a child for her mother's left over.

she looks, she walks, he follows all three hunting down a piece to fill this new gaping need. what to do? what to do? what to do? they could think.

she is the lead dog. she is the front man. she is far enough to feel independent yet still hear his foot fall on gravel track.

'where we going?' she thinks.

'all this, all this is got to go?' she thinks.

'if your good, a good man can you make mistakes?' she thinks.

'we are in love, we are in marriage, we are in parents. can we survive?' she thinks.

'why do i got to leave?' she thinks.

he is not trying to catch her. as the night falls he keeps his distance. he does not pick up the pace. he does not try to calm her down. he does not try to think of the where the finish line lay.

'why?' he thinks.

'i got all this. i got all this...' he thinks but pushes it away.

they are closer. there minds move in union from years of marriage. if it was allowed he could think of hope. if it was allowed he could think of her and how she will stop and hold him. if it were acceptable he would hold her he would kiss her and he would cut his vein to bleed out the poison of this act. for now he will follow hold his breath and wait for whats to come.

'a pbj it is.' she says to the air. she is still a child. the weight is not on her. there is a lump to be feed in her stomach. there is a lump to be rubbed and sung to. she has been orphaned by her actions. good girls are not allowed mistakes.

her father was a salesman. is a pusher of cars. her mother makes knick knacks to be placed on the kitchen tables. they like the news. they like gin rummy. they like to whisper in the dark about the problems or gossip of others. they were not happy to hear the whispers return about them.

she has a young brother who will cry for a while. they were good friends. he would bring homework in, mostly math, that they would sit and chew pens while completing and then they would talk about a future to come. he is young, he is innocent, he is to fresh to know that he shouldn't share everything with everyone. so he told his father and his mother as if they had known. so he had watched as they roared and tore at their breasts. so he watched as they shuffled through garbage and drawers. so he watched as they packed her clothes into a duffel bag. so he watched as they placed a small plastic stick in the pocket lay open from lack of a zipper. so he watched as they put it on the front porch with a small white envelope containing twelve hundred dollars and a folded yellow note. so he followed as they packed him and drove him away.

'pbj it is,' she says. she moves through the dark to the couch. she will curl her legs up and place the plate on her knee. she will hold the sandwich with one hand, with the other she will manipulate the control until it lands on some reality show about people trying to room together, trying to stay drunk all the time and trying not to murder each other or step on the other's fabulousness. the glow of the television will highlight her smile.

she has stopped. there is a cross roads. she has stopped her head tilted towards the moon, her chest heaves , she screams and falls to her knees. she pounds the dirt. he is beside her. he is stroking her hair, she does not stop him. she does not curse him. their forms are alighted by moonbeams. far away with a telescope we can see her mouth moving. we can see her mouth move and form the words, '____ ______ together.'

he is nodding shaking the tears from his cheek.a car unwittingly passes by, save for the little boy whose face is pressed against the window. inside the car the boy knocks. inside the car the sound catches the drivers attention. the driver looks into the rear view. in the rear view he sees a man that looks familiar. suddenly the couple on the road is bathed in the red light of brakes. suddenly a driver pounds the steering wheel. the moon light that covers them is more yellow when compared the to the white of this new man's rage.

an we all think of whats to come.

3/4-2

2010-03-04T06:11:00.000-08:00

it's quiet while she's down. passed out, placed on coach.

'while i'm sick, i'm no monster,' said the wife.

they are at the kitchen table. they are waiting for a relative to come. they will meet them at the top stair and watch the children go. the adults will know, but act joyous. laugh, smile, ask of the day, the relative, the brother in law will want to strangle him. the brother in law, blonde, six feet eight inches coiled and ready to attack. he will look for a sign in her eyes. he will look and see nothing feeling a break in his heart. when he gets home, when the children are consumed with dinner or playtime with their cousins, he will sneak away and finds things to squeeze, to hit and to break.

they will sit on the porch rail after the waving is done. they will sit until the car is gone past the horizon lines and she will strike. she will slap the face. she will slap the face. she will punch the chest. she will not scream, she does not want to wake her. she will curse and spit. she will slap the face. finally, with tear and heavy breath she will want to know all.

he has been quiet. he has been wiping tears. he has been filled with the wrecking ball watching it flash and destroy everything inside him. he will imagine the emptiness of the one room apartment that she will cast him to. he will be alone, trapped by mistake to a life aborted.

'i don't want to tell,' he will whisper.

'____ you.' she will say.

there is silence as she paces, as she pauses, as she cries thumps her breast and attacks. the absorbing machine, he will take it all. he does not want to talk, to reveal, to remember and to support that it happened.

he does not want to give word, breath and life to that night. he wants to forget. she is laying on the coach. she is so young. she has pulled a pillow to her chest. she has on track pants and a highschool sweatshirt. she has on all white sneakers. she has on little make up so you can see her age plain.

he does not want to give this life.

his wife is holding her chin. she is pale and looking down. he follows her gaze. it is a duffel bag. it is a green duffel bag. it has the logo of the school with a picture of the mascot. there is a side pocket. there is no zipper on the side. no security and no protection, so that the pocket lay loose open like a drunks mouth. hanging from those lips is a thin plastic white stick. from here it is obvious. from here he can see and lose his breath. from here he watches his wife tilt her head towards the roof, tear stained cheeks mouth agape calling for voice but hearing nothing.

two purple lines. pregnant.

there is an earthquake inside buildings shaken windows blown power lines going down. his wife begins down the stairs, begins walking down the street leading north. he begins walking down the stairs, down the street heading north. he is behind her, he will not catch up, will not know how long they are going to go. it is sunset.

when they are out of sight, she stirs, she awakens. once again she finds herself alone.

3/3-1

2010-03-03T05:30:00.000-08:00

is a plain. is the dirt road cut through cow pasture. cut through knee high grass. cut through the cow farm, the bad lands, the home of the long horizon lines. is a white house, farm house, long empty porch save for rocking chair, save for wind chime, save for young girl in brown dress, drab dress humble to her body.

sun is going. the shadows long some stretch skinny some grow rich and fat fill the place as she stand there, as she knock there. she got long hair, raven black unmoved by springtime breeze. she got chestnut eyes wide like a horse. she got thin long arms, sweet milk white skin and a plump stomach. she got a baby in there. she got a child on the way. she got her nostrils open waiting for the door to open waiting to make her demands.

there is a kitchen table with fruit in the middle. there is a home kept by a woman. there are some toys and other play things there. children's fingerprints are all over the place. there is a television that could be on at any moment.

a family home.

is the family home, she wonders aloud. she will rub her stomach. she will inhale deep deep DEEP. she will make her way across the porch and peekaboo the inside. there is darkness. there is one car, a sedan. it could be wife, but you never know. she could be napping, what to say what would you say to her to that about this.

not my fault, thinks the girl.

she is young. she is 19 at the most. she was cheer leader. she was top of the pyramid at the football games. he was not a football player now, but was a star so many years ago. he was fit, young and excited in his youth. he is middle aged now. he is lost to the savages of monotony. he takes to wearing button downs. he takes to wearing slacks over blue jeans. he keeps his shirt top one button undone. he watches things with hungry desperate eyes. he has brown hair that rarely gets combed. he loves his wife.

he never meant for this to happen. he did say.

he loves his wife and family. he did say.

he just got to damn drunk and what is the problem with him anyway. he did say.

a good man. is the town's opinion.

he is a teacher of english. he carries a leather saddlebag. he talks fast and get's excited about the ideas of stories. there are so many angles and opinions. so many inlets and roads out of him that he is a multifaceted man.

should not have done that. he would think to himself.

life was slow, you just get desperate for action, for change. he would think to himself.

she is young. she will move on. she will find her forever love and everything will be fine, stay quiet life can go on. he would think to himself.

she can hear footsteps now. the are coming behind her. there is a a cacophony of family sound coming behind her. she gets cold, she sweats and grips her duffle bag. she does not want to turn. she does not want to turn. she DOES NOT want to turn. but there is the word.

hello goes the wife.

the family stops, the family stands at the bottom of the stairs. the older woman sees. she sees the lump, the bump, the flush the tears. she knows. as pieces of her infrastructure begin to collapse. as power lines begin to snap she knows.

the quiet shower. she thinks

the distance. she thinks.

the nights where he stood quiet watching the moon hang. she thinks.

her free hand will go to her children. he is behind her. she can hear his breath stop. she can her his feet shuffle with shame. she grips her children close. too much to bear.

hello. goes the girl and she breaks. there are tears. there is no one there to catch her as the knees buckle. she goes to knee then instincts brace her body slowly lowering to her back to protect the precious cargo. she will lay staring at the white of the porch over hang. she will lay as they are still. she will lay thinking what have i done here? she will lay and let the shadows over take her. she will lay fade to black unknowing whats to come.

the losing 8

2010-03-02T05:10:00.000-08:00

we don't talk in the car on the way to the meeting. we hadn't talked since i returned home from work. she wanted to know about a stain on my chest pocket. she wanted to know how, 'if you sat in the car for lunch you couldn't hear the phone?' she has lots of questions.

i am angry but i did not refuse to go. i am angry and in the past i would have gone to the phone and canceled the baby sitter. i am angry that she has questions, that she wants to know as if i am untrustworthy. there is a clock on the wall, we have thirty minutes before we have to leave. i go silent, i shake my head from side to side. she is wearing her purple blouse and dark denim pants, each clinging to her, accenting the body. she is young, thin and at the moment receiving the silent treatment.

she appears at the shower curtain trying to make peace. she says that she get's worried. she says that 'i really look forward to our lunchtime conversations. i am home bound with the kids and so the only contact i get form adults, during the day, comes from that time. i am sorry if you felt like i accused you, but i get worried. please let's just pretend it didn't happen.'

she says all that leaning against the wall. she says all that and still i boil. i am quiet. i breathe 'ok' and begin to towel off. we kiss as i dry. she leans her head against my naked chest. the aroma from her hair fills my nostrils.

still i sand on defense.

the baby sitter arrives. there is silence in the car as we move towards that meeting. there is silence in the night air as we move towards the meeting room. there is a space, however infinitesimal, that has arrived between us. it is cold, the space, cold, lonely and bringing with it the fear of growth.

there are celebrations and conversations, but we are quiet. there are shouts of joy at the scale. there is the lecture about fighting through the wall. there is the conversation of support. there are here deep brown eyes, rubied lips and mountain of a body turning towards us fresh from a five pound loss. i am not sure how to feel.

'no scale tonight, huh?' she says standing between my wife and i.

'nah, just don't feel it this week.'

'well just keep working at it, i guess,' she says and moves with her husband towards the door.

'that was nice,' she says but i understand the true meaning.

i nod. i know she wonders why. she is thinking. i will refuse to show my hand. i will refuse the scale i will refuse the diet i will stare at the new wound, the new space between us. like a sore in ones mouth i will tongue it, put pressure the twinge of pain not welcomed but continually tested for it's presence. she will not go to the scale. we sit together. we stand together. we move towards the car and head home together. in the dark and the silence of the road she will try again.

'that danielle keeps losing, huh?'

she wants me to explode. she wants me to cry foul and a cheat so that she can join the chorus. so that we can come back together. reunite the team over the common enemy and frustrations. the urge is there. the words on the tip of my tongue. how i want to crush that mountain of a woman. how i want to tell of her diet pills and secret eatings. i know she will act offended, she will want to punch her in the face, she will understand my faults and failures but celebrate my strength. i know she will say, 'see how great and strong you are? you won't take a short cut, you will fight for your body and dreams. you are willing to struggle and fail only to get up again and keep trying. i am proud of you, i love you.'

we would talk, cry and eventually make love. i won't give into this now. i am hungry. i am lost being led farther away by hunger pangs. i can hear the search part, i can see the flashlights up ahead, but i am not ready to be found.

so we are silent. so we pay the baby sitter. so we undress and redress. so we lay in the dark as i stare at the ceiling my stomach rumbles and i do not go to the kitchen i do not reach for her hand.

the losing 7

2010-03-01T05:38:00.000-08:00

i thought i saw her, danielle, sitting in the far corner with dark glasses on. there was a tray there filled with empty wrappers and her face stained with hot sauce. i am angry. now i have to act like i am ordering to stay on the point scale. now instead of regular soda i have to have diet or better yet water. as she is near the end of her meal i slow down, take my time, read each item and their ingredients hoping she will leave. i hope she will not notice, not say my name, maybe be as ashamed as i am, to be fat, old and trying to sneak a meal past our spouses.

as i am getting past the point of no return, seeing the minutes of my lunch hour slip away, i take a deep breath and step forward. the lady at the register is ready. her face open, bright, young and eager to satisfy. she will be a manager one day.

'yes i would like a taco salad, no cheese and a large water,' my stomach grumbles disapprovingly.

'is that everything?' she says.

'no,' comes the deep full bodied baritone from behind me, 'he would actually like to cancel that and get what he wants.'

danielle is standing there, sauce staining her wide plump lips and large crowded teeth. she has her glasses atop her full rosy cheeked face, her auburn hair hanging limp, wavy as some sort of snake vine. i wonder if it's a trap? as she stands there bits of food still clinging to her dark shirt. i wonder if my wife has put her up to this.

'our secret,' she says.

'so is that everything, sir?' goes the employee.

i make a decision, 'actually i will have a large soda, two burrito's and a quesadilla.'

she waits, we sit together.

'friend or foe?' i ask before settling into my meal.

'how dare you,' she says and pulls a candy bar from her bag.

'now, that son of a bitch is beautiful,' i say and begin to eat.

she eats, as i do, quickly. we have been trained, by the shaming stares of others, to not savor. we must get in and out. we do not talk until it is over. she puts the candy bar wrapper under the food wrappers and we place the tray in the middle so that, with two sodas, people will think we shared.

'i see you are having the same time i am staying on point,' i say.

'life is to be lived i say.'

'if only.'

'you know i have not been able to stay under or at my points since this damn diet started.'

'but your losing weight,' i say.

'ah, diet pills. i take a few of those suckers and boom success. it's just so i can keep my husband off my back.'

'i hear you,' i say, but secretly burn from her celebrated cheating.

'you should try it.'

i tap my fingers along the table top. lunch time cars have filled the drive through. the place is beginning to fill.

'i'm afraid of my heart exploding,' i say.

'ah, old wives tale.'

she has her glasses back over her eyes. there is something buried under all that flesh that strikes me as sexual, as beautiful as worth wanting. bizarre. there is a part of me that feels like i am cheating, not from the food, but for being here alone with a woman. for being here alone with a woman that is not my wife and sharing a secret. i have a twinge of guilt. it's near the end of the lunch hour, for me. i get up.

'same time tomorrow?' she says.

'we'll see, i guess,' i say.

'hey, don't feel guilty we aren't fooling around. it's just lunch,' she says.

i watch her stained lips move to form words, i watch them as the plump up, purse dance about unsure of their transmissions but sure of their intention.

'yeah, houston's is my tuesday joint. have to cover your tracks, you know.'

'yeah, great place to do it.'

'hope to see you there.'

i nod. we part. in the car my face flushes, my hands strike the wheel and thighs. i am unsure, stomach full, what direction to take but understand nothing good will come of it.

'you haven't cheated,' i say to the mirror.

something has turned, or slipped and this current life, safe place seems in jeopardy. as i turn the car into traffic, turn towards the office i call my wife and think of houston's. i call to her voice and try to imagine her lips dancing, out performing the lips on the mouth of the woman i just left.

it's her voice mail. the road is open and at the stop i can take any direction i want. such are the choices we sometimes face.

the losing 6

2010-02-25T05:37:00.000-08:00

well this is really right damn terrible, but a promise is a promise. i want to say something about my character and my track record of doing things the right way. you won't know, well most of you won''t know, that i was voted most honest in highschool. most of you won't know that i spend some of my free time helping out at church. i am, at my core, a good man i come home after work and play with my children. i come home after work and talk with my wife. i am not out hooting with the owls at some local bar singing about glory days or the sports page.

so what if i can't keep doughnuts out of my face. i mean it is not like i am doing drugs. so what if i buy the large chicken nuggets or buffalo wings. there are some really horrible things going on in the world, in the country, in the state, in the city or on my street. a man grows tired of having to justify his character because of his weaknesses. a man grows tired of defending those same weaknesses when they are so minor.

if carl was to have a birthday and someone were to bring in cake then i must eat. how can disrespect a man, or any coworker by not celebrating with them on this such an important milestone? now what if it isn't a birthday cake but instead brownies or fried chicken? what if it isn't a birthday but a milestone? what if it is for no reason other than building a communal bond? should i bow out? should i say no thank you i have to think about my points?

i am a good man, a kind man. i look deep into my soul for these answers and they always come back yes. they always come back to take part to build bridges. so why should i feel guilt when i wipe the sauce or powdered sugar from my mouth? why do i feel so torn? the answer, i believe, is in the constant psychological torture. ever since i was a child my mother would talk about weight and diet. we learn what we are repeatedly told.

i can remember the diet soda challenge. i can remember at ten being given the lecture on portion control. i can remember the tightening of the belt and the refusal of common childhood wishes. the sugar cereal did not grace our cupboard. the dinners would be steamed and boiled, the starvation would set in.

i can remember the wild look in my mother's eyes as she would break down. off we would rush to ________ for hamburger. off we would rush to _____ _______ for ice cream. off we would rush to _____ _______ to be lectured and weighed to shed tears and to promise a fresh start.

it would seem, with all these years of utter failure, that i would run from _____ ______ as an adult. well for most of my adult life i did. i would never have darkened _____ _____'s door step if it weren't for my wife. she was thumbing through her lifestyle magazine and noticed a coupon. i am not sure about your gender or relationship status but as a man who is in a marriage there is no worse a phrase than 'i found a coupon.'

the coupon has brought nothing but pain to my life. in the beginning they were celebrated, a few pennies off of eggs, some two for one on turkey or diapers, real economic boons. slowly they began to change, two for one pedicures that i must go to, ten dollars off of cable or satellite or interent causing us to be in constant flux over providers. there is the oil change thirty miles away that is 10% off and finally _____ ______.

'oh honey i found a discount on _____ _____, i really want to go. i need to get a fresh start, a leg up will go will you help me in this?' she said.

it was a friday evening and i had just returned home form work. i was tired and not thinking clearly. i agreed. that first night i did not sleep. tossing and turning i remembered the terror of my childhood. i remember the pain of gaining what i had lost, gaining it back to late night runs with my mother to a doughnut shop or drive through. i remembered the water aerobics the speed walking and general anxiety _____ ______ had caused me. now, with the threat of returning i was at a fork. should i tell the wife? should i deny her this joy of the coupon, of the denial of pursuing? i turned and was going to spill the beans, was going to tell the whole story but watching her tender almost innocent face glow in the night's faint light i swallowed.

'i am a man, it will be different what the hell a little kid of course he is only going to do as well as his parent. yeah this will be good, maybe finally be able to see my feet, ha! this is the right thing. the good thing. yeah i am excited,' i thought and dreamed of a waist size back in the thirties. dreamed of a shirt with only one x on the label. i was excited, hoping only for the best the whole adventure still out before me.

i am a good man. i am a honest decent man. i was one dumb naive sucker. sitting, here reflecting on all this, in my car wiping the barbecue sauce from my mouth and looking down at the empty sandwich, fry and soft drink containers. i look down, my stomach grumbles with satisfaction. my stomach belches in victory and i feel a quick shiver of fear understanding my enemies power. i am a good man, a honest man and an abject failure at dieting.

the losing 5

2010-02-24T05:32:00.000-08:00

tired sitting here picking my nose wondering where to begin, again. danielle was quite pleased yesterday with the loss of a pound. we all celebrated by jumping up and down. her husband, whose name escapes me at the moment, clapped and wolf whistled. what the hell is his name anyway? dale? i can't remember. i am staying up to late watching television with the wife. i am sneaking out of bed too many times to stuff my face with pop corn and chocolate.

i have stopped going to the scale. the idea of the old woman, the numbers and disappointment is too much to bear. now we go to the lectures and afterwards when the line moves me to the front where the old woman is i pay and quickly turn about and leave. she says nothing, her wise weathered eyes pinched and crow footed wet about the corner as i turn to leave. people in my position are called wait ______ in the community. everyone who has started where i have started has had set backs.

the first time i did not weigh in our leader took note. the second time she stopped me by the door.

'charlie, hey how are you doing with all this?'

'my best,' i said.

she is a medium sized dark skinned woman. claudette, she has no lipstick on over her bulbous purple lips. claudette is wearing a red top over a black dress and if there was one word to describe her it would be kind.

'listen, we have all been here.'

'i'm okay. just not ready to get back on the scale,' i say trying to short circuit a longer conversation.

'i know, i know. just remember the motto of the jews,' she says.

i suck my lip and think for a moment.

'and what is that?'

claudette stares into my eyes. she has the unblinking power of a stare that mother's obtain somewhere in the evolution of raising children.

'if you keep walking, you'll make it to the promise land,' she says, 'all we are is these things we aspire to.'

'very good,' i say.

'wonderful, thank you,' says my wife and i feel a rage beginning to boil.

my wife is beautiful standing there. she is wearing a deep blue form fitting top, she is wearing tight clean straight legged brown slacks. she is wearing heeled shoes that allow her toes to peek through. she has her hair styled straight with the bangs to the side and her makeup is on. i am torn by her beauty and kindness and the fact that her weight control/loss makes me want to scream obscenities into her face.

you can love someone and be furious at their success. you can love someone and be completely eaten away by jealousy. i am a fat guy, i shouldn't have a woman this beautiful but at the same time i do so she must take the full force of my character and it's judgements.

now at the door to this nondescript business center, we are getting ready to leave. we say good night and thank you to claudette and she rushes over to talk to another wait ______. as we are moving into the night air i think of danielle. i think of her massive piles of flesh flopping up and down as she jumped. i think of my own massive stomach and breasts flopping up and down if i were to jump off the scale.

success is in the continual attempts. if you are falling down keep getting up it's only when you stop that you fail. if you never stop you can't fail. i am rubbing my stomach while we drive home. tonight i want to make love to my wife. tonight i want to start again get back up, commit and face the scale. tonight i want to shed the wait label and begin my life.

'that was nice, tonight,' my wife says and reaches for my hand.

'what part?'

'just he whole thing, how claudette talked with us and how the woman and her husband were so excited. i don't know, it makes you feel good to see people acheive something,' she says and leans her head back.

i know she is not thinking about me. i know she is not hinting about my scale avoidance and how she wishes i would try harder. at least i think i know those things, but something sparks a fire anyways. something causes me to withdraw, be hurt and angry anyways. we drive in silence and i think of danielle and i think how i will show my wife who can achieve.

this week will be different, starting tomorrow. i think and pull the car into the driveway, we are home.

the losing 4

2010-02-23T05:30:00.000-08:00

i have to tell you that i am not using my own name here. it would be really stupid to come out and write 'hey this is chuck steesom from walnut street, come pat me on the back,' because you never know who could be watching this thing. my luck it would be the boss or hampson that son of a bitch neighbor with his cackle, muscle car and garage bench press combo machine.

hampson may think he is the summit of mount awesome, but let me tell you he has some more climbing to do. take his outfits, i mean who still wears those damned baggy gypsy pant? he struts out there, on the weekends listening to the rock station a bit too loud wrench or weight in hand yodeling into his blue tooth.

hampson the softball player, making his wife keep stats. hampson the grill master who calls everyone over. i can still recall last summer's cook up when amongst all the neighbors he grabbed my belly and pronounced, 'should of made this one pay,' everyone got themselves a good laugh off of that.

later over beers he tried to play it off as, 'having fun,' but i knew the real reason i could see his eyes drifting over my wife's body like a fog. he filled all the spaces around her, all her nooks and crevices. i wondered if she noticed. the person that did notice was hampson's wife and i could see her mind working, calculating the anger to be distributed later. this was not the first time.

matter of fact of do not use anyone's real name. i try to keep them all sorted on a piece of paper but last night my son took the paper and threw it in the toilet. though i am pretty sure that no one is reading this journal, i am going to apologize now for any screw ups.

there is this mountain of a woman that has begun to attend the meetings. she comes with her husband dale, and let me tell you something, he is a real piece of work. this guy with his slick blacked hair and tight 32 waist. he leans forward during the discussion taking notes. at first i thought, 'what kind of monster takes notes to abuse his wife with later?' only to find he had his own book.

these skinnies are getting to be a real damned problem. i know, i understand, that they are looking in the goodness of their heart to support their fatso spouses but come on. if you are just starting out in the gym, you want to start with people at your rate or do you want to lift your twenty pounds and then have your spouse have to add more weight each time for their exercises? the fastest way to lose hope is to have someone who is not as desperate. one school of thought is that you get the inspiration of the final product, but this is not true. what you really are getting is a daily slap in the face about your failures and the hard work that lies ahead.

i am angry at all this and seeing slick boy dale over there sucking the end of his pencil while his wife quietly blushes does not help.

that mountain of a woman goes by the name danielle. she has blond hair, green eyes and a stomach that could rival mine. it's bizarre the way a woman's backside grows until it looks like it is about two feet long in their stretch pants. danielle has a serious ass. she shifts and the chair groans and as her husband makes notes she blushes and sweats.

i watch them as sweat runs down my own cheek and stomach i watch her and wonder about her struggles.

news flash, my son has just come into the room and thrown his cereal on the floor. so i guess that is the universe telling me enough for now.

the losing 3

2010-02-22T05:39:00.000-08:00

now i know what you are thinking, 'how much does this poor guy weigh?' at least i think that is what i would think but i can't remember if i have written it down somewhere earlier. well let me tell you that

a) if i haven't then it is none of your damn business what that number is. that you should be ashamed for even thinking about it. what's that number mean? you just looking for another reason to judge?

b) it was less than today, after a night of complete and utter gluttony. by god life is a buffet and i took the time to stuff myself with it all. while little miss goal weight went for a walk i rushed a bowl of cereal. while she boiled the chicken breast and washed the lettuce i made an excuse about needing light bulbs, forgot the bulbs and ate a double cheeseburger skipping the french fries only to get a bag of potato chips with the light bulbs. i ate until it was hard to breathe. i ate until my stomach cried out, stretched against the barrier of pants and belt. i ate myself exhausted and returning home lay on my back sweating worrying over how to eat the dinner.

c) i am exhausted. closer to three hundred than two fifty. my children where trouble last night, crying out every hour on the hour from midnight on, teeth are a terrible thing to grow. as we would take turns going to their room, holding them, putting them back to sleep i would make side trips to the kitchen for slice of apple, for peanut butter on apple with mixed nuts or valentine candy.

i curse ______ _______, i curse the small measuring scale and points. i lay in bed grumbling thinking of ways to destroy my journal and point score food glossary. a man has got to eat, has got to be healthy have a belly. let's say we are in the wild and two animals are going to fight which one are you picking? a thin bear or a fat one? why doesn't that apply to us americans? why do we have to invent the skinny fit jean and celebrate jack thin body?

i am holding my stomach, pushing the sides together to make a fat hairy valley from my breasts to my belly button. the flesh canyon leads to the end of the belly and a waterfall of hair down to my privates.

i lay in the dark wondering if fat is truly like a suit. if my body thinks i am wearing a fat shirt and pants under my regular clothes. i wonder if my innards will go on strike against the mouth and brain. if the blood will send secret messages from the muscle and bones to go on strike, stop for long enough to cause a stroke freezing the mouth in a tight clasp so that i can only consume liquids. so that i will lose the weight and save them all from so much work.

i wonder on their union meetings if the ankle and jaw are willing to sacrifice themselves so that the doctor will have to wire shut my jaw and viola will put me on a body saving liquid diet. i think of blended hamburger meat or steak. i think of a life of triple thick chocolate shakes. i think of doughnuts and the pure joy of eating in the early morning when they are still fresh and warm.

i rarely think of making love anymore. i enjoy it. my wife she is heart achingly beautiful. she is magnificent in the sack but i lose focus. i think of my breasts flopping my stomach flopping my whole body moving like an angry sea. while we are conjoined there is the sound of the bed frame there is the sound of my hard breath and the heat of sweat covering me and i am embarrassed. i am sure that she has not achieved an orgasm in months which is not right. so instead of being emboldened, so instead of inspiration to screw it is just overwhelming shame. it is the shame that drives the body to the cabinet, it is the damn 'screw all this crap, you fat jerk lazy so and so,' thoughts that get me through the snacking and then satiated i lay on the couch fingering my fat breasts.

it is in the night, this night with the plus number hanging as a sword of damocles that i think of her. it is in the night while we fight with the teething child that i trace her sleeping face. it is in the night heavy sighing from an overfilled stomach that i curse myself for being soft and making the wrong food choices. it is here amongst god and family that i promise a recommit to the program. a promise to start fresh in the morning and celebrate this promise with a handful of candy as one last kiss off. a handful of candy the sweet final kiss of a solider before he is shipped out to duty.

things are going to change around here, i think and place my finger in between belly and pelvis pushing the skin and fat skyward then letting it drop with a thwop. things are going to change.

the losing 2

2010-02-19T05:14:00.000-08:00

there is always a party. ever damn day somebody is getting older or having a child. every damn day somebody is getting engaged, graduating or having a kid do something worth celebrating. the invitations come through the mail, they come through the phone and sneak onto your computer without warning. each with a warm front, a picture of small animals or of the hosts or of the honoree and each comes with a commitment card.

i curse their smiling, eager faces. i curse the innocent wanting eyes of babes as they express the emotion of 'please don't let me down'. so we check the boxes write the number of attendees and i await the onslaught of temptations.

like a shipwreck in a storm, i cling to the buoy of five pound loss as the waves toss me about trying to dislodge me from my hope and goal. first there are the whispers of, 'well we have been doing so well what's one drink?' growing to a crescendo of 'this is america god damned it and you are a god damned grown man who pays the bills, what you can't enjoy one drink after a hard week supporting your family?' the weather is merciless as i watch my wife getting her 'goal weight allowances' and passing them up.

i curse at her, under my breath, for never breaking down. i curse at her, under my breath, for always smiling as she makes a one egg white omelette weighing each item and marking them in her food journal with the joy of a school girl.

lunch, at the office, has become torture. i bring a sack lunch and make excuses. 'ah, that sounds great but i don't have any cash on me. what's that? oh, no don't worry about it, see i brought a lunch.'

i can hear them laughing and know it's about me. i take to eating in the car two streets away. i take to making excuses, 'oh my wife she needs me to call her so we can decide about _____ or else i would love to go.' in case they drive by or are spying i will push the ear piece and begin talking, waiting, pretending to listen and talking again.

men don't understand _____ _______ they wonder about the point scale. they wonder on the little book that was in my pocket but now hidden in the glove box. i tell them it's for my wife, how she really wanted to do this together and, 'i damn sure won't give up my beers and steak,' when i see the looks on their faces change to shock.

thursday is our weigh in day. it is by this time that i need the lift of the scale, to see the sweat was worth it before heading into the weekend where the devil sits temptation on either side. we have arrived, we have made it through the support speeches and food fighting techniques now are lined for the weight and exit. as my wife is at her target or below she will not have to pay. they have given her a pin and have her stand to be admired, during meetings. i will be paying for awhile.

we slide to the side. she steps on the scale.

'very good,' says the old lady.

she moves off and i move on. the numbers spin and land. before she says anything i know. my heart stops and my palms sweat as i can feel all eyes on me, judging my efforts and body. there is a deafening silence.

'you'll be alright honey. you just got to keep your head up, keep working the program. you'll make it i promise. don't let this break you,' the old lady says.

'plus two,' is what the scale says.

i can feel every fat inch of my stomach. it is laughing making rude faces through the shirts fabric and letting everyone know who is in charge.

'would you like to stay after and work with a councilor?' she says.

'it'll be alright dear,' says the wife.

'plus two,' says the scale.

'no thank you, but thank you. two steps forward is still more than one set back, right?' i say and muster a smile.

as we leave, silent i can feel her eyes on me wanting a conversation. as we leave i can hear my stomach rumbling it's victory song. as we leave towards the car under the veil of night, it is darkness, black and i can feel something terrible on the air. i know it is hungry,it is angry and justified as it arrives home from detention.

'don't give up, honey i am right here for you. we can do this together,' she says.

my mind already lost to the faces on the invitations, their buffets, their booze and the freedoms of man in america.

2/18 losing

2010-02-18T05:08:00.000-08:00

we sit in steel chairs, those drab grey hurtful monsters. we sit close together heating the air, steaming the windows and causing our bodies to sweat. well not us all. we sit, we heavy breath, we move slowly adjusting our heavy frames as group leader to some attendees give their tales of the tortured stomach.

we the watcher of weight. i am among them, my dimpled plump belly pushing against shirt, against belt and pant button causing and impression. i am uncomfortable feeling the flab fill my arm pit getting caught trapped smothered against arm and pit rubbed raw by the hair and goosepimple chilling as the sweat rolls over and down the expanse of skin.

god damned these flabby breasts! i think. i am a man.

...i use to get a tan by the fridge light from checking to see whats to eat,' the group leader would say.

you were laughing at the tales of woe. you were attentive and reaching from my hand the whole time. you phony, you single serving princess that dragged me here. there is a big loud moon face clock behind the speaker. there is a drab rented meeting room in a drab economy hotel. there is a long easy fold particle board table with brochures fanned across it's face. there is the end with a kind faced old woman seated her glasses seated on her forehead. she is the judge, the money changer, the recorder of the scale. the white bathroom scale sits right beside her right before the door where one by one we will scoot to the end take off our shoes and be weighed. afterwards the weight will be recorded in our books, it will be authenticated with a stamp and signature our passports recorded we will be set free.

i curse you as each loud minute tock passes. i keep my head forward but shoot cold sideways glances towards you. you the tourist the easy to maintain push her plate away regular body bitch. my wife the enforcer, the honey voiced suggester.

'well maybe it would be great to go and we can learn some new tricks to staying healthy,' she says.

first it was the book. i come home from work and there is noise in the kitchen. i come home from work the kids are to be kissed so i lean and grunt purpling my face and causing my back to scream.

'how was your day?' she would sing.

'uh, hmm, good,' i would respond trying to catch my breath.

god what have i done to myself, i think.

the kids, they are young just starting out and i watch them anxiously. i secretly feel their size when i hold them to see if they aren't getting a little too much food. i try to think about the local team, i try to think about my wife and laying a good smooch on her face anything to avoid dreaming of our family fat as cows or floating about like parade balloons. placing one hand on my knee i push up with a battle cry and head into the kitchen.

she is there amongst the pots and pans, amongst the steam and smells. we embrace and glancing over her shoulder i see the book, i see the scales.

'whats that?' i ask. i ask but i know from a life time of my mother who took me to her meetings at eleven. i know from my mother who carried the scale who was always talking or listening to somebody talk about weight and weight control.

'oh, it's my old ____ ______ food guide and scale,' she sings and i am angered.

'ah, well you seem happy about it.'

she seems to catch the mood and is quick to react.

'wait, we agreed, i thought. we agreed to try this, so there is a meeting tomorrow night, i got my mom to baby sit...'

i am staring at her a fury has build in the pit of my stomach. i try to hide it. i grow distant and listen to the sound of small children playing.

'was i wrong?'

i take a moment, 'no, no just so fast i guess.'

'well we can cancel, we can try another time?' she says.

there is a moment.

'no, you are right, there is always a beginning and this is it.'

there is a silence as she returns her attention to the food on the stove.

'dinner will be ready in about ten minutes, why not go play with the kids they missed you.'

i do. ten minutes comes and we are seated. i am staring down at boiled chicken. i am staring down at spinach salad. i am staring down at the results of my years of avoidance.

this is going through my mind until we are here. we are at the end the kind old woman with her glasses down pen in hand as my wife sits atop the scale.

'well, you're already below your ideal weight, good for you...$12'

i am trembling from rage as i step on the scale. i am cursing her for being below her weight. i am cursing her for bringing me here to be trodded out like cattle for public ridicule and embarrassment.

'five pounds down, keep it up,' says the smiling old woman.

the fire goes out. success and joy swell my chest. i clap my hands like a child. i already feel lighter, light enough to float away i grasp my wife i lift her to the air and we retreat to the night laughing to ourselves.

we are innocent the night seems like the night and not the black of foreshadow the dooms to come.

2/15.

2010-02-15T07:15:00.000-08:00

what a whale she became. thank god we made it out of the ocean, away from her grasp, her fingers lips and tongue. thank god for land, for this woman skin of olive tone. for this woman an her hour glass, of this woman her fingers lips tongue and hips that sway.

we the two but she the breeze causes i tree to dance in the parks of this town where children play on wooden structures two story tall. where children laugh, throw pine cones and cause their parents to scuttle after pushing their parent glasses or dirtying their parental high quality sleeves. there is the sidewalk here, there is the store here there is the construction that slowly sucking them dry. whole streets lopped off as one by one pregnant buildings give birth their glass faced wombs emptied marked by 'for lease'signs an deep socket window eyes prowl for other dreamers cocksure to fill their bellies once more.

there are no balloons here. what happened to the balloons? to the laughter of children with their pink or red balloons following behind mother and her brown bags of sweater or wine bottle both. now we got the text phone, or the video phone all this noise leave no time for the silence. sad. it's in the silence we get the morse code of our heart. the rhythm to translate our desire.

'beat beat', ah i want to be a dancer.

'thump thump', ah i really love charlie.

now with all this noise all we got is our best guesses at the muted signal. all we got now is the quite tink that could be mistranslated.

'tink' huh what is that.

'tink tink' he will change.

'tink tink' stay in the cubicle, or stay in arizona or stay with the plate of hamburger and cheese.

we stumble onward. just this morning it was anger and attack. a stranger will stab you in the back a friend in the front and family will feel bad after they do it. we all got knives an scars but the joy is not the attack, no the joy of family is in the heal.

'its just its just its just,' she starts to say but where can you go?

they turned against him. 'ah, brother he tries to follow his heart, you know,' she says.

'sometimes it's a maze we gots to love in,' say i.

we know, you know. there are brick buildings here. some are taken care some are dilapidated. some house families and some the drunk. there are buildings and homes and you can never tell whose living behind what, you can never tell who is who or built for what until there is a little pressure.

i love i love i love. they say in the summer when the sky is blue and the parks are filled with picnics and joy. well anyone can do that.

in the street noise of our silence it begins to rain. in the noise i pull her close think of all the what could have beens all the mistranslations of the heart. in the rain and the cold and the breeze i pull her close, i love i love i love and don't notice the weather at all.

they say the weather will change. weathermen don't trust them. they say the wounds they will heal. the doctors don't trust them. they say that they don't got no time for you no more and start their whisper campaigns against it. seasons change and those that believe in a year of winter will either adapt or be left behind.

a man can fish the sea, he can't live there. we hold on we hold close we move forward towards whatever might come. you dig?

2/11

2010-02-11T06:15:00.000-08:00

this chord that connects us. love in the air the small intimacies of the moment. there is the children in innocent dress there is the messes they make and there is us. we two. the face of the past. ah, we the history who speak through the bridge of whats to come. seconds are spent parenting our life away.

there are great joys here. there are things that cause tears i have never felt here. there is the laughter and celebration of recognized firsts here. then there is the animal. i the head turner, the lost to wage earner, the street walker, thinker and day dreamer.

now there is you. the mother the stay home teacher. the great patience, the hope, the heart of our home.

what we have now is the present. what we have to the linoleum floors, the encroaching walls. what we have now is the reflection on whats known and the wonder of whats to come. the moment is alive undefinable constantly leaving messy trails across the floor boards of our lives.

the present, to be here. the present, the gift of now. love lover loving loved oh we two spend our eyes only on each other's faces then whats this about a past. oh love lover loving who i will joy eternity with then whats this about what we use to do? whats this over my shoulder, over your shoulder whats this in your dreams when we both agree that to each it should be about the other's me me ME.

we gather our children. we ask of their day. we ask each other to translate what the each child says and hum the song to curious george.

we wonder if the gardener still remembers the soil as fondly when the garden blooms. we wonder does the driver remember the car when safely home. we wonder does the writer remember the first novel when they are off to number 2. mostly we wonder how in all this we of family will there be memories of me and you.

tender are the mercies of the night, when tucked to sleep we find ourselves alone. tender is the silence between us, the spaces between yawns and the inches between skin. where once is was the fire of whats to come now is the quiet of what is. where once there was the reach to touch skin to find constant tinder, fire and sex now gone quiet to the aches of workaday pain. where once there was the fury of consumption there is slow tempered art the steady hand of experience.

what we have here is a fight. this mind is one to burn and holler. this mind is one to gluttony. this mind is one to indian yelp and the wolf man's howl. the actor playing your hero is too slow. his hand too controlled. the hero himself a mess he walks with a slight drool hungry for whatever is going on. he is hungry to the pissing seconds.

you have got to find a balance. x2

i don't want to comb my hair. let it it stand or fall on it's own merit, grow wild like the idaho i remember. there were ducks there that tried to eat my toes. there was the echo of the empty suburban streets. there was the dirt road before fred meyer came. there was the sweet cherub face flushed from the excitement of love's first churning.

you see, you see i want for my children that madness. the excitement of spinning circles and chasing ghosts on table top rock. you see, you see i don't want to lose that in me. i want to consume my wife every time. want to holler and chew her hair. want to dance on a plain wedensday atop the building off st. claire. you see life is not whats to come. is not always saying no or be careful.

i got to be careful about all this, right? i got to slow it down and study the trail cause it's not just me anymore. one could think this but in my heart there comes the tremor that says, 'what about their faith?' if they believe they will come, their faith will set them free. if you got somebody and that person always talking risk or fear then don't you need to stop. shouldn't you think to yourself, 'they believe so little in me, in the joy of what is and excitement of what's to come that they fear? that they doubt? then what the hell are they going to do when times are hard, when it's do or die and they have to follow?'

it's okay to have questions about your faith, it's blasphemous to have those questions of god. it's okay to have those questions about your ability, it's destructive to have those questions about your partner.

so where do we go? there is this ridge, there is the moonlight and a clear sky. there is the burgeoning springtime and the children are asleep. where do we go? shall we stay for the night, stare out at the horizon line in reflection? shall we keep moving a child in each our arms, and head straightaway to the future?

i look over and see her asleep. i look over and memorize the moonlight tracing her skin, highlighting her lips and eye lashes. the moonlight tracing her lean athletic frame, as she holds our baby. i sigh, and look out imagine the chill in tomorrow's morning.

got to be patient, but not too patient. careful but not too careful. let's see where it takes us.

2/9

2010-02-09T05:33:00.000-08:00

so do we have minestrone?

'no, we have lentil or vegetable' she says.

they are in the front room, standing center stage television on. mid thirties, normal, average american family. she has sneakers on, he is barefoot, the sun is fading twisting through the curtain casting shadows that creep across the walls and floor. it is 5, it is dinner time so like it or not they must eat.

i thought we had one can left? he says without looking at her.

'no, i told you what we had. what do you think i am hiding it? you think i don't want to share? that's right, i like minestrone so much that i don't want to give you one drop.' she says.

they are middle class, they are pressure and struggle and steam that does not creep it festers, it pushes until it explodes.

who knows, he thinks.

lentil, i guess, but if i knew we were out of minestrone i would have gone to the store and bought some. he says, as a twinge of pleasure passes through causing the hair on his arms to rise.

'you want i will go. anything for you, you want me to go to the store and get the damned soup i will.' she says and begins to collect her things.

he is silent just for a moment. he is silent just long enough to bring doubt to his words. they have their forks and their knives, they are on the attack. the television news is playing a story of vans. their voices slightly louder than normal. she looks at the roof, at the floor at her children playing. she sighs, and strides towards the closet for her purse.

no, no lentil is fine, he says. his register dropping below normal to a soothe. he will calm her. he will cause her to drop her defenses.

listen you are right, we should be happy with what we have. he says .

'i will go,' she says holding her keys in mid air.

i know you would. it's not about soup, who gives damn about soup, just one of those days. he says.

she is slow, uncertain, places her keys in her purse, her purse on the floor (within reach). 'you sure, your fine with lentil or vegetable?'

vegetable sounds great, probably better than minestrone. god knows i could do without the carbs. he says and rises.

the children play with plastic train wood blocks exercise mat they play with crayons or toy microphones. the television moves to educational movie about frog. he embraces her in the middle of the floor.

'i would go,' she says.

he pulls her close the sun cast their shadows on the floor. he feels an opening he feels he could attack could really do some damage with a few more words. whats the use, he thinks.

whats the use. he says.

'what do you mean,' she says.

he hovers, a teachable moment sword in hand.

we do are best, right. i mean i can't be mad about the lack of soup, even though it's your responsibility. even though i hold up my end of the bargain. even though i am going to work and never say boo about it. even though you demanded to stay home with the kids and now we went from good to broke and i work like a dog just to keep no money in my pockets. i mean you are trying your best, you have to watch kids and thats tough, though you can hand them off to your mom. right. you are too busy and it is too hard to keep food in the damn cabinets. but it is not about the food.

'i am going to get the damn soup.' she says. 'you're right, it is not easy. you're right i do have to watch the kids. you try it, for one day. you try, see how far you get.' she says.

they separate go their corners, breathe hard and stare.

'it's not like i am out shopping or laughing my day away. it's not like i am complaining about having a small house, or an old car when all my friends have new things.' she says.

he hears not good enough.

well, boo, you knew about me, you came in with your eyes open. he says but is cut off.

'i knew? i knew about everything? maybe i would have made a different decision if i knew about your credit.' she says.

well there is no lock on the door. he says.

'that's not what i mean.' she says.

they are still apart but closer. they each have picked up a child somewhere along the way. one is holding for comfort they other held to be fed.

'enough.' he says.

'no, if i am not doing a good job then tell me how i can do better. i mean if you are so good maybe you can come home and lend me a hand.' she says.

enough, he says. listen, we are doing our best. we are just worn out. we are just beat by all this stress. we are just collapsing here under the weight of it all. you are amazing. i am not sure how you do all this and not collapse.

'i don't have a off day, or a quitting time.' she says.

he watches her tears.

i know, he says and moves towards her position on the couch. it's just a bad day, right. tough we had one kid wake up so early and the other sick. lots of stress. lets just let it go. alright?

'i am so mad,' she says, 'i get one day with you, one day as a family and it always turns out like this. always ends up arguing, wasting time. i just want to enjoy your company, not feel on the clock. do family things...'

i know, me too. listen they are young...

'not worry about some damn soup,' she says.

forget the soup, forget it. you sit here...no better yet, come sit in the kitchen, take a break, let me make dinner. come sit and let's talk. what do you think?

'okay.' she says.

i ain't making no damn soup. he says.

they laugh, they embrace a quick kiss then exit lower stage right.

we are left to the sound of the television playing and one kid watching while the other sucks their fingers and bats a giraffe while laying on their back.

the loving-13

2010-02-06T04:38:00.000-08:00

they don't stop for coffee anymore. charlie mack and his pig bellied wife suddenly took up dancing. harper and his sag faced pancake chested bitch of a wife decided the day was for golfing or pottery. susan the brown haired dike would love to come by but is just so busy with her new grandchild. all of them once would come everyday, now gone. at first i believed in their schedules but now, now i know they don't want to risk catching what debra's got. there is an anger in me that boils, that burns that causes me to pace and curse under my breath while i watch my wife try to hide her tear when drinking midmorning coffee alone.

we were all young once, but now the storm of time has rubbed away those fresh tight faces and bodies. eyes droop, hair begins to frizz and once hourglass shapes or v-shapes now become boxes and pears. there is mrs. mack, the former highschool princess, the former ms. beautiful from the college campus and a veritable calender babe as a young mother now all slop. her face over blushed, over blue eye makeup, belly over sweat pant. the bane of the elderly class, when our pants lose buttons and zippers to elastic and wool.

there are pictures of us at the big booth from mr. wangs when we were something. everybody smiling, hair combed black and white excellence. we stopped meeting there when the picture became a symbol to be cursed, avoided a embarrassing testament to how the mighty have fallen. when you were young and could use the money, had the energy to eat out to explore foreign shores and dance with your love atop the bridges of paris you had none. when you are old and could use the energy, the tender blanched skin of excitement rushing about saying 'who, what, no go go go!' you have none.

so we gone from the heart of this town. gone from whirlwinding about, celebrating our love, friendship and the milestones of our children to sitting alone in deep leather chairs contemplating history while our wives stare out the window and slowly go mad. so we go from learning about new things, new favorite authors and musicians to silence. i can't remember the last time i turned on the radio to hear something other than weather or news.

i watch debra. we have slowly stopped talking. there is the quick catch up after a phone call but mostly we are in our preferred sections of the house until a prescription or fridge needs to be replenished.

while there were newspapers for awhile, then losing out to television then losing out to television and the computer then losing out to chat sites. i make profiles while she yodels about the birds. i make sexual innuendos that i could no longer follow through on. i ask for, and receive, dirty pictures or head shots and i try to dream all the life i had into their eyes. i think of the sadness of being alone of being married for so long only to end up back where you started and that sex drive replaced with a conversation or company drive and so you go searching.

i get long emails from some woman named carol who lives in arizona and always votes republican. she tells me of her children and their 'hassels' how her son is a 'good boy but mostly lazy' and that she 'lost her charlie a few years ago to the cancer.' i tell her of my problems and ask for a picture.

carol, who lives in arizona, sends me a set of pictures. the first is of her face and then they slowly pull back to reveal her naked and twisted about her sheets like an old marylin monroe picture. her body is loose in the stomach, breasts and butt from life not gluttony. the curse of genetics. i don't answer her letters for a week then guilt ridden i respond explaining away my absence with an excuse of a child emergency.

tabitha was a big black forty year old with four children and no husband. she talks of poverty and how hard it is to raise four kids on her income. tabitha has to decide between rent and child insurance. her ex is a 'real broke son of a bitch who don't do shit for these kids' and her own parents are 'broke too, so there ain't no real help down here.' she is from idaho and works as a checker at the local grocery. they qualify for state aid but need 'some cash to help pay the lawyer for to get the insurance. it is all fucked up, excuse my language.' i send a thousand dollars and never answer another of her emails.

debra was the one who picked charlene. charlene who lives in our town. charlene has auburn hair and is twenty years my junior. it was debra who wrote back who explained, 'my wife she is dying of alzheimers.' charlene who has a husband who is also sick wrote back. debra was the one who responded, 'life is hard when you get old trusting something only to be lied to. you love and you love and in the end it feels like a cheat, like your partner failed you.' charlene was the one who wrote back, 'it is a cheat. you work to build to provide and your family is provided, is grown and secure. you work so that you can take these days to travel, to enjoy each other then this. doesn't matter. all it is, doesn't matter. shit, you love and pray try to do good things and still it comes, still they are taken away.'

debra was the one who sent the picture. charlene was the one who responded with a picture. the effort together they are building together, a relationship. it was me who discovered all this and said nothing. we never spoke about what was going on. it was debra and jack who slowly faded and it was charlene and i who spent the suffering together, over email then telephone then coffee then dinners.

we attended two funerals together. we suffered the violence of emotion from the mouths of our children. we suffered the fading and death of our loves of our partners. it was the sick beds and graveyards that built all this. it was the pain and loneliness that built all this. there are just some things so heavy you can't lift alone.

there was funerals. there was flowers and time then dinners and slow dances. there was the violence and the passage of time. there are the memories and the memories to come. there was the dating and the passage of time. there was the friendship that grows with the passage of time. there was the wedding. finally there was somethings that we could not quite identify as true love, true joy or true hope but it has to do.

the loving-12

2010-02-04T05:34:00.000-08:00

she had told me of precious the goat. she had shown me pictures of a little girl tough faced in cowboy boots and denim holding the rope to the goat. precious the ribbon winner, precious the great trick learner, precious was top of the line.

it was the state fair during our youth, before i had even kissed her face or written a love letter. it was the state fair and the 4-h club was there. debra the younger stood holding her rope watching while precious was rubbed, while precious was judged and there was hope. while the other goats were 'baa' about precious held her head high in silence. she was a true professional. the goat never bucked or stepped away as the judges rubbed her belly evaluated the texture of her coat. debra would suck her teeth when thinking of precious, her precious and those devil goat eyes.

'it was precious the winner,' she had said.

through the pictures we were regaled. there was the great smile of the child champion. there was the ribbon being placed, the patch sewn the general crowd smiling and standing behind her as she knelt beside the animal.

now i wonder if precious is gone. burned to fade by the disease.

there is the picture of the blue mustang. the first car, the picture of her leaning against the hood in her summer dress great joy alighting her face.

debra spoke of the freedom of the drive. the freedom of the great open road the travel to big cities miles away for exploration. the night wanderings through the city when all the other girls had their boyfriends and make out lane before we had held hands or exchanged glances. she was an athlete, she was a farmer, she was always at work with her animals and she was always alone.

'boys were not that interested in me, i was a late bloomer,' she would say.

this would cause me guilt. that i never saw until everyone else had seen. that long before we found each other we had known each other in the hallways of school. i think of that school, of it's antiseptic smells. i think of the linoleum and florescent lights and loud buzzing moon faced clocks. i think of the chalk boards never completely clean, of the ghosts of past classes that had gone before and won their trophies.

in those pictures, the lonely girl and i wonder her atop the squeak wood bleachers. she is nervous about the boys seeing her eat, judging her size or worse yet not noticing her at all. i wonder if she laughs too loud with her friends or acts clumsy and bumps into boys while walking to and from her seat. i can see her, like all of us in our teens, hungry for attention and admiration ready to connect get hot blooded and explore just what is going on in our bodies.

i was always on the teams. was always playing the games, being watched unable to laugh to loud or get clumsy. i hoped that she had come and watched for me. that she had always known or felt and believed it could come true. i had hoped that she dreamed through the thick blanket of summer night heat that we were going to be together. these were the hopes of the married man who always wants to believe that his wife had only dreamed of him. in our youth we are tinder ready to be set afire by anything, by anyone. each body could set us to inferno with dreams of skin and breath and a future together we as yet fail to truly understand.

the album, all it's past visions captured. debra the singer, debra the track star and debra the student leader all black and white documented here. pages of smiling, pages of triumph, pages of hope and enthusiasms. we never photograph the bad days. we never record the times alone in our room weeping over broken heart or shame.

as i flip through her childhood, her teenage years and college days i am chilled. i wonder how far the disease has eaten, how many of the pages have faded how many memories are gone. i will not ask, i will push it away out of mind. each page lost gets closer to our pages. each page lost gets us closer to our first encounter, or first words, kiss and other intimacies. i will not think of such things as i place the album away in a safe place and head out to the deck. she is there we will sit, we will hold hands and in our silence i hope she is not disturbed by the sound of my recorder.

the loving-11

2010-02-03T05:45:00.000-08:00

as a young man there was the hunt. always on the prowl, eyes tracing the forms of woman trotting past car window, walking past working man, chatting on the corner or any other place and way. married man i watch them down, i hungered smelt sex on the air and had visions of impropriety.

we all are born to the wandering eye, right? it only matters in the action not the thought, right?

i am watching the clock in the doctors office as they proceed through their tests. i am watching the seconds above my wife's head tick away as she sits like a child still smooth skin and knobby knee peeking out from under the hem of hospital gown. the doctor is instructing but we are both lost somewhere else in the timelines of our memory.

i would never cheat. i should say i have not cheated until this point. i have not committed the simplest form of adultery, have kept the marriage vows as well as one can. though the heat of the young hearted man has turned to the yearn of the older man. i want someone to talk to. when disease appears, when it is fatal, when you understand that death has joined the family and begun to unpack you begin to withdraw. debra is still my wife, still my love but now there is the need for space, the instinct to get away from sick things.

while the doctor mutters. as she stares away, still hauntingly beautiful i want for someone to talk to. there are support groups for the family members of those that suffer, but i am not ready. i am not ready to stand up and accept the end. i am not ready to begin to say goodbye to my wife. so i wander the halls, so i wander the streets, so i wander the bar rooms and book stores tracing the shape of woman with my eyes. i trace, study and hunger for someone to talk to.

we leave with script for prescriptions. neither one can remember much of what was said, though she has an excuse, so when hannah calls i am lectured on the art of paying attention. while she talks i hold debra's hand and yet and still my eye wander. i see a beautiful black woman of maybe twenty five chatting outside a coffee shop, i make a mental note to visit later. there is a thin latino in a smart pants suit outside the bank shaking somebody's hand i make a mental note to see about their interest rate.

the conversation ends as we move through the drive through at the local pharmacy. i see the bright eye of the auburn haired beauty dim. she has thin elegant fingers that tender the paper in her hand, her green eyes are pained when they unblinkingly look into mine, 'okay we will see you about an hour.' i make a mental note to come in, to come alone to say hello in about an hour.

'is there anywhere you want to go?' i ask and hope for no. hope she would want to go home and take a nap so that i can come back. so i will not be hurried or ashamed when i breath deep her perfume and hold/shake her hand as i get the prescription and hope for conversation.

'i was thinking of lunch earlier but i'm sorry i'm so tired. would you hate just going home?'she asks.

'no, no, not at all.'

there is a beat as she leans her head against my shoulder.

'i don't know how you do it. i would be crazy by now, dealing with this and me...'

'don't say that. we're a team. in for a penny in for a pound.'

there is a beat as she raises my hand to kiss it.

'if you want to talk, if you need to let it out you can i am here i will listen,' she says and moves so there her eyes are looking into mine.

'no, no i know. it's okay, alright, if i need to i will. you too. how are, is what are you feeling?'

'just tired mostly,' she says.

we make the slow turn down towards or home.

'i love you, you know that?' i say.

'i know, thank you, i love you too.'

'you are my best friend, thank you for this life,' i say.

there is just the sound of her breath and soft tears as we pull into the garage. we lean forward, we deep kiss and i wonder how i will break the ice. i wonder about interest rates or how coffee at that place tastes and watch another minute slip away on the dash boards digital clock. only 48 minutes to go, but really 30 if you count driving.

the loving-10

2010-02-02T05:53:00.000-08:00

it's an indian summer. heat creeps through the cracks in the windows, underneath the door jams and onto our skin. there is an angry sun causing the sweat to come out to lay against the skin in mass prayer. she is here now. she leans against the metallic shell of the freezer trying to get some relief. she is in her thirties, she is beautiful. i watch her olive skin stretch as it sticks to the metal making a high pitch squeal as she moves across it's face.

i was wrench in hand, phone in hand cursing the luck. i was out of shirt my young man stomach hair lined and wet waiting for the air condition repair to come. while she mixed the ice into the water, as she moved against the freezer humming, as little children were outside with their feet up, or chasing footballs all with friends and neighbors all with smile and laughter.

we never had a dog. i always felt disappointed about that. i always felt sad about that in the winter when a good dog would have lay against us on the couch sighing. i always dreamed of my son rushing through the town or through the woods with his trusty dog side kick what dreams they share what laughs and secrets would never be shared. in reality the dog would have been enjoyed for it's youth then abandoned to me and now in the heat would cry and beg not to go outside and could it just once use the house as it's toilet. it's a heavy exchange, the joy of it's youth to your children and you are left to dig the grave to share the gasps and laze of it's elder days.

enough of that.

we are a young family. we are bursting at the seams of our first home. i am suffocating on the thought we are stuck. the heat like the mortgage like the housing market like the job market like the bills that come. all these consistent things that are to be satisfied and the only way to satisfy them is to work is to stay. as she spins the pitcher to seperate the lemon from the atop the ice layer i wonder the horizon and how wild things must always move. i wonder on my first family how they survive now, my dad, in his permanence in his static how he feels about where he ran out of gas.

we are thirty. we are young and take our health for granted. we take for granted that the repairman will be here soon. we take for granted that this too shall pass. while debra moves from the freeze, while she kisses as she passes to deliver water and glasses to the playing children i stare the window through.

i am a jealous man, jealous of the distance of the horizon, jealous that paris is somewhere where they can get drunk all day, jealous that there is a perfect postcard ocean beaches somewhere not here and jealous that all this working man application has got me the small house of the group. all this effort has gotten me to mid nothing. gotten me nowhere. my family will have to take the public schools, my family will have to accept this tiny home for awhile maybe forever and still they play, still they laugh and still they sing.

it is the fire of my youth. it is the fire of my innocence and i wonder how they are so innocent to such things.

it is sunday. it is hot. there is the honk of the repair van that causes them all to wave. i move to the door. i shake hands, 'got you working on the weekend?' i say.

'it's the busy season, you know,' he says.

we shake hands.

'i understand,' i say.

as i let him in. as i turn to shut the door i smell the clean air and i can feel it pass between us. freedom out there. drunk out there. the great unknown. the things to pioneer out there. i close the door and lead him to the garage to the chorus of laughter from my children and wife as they sit cross legged peaceful underneath the tree breathing it all in.

the loving-9

2010-01-30T21:55:00.000-08:00

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 got...an 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.

the loving-8

2010-01-28T06:15:00.000-08:00

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.

the loving-7

2010-01-26T06:42:00.000-08:00

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 be...you 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.

amen.

the loving-6

2010-01-25T06:17:00.000-08:00

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...

15894144000...15894143999...

the loving-5

2010-01-22T08:03:00.000-08:00

numb.

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.

the loving-4

2010-01-21T06:34:00.000-08:00

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.

the loving-3

2010-01-20T06:41:00.000-08:00

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.

the loving-2

2010-01-19T06:37:00.001-08:00

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.

the loving

2010-01-15T07:45:00.000-08:00

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.

1/11-the vomitorium

2010-01-11T05:51:00.001-08:00

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. www.socialismischristian.com 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.

the comedian 5...

2010-01-08T08:11:00.000-08:00

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.

what?

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.

the comedian 4

2010-01-06T07:07:00.000-08:00

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.

the comedian 3

2010-01-05T06:43:00.000-08:00

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?'

fine

'you know there is a cold going around. are you wearing a scarf?'

'i sent one out, did you get it?'

yeah

'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

'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.'

goodbye.

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.'

what?

'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.'

1/1/10

2010-01-01T08:09:00.000-08:00

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!

the comedian-2

2009-12-31T07:07:00.000-08:00

i have an abscess on my gum line. most lonely hours are spent tonguing about the area. there is a twinge from the pain but nothing too great, more like an annoyance or hobby. as i sit on park bench spotlighted by street lamp i rub a pencil between hands trying to forget, though like the hiccups it comes on again. while writing i find my tongue sneaking up, giving a quick brush then off before i can catch him.
i am frustrated. i am a man in a sky blue suit, non ruffled shirt open at the collar. there is a potato sack covering my face and as i feel my tongue darting i bite down then spit a bit of blood. gasping at the new pain amazed at the pain we get used to. the pain we can forget.

a joke:

there is this father. he is forty-two years old today. he has not been able to get a replacement for the job he lost ten months ago. his family has not been able to find a buyer for the house they are going to lose two weeks from now. they have downgraded from new toyota's to old ones by way of reposession and family loan.
his wife works to make ends meet but she makes too much to qualify for public support. the state food stamps are out of reach. the state health plan is out of reach and insurance will cost them four hundred dollars.
today is this guy's birthday.

3

how ridiculous! there are some who would let it stop them. there are those that believe you have to have a stage, that you have to wait until a club allows you on before you can perform. can you believe that? my stage is where i am standing at the moment i begin.
i have performed on street corner, on escalators, on parking structures and in toilets. dreams are gardens that have to be constantly tended. some may sit in their apartments or worn couch homes and think 'i will start on this day when this happens' like the obese and their pursuit of the perfect monday or the drunk and his search for rock bottom.
i was that once. now i have a bag to cover what motivates me. now i see. alone, when i towel from a shower, the commitment it takes.
i read about the christ. i read about the begging disciples, the whining disciples his motivation. he taught before them, but now with dependents it becomes something of more power. it becomes pressing to prove the dream so to prove their time was not in vain and they are not the joke of the neighborhood. look how far he proved that.
'no, your crazy' they would say, or think.

a joke

how do you get a republican to help the middle class? have a democrat vote against it.

a joke

my neighbor went off to afghanistan only to have his left blown off by a seven year old. when the child was questioned why he did it he said, 'my father told me to.'
so i asked my neighbor, i said 'what do you think the we ought to do in the middle east?'
he stared down at his stub and said, 'glass make it lots of glass.'
i though about this then asked 'but what about the jews?'
he sucked his teeth for a moment and said, 'don't we celebrate christmas, here?'

a joke
how do you make a anti abortion rally disperse?
you ask them to adopt the babies.

there are good days and then bad. the crowd that has gathered seems to be cold. the only one who hasn't groaned or pushed their finger towards me is a woman who seems to be on her lunch break.
'boo!' they say.
'not funny!' they say.
'i know somebody that...' they say.

a joke
i use to think it should be illegal for lesbians to use dildos. then i watched my first pornographic movie.

12/30 the com.

2009-12-30T06:49:00.000-08:00

a joke:
so this salesman is in a diner in small town south USA and he asks the waitress, 'this is my first night in town. is there anything here worth doing?'
to which she replies, 'oh yes, you just have to go to farmer jacks chicken show.'
'chicken show?' he asks.
'yes, it is a tap dancing chicken.' she says.
'well i do have to see that.' he says
so she takes out a napkin and writes the directions to the farm. the salesman pays his bill and drives through the wilderness and dark for about twenty minutes, until he comes across a farm house with a sign that reads 'thunder the tap dancing chicken'. he goes to the door, pays some old lady two dollars and walks inside.
the farm house is full, of what appears to be every person in town. kids are celebrating their birthday in one corner, men are standing around talking sports in one corner and woman are in the middle keeping an eye on everything.
suddenly there comes a clank of a cow bell and the farm house lights flicker causing everybody to go to their seats.
the salesman watches, as outsiders tend to do, and ends up with a corner piece of bench in the front row.
there is a red curtain on the stage that parts and from out behind it comes a chicken dressed in billowy white open at the throat dress shirt, his pants are tight lycra connecting to polished to shine black tap shoe.
the chicken stands at attention. someone in the crowd whistles. then the music starts. as the drums begin to thunder the chicken begins to tap dance.
the salesman is immediately taken aback. it moves in perfect rhythm to the drum. the chicken moves, not as a wild thing unknowingly typing hamlet but as a professional. it's chicken head bopping to one side then to the other as the dance dictates. the animal does not make the cluck of a chicken but keeps quiet wings tight to it's sides shirt perfect in the movement.
the dance lasts for thirty breathtaking minutes. as the curtain parts and the chicken disappears people are hollering and applauding wildly. someone stands and throws feed at the stage causing others to do so. the salesman is so moved as to wipe a tear from his eye.
never had he witnessed such random strokes of genius.
as the crowd begins to thin out he makes his way back stage where farmer jack is standing beside the caged chicken and a group of other farmers all talking weather and news of the day.
'excuse me.' the salesman asks.
'help ya?' spits farmer jack.
'i just have to know how you trained that chicken to dance,' says the salesman pointing at the bird that is now clucking and chickening about the cage.
all the farmers look at one another knowingly and smile.
'well son, it's real simple. lean in close and i'll tell ya.'
the salesman leans in until he can smell the tobacco on the old man's breath.
'yes?' said the salesman.
the farmer takes a quick glance about the room then says, 'you don't take your dick out of 'em till your finished.'

real time:

i am at the kitchen table, my face soaked, my head soaked in gasoline. it is near two in the morning. desperation has pushed me to this. when allowed we push away our dreams, we become sidetracked. we fear and curse and move away from the path.
in my hand is a burlap sack with the eyes cut out. in front of me is a table of pain killers. i must burn for awhile. on the table is bottles of booze. i must be left with no choice. like moses face covered to hide the scars of the kiss of god, as i deliver the word.
gone will be the hours of the cubicle. gone will be the put off of open mics and the writing sessions to television. if i must be homeless, i will be homeless, if i must starve, i must starve and if i must die i die.
i am a comedian.
i am talking into a tape recorder.
i am a comedian.
in my hand is a burlap sack.
in my hand is a lighter. it makes a clicking sound as the fire comes off and on.
faith requires the sacrifice of everything to the glory of the goal.
we have fire. we have heat. we have no turning back.

2
introducing...the comedian. the soap box.

the last of the bums-

2009-12-14T07:03:00.001-08:00

the last of the bums,

they come at 4 am at 5 am at any am crying you from sleep. they come tugging their blankets, soiled and hungry. they the youth being dragged by the wild animals that grow in the heart, the animals of adventure and discovery and once we were them. now we are sore from the work, sore from the mountains of letters and endless hard fought miles to keep the lights on.
we the grey hairing, we the worn sunday slacks hard sighing when we squat in the pew to serious our intentions to the orthodox christ while they giggle draw and stomp their feet. we the love makers heavy flesh crashing like waves into the hard beach line of wrinkled sheets and worn thin pillows.we lay gasping for air in the raven black winter night as they call out as they stumble across darkened flooring tears falling paining under the labor of teeth eruption.
where once there was the rush of downtown where everything was wet lips rudded cheeks flushed and all sentences had the passion of an exclamation point.
'who was that!?' she would say.
'immortal lee county killers!'
'yeah!'
'yeah!'
there was fire outside doug fir where we gasped these things. where we paced, she in her white puff jacket, where we smoked cigarettes rubbed our fingers together drooling slightly from the sides of our lips hungry for sex for next for something something something!
you must learn patience for the youth. the youth do need that. you must learn you can't get red wine drunk singing outside until three in the morning. you must learn that chasing your now wife through music clubs or the art museums can't happen anymore. the youth need that. the freedom for that.
i try these things. i get hungry still. i chase still.
these the new legions of champions have little to no time for your ornaments of nostalgia and they shouldn't. if we always looked back think of the pot holes we stumble upon, twist our ankles, hair smashed flat from falling down. onward i say, burn your bridges the future is out there not behind you.
i can tell them these things. for me, i am overgrown with the roots of mine mind. i spend hours watching the light change on the pavement or ceiling in a trance of remembrance.
why remember the time i rushed across country hearing j.r. and thinking we'd be received as conquering heroes. why remember when we (dear j.r.) stopped in new mexico and slept on the blood stained sheets? remember the fear of the scorpion? shackleton and his rattling thin bones of madness? the quick steps of sundar chasing us kids down?
there are fiction machines there are philosophical machines there are theological machines there are the dream machines.
i the dream machine, the reflection machine lost in the fog of war tracing shells and corpses ready to report when asked, 'what happened?'
remember nick your rude joke we teased you about?
remember josh the double mac?
brian's fisting?
i do.
i go back to three years older than my son, that is how long this machine has been on. it was idaho, it was early fall before all the birds had flown. young over stuffed tired from peddling it was time to relax and reflect (think of those things that machine had to dream upon!). while watching the transformation of cloud to baby, from cloud to two headed hell hound, to green lantern there came a tugging at my shoe. my gaze descended to find myself surrounded by a group of local toughs, three ducks had settled on either side and one at my feet. the one a green to grey white collard joe tugged playfully at my toe as if to say remember now is the time to focus on what's going on here.
i watch the fumbles, the stumbles bonks bumps and bruises. i watch the crazy dance move, the terrible cry fests and listen to goobles and shouts. i watch and record and wonder upon him as he drfeams is it of fantasy, is it of the day or is it of the vast endless universe that he rushes to embrace thrusting his tiny hands and legs straight in the night air to anxious to begin for covers. go forth, rush on don't fret for these memories, my boy, i will collect, record and remember these things.

2
the honeycomb
clung to his beard
causing the hair to mat
while the fish oil
weakened the scab
an the blood flowed

3

there is no holy testament to the drunk anymore. there is no prophet of the booze anymore. the tabernacle of the blessed pub sing alone. i, man, cling to the hunger for drink drunk that rattles through my rib cage and knocks into my head.
a glorious drunk we sang, watched and danced to those that moved through the night. glorious in our wine stained button shirts meaty stomachs pressing stretching the buttons while rubber lips flap and bounced against each other calling out to perfume and rouge.
oh wifey, you know as well that we would never have made it without red wine. with your father flushed angry bald head and silence. he did not take our laughter well. how they sat as we babbled on about the future, how i came and talked for two hours straight about my failures in life. oh the joy when your full of magic, love and merlot.
do you remember hood river and the thing we broke?
do you remember your mother calling?
the threat of the orphan close?
now we sneak drinks. from nine to nine-thirty. we huddle on the couch and talk through hand signs in case we wake them. how can there be joy when there is no guffaw, no belly laugh no loud fast conversations of whats to come?
they say farmers make the best parents because their only interests are in how to make things grow. i was raised among faith healers and the latch key orphans. it was not bad parents, it was idaho where everyone learned from the fields that you leave it alone, that you let it go. they believed that in the womb of the soiled earth their fortune did grow.
i wonder if texans are the same?
could you imagine? out in kansas corn fields they can point out the window, 'look see there it grows!' out in the dairy land, 'look see they grow!' to the idaho farm land, 'look see have faith it grows!'
the ease of the faith in christ must be born from the memories of the blank idaho potato fields where a man could sit on seemingly blank soil wipe his brow and dream of a spring time treasure.
it means i pace, it means i get uncomfortable watching my children unfold. it means i understand why my father went vacant and my mother held a job. it means that with most things i want to cover them up and return later for the harvest. it means it is unnerving to watch and see children take actions that cause damage or embarrassment. it means that you get worn thin when you have to stifle your orgasm and must limit yourself to, at most, two glasses of wine or booze. it means i see the miles of mail thirty five years worth, still to come! it means i am scared that when the harvest comes there will be no potatoes just empty soil.
it means faith is not the absence of fear but that your still farming even when your terrified and consumed by the hopelessness of it all.

4

i
like
the pigeon
bob my head
in agreement
to my son's
toddler babbles
while my lips are wet
cause they kissed my wife
an yet
hunger for more.

5

it's 6:30 in the morning. i begin with the trisagion prayer, the prayer of repentance, the prayer of a parent for their children and finally the marriage prayer. it is december and good orthodox christians are fasting. while i normally fast for lent and rarely eat red meat i do eat dairy, eggs and fish with backbone. i have made my peace with the fact that walking the mail six days a week and starving do not, necessarily, go hand in hand no matter the piousness. once i held all orthodox fast, for the entire year of wedensday, friday the nativity fast, lent etc etc and almost killed a neighbors cat to satisfy the anger and poison of a body on strike.
these things, they are not fixed, they are liquid and sand running through your hand. these things that we practice. they are warm and feel important.
i can't listen to the television or the talk radio anymore. i can't listen to the opinions anymore. they are tilts towards a demographic and extremes.
we are littered with icons. the sit on the table, they sit on the walls and all are staring out, all are waiting to be received, greeted and kissed. i use to circle like an embarrassed dog stealing a kiss or finger rub. i use to walk by oblivious to their thin yearning faces, i use to walk by them and curse for the added work of this new religion.
it was my wife, syrian, long black now auburn highlighted hair, strong lean legs of a colt thin hour glass body, deep pools of innocence and fire in her brown eyes and a smile that is genuine. she is honest and tough always true. she has a great beauty and a sharp mind that required me to come out of the wilderness. my wife led me to the church, would not get married unless i converted.
i was not an easy dog to train. i curse under my breath while they prayed. i had pornographic thoughts while the priest gave liturgy and always came hung over. while they prostrated themselves i sweated and watched the lights swing. while they crossed, while they spoke the creed i rubbed my damp forehead and pinched my excess fat.
i spent my time finding holes in the cause. i spent my time making jokes about 13 men and a hooker out in the desert. i spent my time vomiting forth all sorts of nonsense about a hatred towards something i never knew i had.
faith is a thin blanket. you can see the troubles, you can feel the wind and you can hear the pleas but your warmer than before. faith is a constant exercise in embarrassment. one must kiss those wooden pictures of orthodox saints as if you mean it. one must be reverent towards a man in obnoxious robes, bow before him, kiss his hand. one must breath in incense and think of those that have passed on, say the prayer for the departed and recite names over lit candles.
i came from a man that thought faith of anything more than yourself was a waste. the faith of the dreamer is to configure a want then push the universe around until it rewards you. faith in the holy trinity is that you walk this path and god's will be done.
i came from a philanderer and an adulterer. i came from a singer and a hotel runner. i came from a lumber barron and a moonshine runner. i came from dutch blue blood and a indian chief. i came from across the ocean and from this soil. all the way back my blood must have been baptized how many times? then lost to wander foothills and war grounds now back again. i see my son and wonder at where the future will take us.
the last bums
we waggle our fingers in the air
never good at roots
we tumble
through gutters
garbage cans
and women's arms
to find a nest
with permanent address
but still
we watch
the horizon line
an wonder if we meant
to tumble
a little more
further

6

our lord
jesus christ
son of god
have mercy upon me
a sinner.

7

this morning broke with my son tugging my arm. we sit and watch curious george as the work hour creeps near, as the breakfast hour creeps near. he is young so i'll hold him without embarrassment, so i will tussle his hair and pinch his toes. so i will have to wait until the night. wait until he sleeps, until his sister sleeps, until his mother is off to phone call or magazine articles to try and write again.
the sacrifice is worth the reward.
amen.

8

oh abraham why did you not fight for your son? oh abraham to abandon him and his mother to the mountains. where is the obligation of man, holy man, first man back bone of a nation man? i dream as i parse parcels and letters to ebony faces, auburn faces, dirt stained white faces, bloat face, stuck in wheel chair faces, the bloat faces of the infirm in ghetto homes pregnant with the stink of cat shit and bacon.
oh where would we be without abraham and the first act of the first free trade system? i take this over that. is that not the stain of the entirety of the book? the golden calf and the choice of the martyr?
i watch three year old mexican boys wander in dirty diaper. they lean and lurch weighed down by rotund stomachs gripping bottle full of soda. i see negro girls click clack their beaded braids together as snot run down their nose smiling through half plywood great windows.
the dogs are loud, aggressive in the yards of the ghetto. protective, i wonder of what? all the junk and garbage, who would steal?
there is desperation that seeps through the rust over eldorado to the high wheeled impala. there is desperation that bonds neighbors to each other. when you got nothing you have to rely on kindness.
oh abraham what different would be your choices if you were in the ghetto. what different if your pockets were empty and the utility man cometh wrench in hand to take your water away. what different your choice if you could feel the neighbor eye prying.
the god of the desert has no space on the city street to work it's mysteries.
the god of the desert has no space to move amidst concrete towers.
the god of the desert called the jews out of the city where the buildings huddled close. come out away where it's just you an me, where no one can see and judge if it's right or wrong.
the god of the desert is always making deals.
what does that mean?
i watch the parents in the ghetto in the slums supported by social security and hud. i listen to their booming voices calling their children out of the places where mystery could happen. i listen to their booming voices chiding them out of walking alone.
'now, listen, you don't ever go anywhere without your sister. you don't go anywhere without your brother, you hear?'
the american church is a testament to the crowd.
abraham would not have withstood the gossip. would not have gotten away with no child support. would have made a different decision.
i am baptized orthodox. my church is the church of the crowd. it is uncomfortable there, amongst the faithful, rubbing shoulders, whispering about so and so's new hair cut or pending divorce. the god of the desert, the god of vast empty spaces, the god of jagged rough faced mountains is not around.
i am that i am.
i watch these crowds of humanity move through school halls, through bar halls, through shopping malls. i am apart, i am lonely and most invisible. growing up the youngest, in the empty plains of boise idaho peddling my bike through vacant streets space enough to day dream.
the mailman ghosting across miles of sidewalk and yard. invisible. listening to the chatter and witnessing the glories of the people before company arrives and their face is put on. the answer the door in robes, they answer in dirty yard work clothes. they answer unwashed and unbrushed. some don't answer at all. these people, when i arrive and make my call.
i hear the wail of babes and drift on ishmael. abandoned by his father by the god of secret whispered promises. i hear the wail of babes and drift on my own children a sickness forms in the pit of stomach that i am not there for what tears the day may bring.
we all got some promise we act on faith.
the job faith
the marriage faith
the daycare faith
that buoys us as we abandon our children for the holy dreams of the workday hours.
it is the faith that in our seed is a great nation to come. that is the faith of escape that powers the people in the great dying molded tenements. one day their seed will find it's way to purer soil.
i don't know, but i pray everyday anyway.

9

this is about anger, mac. this is about the stress of it all. there are days that they scream until you want to wreck the car. there are days where you step in mud holes in front of the first mail box and have eight hours of drenched feet. there are days near the river when you see the piles of garbage bobbing like fisherman on tide waves.
we spend most days alone, you see. we spend most days apart. we spend most days on the phone talking about what we lost out on because of economics or lack of baby sitter.
there will be no time off.
sunday we watch, we polish ourselves and watch a man in 20000 dollar robes swing incense in a golden ball. watch amongst the other suits and loafers, while he holds his golden and ruby cross and ask for thousands of dollars to paint icons on the wall.
it's about anger.
i am losing myself in a sea of clothes that used to fit. i am losing myself to the silence of no company where the mind dreams up passions and frustrations. i am losing myself to impotence of inaction, to the impotence of talking but not doing.
to feed to insure to roof to cloth to love these things cost. these arms are heading into my pockets leaving my penniless and exhausted. abandoning me to the abandonment of friends and their calls.
'hey, let's so and so get the kids together?'
'ah, i am only available sunday from 3- 4:15.'
'okay'
then there is no rest. then there is the pacing back and forth. then there is thinking, 'i have to be at work tomorrow. i have to be up at 6:30 to pray, stretch, eat, shit and write.' then i think of the gutters to clean, of the leaves to rake, of the car to gas, of the clothes to wash and food to buy etc. etc.
it burns slow.
there is my wife. there are the phone calls begging for a day off. there are the bills that stand in the way. there is my wife moaning the lament of the promises that fell flat. there is the grandma that has to go back to work, to eighteen hour days, there is the threat of failure all around the darkness of the void.
what if i twist my knee and can't work for a week?
there goes the mortgage.
the cycle is endless. always something to complain on...
enough!
this is about anger.
a man of full health, mind and ability can't change this? it's on you.
dream of the blind, dream of the infirmed, dream of the neighbors blown to half pieces in the war.
there are children in the streets of afghanistan orphaned whipped by shrapnel and driven to terrible acts from starvation.
there are children here, down the street, same diaper for days no food beaten by drug addicts.
if, even then, in the worst of it the heart beats and the mind dreams isn't it about hope?
i watch my son and hold him. i lay and stare at the ceiling. i can feel our hearts beat together and fuck it. life is about hoping and going for the thing you will be happy dying to reach.
if it's about anger. then it's about anger as the fuel to get you out 'the hole that he's in.'
let's us pray.

10

so we talk of death. so she runs her fingers through early morning hair. so we keep up with the jones' and the skeletons in their closet. so our son plays and dances to the twinkle of the christmas tree lights.
she talks like a woman. she talks while criss crossing her legs deep kind eyes gaze towards the ceiling and even now, without shower or makeup she is gorgeous. she of the heaving chest and quick tears when a child bumps it's head or i trip. she of the great deep belly laugh, she of deep wells of passion that erupt at a moments notice. there is love there.
the death of a partner, i watch her hands stab the air while she talks of the self imposed nunnery. while she talks of a life of abstinence. while she erupts, leaps and waves her hands over her heart.
'god forbid!' she says.
'dead is dead. what do i care if you screw some body on my dead body?' says i.
'god forbid!', she says.
'listen, forever is a long time alone. you should allow yourself...' say i.
'well your a man,' she interrupts, 'men can't be alone.'
'i'll just hire prostitutes,' i laugh.
'like that's better,' she hisses.
her lips purse and she stomps her feet like. there is a tenderness, a warming of the heart when you can see through the grown up and catch images of them as a child. i can see her now defiant against the world one shoe untied eight years old and ready for a fight.
i take time to engrave these things. these piles of innocents. it's after the storms when the world is clean and rainbows trace the path to buried treasures. it's the crisp fresh morning waiting for the fifth grade bus and going flush in the cheeks from limitless possibilities. it's the security of the promise to be true and honest at the altar of marriage.
'life is about the effort. when your dead your dead. do not bother yourself with such things dear,' say i.
my son runs an excited finger against the dark grain of our cheap coffee table. my son goes arms upstretched into a squeal and circle. my son collapses to his chair and takes in his shows. my daughter is sleeping in her crib tender fresh lips slightly parted in a blow. my wife walks towards the kitchen, she stops kisses my forehead.
'i'll wait for six months...', she flashes a smile, 'then i'll join a nunnery.' she is before the christmas tree the slow twinkle light highlighting the honest unblinking auburn eyes, highlighting the raven and ash highlight in her hair, highlighing her trim lean long athletic frame. 'i'll be laying right next to you, god willing, i WILL be laying next to you,' she says as if a threat to the universe.
god forbid.
she begins to pump her milk. my daughter stirs. the morning light brightens. life is good.

11

there are children
there
out lost to laughter and asphalt
wearing deep blue
or black
or polka dotted hats
waggling their arms
in
seasonal joy
of winter break
of the mystery of wrapping paper
the rain slicked
the grass
and roads to a shimmer
though
it's the puddles that cause one
to stop
and wonder
if that's reflection
or another universe
i seen the sky in the water
and realized we're all upside down
and none of this existed
save but in the heart
of a warm blooded
innocent
dream writing about love
for
the comfort of arms
or lips
or telephone calls
that you remember
i spent the moments
after we made love
thinking of soldiers
with their guns and santa hats
in the streets of a muslim city
i love
i hope
i dream
that we all make it home
someday
to enjoy the holiday
amen

12

it's the cold. that is when i grow this beard. scruff wild with an island of gray. it is christmas, or the morning after, it is the tens of slices of pie left to consume. it is all the noise of the electric children learning toys. it is the predawn dark of the rumble work trucks heading to paycheck alley. it is the construction of a new duplex down the street casting a black grim shadow over the neighbors house. standing as a slap in the face to humble house in front. it is the 92 year old neighbor suffering slight madness and walking in circles through the back yard snow white head twisting to the sound of a grandchild's laugh. it is the evicted cat family, cat father hat in hand mewing to be allowed entrance to the cellar, mewing that they 'most certainly won't make noise or knock apart furnace pipes this time.' it is the balancing act of my three month old daughter as she demands to stand. it is my father bringing roasted chicken and pie in his dirty pajama bottoms. it is the energy of my brother as an uncle squishing, tossing and rough housing the children into submission.
there are open shops. there is the mad woman having an argument with her split personality. 'one pack, we get one pack, no one pack, stop it, okay, sirsirsirsir, can we get two packs...is this the right chang...oh wait your right two packs. thaaats one for me and one for you, twotwotowopacks.' there is the loose eyes of the man behind me, whose presence felt seven feet tall an eight feet wide. 'i got me here some winners,' to pile of tickets.
so christ was born in spring. so what?
there is this beard and a wife's new haircut sexy though an attack on confidence. there is the morning and there are ideas to be tried. the redbook has spoken. time is up!

13

faith along the way. i take pictures of discoveries, of loosed twigs or branches that have fallen onto the ground to form a cross. i take pictures of children laughing as they slide. pictures of old timers that still lean into each other for healthy kisses. pictures of the things that first blush cause you to go warm. there is space on empty intersections when the weather is cold and the sun light fills. there is space between men on bar. there is a fullness an airdustrial (vitally invisible) quality to it all.
i hear garbage trucks to collect our christmas discards. does it strike a chord of joy or melancholy? do we focus on the smiles from the gifts in the boxes or on the smushed torn paper taking with it another season to the recycle pits?
i am heavy. my body aches in the morning. emits loud grunts or blasts when i bend or twist. i have to stretch in the morning now. i have to bend with my knees to pick up mail bins or my kids now. there is a feeling of marriage, safety, peace and union in our love making now.
gone to pasture the savage hunger of youth. gone savage the idea that makes your head damp and emit steam as you power up and down dirty city asphalt. gone to pasture not blinking but staring deep into fresh new women at the bars or poetry readings.
i have no patience but live on the cheap which is all patience. the patience to save for things. the patience to not eat the whole box of chips or every apple. where at first it was ah youth the consumption machine to ah father the patience machine rub their head and cheer them onto the discovery themselves.
where at first i would abandon and rush about saying,
i got me
some here fire
in the gut
and i am looking
for love
or lust
or blank fresh skin
to moan my poem
upon
an don't mean nothing to
nobody or
leave no instruction
behind
so let's us just
drink
an scream
an fuck
let's us just
drive fast
with the windows down
in the winter
to honor the dead
let's us just
spend all our money
an wake spent from it all
bathing in new sunlight

to:

son
you got's to
do it
use your pole
find your fish
dream over the
mountains
an if somebody says
can't
leave them behind
to kiss with tongue mother
i had a hard day at work
an our anniversary is too
far away
to be strong
daughter
men will come
the great destroyers
thieves in the temple
take your pole
find your own fish
an never give away
what you aren't willing
to lose
or be stuck to

i see the emptiness of my fridge. i see the sad exhausted face of my clothes hang limp and dirty from their hanger. i see the hair on the floor. i see the frozen dishes. i see my wife exhausted and leaning into the couch as the children coo and rush from mound of toy to mound to toy. there is music in the air.
we the family. we are exposed on the toilet by the son now.
there is something full mysterious and wonderful laying across us now. our burdens filled with purpose. our patience tested and grown by the farmer hands of babes.
the christmas tree dies naked on the porch. the ornaments and toys are put to slumber. the morning sun is cresting and my son is going to sit on the toilet for the first time.

14

my father wanders his cold rental thinking about failure. he holds a drum stick and apple pie, both home made. he says 'no names' full puff nose and forest of eyebrow hair dancing as he speaks. my father rub's his stomach and says 25 more lbs. his holiday in stained pajama an abandoned thing, uncared for lost to madness his voice a low grizzly growl as he rocks his grand daughter to sleep.
there is the smell of age about him. there is the threat of impending doom. there is my personal pride for all he has accomplished and overcome battling the failure's witnessed as he grew. we grow to better understand it was only the best effort that they gave and nothing was intended or malicious.
i look about, at his family in ruins. all scattered to the wind. my mother lost to the ocean waves, my sister to the LA skyline, brother to the big business bank machine and i to the circle of city blocks i trot mailing about. we are the family of the spread hand. all connected but distant from the others.
my father the outlaw.
they don't retire from the life. he drives with no license. he drives with no insurance. he carries all his money in a cash knot in his pocket. he leaves with no notice. he is the wild dog chasing dinner in the blood sun set desert sky.
i admire him.
we follow not out of loyalty but after years of instruction. i see know, with my son, how it must be. every day there is instruction. every instruction carries with it a choice, once rewarded and the other with consequence.
we are the memory machines. what you chose to study to remember to create skill is the reward generator. i the medicine memory man produce more rewards than the door knob memory man who produce more rewards than the hamburger check out man who produce more reward than the can collection and return man.
i remember him. as he liquidates his assets and burns his roots off. i remember idaho and the beard sharks. i remember the karate pajamas and freethrows with our eyes closed. the outlaw. the last of the bums. on his way to mexico to find his graveyard. as my son stirs and i can hear my wife's magazine pages i can feel the sunset on our backs as we wander fields to find the rock to pay our respects to.
i love him.

the end.

12/11-the actor

2009-12-11T06:54:00.000-08:00

glenn dale jefferson owns three oscars. glenn dale jefferson prefers to go by the name actor. the actor has reads no newspapers watches no tv and will only own nondescript things. he is a blank slate ready to be written upon.
his life was one of a ship at sail, doing it's work, taking pride in it's own ship body doing it's ship work. the actor would train his vocal chords, he would mimic small animals that would skitter across his property, grasp fallen acorns and stuff them in his cheeks to understand the life of the squirrel he was to play in an animation film. the actor studied the asian woman for his big business drama about going to china and ending up on top. today he stands leaning against a bus stop dark glasses blocking his vision as he clings to a light pole learning the ways of the blind.
there is a man with a pout belly hurriedly walking towards the actor. the man reaches out one stout arm and grasps our hero as he trips over a bench and begins to fall.
'gotcha,' says the fatso.
'wooah,' says the actor.
the robust man helps steady glenn dale jefferson, the actor, on his feet and asks 'are you alright?'
'i am fine, i guess this is the trouble you get in with your dog in the shop.'
they laugh.
'thank you for the help,' says the actor.
the actor is wearing a gray sport coat over a green christmas tree sweater over a black button up shirt all above unzipped slacks and mismatched tennis shoes. the fat man is wearing a business suit and has combed his hair slick over his bald spot.
as the rotund man began to make his way down the street the actor called after him.
'sir, your name?'
'gerald,' said the man.
'gerald, i have an appointment i can not be late for. have you ever eaten at pepino?' said the actor facing a store window.
'no, i can't afford that place.'
'lead me there an it's on me. a thank you for helping. what do you say?'
'i don't know, i have to go back to work...'
the actor waved his hand in the air, after lunch we will go to work and i will explain to your boss.'
'i don't know,' said gerald.
the actor runs into the glass, spins about and heads towards the busy street saying, 'life is to be lived! even i, with my condition, have come to the realization each breath is the death of that breath. each day is a day closer to the end. forget treading water, and swim! now if you wish to tread, that is your decision but i must swim to pepino!'
gerald reaches out and grasps the actor just before he steps in front of a speeding taxi. he pulls him to the sidewalk and says, 'it's always better to swim with a partner. listen after lunch you must go to my office and prove my story.'
'sir,' said the actor, 'by the end of lunch we will be out of this stream and into the wilds of the ocean where all things are possible.

-pepino the director producer and the write in.

12/9

2009-12-09T07:04:00.000-08:00

it is early and cold. i am watching curious george with william and joanne. we are considering burning the house down and starting over. somewhere between clinton and now life has gotten hard. not just the everybody is broke and losing their jobs but something more internal. it is stressful to be american. there is the great pose down of representatives, i mean how can you not alleviate the struggle of the small business or independent insurance buyer? how is no the right answer to even looking at these problems?
it is true that i believe merkley was the wrong choice, not because i am republican but because oregon had a unique situation where our democratic rep and our republican rep liked each other and both held some position or chair in their respective party. this is not a shot at merkley but i can not shake the feeling that if gordon smith was still in office oregon would have a viable candidate for president.
i do not think oden is cursed. i think that the blazers must take out the magnifying glass and look at their training staff. to have this many problems is not the effort of the cosmos but a real failure of the training staff to stretch and/or care for the athlete's parts. bill walton would not return to the trailblazer organization because he felt the training staff failures cost him his career. watching the continual collapse of our players health one finds that hard to argue.
i am reading dan jenkins semi tough, it is a riot.
you can say what you want about granderson, but to steal bases you have to actually be on base.
is it amazing that the oregon ducks would still be in the rose bowl if they were undefeated, but there would be a great offense to having to play that game. so you have to wonder if you wouldn't take the same out come in boise and stanford. with these two losses it makes the rose bowl game a true reward worth celebrating.
thinking about football how is portland state such a terrible draw? is it the conference? have you been to civic stadium? civic has a great atmosphere and nestled in downtown gives a true personality you can not find anywhere else. i remember when pokey allen was on the television talking about how 'if you don't buy season tickets a meteor will land in your yard' and the place drew. now it is a ghost town. sure psu is a commuter school, but come on if portland is a sports town than it has to be an administrative failure to not find a local coach who can get the best kids in the portland area, or at least the third best kids.
if glanville could not draw, could not recruit than maybe the place is dead.
what about them pilots? top twenty five? that's redonkulous! is that a inspiration for the vikings football program? do they draw? if they don't than shame on us.
dear governor can you not cheer minimum wage job creation? to work to bring in companies how about looking at the places these companies already are and grandfathering those environments to oregon. how about single payer insurance, elimination of all tax save sin and consumption and federal. how about letting business pay unemployment and worker comp and that's it. how about giving business that freedom on the condition that they build green and work green. making oregon the green state the leader in the new economy. how about opening up the waterfront to the casino and creating an oregon boardwalk for tourism?
why does it seem like we are not the state of dreamers of pioneers? hello we would not be here without those things, and the business in a world wide market can pick and choose where they operate. look at michigan, a dead state well what if michigan tells the corporate world 'you can operate from here, in america at the exact same price you are operating in china or taiwan or wherever?' wouldn't they want to come back?
i could go on and on
i could write how alderidge should be traded for kevin love, how roy is not happy and secretly wants to be traded but there is always tomorrow!
thank you.

12/8s introduction.

2009-12-08T06:49:00.000-08:00

this is the story of the 'ricker'. i am the 'ricker', rick naljev and i make love to women. it's always the same, they come up to me saying such things as, 'oh, you have such wonderful hair. how do you keep it so raven feather black?' to which i would respond with something like, 'the true miracle is in my pants, darling.'
it is true that my hair is a magnificent deep shade of black. i comb this masterpiece straight back, slicked so as to accentuate my chiseled cheeks and deep tender doe brown eyes. you see when a woman takes in a man she looks first to the hair, then the eyes then the shoes. she does this to see if you can take care of the small details, but not so much as you wouldn't need her to improve that area of your life. as we get more modern, as we get more lazy women want to improve her man but do not have the energy for a full remodel.
a woman knows immediately if you are married or in a relationship. if she goes with you then do not feel any guilt towards her for she has made her bed. the secret to the adultress is that she does not want to take on the full task of caring for a man so she chooses the committed man to share this duty. the woman who is being cheated on knows immediately when her man begins to stray and thus has her reasons for not stopping it. either she is ready to be out of the relationship, wants something that heretofore the man has not given her, or has lost interest in full ownership and may be looking for another part time investment.
the 'ricker' does not get involved in these types. i am a romantic.
now i understand that you are thinking to yourself, 'how can a man who has screwed so many woman (thank you) possibly be a romantic?'
well, first of all, i make love to these women. secondly, it is not about moving from one woman to another, it is not about another notch on the belt. i am not wilt chamberlin, i am looking for a true love and give my heart completely to each situation. i go in with the excitement that this could be the final stop for the 'big rick express'. to each woman i give an unbiased chance at success. each could tame the wild heart that beats in this chest.
'well rick if that is true than why do you immediately make love to them?' you could ask.
i make love to them on the first night, because i believe that the moment after you climax, when you are laying side by side you immediately know your future. if you get anxious and want to leave then it was just lust, if you stay, hold hands and talk of the future or fall to some joyous sleep then you have something. either way she receives the great gift of rick for at least one passionate, orgasmic night.
it is important for a man to make a woman orgasm. if you can not cause a woman and most importantly your woman to orgasm then your are in for a life of misery. i have always maintained that a woman who is not made to orgasm by her man should feel no guilt about having a wandering eye. we all must be satisfied.
i have made love to each and every nation. i am unbiased when it comes to delivering pleasure. i am not boasting when i say that i have a generously sized penis and i know how to use. though most men talk of their masterful cockmanship the true lover, the most generous of lovers will use, not only his penis but also his mouth and fingers. the 'ricker' has always believed that the secret to a satisfied woman is a good warm up and nothing will warm her up like a good oral session.
to a woman the orgasm is like a rope, the more she has the tighter you are bound. if you are inclined to read these lines and work these wonders on more than one woman understand that each will become bound and infatuated, this is the reason that i only have one woman at a time, unless more is requested, and that immediately after the fire of our love has withered i let them go. never keep a woman that you have lost passion for life is short she must have the respect to know she must keep looking for her partner.
during my adult life friends have come asking me, 'ricker, what can i do with my wife...' and i always stop them there for i have never been married so the 'ricker' can not discuss such things. though i believe that one should be open and honest with one's wife or husband. if trouble arises it should be tended to be a counselor or preist.
the way that i have handled threesomes is to be honest. since i am not in a marriage i can say no men, the 'ricker' is not interested in that. i don't think i would want two men coming after me if i was a woman anyway just seems like more work. so, if a woman wants to have multiple partners they must be women or not with me, but if i was married then i would have to consider my life partner's wishes, dreams and desires in order to keep the marriage healthy and happy.
enough of this for now.
let's bowl.
-------------next how dressing specific to desired nationality will help you get foreign poon.

12/1

2009-12-01T22:14:00.000-08:00

league night and we are rolling at alley cat lanes.
the thunderbolt. that is what i call it. my mustache, as it strikes women dead in their tracks. the slow roll of the bowling ball, from my hand, is the rumble of thunder. i strain, perched one leg stiff long pointed behind me, one arm straight to the side and the rolling arm extended down the lane. i form a perfect 't' as the ball moves towards the center pin i turn around head down, then suddenly, as the ball explodes into the pins i look up into her eyes and 'bam' lightening strikes.
'rick naljev, how are you?' i say extending my non wrist guarded hand.
'pam, fine, good...you knew it was a strike?' she asks.
'i always do.'
this is a league night so i am wearing our 'pin heads' ruffled white tuxedo shirt and blue polyester slacks. i can feel the cool air rustle the fabric against my thin frame. pam has highlights through her dirty blonde hair, she is five two with grey blue eyes and a simple beautiful face. she is above average and that is good.
'you want to sit and enjoy some of my chili fries?' i ask.
'ooh, a real romeo,' she says.
'so, what brings you here?'
she spins a fry through the chili onion and cheese staring down sheepishly. she moves slightly casting her eyes against my adams apple while placing the fry through her teeth she speaks, 'i was supposed to be meeting someone but i guess they couldn't make it.'
i run my fore finger across the thunderbolt and watch her eyes trace my movements. the juke box starts to play a familiar song from the eighties as i lean forward and say, 'some men are intimidated by beauty, me, i admire it.'
'oh really,' she says.
'yes, very much so, and you know where the best place is to admire such a beauty as yourself?'
'lemme guess, your bedroom?' she says with a sigh.
'i was going to say the dance floor, to this familiar and wonderful song. but what ever you want to do is fine with me?' i smile which causes the thunderbolt to dance for her. she blushes when she smiles and playfully punches my arm.
'oh pam if you knew your own strength, i bruise easily!'
we laugh and head towards a small parquet floor between the snack tables and video games. we dance slowly, in a circle she playfully puts her head on my shoulder. i playfully say, 'here comes the ass rub,' she blushes and says, 'you didn't just say that?'
the music talks about the rose, how every rose has a thorn and as the guitar solo begins we are no longer playing but quiet holding each other, moving in circles.
i close my eyes, breathe deep her perfume, feel the sway of her hair across my neck and chin. i grasp her hand close to my chest and feel the softness of her knuckles, rub with my forefinger across her chewed and rough nails.
pam sighs, she sways and rubs the back of my shoulder holding on, drawing in moving to the rhythm of the song.
when it is over an old woman claps and the pin heads sing over, 'ricker you ready to bowl this fucker down? you can bring your girlfriend.'
i nod and laugh, 'how 'bout it girlfriend, you can eat my fries.'
'that and a beer will get you a 'yes',' she says.
'you have a deal.'
this night i am magnificent. the pin heads are cruising. whenever the maulers get within striking distance i push them away. pam is cheering each roll and her voice must bear the power of the bowling gods for the ball moves true.
'the ricker is on fire,' the pin heads say.
i stare up at the score sheet and see a miracle forming, then stare across the pit to pam and see the miracle that is. pam laughs and i shrug. she drinks her beer and point to my stomach mouthing 'what about me?' she comes over and shares.
in between rolls we are together now. inbetween roles we are cheering on the team, i have my arm about her i have my legs crossed. she is leaning into me, she has her ankles crossed, she is wearing denim jeans, she is wearing a dark shirt underneath a light zipper hoodie and she is carrying a small dark purse.
the strikes continue as the game wears on. i have not missed they say, i am on pace for perfection, they say. i can not focus on the moment for i am lost into her, into this, into us.
'burn 'em down ricker,' she says.
'here comes the fire,' i say and blast through the final frame, the final toss the final strike. the maulers lay defeated as we cheer and clutch at one another. balloons fall from the ceiling as a 300 blinks on the score board. i am awarded a free pizza coupon, i am awarded a plaque, i am awarded a t-shirt with a picture of me against the score board. i pull pam in for the photo.
it is after the game, it is late, it is closing time and we have talked the whole night through. it is closing time and we are on fire for one another.
'who lives closer?' she says.
we say our address, she is closer. we are on our way. i am driving. her hands across me, all over me finally landing against the thunderbolt and stroking the hair down.
we arrive.
i watch from her doorway as she turns the lights of her apartment on. i watch as she moves back towards me, i watch her pull me in and close the door. we are across each other, we are all over each other falling over furniture and pulling at our clothes.
i close my eyes. i smell her. i open my eyes and watch her. i watch and fall in love with her humble body with her small one bedroom apartment. i can see her struggle and poverty. she is making just enough and on her own. she has broken her dad's heart because she won't let him take care of her.
i see the shadow of her body through the light reflecting off her glass frames. her things cute and thoughtful. as we roll and strip, as we make our way towards lusts climax i think of when she bought the salt shakers. i wonder if she was in a relationship, if she was happy alone or was this with friends . i imagine her alone shopping in some retail store, going through things, no one at her side but happy just because all her bills were paid and she had some left over for this.
we are kissing, we are moving we are making love and i am overwhelmed with the idea of her at the store alone. it is beautiful. we climax we surrender.
when we sleep she is cute, innocent, curled against me in a crescent moon. she has her hands tucked beneath her chin and her face is lax. i lay on the bed and try to imagine myself here. there is the answering machine, how many messages has it received from old lover boys and best friends. she has a giant stuffed bean bag chair which is ridiculous and would have to go.
i make my way to the toilet and relieve myself. there is a cabinet full of her things that i do not snoop over. i am sorry when i open the door and find there is not enough room for my things. i look at her shower curtain it is plain see through and would have to change.
i wonder how she can sleep knowing i am here wandering through the apartment, using her toilet maybe secretly thinking of eating her food. she is still in bed, but i can tell she is fake sleeping so i make a joke, 'oh good i can sneek out of here,' to which she pinches my arm and pulls me in.
'i don't think so,' is her sleepy reply.
we lay and dream happy for something found.
dreams are like rivers they snake around only to find themselves back again...
league night and we are rolling at space lanes.
the thunderbolt. that is what i call it. my mustache, as it strikes women dead in their tracks. the slow roll of the bowling ball, from my hand, is the rumble of thunder. i strain, perched one leg stiff long pointed behind me, one arm straight to the side and the rolling arm extended down the lane. i form a perfect 't' as the ball moves towards the center pin i turn around head down, then suddenly, as the ball explodes into the pins i look up into her eyes and 'bam' lightening strikes.
'rick naljev, how are you?' i say extending my non wrist guarded hand.
'misty, fine, good...you knew it was a strike?' she asks.
'i always do.'

11/24

2009-11-24T07:53:00.000-08:00

i have a pig. in the middle of the city he naps against the radiator snoring kicking his hooves and passing gas. charleston pig begat by princess snortus who was begat by king henry baconton the greatest show pig in american history.
charleston pig has taken home a million dollars in show prize money and stud fees. i do not have the heart to tell him what happens to his male heirs. famous actors buy his children to serve on easter or thanksgiving. famous chefs come calling two years before the president comes for dinner and they ask.
as i watch him dream i am filled with guilt. my room mate, my income, my friend how many of his children i have sent to the slaughter.
in an effort to suppress the pain i allow him to rut through the center of my life. when i invite a woman over i leave their clothes on the ground so he can roll across them. i shovel mounds of his waste off the floor and wipe the front room down. on weekends we spend hours at a small eastern oregon farm so that he may roll and frolic in the mud.
i do not know if he feels sadness. i do not know if he thinks of the ghost of children past. i do know that he will not mount any of the first class pigs that have paid for his services. charleston pig loves slumming it. he mounts freely, only the lower class and impregnates only the worst of the lot.
the farmers in the places we retreat to know this, they trade the land use and pig mounting for the chance to claim his blood line. each pig that becomes pregnant wins the pig lottery, as they will not be slaughtered. they are spared until they give birth and charleston has moved on to another pig.
i use to think this was just his taste. to each his own, as they say. then it began happening, where if i left him alonew with his woman he would snort, cry and dismount. he wanted me to watch, wanted to stare into my eyes as he performed. if i looked away he would snort and gnash his teeth, only quieting when i returned his gaze. this new practice caused a tremor in my heart.
each year, charleston pig, artifically inseminates 30 she hogs. each hog will give birth to eight piglets. that is 240 piglets, of those all but 30 will be slaughtered. we have been in this business for 10 years. i have sent 2100 of charleston's sons and daughters off to die.
i am the hitler of high quality pork products. as charleston lays and sleeps and dreams i watch, tearfully remembering those that have come to pass.

the weather and time change

2009-11-05T07:47:00.000-08:00

has really got me tired and confused. so i am wandering the city with a headache. i will return. soon. after i figure out what all these bricks are about.

10/30

2009-10-30T07:35:00.000-07:00

we suffer from?
old man with needle
behind ear
like cigarette
or pen
calls from beat winnebago door
'hey mail man,
you got anything for 2345?
i'll put a box soon.'
he is dressed
always slicked and suited
save for the worn slippers
on his feet
he makes his way with
elder son
with obese grand daughter
tumbling forward
no matter the morning
weather
to the local corner market
the poor buy in ones
one cigarette
one tall can of beer
it's pay day
my deposit
my check
didn't arrive
and i marvel how close
i am to the edge.
poverty drives my dad
to mexico
poverty drives my
inlaws
back to the restaurant kitchen
poverty drives me
to the streets
in circles
delivering
letters
day after day after
day.

10/26- back from vacation

2009-10-26T06:43:00.000-07:00

harold williams was a stout man, who preferred open collars to the tie. he was an excellent business man who, over his life, had acquired enough wealth to never worry about cost. in fact it was well known that mr. williams would become extremely angry if anyone even inferred that there was a price and he was interested in it.
as wealthy as he was, his wife cindy was his equal in beauty. she of the long brown hair, lean legs that ran straight and tall as pine. her blue eyes staring out above perfect pouting lips and a catalog of magazine covers completed picture.
cindy williams, who graced the swimsuit edition of a sports magazine, sat straight and tall in creaking wooden chair. she is across from harold as her divorce lawyer discussed the division of assets. he takes the bulk of harolds sweat, the history of his working life and begins to crack it apart.
'it is one thing to give and quite another to have to give away,' thought harold as he sat collar askew hair unkempt watching papers move back and forth. his lawyer discussed as a man who has given in. he did not spit or bite, did not take the papers from the other and tear them in half storming out. no, this man stared at the paper lean into harold and said, 'this is fine.'
the motto of the divorce lawyer, leave enough to pay the bill. the motto of the divorce lawyer, get enough to pay the bill.
harold felt a heat growing in his stomach. there was a anger that moved from the pit of his stomach as he watched these two banter over his things. he tapped his thigh as he watched his ex wife stare at the glare of the light off the diamond bracelet he had purchased her.
as these three moved on, oblivious to his existence, he began to think of all the things he had bought her. there was the dog, a small nervous ball that soiled the floor whenever a loud noise went off. there was the shopping spree's for clothes, not at the stores but the designers coming to their house. there was the house, a sprawling coastal mansion that had to be torn down and rebuilt as the doorway was not grand enough. there was the three story apartment downtown where they spent the majority of their time. there was the donations to her associates art shows and fund raisers. there was the operations, the collagen injects, the facial scrubs and tightening, there was the breast lifts and tummy tucks.
all of these expenses began to tick off in his head until one stumble forward, out of his mouth and into the ear of his lawyer.
the lawyer leaned in to listen then grew pale. he turned to look at harold, with eyes that seemed to ask, 'are you serious?', to which harold williams nodded.
my client would like to inform your client, mrs. williams that she can have whatever she wishes. that mr. williams would only like for her happiness. that if she felt the same way, that if she would want mr. williams to be happy, too that she would consider his offer. no, his trade. for mrs. williams can have whatever assets she wishes, without fight, if she is willing to give mr. williams her vagina.'
here mrs. williams stood up indigent. her lawyer thrust his hands in the air turning towards the other lawyer, 'unprofessional,' he says.
harold williams remembers the cameras. he remembers cindy when she said she had some work done. that she had, 'done it for you, as a present for you. my gift to you,' she said.
he had never asked for the vaginoplasty. it was his birthday and she had presented it to him. he remembers quite well, the study, they have camera there. he remembers her telling him, screaming to him that it was his. that he owned it. those tapes could be presented.
he whispers to his lawyer. the lawyer writes a number down on a yellow legal sheet and passes said number to mrs. williams representative.
mrs. williams lawyer looks down and passes the paper down. mrs. williams stares at the number the blood slowly draining from her face as she twirls nervously the diamond bracelet.
'there will be ground rules of course,' she said.
mr. williams nodded.
'health and dignity will be provided at every meeting,' she said.
so began a second round of negotiations. these moved rather rapidly and ended with both lawyers turning to their respective clients and shaking hands.
2
the ex-mrs. willams was reclined in the limousine when the telephone rang. she pushed the button allowing the drivers voice to fill the carriage.
'one stop on the way, misses. we have to pick up the security.'
'one must do what, one must.' she said.
the limousine slowed before a two story brown stone. the driver moved from behind the wheel to open the rear passenger door. there he allowed a man in his mid-thirties to enter. this man was breathtaking. his form as if chisled from stone. his dirty blonde hair cascading down the side of his face, three day stubble erupting along cheek and chin. he would have been perfect if not for the open collar.
the ex-mrs. williams caught her breath, she sighed as he climbed in, having had enough of the open collar for one life time.
'excuse me,' she said extending her hand.
'darren,' he said giving her a firm handshake.
'yes, darren, i see. well, darren, i have had enough of the open collar for one lifetime. so i hope you would be good enough to button your shirt.'
'no problem,' he said, 'the customer is always right.'
the limousine was silent as they made the rest of their way to the estate of the former mrs. williams.
it was later, while watching the evening news, that her phone rang. she answered, listened for a moment whispered 'okay' and hung the receiver up. 'it seems you have a date tonight,' she seemed to say to no one in particular as the room was empty. in fact she was not talking to anyone in particular but to one thing in particular.
3
harold williams past the security gate that he once owned. harold williams walked up the blue stone steps that he once owned into the house where he once lived. inside the foyer he was met by cindi williams, they did not exchange pleasantries. cindi led him down the hall where their wedding photos once hung. she led him past his old office, now sitting room through the old game room now reading lounge and into the dining room.
the dinner was set out and they seated, he on the north end, she on the south separated by feet of oak a bottle of wine two candels and steam from the foot.
'so how was your day,' he said.
'a day is a day,' she responded.
the returned in silence, her in her tight black cocktail dress and him in a loose collared maroon shirt, black jacket and slacks.
'well i will drink to that,' he said after a moment.
'yes, lets.'
so they drank, each glass warming their blood and softening their tongues.
'you look good, are you still in those classes?' he asked.
'well you have to keep yourself fit, you know. well you wouldn't,' she said.
they both shared a small laugh causing the candle flame to dance and the house to warm, soften and come alive.
it was after desert, it was after coffee when the clock was nearing midnight that she led him up stairs where she disrobed.
'oh how i missed you,' he said.
it did not respond, but could have been suggested to smile, the small patch of hair on top short and very modern.
cindi williams put headphones over her ears and closed her eyes, while he made small talk, while he kissed it, held her buttocks to push it close.
'darling, has that witch mistreated you? how i wish you would come home with me. how i wish for the old days when we were together all the time. one must be strong, love conquers all, love conquers all.'
he caressed and loved the vagina until all his energies and passions had been exhausted. harold williams lay beside his love his tears staining the sheets and dampening it's furry top as sleep over took him.
'time to go,' she whispered.
harold rubbed his eyes and got dressed. he blew a farewell kiss as he made his way out the door, down the stairs through the hall out the door into his car and on his way home. while driving he received a call. he answered not to a voice, but to the throws of passion. he smiled as he listened, someone had accidentally rolled over their phone and dialed him.
'by god, he is a real master,' he thought as he listened to her moan approval.
'ahh!,' she screamed and the recognition of the voice caused his vision to blur and him to pull over.
'aghh!' she screamed in pleasure as harold williams wept, beating his hand against the steering wheel.
'errgh!' cried the man and harold knew he had been cheated.
'what to do?' he thought, biting his lip. the tears had caused his eyes to swell and the fury had caused his face to redden so that he looked as if he had been in a heavyweight boxing match. the air in the car had become thin, the space too tight, harold opened the door stood in the night with both arms rasied crying out, 'vagina!'
4
'what to do?' thought harold williams.
the answer was attack. harold called his lawyer, who called the private detective, called the collection agency and replaced darren. for cindy williams the pressure was enormous, too much to bear. she awoke to an empty bank account, she awoke to the power off the hot water off, telephone off save her cell phone which was full of messages from collection agencies trying to recover the money she had been paid per her and harold's contract.
cindy called her lawyer, she lay on the bed staring at the roof wonder what to do. outside the bedroom their paced samantha, darren's replacement. samantha was a husky, squat bodied lesbian that cursed and sighed as she leaned against the wall.
darren sat at the edge of her bed shaking his hehad as cindy muttered, 'it's all over,' again and again.
'damn, i am sorry,' he said.
'it's all over,' she replied.
'if i knew, i mean i would never have...'
'it doesn't matter,' she said.
the sat in silence for a few moments before darren spoke.
'if it's not you, but it that he wants, why not hold it hostage?' he said.
'what are you talking about,' she said.
'kidnap it, tell him the danger it faces if he does not relent.'
'interesting, but i am not sure it will...'
he cut her off, 'what do you have to lose?'
cindy williams walked towards the wall and flicked a light that would not work. she opened the window and stared out at the forested acreage, watched the deer leap playfully about. turning towards darren, cindy spoke, 'what do you have in idea?'
darren took out his swiss army knife.
as harold williams stare out across the miles of free way watching the traffic slow and back up his secretary knocked.
'come in,' he said.
'this was dropped off for you sir,' she said.
harold took the envelope and opened it. as he pulled the content a tuft of hair fell to the desk top, harold opened the letter and immediately paled. holding the paper against his chest he opened his cell phone and made a call.
'yeah it's harold let's back off and let it cool. do it now. goodbye.'
harold placed the phone back into his pocket, sat in his chair behind his vast mahogany desk and stared at the paper.
written in blood was 'call of your dogs or it gets it', he read the phrase twisted the hair in two fingers beneath his nose.
as he smelled the perfumed hair he took the phone out of his pocket, 'yeah, it's me, let's locate the violet hatchet.'
5 the violet hatchet the unknown mexican girl the end?

10/14

2009-10-14T07:59:00.000-07:00

i am watching my son dance, clap and try to climb on the couch. a man is made by risk and his reaction to them. why without risking he never would have discovered the joy of turning the television on, the dishwasher on or the vast amount of other things he can do.
he loves to dance, and read books.
i am watching this while taking in morning television, which is filled with a collection of preening schmoes and bone thin tarts. even during the worst of news they can maintain a dour face for so long before the smile returns. is there the director in their ear screaming for more effervescence? public option down the toilet as a personal story of health care causing bankruptcy runs they are back smiling, preening and moving on.
from health care to some old geezer's horrible looking face staring dumbly as the show celebrates the person's 100th birthday. i am not getting to 100 i will tell you that. i am certain, at some point life will just get too tiresome.
who wants to lump around in a motor chair wearing a diaper and talking of the 'good old days' or nosing about the new generations life? not i. if i find myself in one of those chairs it will be driven off the first cliff.
i have always been fond of the viking funeral. how glorious to be lit on fire and sent down the columbia as archers shoot arrows. though, more than likely, i will be stuffed in some hole in the ground and as everyone walks away somebody will stub their toe and curse under their breath. that at somebody's house they will all get drunk and slowly the tide turns and the great book of complaints will open up.
'that s o b only thought of himself, maybe i wanted to be on top one time.'
or
'you couldn't just follow directions, could you? i wrote down super speed bmx and you get a huffy? what kind of monster get's you almost what you want? so you have to smile and dance about though in your heart your screaming at the bastard. you know as a kid you can't return those gifts. how are you going to return the bike? you have to ride it there! though they were the same price and you subtly ask, 'this bike is wonderful, but were they sold out of the super bmx?' to which he would reply, 'no'. never an explanation.'
to which they chime in
'if you asked for whole milk with the yellow front, he would get the whole milk with the green front and say 'that was what was in the fridge', never mind that i have told him a thousand times, if once that i switch the milk every week so that we don't have to spend so much. by god asking him to think about a budget you might as well ask him to land on the moon.'
with the other one saying
'maybe, just once i would have liked to sit on the porch, but no everytime we had a free day we were always moving always going to some place, a museum or garage sale or water front. some days you just need to laze and recharge your batteries. and don't get me started on the idea of school and grades...'
so you can't win.
there is a great joy in family but it comes with the price of living with your judge and jury. every word studied every move watched, charted. nothing goes unnoticed.
we live in a time with cameras. cameras everywhere. every thing is recorded every body is photographed like a movie star and they are their own paparazzi. we have fifteen sites to record how we are feeling or what we are doing and spend so much time recording we have no time to create. but isn't that what this is?
my son dances and laughs and the morning son breaks through fall clouds. there is rain coming, i have a whole in my pocket that is leaking time, talent and energy until all that will be left is grandpa the reflection machine, grandpa the baby bouncer, and it sounds wonderful. as i watch my son laugh and dance and grow i am excited for him. as i watch my daughter coo, cry and woggle i am excited for her. no matter the advances everybody has childhood memories that seem old fashioned when reflected upon.
as our family grows, i hope to find time so that we maybe a tree that feeds instead of a parasite that just eats. i hope when we preen and schmuck about our facebook pages some of it will be dedicated to recording a few charitable acts.
secretly i hope that at my wake, when they complain it will for having been pushed to acts of charity so that when they complain everybody will whisper under their breaths, 'wow what a collection of ungrateful monsters.'
my wife folds, my son watches, my daughter sleeps and i record as time leaks out under the doorway or through the cracks in the floor.

10/13.

2009-10-13T22:47:00.000-07:00

my name is humberto alvarez. i have a huge mexican stomach, long wiry black mustache and an affinity for skinny jeans. my family relocated from san gabriel to portland in search of work and a better life. i was only two years old.
as a baby i earned the nickname 'el gordo' for my bulbous belly. my father and uncles would take me every where they went. i spent the night watching them salsa dance and drink beers with my mother and her friends. during the day i stayed home, with my mother and watched television while she cooked and cleaned. my father was a heffe for a small residential construction company. he would come home smelling of cement, but would always stoop to kiss my mother's forehead and tussle my hair.
it was in my thirteenth year that i started cock fighting. at first it was a way to raise money, but soon it became my passion. i started a gym in the back yard, for the birds. while others were out cavorting around town i was studying the movements, the attack strategies of the birds. the losers were pushed out of the community while the winners were bred.
it was three months later when the black tornado was hatched. he had blood shot eyes and would move in a violent circle of claws and beak. the black tornado would give a high pitched battle wail as if to warn his fellow combatant of the forth coming onslaught.
soon enough i had moved the black tornado out from the practice gym. he was decimating my fowl population and his violence did not end there. the tornado destroyed everything in his path, from coop to car tires. the tornado had to be graduated. he trained against stray cats, dogs, raccoons anything i could get my hands on.
no matter the size of the foe he would come out on top. the neighbors began to post signs and inquire into if i had seen their lost cat or 'whoever that bastard is that is poking these dogs eyes out and slashing their legs.' to which i would bow my head and say, 'i understand' all the while feeling the cold red stare of the black tornado.
it was during this time that i became aware of the national tournament in los angeles. it seems that portland had been chosen as a qualifying circuit, that the winner would receive gas money and a free hotel room if they won.
the black tornado made quick work of the northwest birds. we accepted our trophy and winnings amidst the back drop of blood stained walls. there had been gasps and fainting during the battle so that now, while accepting the award, the room appeared to have been visited by a chain saw.
the first time i had hear of el diablo was while searching for training tactics. el diablo, it had been told, was the greatest fighting bird of all time. this cock had been known to gut and murder a human adult male. el diablo has never suffered defeat but also he never has brought forth a male heir.
there were rumors about los angeles, rumors that el diablo was coming out of retirement. there were rumors that his owner, javier jiminez believed the fights would cause his testosterone to rise and thus give way to a male heir. we drove all night arriving in los angeles during the predawn traffic jam. the black tornado rode in the passenger seat, proud his elegant black neck and head bobbing out the window watching the scenery crawl by.
when we arrived in the hotel room there was a envelope on the pillow to greet us. inside were the details, we were to meet at sunset, meet at the vacant meat packing building and bring only ourselves our cocks and gambling money.
it was a room full of mexicans. we strutted about the place nodding silently looking under each others arms and inspecting the competition. there was no sign of el diablo and with out that mythical foe the room appeared to be nothing special.
black tornado made quick work of his first toe foes causing the crowd to lean into each other and whisper. while the fights would go on i noticed a man in dark sunglasses, hair slicked back and a gray shirt with only the top button buttoned. this man had a stack of cash in his right hand, the left he used to wave over a bald man to which he whispered and gestured.
the third bird to face the tornado was ballena asesina, this fowl was titanic. from beak to ass it measured more than five feet, with claws as long as steak knives, a beak that glistened as cold steel in the light and eyes of cold black.
as they met in the center of the ring the ballena asesina lay all it's weight on tornado. the tornado fought to break free from underneath such a gigantic stomach. once free the black tornado turned away to catch its breath. this moment caused ballena asesina to strike. using those long claws he caught tornado underneath the right eye. there was a hush in the room. both birds staring at the other, then suddenly there erupted a wail from black tornado who spun a three sixty to land atop the body of ballena asesina to be joined three seconds later by it's now severed head.
the crowd sat in stunned silence then broke, erupting into ovation. tornado strutted about the ring as if asking, 'is there not one who can stand with me?' and right on cue there descended from the ceiling a fire colored bird that hollered and rattled against it's cage. this bird caused the building to shake from it's movements, it caused the skin to crawl from it's blood thirsty call and as the cage landed on the battle room floor it attacked smashing into the gate, smashing through the gate and standing beside the wreckage in all it's glory...el diablo.
there may be grander birds, larger birds, but none that contained such anger and strength. el diablo was a sea of muscle that caused it's feathers to ruffle as it puffed it's chest. when it placed it's foot down the floor shook and the black tornado looked on.
there was a tense stare down before the battle. the black tornado looking ahead, unblinking into the eyes of el diablo. el diablo looking deep into the soul of the black tornado and when each had their fill the moved. there was a fight but one could not have seen it. for the birds moved too fast for the human eye and when it was over there lay both birds. black tornado with it's right leg, one eye and half a wing missing. while el diablo was missing parts of both legs, it's lower beak and three quarters of it's wings.
both birds fighting to the end, both supreme competitors. as they lay bleeding, dying before our eyes myself and the owner of el diablo did what is in cock fighting tradition we made love to them as they passed from this world.
i am a man, but i am man enough to say i cried that day. while we consumated black tornado's life with such a tender display, i cried. i cried for the memories, for the victories, for how far we had come from our oregon home.
two days later, as i held his body at his favorite fighting alley we all said a prayer in remembrance before my girlfriend veena cooked him. that night we partied and i swear i could hear black tornado's victory wail and as i sucked the meat from his breast i knew life was good.

10/2

2009-10-06T08:59:00.001-07:00

all new posts are chapters added to 10/2 unless you see a new story.

10/3

2009-10-03T07:38:00.000-07:00

yes we can...
unless you want
the olympics
public option
jobs
guantanamo closed
the us out of
iraq
afghanistan
hope...
we've seen the last
dead soliders
an innocents
unemployment check
lying congressmen
and lobbyists
that's
change we can believe in

billy mac- 1st draft finshed 10/27

2009-10-02T07:19:00.000-07:00

see when you die you do get to heaven. see the roads are lined with gold. see there are angels honking on their trumpets. see whatever you believe in that is the neighborhood you go to. there is a catch, that when you sleep you dream from the state of your body. if you were buried then you sleep peacefully because your body is resting peacefully. if you were cremated then you have nightmares and pains of being burned alive. if you are like me where your head is in cryogenics then you dream of what is becoming of you.
i hate to sleep. there is my wife, not my earthly wife (til death do you part) but a real dark chocolate model who was originally from brazil. by god the love we make is incredible. she once whispered of her time as an olympic gymnast and i have no reason to not believe. so there she is, sleeping peacefully her dreams of what's to become of our child.
you see think of it exactly as life is on earth. you are born into this as a babe when you die, that is why you don't spend your life weeping over your earthly loves or family because it is all new.
so she sleeps like an angel (which she is literally, i guess.) while i gnash the air and scream obscenities towards the janitors and doctors that wander past the jar my head sits in.
'by all that is good i will leap from this water and eat your jugular!' i scream while my frozen half open lids and dope quarter slung lips pout back.
'i'll trace your blood lines and slap your dead relatives for this!'
meanwhile most amble past on their way to the coffee machine or toilet. it is the late night crew that is the true monsters. it is them that must pay.
while the world sleeps, these animals get drunk on cheap booze and dance through the aisles. these criminals spin there girlfirends or women of the night in their mini skirts and tight tube tops. they proceed to laugh, to roll about the coroner table, they proceed to let in to their lusts as the steely eyes of us in state stare on.
he is a young italian and it is his job to watch the meters. to make sure the fluids are fresh and that we stay at our eternal temperature awaiting the medicine to revive us. it is not his job to take baseball swings at our heads causing them to clunk like a frozen turkey down the hall! it is not his job to put them on his shoulder and pretend to be a two headed monster and it is certainly not his job to quickly switch our face with his in the dark so that his lover kisses our lips and screams in horror.
too many times i scream for revenge as he runs vodka down my nose to take a 'frozen shot'. too many times i have heard 'what are you looking at old man?' only to be farted on. too many times, in a drug infused frenzy, have i seen him pull a knife out and scream 'what are you looking at? you want some of this?' to the row of my compatriots.
now you may say, 'by god why would a person want to be frozen?'
in my time and from my study i have discovered that i was the most famous baseball player of my time. i was the only player to ever hit 400 for an entire season. by god if it wasn't for the time i lost during the war i would have been the greatest to ever play the game.
playing a fool i have gone to the library and watched old film. the hair on my arms stood as the crowd chanted 'billy joe mcentire' or 'billy mac' they would clap their hands and shout 'billy mac bring us back!' i watched in awe as i hit countless game winnners, dove for the most unlikeliest of catches and kissed impossibly beautiful women.
today, up here, i am a mail man. though it is a good job and we have a fine life, i mean, come on who would trade the two?
'why not return to the field?' one may ask.
well, it seems that when you are reborn you are entirely new, save for the soul. so though i am the spirit of billy mac i am not the athlete. my thrity year old body willing but the talent level was not there to make it able.
it was while studying to relieve my bad dreams that i discovered these things. it was a terrible episode over the long weekend of memorial day that caused me to seek revenge.
this young italian man, who had the run of the lab at nights, was whistling as he approached. his red eyes had a fire that betrayed the joyful madness of the drunk. he wobbled to the left and right almost tumbling as his neck swung loose as a dead turkey.
if there was a way to smell through dreams i smelt him, smelt his breath as he leaned in close and spoke, 'i'm going to take a dump on you jimmy mac,' as he lifted his arms and grabbed my jar.
i writhed the sheets screaming towards the dark ceiling, 'your the son of a whore mother! i'm going to find you and tear you apart! you son of a bitch!'
my dead eyes and loose lips could do nothing, nothing to portray my anger nothing to whisper a defense no matter how soft or quiet.
'this is how you played in the series, jimmy mac...' he placed me on the ground as the nauseous sound of belt unbuckled zipper unzipping and fabric his the ground.
'please, oh god save me from this!' i cried.
'bwattt' went his body as a darkness fell across my eyes. past the 'squirsh' of exertion i could hear him calling, 'jimmy mac couldn't bring us back' and then a woman laughing, 'oh anthony catalano you are insane.'
the laughed as i wept through the humiliation.
they laughed and sang 'oh here comes jimmy mac, swinging for the fence he will bring us a trophy, he will play his best and while the mighty yankees were swinging for the trees jimmy mac's defense will bring them to their knees.'
it was here i felt, what must have been an earthquake in the lab as my head began to shake violently translating to my body in heaven. i was mauled by the violence into consciousness where i stared into the eyes of my sweet ana lisa. her auburn eyes burning as she spoke, 'if it is revenge you seek, i know of people who could help with such things.'
'what are you talking about?' i choked out while trying to focus my eyes.

2
the alleyman has long dreadlocks that drape across his mocha face. he moves like a panther inbetween the street lights, pacing green eyes dancing to the notes written in freckles across his cheeks. a man in filth. he has long fingernails and dirty worn fourth hand clothes. he leaps from the dark to a corner and appears with a rat.
'you can come back but you can't come back all the way,' he says between bits of rat fur, crunch boning with blood down the cheek.
'what's that mean?' i ask.
the wife stands between us two. her hands are tense, ready for action. she turns to me thin frame electric with anticipation while her soft oval face is beautiful as she speaks.
'some men are lost to madness, some men are lost forever when you cross you cross and your mind is cleansed. when you cross you are fueled by only what brought you. when you cross it could be anywhere, it could be anytime. the only truth is you will have the opportunity to complete your mission, if you so choose.'
'how will i come back?' i ask watching the man furrow the darkness looking for additional rat or garbage dessert.
'at the proper time, after the decision you will have the truth and the truth will set you free.' she said.
there is the rush of car there is the sound of children sing song from alley way windows to one another. i can smell pizza, i can hear the click clack of women shoes and the laughter of new love.
'is the risk worth the reward?' she asks.
'is there a reward or a risk?' he says.
'he took a dump on my head,' i say.
the man smiles and i see he has three teeth, the other spaces vacant and there is a terror in the darkness. the moon is full and a fat man curses the stairs to his brownstone.
'a man deficated on a frozen head. a man did nothing to you, your gone. this is like the butterfly defending the empty cocoon.'
'i may be a butterfly, but at night i live the life of the cocooned caterpillar. i can not rest, i can not dream of better things. instead my head is filled with pain with torture with the anger of what is being done and this must be resolved,' i finished shaking with rage.
'at all costs,' he said.
'truly at all costs?' i could see in her eyes.
'yes.'
as the 's' left my lips there was a torrid of dust, jacket and words. it all took three seconds, then he stopped i could see tears on her cheek.
'revenge,' he squealed and slit my throat.
as i lay bleeding out on the alley floor i watched her walkaway. her last words, 'i love you.'
as i bleed out i could feel them atop my skin, as i faded the last image of the full moon blacked out by the dirty ass end of a rat.
then i fade to black.

3-
i can not recall the fury of my infanthood. i can not recall the long hours spent wailing in preschool. as a matter of fact i can not remember much of anything, save for this name 'anthony catalano'. by god these words have been seared in my brain.
if i had spent a night sleepless, moaning from my crib, it was not because of an empty stomach but because of him. i wake, i shake my fists in the night hollering to god for a revenge that i can not remember.
i was born to a mother and father in boise idaho at or around mid day on march 1st 1977. they called me chase but settled on gregory as my father could not see a chase graduating from an ivy league school.
my father was around, but was not available. he was a lumbering ox breathing cigarette smoke and delivering the stone hand of punishment. my mother was not around but available. she would spend her days and sometimes nights running a giant hotel. her weekends were spent designing ad's for some local furniture store while i spent the time drooling in boredom or stuffing my ever growing stomach.
it is true that boise was innocent then. we had no major mall or toy store and by god some of our main roads ended in dirt! there were holiday festivals and hot air races. my mother ran for office and sang opera, my father ran a newspaper or designed and installed windows. it was a glorious time when all the bills were paid and still we could breathe fresh air in our lungs.
i was born into a family of four. my brother and sister took immense pleasure at bossing my about. i was sent into the snow in my under ware so as 'to prepare for any soviet invasion or tornado' i was rolled into a sleeping bag and pushed down the stairs so as 'in case of fire and we need to escape.' i was given food only to be told it had been stepped on, 'in dangerous times one must sustain oneself on even worse,' they sang.
i was born into a family always on the go. my mother to her job, father to his, sister off with her tough neck friends or some smooch it out boy and brother to the basketball fields or some smooch it up girl.
i was abandoned to microwave meals, abandoned to great strategy meetings with he-man. i would pace and day dream while he-man lead his charge. i would walk the stairs and shout hello or sometimes bop down on my butt. i never played with knives, but sometimes would get scared that i heard ghosts rattle their chains and spend afternoons sweating under my blanket.
i was not completely alone, we always had a pet of some kind and beside that i always had a hamster.
in case of a strange noise hammy the hamster would gladly roll his excerball out to investigate. if he returned with a cheery continence i knew the coast was clear. if he returned looking nervous we would wait in the closet for someone to get home.
during the school year, i made all sorts of friends, during the school year i would wander home. i would stop at the local pond and cavort with the ducks. they would quack tales from their southern trips as i pondered the elegance of their formations.
as we performed all our feats, or exertions as we made our way from place to place season to season time did as it always has done...it passed.
for as long as i can remember i dreamed of the same thing. there is a black woman standing vigil in an alley. there is a jar of a head. there is the head and it turns. there is the woman and she turns. there is them both in unison saying 'anthony catalano' while a freckle face green eyed man in dirty clothes leaps and spins about them with a rat hanging from his mouth.
this is the majority of my dreams. yes there are the occasional rocket ship to the moon fighting aliens, or (as i grew) the sexy lady dancing about, but mostly i dreamt of this.
i would wander the idaho roads wondering about such things. i took time in class to watch the shadows pass on the tile floor and wonder about these things.
my old man hovering over his hamburger said, 'you don't ask the television to tell you it's deeper meaning. so before tv, all they had were dreams.'
i would think of that.
there was my brother and sister who said 'maybe it's brain madness from all the diet soda.'
while my mother would say, 'it'll come together soon enough.'
so, convinced, we all have one problem or another i let these images drift in and out as they pleased. while life carried me down stream, to wherever i was destined to go.

4-
it was my eighth year and still it persists. anthony catalano would torture my steps. a good ruined as the name would suddenly strike. leaping from mental bushes or splashing my face with a cool breeze. 'who is this monster?' i had taken to ask.
because of the fury i felt, and the recurring dreams i decided to take study. the library held many answers, why there was ramona quiimby teaching me how to get my dad off smoking. there was the lone ranger and tonto teaching me the value of moral fiber and there was james joyce teaching me all about ireland through a wandering dream map among the others i consumed. though when it came to anthony catalano i began in religion. in the christian books there was no mention of such a demon so they were left behind. in the other facest of monotheisim there was no mention of the demon so they were left behind. in the buddhist manuscripts there was the talk of the river, there was the talk of all things just being, i found a value in this as it calmed my nerves as i waited for anthony catalano to reveal itself, if indeed there was something to reveal.
the most fascinating idea was the idea of hinduism. the idea of reincarnation, that maybe i was anthony catalano and maybe i had slept with my best friends wife and the guilt has followed me ever since. maybe i was the character that hawthorne had talked about, save i was a man with the scarlet letter. or maybe anthony catlano was someone who had abused us or talked angerily to my children, maybe kicked me in the shin at the exact right moment to cause me to curse in front of his parents while i was about to take his sister to prom. that his sister would have been the love of my life but now that chance was ruined and i was left with penny baker who was a miserable drunk that wrecked my fancy sports cars i earned from my job at a prestigious law firm.
all these options. if we were both reincarnated then how would i know him? would anthony catalano be anthony catalano here on this world? was he looking for me? was i the monster and the name in my head was to protect me, keep me on the look out. the questons abound, as i sat and became dizzy, my head swimming i knew that i had begun to stumble in the right direction.
to save the chance that i was the monster and someone was coming to redeem themselves, someone was coming for revenge i would follow these manuals to lead a goodly life thus when i asked for forgiveness this fellow or female would look upon my body of work and sigh saying, 'changed man.'
now, taking that route into account i threw myself into the religion of mercy, the religion of piousness the religion that turned the other cheek. i grabbed a copy of the bible and began my slow path to orthodox christianity.
as i peddled i felt a lightness in my heart as if a bridge had been repaired and traffic once again flowed. as i peddled i dreamed of bowing before this creature seeking revenge and saying 'mercy', with a voice so tender, innocent and sweet that they would have no choice but to forgive.
to celebrate my discovery i took the rest of the day for daredevilisim. i ghost rode into garbage cans, would rush towards trees leap to the branch at the last moment causing the bike to crash and women to faint. i spent it on table top rock screaming in pain while launching the bike off the side causing news cameras and crowds to flock. rushing to join the crowd i would paw the dirt with a toe and say, 'sorry it got away from me there,' as they respond with a weary, 'too bad' and head back to business or home.
5-
this day had been a miracle and i would have felt home free if not for the night. for it was during our family movie night that my father chose to show us highlander. highlander is the story of immortals hunting each other down and whacking their heads off.
immediately a cold chill rushed down my spine causing the hair to stand on my arms and my teeth to clatter.
'by god,' i thought, 'what if i am an immortal, that instead of living forever at some predetermined age of a dashing 32 or 45 that we grow and live normal lives. what if we, even, die? though it is only our bodies that die as our souls move from one vessel to another, through the same family line until we discover our mortal enemy and fight to the finish? i could be my great great grandpa or better yet the first of our family line, the first man and anthony catalano is the first man of his line and somewhere during the early times something happened between us. worse yet, nothing happened between us and we are just programmed to kill each other. what a world!'
i studied the scenes with intensity, focusing on the swordsmanship. each clang of steel opening another portal to the past. i could imagine 192- kansas, clang! 1845 new york, clung! 1736 england, bong! so on and so on until the final clang had me standing over the first dawn of the first day of mankind watching others clamber out of whatever primordial ooze that existed.
i studied my name charles sterling, i studied how many times it had been given in our family tree and it seemed to surface every eighty years or so. though this brought on another question, 'which side do i descend from? i mean what if mr. catalano is looking for charles sterling but descended sneakily from my mother's side, while i am the immortal charles sterling on my father's side?
i could not take any chances. if knowing was truly 'half the battle' then i must prepare. so i clambered down the stairs and out the back door to find my father in his usual midnight perch. he leaned into the plastic lawn chair smoking cigarettes and staring up towards the moon, with a look that said what he truly saw was somewhere inbetween.
'dad?' i asked.
'yeah son,' he said stubbing the cigarette and pulling me onto his lap.
'do you think it would be christian to learn swordsman ship?'
he took a moment to again admire the invisible monument inbetween himself and the moon. then relaxing his gaze he rubbed his chin and said, 'why i think the history books have proven out that fact. have you heard of the crusades?'
'no,' i said.
'well i think a man owes it to himself to study the history of the things that fancy him. a man ought to be a man in full when it comes to the topic of his passions.'
'what does that mean?' i asked fingering the material on his shirt and breathing in the smell of old spice and tobacco.
'i think it means we ought to go to the library and give you the chance to research these things.'
he was right. he usually was right about such things. why if it was not for him and his study i would never have heard of super jack the daredevil or how to make a perfect french toast. why if it was not for the opportunity of spelunking such topics i held passion for think of how thin my cultural shell might be. though i had a great joy for doing such research i felt a fire in my heart that burned for the answer, for if i met my match on the way to the library and he would, indeed, not take mercy but instead want my head i must be prepared.
'we will and we shall. but i wonder, just this once, if you could give me a hint.'
'hmm,', he said and shifted his weight slightly, 'does a bear crap in the woods?'
i moved the question about my mouth, tonguing each letter against the back of my teeth.
'why, yes he does.' i said.
'there you go.'
i made my way through fog of smell to kiss him on his dear old grizzly cheek. i leapt from his lap and stood with my hands on my hips.
'by god i am saved!' i said.
the anticipation took hold, my heart raced and flung my body into the yard. it was not an easy search for a limb that had fallen, as my father had turned our back yard into a forest scene landscape and he would not stand for the breaking of limbs by our hand.
'breaking that limb is like that tree coming in and breaking a finger or toe, would you like that?' he would say.
so as i rushed, too excited to hear the hissing, i stumbled over what felt like a limb. too dark for my eyes to focus i reach and grabbed, instead, the furry paw of a raccoon. there arose, above the tree line, shattering the dark a mighty howl as the animal lept to action. i screamed and pulled as far back as i could manage but it was no use. the animal had attached itself to my left hand and would not let go.
the piercing pain of his teeth caused me to pass out.
the grim look on my parents face as i awoke made me wonder if i still had my hand. i wiggled the fingers and winced in a joyous pain.
'what's the matter?' i squeaked.
'your very lucky is whats the matter.' said my mother.
'you'll be fine,' said my father.
'well this would not have happened if it was not for that damned forest, if we could just have a regular damn yard...' said my mother her faced flush red as she faded out and grasped her hand towards her mouth and teary eyes.
'he'll be fine,' said the doctor, 'a few months of tetanus shots and you'll be right as rain.'
'what happened?' i said staring at the grapefruit that had become my hand.
'you rushed out and found a raccoon.' said my dad.
'if you hadn't gotten your hand in the way that thing would surely have gotten to your throat,' said my mother, 'and my god what would have happened.'
my blood suddenly went cold as i reached up, towards my neck and felt the bandage. there was a shrill pain as my forefinger ran over each set of stitches.
'what happened to the raccoon?' i asked.
'your father had to put the animal down.' said my mother.
'the damn thing was so attached that i had to cut it's head off with the head trimmers.' he said.
as i lay in that hospital bed, listening to the be bop of machines and staring back at my parents a joy swept up over me. this animal had truly been after my neck? the thoughts from the movie sweeping over me. this animal lay in wait for me, attacked with a relentless fury trying desperately to remove my head.
'by god,' i thought, 'anthony catalano have been the raccoon?' it did make a lot of sense. why would that movie have been chosen? why would my father tell me about the crusades? why would i have gone searching for a sword to practice? it seems mr. catalano had put together the seemingly perfect plan.
how many years had he been watching, making sure that i truly was the person he was after. how many nights had he lay in wake waiting for the movie to be delivered? the true characteristics of the cold blooded killer.
now all his plans lay in waste, destroyed by the love of a father to protect his son. my father the hero! he would never know what he truly had accomplished...or would he?
was the immortal blood line a family secret? had my father brought home the movie on purpose, he too, lying in wait for anthony catalano to show?
as i began pulling the string the whole plot slowly unwound. two families, generations of secrets, generations of preparation all leading to this moment. the surprise attack thwarted, the sterling family standing tall!
i was kissed by my mother, i was kissed by my father and slowly i fell to sleep, for now, believing that all had been accomplished, that what lay before me a life of joy and ease.
6-
though the enemy had been defeated, his head absconded from his body, i remained loyal to my word. i took to the study of christianity. i followed her history from the staking of their leader through the great schism past the crusades and up to the mega church prayer television of today. what a life they had lead, from the humble poor outcasts, from the bottom they rose to the mega wealthy american ideal of today.
as i studied i began to drift, not forwards towards the singalong lecture hall modern church but backwards to the incense to the prayerful to the icon laden walls of the old church, the first church the orthodox church.
it was here, amongst the original idea of christ and his followers that i took refuge. it was here that i would have led a fulfilled life of denial if only my cherubic american physique could have maintain the schedule.
fast days were lost to extensive bike rides and ice drink laughathons with my pals. though they would bow their heads in reverence as i made the sign of the cross and prayed the lord's prayer before consuming any food we were too consumed with youth to give totally over to the orthodox structure.
it was by chance that i found my calling. while sorting through the recent baseball card shipment at the local convenience store that i over heard some plump girl talking on the pay phone.
'oh, god i hate going too, but at least there is doughnuts.'
she was in her sunday dress, a pink frilly outfit that had to be wrangled together before attempting to pedal. i admired here as my heart leapt, was this the call of the lord sending me home? i felt i had to investigate.
as she placed the receiver back upon the cradle i slid up alongside her.
'i'm sorry, i couldn't help but overhear that you had doughnuts.'
she tilted her head back, taking me in. my green latern shirt worn, my jeans a little dirty and one shoe untied. i must admit that the power to be the first at the baseball card shipment overtook my desire to shower, though i am no animal and took the time to rinse my mouth with mouthwash.
'yeah,' she had made her decision on me, 'my church, it is such a bore. but they give us a doughnuts afterward.'
she turned and began to mount her bike when i took the opportunity to clear my throat. my stomach barking, i made a desperate attempt at the doughnut hall.
'you know,' i said looking down at the pavement in an effort to appear pious, 'the christian thing would be to invite me to the church and maybe save a soul.'
i shot a furtive glance up hoping the arrow of guilt would find it's target.
'ahh, fine,' she said and as she gave me the name of the place the clouds that once hung over the sun broke and a fresh morning ray found my face. i took this as god's approval.
i whistled while i put myself together, though admittedly, hurriedly as the service began soon enough to put a bike ride (even by one as magnificent as i) into doubt. i ironed my only white button shirt, tied my tie threw on my khaki pants and brown shoes and was out the door.
i arrived mid scream about how 'everything is the devil coming to creep upon us, take our soul and lead us to hell's fire.'
sliding into the back row next to an elderly black woman that held her arms aloft and swayed eyes closed like a tree in the forest. as i surveyed the crowd the majority stood waving some screaming in a babble and others stood only to flop on the ground when the preacher slammed the pulpit. as he performed a line began to form.
'this is the line of the army of god, the recruitment line by god one and all if you have not received come now and enlist!' he hollered.
as i watched bodies slowly shuffle, first in line, then up towards the man to get bopped on the head some fell to fits some just walking towards the side a little flushed i felt a tug on my sleeve.
'if you want any doughnuts you gotta join,' she said and pointed towards the line. it was the girl from the store and she looked serious.
i would have protested by she cut me off, 'i invited you to save a soul not feed a heathen.'
so off i went.
as i approached i could feel her on my side, like a hunter showing off his prized deer. there was a trembling in my heart that i could not tell was either fear or excitement. saying the lord's prayer i made my way towards the pulpit.
this was a mountain of a black man, and upon the stage he appeared as tall as everest. he screamed and two in front of me dropped and rolled, he screamed and bopped and the one in front of me laughed then lept two feet in the air. when it was my turn he bowed so that his face was close enough his sweat doused my shirt front and his breakfast breath covered my face. he breathed and heaved and sighed snapped his fingers and i was on stage.
'what brings you to my stage?' he asked.
before i could answer the crowd sang, 'we know'
'what briiings you to my stage,' he said and danced across the floor. a old lady ran up and down the aisle arms waving as if on fire.
'we know,' they chanted back.
'at attention,!' he hollered and everyone went stiff arms in the air ready to recieve.
'it's the devil!' he cried and they shouted back.
'fight on!'
'this young soul, he has eyes that see!'
'fight on!' they screamed.
'he has ears that here,' he said.
'fight on!' they screamed.
there was a trembling that started deep in the pit of my stomach causing the tongue to waggle and as he turned towards me, those deep chestnut eyes inches from my face i reached forward filled with a spirit that took control. my hands latched onto the microphone and i spoke.
'it was the devil that brought me, it was the devil in my stomach. the gluttonous need for doughnuts!'
the crowd silent.'
'i came for the devil's food but instead got filled with christ!'
they cheered as the preacher leaned back crossed his hands over his chest and shook his head like 'yes'.
'i am filled with power of the holy trinity, let us pray.'
with that i kneeled down, causing the crowd to shuffle some to kneel and others bowed there head and the pastor using his hands finally got everyone to their knees.
'in the name of the father son and holy spirit...' i began.
thirty minutes later i lay down upon the stage in a heap of sweat. some in the crowd cheering some crying though all moved as the pastor made his way to take the mic and dismiss the crowd with the following.
'today we came to recruit to the lord but instead the lord came and recruited us, hallelujah!'
the clapped and waved while the organ started up.
'now let's go into the dining hall and praise witness to such a gift.'
as the were dismissed he turned to me and said, 'son i don't know who you are or what you're doing but by god you got a gift, now let's go get some of those doughnuts and discuss your future.'
i closed my eyes, exhausted, and would not have moved if not for the waft of chocolate that filled the air.
7-
'there are many things that have come to light, for me, as i grew. as far as i know, santa claus has discovered a way to travel that is beyond measure, the moon is not made of cheese, iraqi warriors is a game with no end and god calls us all to be something. when you think upon yourself you find certain talents, those are the gifts. these are the gifts from the lord, he has whispered into your soul in order for you to achieve those things beyond your wildest dreams.
'imagine, a small child, the same size and approximate age as me. now imagine this child, this innocent babe racing through the dirt tracks of idaho upon his bmx bike. he is akin to the silver bullet whizzing past the ears of other racers, other much older racers. champion banner after champion banner adorn his room. he is the ideal for which the others aspire. now imagine that same champion taking time from his post game celebration to preach the power of jesus christ, hallelujah.
'would those opponents listen? would they open their ears to hear, their eyes to see? in whatever you are involved in, do you not seek out those that have achieved excellence in said arena? do not basketball stars wonder how larry bird has achieved such feats?
'you see excellence in our craft, excellence in the exercising of our god given talents is our way to preach the word of god. now i want you to take this week to sit and ponder. i want you to take time to think about who you truly are moved to be. write down the ambitions of your heart. write down what dreams move you to excitement. then when we meet again next week in coffee hour we will all sit together and share these things. why i bet in this room we have the power to help each and everyone of us pursue those dreams. we have the power to help unleash the excellence of god's treasure in all our souls. we have the power to build a pulpit of accomplishments where we may stand, each in our own field and preach.
'i can see it now, each pew over flowing, the hallways stuffed the church hall lined out the door, i can hear the clamor of the gentiles begging to be allowed in, begging to hear the word of the lord our god christ in heaven halleljuah! let us pray.
'oh father blessed are you who alights the way and though we may fear and though we may stumble and though we may stall blessed are you who does not allow us to stall forever, blessed are you who says 'get up for you may know the voice of the LORD!' keep and protect us in your name we pray father keep us on the right path on the way to victory in your name amen.'
it is here that i step back, my thin white shirt sweat stained, my thin black tie sticking to the front of my shirt while my white sneakers blink with red robot eyes, as the pastor comes forward.
'now come forward and receive your blessings.'
i had begun my training in the baptist church. though my study of christian history had not ceased i focused on the place where i had the most success. it seems the christ of orthodoxy was a severe man, starving more days than not. that the orthodox christ demands our focus, that the whole of the church moves to gain a grace with trinity of father son and holy spirit. that it was this demand that caused the catholics to throw up their hands as if to say, 'come on. who can keep up with god himself, though we will be severe we can't be that severe.'
from the laziness of the catholics begat the laziness of the lutherans, calvins etc etc until here we are today.
after a sermon and some fun rock songs i can go home and play he-man or nintendo. whatever my heart desires. why if i want i can stuff my face with hot dogs on a wedensday or friday. i can eat through lent and not think twice. i had found a home.
it was on this stage that i would garner national attention. 'come see the young firebrand,' they would say showing moments of my crescendo. it was on this stage that i would dream, holler, stomp my feet, tame the snakes and cast the devil out.
with the blessing of the old black pastor that had brought me to the stage for the first time, i had become a sensation. it was under the guise of a summer camp that my parents allowed me to hit the road, going into tent revivals screaming at paraplegics and throwing pillows with crosses at the blind. it was under the tent that they would come, drooling heavy set women screaming about possession to which i screamed 'out of the satan!' and bonked them on the head with a snake.
it was under the tent, it was during the summer that my scars healed but the name would not leave. was he in my blood? was i wrong? was i anthony catalano at war with myself? if i was was this anthony catalano, was this the devil pushing me under these tents and away from the orthodox church?
it was here that i thought of the seperation between he-man and adam. how adam had to come to grips with his power, how he had to maintain the joy of being adam even with the temptation of he-man at his beck and call. i thought, 'could i maintain charles sterling if i had the ability to be something more? who was christ but the embodiment of adam. he was a man filled with the ultimate power that he not only championed, not only kept in check but also lived in the utmost humility. by god what he could have achieved if he had selfish ends. could he not have held all the treasure? could he-man not have held all the universe in his palm? is the easiest path the best way?
the thoughts filled my dreams, was anthony catalano the raccoon or was it just the easiest path? was it a trick so that mr catalano could sneak in the back door while the we watched out the front? it began to make sense, why would i speak as if from another voice? if not because it was another voice.
as the summer past and i grew from a plain sneaker and white shirt with black tie to the more traditional black suit and neck collar my conscience became pregnant with unease. as charles sterling began to fade anthony catalano grew, he grew from the stage to the floor where he sat with the audience afterward in group prayer. from group prayer to visiting homes of the infirm and casting blessings and prayer of healing. from home visits to recorder where he spilled his philosophy, anthony grew.
it was on the outskirts of nashville where i fought back. as anthony was speaking, where he was juggling snakes and knives of the blessed word i struck. i silenced his voice i moved to let the snake and blades hit the ground and listened to the hush of the crowd.
we stood as if in a showdown. snake black eyes to the left, old timer pastor blue eyed on the right, crying baby fresh from the baptismal tub behind and the many moon faced of the crowd in front.
'enough,' i said and stomped my foot. i began to take off all the clothes and shoes until i was standing in my flash t-shirt and slacks bare footed.
'you people need to understand that he-man is only here to fight skeletor. he protects but he does not baby. a true life is one lived by someone who acts as if he isn't going to show up every time trouble arises. if you love he-man and you respect him then by god do something for yourself and give him a break.'
'judas,' they screamed.
'charlatan,' they hollered.
it was only that i cured a boy in a wheelchair and had him dance the jig while casting out a demon that had caused a woman's blindness, that i made it out alive.
i woke up next to a pond not far from the tent church. it was friday, so i fasted as i began to make my way home to boise. the name bouncing around my head for what reason i soon hoped to discover.
8-
a man has to eat. sometimes rummaging through dumpsters outside a truck stop near cheyenne just isn't enough. i have been sitting here, standing here, thumbing the air waiting for someone to help me get closer to home. in order to avoid being picked up and sent to the orphanage i have used soot to draw stubble on my cheeks and chin.
i pray god to deliver me from this, and weep openly while kicking rocks and dreaming of home. it is in this condition that a man in a business suit taps my shoulder.
'hey kid, whatta doing out in the middle of nowhere?' he growled, as behind him a limousine idled.
'i ain't no kid, mister. and maybe i'm just some murderer out here minding my own business. you could take a cue,' i replied spitting in the dirt.
'well, shit you are feisty. i like that. i don't know what you are trying to prove, but i got a proposition for you.'
my stomach growled.
'why don't you come in the limo, we'll get some breakfast and talk it over. whatta think?'
i rubbed my chin, causing the soot to come off on my fingers. though it should be noted that most of the soot had been washed away due to the constant weeping for home i had been doing. the most dangerous part of life is the risk. a child becomes a man shaped by the results of the risks he has taken. i see the limousine and wonder if it is the next adventure or the last.
'you a murderer or pedophile,' i said and gave my best steely gaze.
the man's face turned red as he slammed one giant hand into the other. i could see the muscles bulging underneath the fine cloth of his suit, the large vein pulsing on the side of his neck. he clenched his jaw while the wyoming breeze blew through his close cropped salt and pepper hair.
'i should smack your face for asking me that. you don't know who i am?' he said and stepped back putting his hands on his hips.
i examined him closely but could not place the face. so after a few up and downs i shook my head, 'no'.
'twenty-three million kids watch a week and i find the one who doesn't. shit, well son, i am don greco the president/owner of wrestling stars. we put on arena shows across the country and well i need to find a kid to play a role.'
'you go to boise?' i asked.
'three stops from here, we roll into boise. why?'
'i have to get to boise.' i said and on hearing the word boise the tears began to fall again.
'well it looks like we are in a position to help each other out. you see charlie fire the masked midget champion hurt his back and has to take a couple nights off. usually who cares, but the people love him. all you have to do is wear a wrestling mask, a suit and tie stand on the sidelines and shout like a baptist preacher. otherwise i'm going to have to call up the union, file a worker's comp claim, fly out another of those little bastards, cost me a fortune. c'mon kid, i'll feed you and get you home.'
the sun cast it's ray over my left eye causing my forehead to ruffle as i though it over. while in the middle of weighing the pros and cons of the deal my stomach began to grumble out it's opinion and i came to a conclusion. 'god's will be done,' i said.
with that a bald eagle cried to the wind. don greco explained the character 'charlie fire' and i began my short stint as a wrestling star.
it is night. we are in some college basketball arena, backstage and i see these monsters of flesh and muscle oiling, flexing and running their lines. there is a man with a hammer called thor he hold's it aloft and screams, 'the power of the gods be with me!' then smashes down on a goat horned black man.
the music blares as a crowd screams then one by one these goliaths head towards the curtain and disappear. a thin man in a green lizard costume begins to convulse, he spits and turns gnashing the air then rushes out into the auditorium heading towards the ring.
soon we are down to three. i am to go out second to last, holding the champion belt while king handsome follows, he is dressed in a flowing red kings cape complete with crown. before we are to go out, the third to last is a man named martin but in the ring he is the clobberer. he is dressed as a street thug, complete with black sunglasses and a chain around his neck. he struts towards the ring as the music blares rock and roll and the crowd boos.
when i head through the curtain, the sound knocks me back. there is the regal music, fit for a king and the applause of the audience. twenty three thousand people screaming and stomping, woman waving their undergarments whjle testosterone fueled men and adolescents wave signs and fists.
i recover from the blast walked ten steps down the runway stop and thrust the belt upward. the place almost crumbles under another blast of excitement, as i stare down the clobberer who is grimacing, pacing and sweating. as i stand, belt aloft the crowd begins to stomp and clap in rhythm breaking only when he appears to a trumpet blast. the king, king wallop appears and i am knocked dizzy by the thunder of their voices.
as i make my way to the ring i only stare forward, the clobberer is strolling, primping and playing it cool. he waves the king's prescence away. he strolls towards one corner and leans easily in the turnstyle and buckles. there are hands grasping for me, for the belt and i have to hold steady or else be consumed.
when we arrive at the ring i hold the rope open so that the king can get into the ring. he moves like a panther, one large thigh into the ring at a time. he bends and i can see the vast community of muscles flexing, peaking through skin as he makes his way in. i place the belt around my waist so i may have the free hands to hold the crown and cape. as soon as i have the garments the clobberer attacks.
he leaps and knocks the king to the ground, stomping his head with his thick black tread combat boots. i scream and posture for the ref and somebody rings the bell starting the match. as the clobberer attacks, the crowd screams for the king, they beg him to rise up and take this cheater out.
king wallop takes a mighty collection of kicks and elbow drops and the end seems near. i scream and cry hoping that he is not destroyed. then, as the clobberer goes to make his finishing move, as the king lays hopeless on the ring the clobberer makes his mistake. he doesn't finish him immediately, he taunts the crowd, he waves his hand to his ear as if he can't hear the boos, to which they grew louder. he points his thumbs to his chest and flips his jean jacket collar up. the clobberer does a quick stomp to king wallops back and rakes his eyes. the king rolls around, he is a man about to be defeated, all that is left is the pin.
i can not take the excitement and holler for help, holler for king wallop to defend his crown. we are one, the voice of the crowd and i. i can hear the announcers and they too are begging for mercy. this as the clobberer goes to his finishing move, he leaps to the top rope and goes into a back flip.
while we were watching the villian, our hero rose. king wallop is standing! he catches the clobberer in mid-air! then in the same motion, king wallop uses the motion of his opponent against him, he flips him into the king's crown and bashes him to the ground.
the clobberer does not move until he has been pinned.
the crowd explodes, i explode screaming and dancing on the sideline. i drop from the ring side and dance down the aisle holding the belt aloft. all are joyous and the clobberer lays vanquished in the ring.
i was overwhelmed by the moment and couldn't hear the lizard coming. i was dancing to the curtain until the noise and the auditorium went black. when i woke up i was on a bus heading west, towards montana, heading towards home.
'what happened?' i asked.
'ah, shit man you got overheated, so when i came to do the final act, set up tomorrow's show, i knocked you out. i feel real sorry about that,' said a cherub faced mexican.
'all's fair in showbusiness,' called out the clobberer.
'you did good there, tonight kid, here you go.' said the king as he gave me a hamburger and french fries.
'hey kid, you earned it.' said don greco giving me a envelope filled with cash.
'god is good,' i said inbetween bites watching the dark highway unfold.
9-
the bus deposited me a block from my house, as dawn crested i headed through the door, up the stairs and finally into my bed. i had a held full of memories and a pocket full of my earnings. as the dawn became morning i was awoken by the gentle kiss of my mother to my forehead.
'good morning,' she whispered.
i blinked a few times and smiled.
'how was your camp? i was sure you would be back later this afternoon.'
'it was tremendous fun, but weather caused it to let out early,' i said. it was a little lie but better that than causing her a stroke from the truth. 'in time, as a i get older, i will tell her the story,' i promised god.
my father came in and toussled my hair a bit, 'hey buddy good to have you home.'
i smiled as they both hugged me close. i could hear in the hall my sister and brother mulling about.
'your brother's home,' my mom said, 'you can say hello.'
'welcome home,' they murmured and rubbed their teenage eyes.
when everyone had moved on to their morning routine i opened the bedroom window and breathed in the fresh idaho air. though wrestling had been tremendous fun nothing beat your own bed and your own home town. familiar streets to bike through, familiar faces to meet at the card store...that is when i remembered the knot of money don greco had given me. i pulled them money from my pocket, stared at it then gasped with excitement. the annual idaho card and toy show was going on this afternoon. i would be there. i would be buying.
as my mother filled the air with the smell of breakfast and coffee i dressed, went through the closet grabbed my back pack and thermos.
'mom, can i go,' i asked hurriedly.
'where, i mean why you just got home,' she asked.
'what's the bug up your butt kid,' my dad said from behind the paper.
our seventeis built two story box style home was suddenly rocked by depression electro rock from my sister's bedroom while the other side was rocked by the seventies era arena rock from my brother's room.
'i forgot about the toy and card show. i have to go, have to go, have to go! please,' i said hopping from one foot to the other.
my mother sucked her teeth for a moment looked over my shoulder to my dad and then down on me, 'sure you can go, but after breakfast. tomorrow though you are staying with us we are having a family day.'
i leapt to her arms and gave her a hug then moved to the six seated natural wood table we had our meals at. as my mom put the plates of food in the center of the table my sister and brother came down and took their positions.
we ate, i greedily, while our parents discussed the politics of city, state and nation. they discussed grocery times only to be interrupted by the occasional blurp of social calender needs.
'mom i have a dance on the tenth,' my sister said.
'i have a basketball game tuesday and friday,' my brother said.
i was too young to have a developed social calender and thus would have nothing planned until after that day of school.
'so how is steve?' my dad asked.
'it's harold now,' my sister said.
'oh, what happened to steve?' he asked.
'oh dad, come on.'
'okay, how is harry?'
'harold.'
'harold,' he said.
'fine,' she whispered and went back to breakfast.
as we ate, he took a moment to question each of us about our lives and what was going on. when we had enough my mother would say, 'oh, leave them be. they don't want to tell us old foggies what is going on in their world.'
on the street the cold air refreshed me as i sped through the streets heading towards the holiday plaza. as i rode into the parking lot i could see it was full. i quietly cursed myself for being late. my usual routine was watching the boxes and toys being unloaded, then heading in to watch them set up.
as i walked my breath was taken away from the vastness of it all. there glimmering across rows of tables was he-men in their wrappers, some from china and mexico. i took my time memorizing the lines of 'jujitsu' and 'king hiss' then walked down towards the baseball collections. it was while taking it all in i noticed an italian boy who was following me.
it was over the alphabetical cheap boxes that i spoke.
'i can't help but notice your following me,' i said.
'am not,' he fired back.
his brown hair parted to the side, his brown eyes unblinkingly staring back, he looked real sharp in a suit and tie. i guessed he was here for the same serious business.
'how come i have never seen you before?'
'how come i have never seen you,' he said.
we circled each other asking about what school, what street we lived on, where our favorite places to ride were. his name was joseph, joey and they had just moved in from nampa. in fact this family had just moved into a house one block away from my own. joey was going to start at garfield, in the same classroom this coming school year.
after we had satisfactorily answered each others' questions we began to discuss the show, the quality and rarity of the toys and cards. it turns out we both were into baseball cards, the was more a thundercat man than a he-man but nobody is perfect.
we had each others' back as we negotiated for those things we felt were worth buying. if the price got was too high we would pull the old, 'i saw it here for so and so,' casual walk buy mutter that would cause the dealer to drop the price. all in all it was a success and i left with a back pack half full of my stuff and half full of his.
there was a chill in the afternoon air, but the tears on our cheeks were from laughter. in the fire of negotiation a friendship had been borne.
10-
billy crudup was the bully. billy crudup had a mop of orange hair that covered his too large earlobes and framed his freckled cheeks and blood red eyes. billy crudup was the bully and the first day of school was his time to put new faces into their places.
it was while we were walking home on the outer fringe of the playground that he appeared. billy crudup with his teeth bared clenched, saliva ferociously dripping from his lower lip. arthur and walton where his goons that stood behind him making menacing faces as billy paced between joseph, myself and the gate to our subdivision.
'so i see a new face, charlie introduce your friend,' he said.
'joseph...'
before i could finish the sentence billy held joseph in a head lock. while the goons were pumping their fists cheering him on i could hear joseph moan from the pain his face purple from lack of oxygen and his inhaler begging for help from the back pocket. as they twirled, there built up in me a fire of rage that enngulfed my soul, it pushed me past thought into action. i lept on billy prying joseph free, his goons came, i hissed and flung my feet in all directions knocking them to the ground causing them to keep their distance. as joseph choked trying to catch enough breath so to use his inhaler i fought on.
billy wiggled and wormed his body free then grasped me with a terrible strength getting me into a headlock vise grip blocking the air to my lungs. as he wrenched down and the goons began to spit and cheer for their hero panic set in.
with my legs going weak from lack of oxygen i remembered the raccoon and struck. i bit down on his hand while erupting a terrible scream. billy lost his grip but i did not lose mine, i bit until there was blood until he began to weep i bit and growled until the goons rushed off screaming in terror.
as billy wept i pushed him down spitting blood from my mouth, 'never again,' i said as he lay on the grass clenching his blood red hand.
as we walked home joseph turned to me, 'thank you, you really saved me there.'
'friends got to watch each others' back,' i said.
the sky had become overcast and a terrible rumble groaned from the distance as we appeared in his doorway. there above the door hung a sign, 'the catalano's welcome you' and as we crossed the thresh hold i heard a voice call out from upstairs, 'anthony is that you?'
i turned, my skin gone white his voice fading out as he said, 'joseph's my middle name,' while i fainted.
11-
there is an alley, there are rats that leap and holler about me. i am laying on the ground as a beautiful woman holds her hands to her chest. she is crying, while a strange mess of a man is chanting and spinning throwing dirt into the air.
rain coats the city streets and the sound of car tires slush the water against the curb. she is long and beautiful leaning over the top of me. 'peace' she whispers into me ear. i can feel a stirring in my chest. i want to say something to her, want to tell her it will be alright, that i love her. these are grown up ideas that are coming through.
the man is chanting over me, the woman is moves to a kneel and grasps my hand. i want to squeeze but i can not, so she squeezes my hand together. the dancing hobo leans into me, i can feel his breath warm, the scent of trash and it is violent against my nose. 'return', he says and i spring from the coach a note in my hand.
it is early in the evening while my mother is making dinner. i sit up, i hear the noise of a ball game in the next room. as i enter i hear their voices, my father is talking about 'that lousy choking dog billy mac.' while there nodding in agreement is joseph, nee anthony catalano.
a violence welled up in me, sudden and furious i grab one hand in the other and squeeze until the skin goes white. while they talk of the failure of 'billy mac in any damn game that counts' i stomp up and down the hall cursing and making practice swings.
there is a fire that burns, burns the idea of peace, burns the compassion of christian out. the fire burns until all there is left is violence. i grab a broom, swing for the fences, storm into the room.
while my mother sings over her steaming pots.
'new york can not win a world series with this s.o.b on the team.,' said my father.
'you would expect more from the highest paid player,' said anthony.
'prima donna, some players play for the love of the game, others for the damn record books and paychecks. look at him, preening for the camera.'
'judas!' i screamed as i burst into the room.
there was silence as they turned to look at me.
'you rotten jerks, you cheer when you feel, you call out when a player is a free agent. 'oh come to my team, oh how great would it be if they signed. you call for mvp and starting all star games when the player is going good, but when they struggle you forget and turn your back. you say your a fan of a team but then abandon the best player because? because a pitcher throws a great pitch? because somebody makes a great play? we are all damned professional players, we all got talent. you think a great player just stumbles upon the numbers of billy mac? noway, those are earned, the hall of fame is earned. why you know where you would be if it wasn't for this player your cursing and putting down? nowhere that's where. maybe we ought to look into your lives and see if you do anything as well as billy mac, hits the ball. as well as he plays the field. why i bet you don't come close.'
as my cheeks reddened, my nose ran, tears fell and i could see their faces lower in shame.
'by god, he is a father and husband, he is the son of a man. what if this was your boy, what if it was me out there. god forbid somebody said those things about me. if i hit a cold streak would you turn your back on me too? i say the new yorkers can win this thing, they can win on the back of billy mac, but we got to support them, we got to cheer for them so damn it lets start now.'
it just happens that billy mac is up to bat. i pace the room clapping my hands and conjoling him to a hit.
the first pitch fouled deep into the stands. my father and anthony leaned forward rubbing their hands together. it is game seven, it is one man on base the new yorkers are down by one. the pitch whistles through for strike two. i stomp and scream slap my hands together rooting the batter on. then they start, first my dad and then anthony clapping softly saying, 'bring us back billy mac,' as if on cue the stadium begins the same chant.
as the pitch makes it's way to the plate we are all leaning forward silent hopeful. there is the sound of thunder from the bat that is passed immediately into the stands. the ball comes to rest 500 feet from home plate.
we dance, laugh and cry celebrating with the team and the city. outside a car honks it's horn in joy and we, three, embrace.
'you were right, son, i am sorry,' said my father tear in his eye.
'i knew he could...' was all anthony could get out.
a late model datsun 510 hatchback, driven by a ten year old girl came crashing through the front room window. i don't know if anthony felt a thing, i never heard him cry. the front end came down both of us, i turned over to see his crushed body, before looking down at my own. as i faded i could see the face of a black woman and i remembered the note i had received, 'if you want it done, do it yourself.'
the body of the young girl lay across the hood and i found a familiarity in her eyes, now cold and lifeless. i tried to think about what it all means, but when my mother kissed my forehead i just fell asleep.

10/1

2009-10-01T07:31:00.000-07:00

i got nothing. i got no education no benefits to cash in my pocket. ah woman the consumption machineburns what i would have owned. there are babies an they cry. there is the old man, the father, great grey dad wounder of hearts (yes i can see mother's tears in the full moon rain) is he the instructor? is he, this abandoning machine, the depression machine, the cheater of marriages the billowing smoke stack of back alley man the leader of me?
there was grandpa the drunk resurrected. maybe our 1/4 danish 1/4 indian 1/2 poor american blood runs best on grain alcohol. my brother the resurrection of success, the only success of this great american brood, runs on whiskey and beer an it has the same effects of rocket fuel. my brother the dad, my brother the inverse, the abandoned, the abused the tender heart always in furious reaction or sighing acceptance of his bruised love is full of cash, is full of excelerance the grand teacher no television he leads his son through the belly of the city through the museums trying to give him an idea of something more.
there is william the bored. always wandering always moaning 'dad dad' always leaning his sweet cheek against me kissing breathing in our time an there is me the work horse. the six days a week mail machine. there is me the failure, the talent burned, the education wasted always take tenacity over talent, always take studiousness over intelligence.
there is me. the poison machine, the baptized the tested. nothing is good enough.
there is me the miles of highway. the long nights of cigarettes booze singing to a guitar player screaming absurd poems with the piano machine as he tugged long beard with lithe nimble alaskan fingers.
we never made it.
there is the finish line.
there is the marriage.
for what a woman sacrifices she ought to be paid.
there is woman, the employee embarrassed by her salary and benefits. there is woman who tries to come to grips between the idea of so many suitors to the reality of her decision.
by god listen to your wallet. marriage is a hot fire that burns what you give it. when you can't feed it dollars, when you can't feed it long shopping trips, elegant sedans can't feed it the exemplar house and furniture when all you can feed it is yourself sooner than later your left with just your bones.
i can hear the night filled with wishes of things.
i can imagine the future of children joining the choir.
everybody wants something. most times they deserve it too.
god blows a heavy gale.
god blows without a map.
god blows this ship through the dark waters.
god blows and though were desperate with fear
god blows and we know land is out there somewhere.
god is good.
the great invisible credit machine.
an if we don't find land well that means were just supposed to be fishes.
either way god is good.
an all we know is forward.
onward.
to the future!
heart beating wants as the zombies laugh smile rot in the satisfaction of what they achieved.
you see dear, my family's fortune is in dreams.
brother dreamed to the top of bank tower.to feature film production.
sister dreaming to top of make up artist to beverly hills million dollar home.
dad dreamed i can't see them but i think it's to be better.
mom dreamed to love and confidence
all from idaho nothing snake river tubeathons.
an i dreamed of family roots of security and a home dreamed of a place for kids to grow to not move to have life long pals home teams and history.
an i dreaming of a secret that was whispered somewhere along the road. the prophecy recieved one summer day in the fury of youth while listening to the radio.
dream on
dream on!

9/30

2009-09-30T08:30:00.000-07:00

young negros
run the alleyways of this empire
cacophony of laughter
as mother's stoop
upon stoops
grimacing
over tall cans
of american lager
gone to the horizon
are the unemployed fathers
gone dead
to the hot war torn
sand
are countless brothers and sisters
and the rain falls
pound the streets
a black blue clean
cups
dust
open condom wrappers
wade to the gutter
cling to it's concrete sides
everybody
got them deep
open eyes
afraid of drowning
whites
to blacks
to inbetweens
gone savage
to charges
to arm loans
to forty in thirty
101 percent equity loans
to thin plasma tvs
belvedere vodka
and esclades
but
amongst it all
hump shouldering
bleak it out
terror
of end of job blues
the grill cheese stand
it thrives
and there is business men
an workaday stiffs
sitting with their children
wives
or coworkers
smiling through
long strands of cheese
i can hear a marching band
as the sun causes my eyes to pinch
forehead to ruffle
the warmth feels good
the city is alive
underneath the dirt
is a heart that still beats hope
hope on!
beat on!
bicycle on!
negro dreamers
to the marching band drum
amen

9/29-am pm

2009-09-29T07:14:00.000-07:00

i had not always been so fat. like most, i have lost and rediscovered my weight over the period of a lifetime. my mother was a great fan of diets and so it began. at the age of three it was the grapefruit diet, then the no sugar diet, off to the all things blended diet we circled around weight watchers hearing the tales of woe how, 'people asked me how i kept my tan in the winter and i was embarrassed to respond, fridge light.' i moved through periods of great mourning. i sobbed the loss of ice cream, over sugar cereal, weep openly for the loss of birthday cake, 'this year let's exchange that nasty white carb for a good skim milk pudding.'
my childhood was lost to diet rite's and wheat thin crackers.
though we starved the weight was slow to come off. though we starved and i rode a bicycle everywhere the weight was slow to come off. every doctor talked of metabolism speed. it was the time of ronald regan and we were all innocent.
it was while studying he-man that i first came across my theory. it was not until i was an adult that i had the capital to chase down the answer. so let's us fast forward through the embarrassment of double rolls of adult size large t-shirts that hung past the knees. let's us move past lonely dances where i could only dance to the fast songs.
oh an appology to the toes of molly brown who were trampled during a pity slow song. oh molly of auburn eyes we can pull off the freeway to glance once more at your tender tanned moon face. those thin lips pulled back to reveal the youth of big teeth highlighting doe eyes with long lash bating morse code to the heart of burning young man.
ah molly, in a time of rap songs when we cheered hollard and sped through the seattle streets from dance class to theater to coffee shops where at 12-13 we discussed pop culture in latin. amazing how a dead language can be used to discuss such things as mario bros. or new kids on the block.
when we had to dance i would wear my father's shirts. his billowing bush pilot dress shirt made a sharp cut as it blanketed my huge stomach. i had a hard belly, a veteran of the war. looking down i could only see the tips of toes, bending was with the effort of loud grunts and reascending took a hearty sigh causing color to tinge the cheeks.
but we are passed that. we are moving to 21 when i came into a summer full of money. a recent car accident had left me with one broken leg and six thousand dollars cash. i limped from 14th and high to the eugene bus station. i gave the bag to the handler, took my seat on my way to alabama.
it was with serial numbers that i found my opposite. it was with the help of how long that i discovered how to trace serial numbers in order to find my opposite. it was the idea of a different universe, it was the idea of eternia and prince adam beceoming he-man that i stumbled upon the idea.
we are both the best and worst of ourselves. we are striving for the best of ourselves. but for every action there is a reaction. for every ounce we lose somebody gains. it was while dreaming of what happens to he-man while adam is adam that i stumbled on the idea of opposites. one person finds a sock when you lose it, one person finds an ounce when you lose it. when you feel like stuffing your face it's not because you have no will power, it's because your opposite is enacting theirs.
when talking of nature one always hears of the idea of balance. if you are in contact with your opposite and you discuss the idea of balance you two may come into that perfect balance and your lives will be exemplar in their ordinariness. if you do not know your opposite your idea of balance will actually be throwing the system out of whack, so that you come to become an extreme.
think of how great everybody say's jesus is. can you imagine how terrible his opposite is?
it was while studying the path of lost things that i discovered my opposite was in alabama. it was following this idea that i discovered that most hollywood stars keep their opposites in a studio village, a town called millwaukie oregon. it is here that they are given the mirror opposite life of the movie star in order to keep said star in shape and ready for action. it was this discovery that lead me to the only person who believes in the old adage, 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer', that person? oprah, her opposite gail is kept by her side so that they can test theory in order to find the perfect balance. oprah balloons in weight gail shrinks or oprah has to increase because she is the wage earner and gail shrinks because she has to. she has to have no money in order to cause the scale to shift so dramatically.
while many things have come to pass and many ideas have come to be proven it all started to unravel in birmingham alabama.
alabama is a true shit hole, for anyone that has a sense of civilized life. it is as if all the weight and uncultured life that shed from the gay man came sliding into this dump of a town. why i saw a man eating squirrel and a woman whose breasts hung out the bottom of her shirt.
children ran wild through the streets, their home made hair cuts flopping in the wind as they screamed and waved dead rabbits in the air.
it was amongst all this that i found him, and at that point in our life, he was fabulous. charles sterling was well on his way to a corporate position at the bank. he drove to work in a e class brandy colored with white leather interior. charles had a fresh hair cut and wore his tie with a windsor knot. the impossible knot whose secrets have only been revealed to the best and brightest.
charles sterling feet easily into a size 34 waist and his 195 lbs seemed to be molded to his 6'4" body. there was no wedding ring on his finger but while following him i discovered the town's princess cynthia mcelroy was long blonde thin and on his arm. cynthia was perfect with the kind of scent that caused your head to spin.
by god my gain was their gain. his life sparkled like the grease on the wrapper containing the pig tongue that i consumed.
by god in the south i ate. charles sterling, was later discovered, to be on a liquid diet in order to make a good impression on the men of birmingham calender. so as he lifted weights, ran sprints down the track and made love to cynthia i ate, lazied and masturbated my way through the streets and days of this town.
now, dear reader, you may be asking yourself 'how could i be so sure that sterling was my man?' and you would be right to ask such a question. but to get into the mathematics and science of human reasoning that chased the serial numbers that traced mileage to find the exact reverse of myself would be too copious an effort as to make one lean towards suicide. so unless you want to read the 32000 page opus 'the birmingham effect' i would lean on the old adage of trust me.
so i stalked charles i covered his track, walked his path lived his life like a shadow lives yours. by god when he starved i fought the balance of the scale of life and starved. it would be a test of wills and if we both were equals we would give up at the same time.
when cynthia came i would seduce a big fat broad or go get a prostitute and when he went to work at the bank i would go to work at my new job, credit union teller. as time passed, as summer days began to fall i grew ansy. the effects were subtle but not enough to show a true connection. i needed to speed it up, create something dramatic, provable...give him some of this damn weight for once!
so it was while he was whistling the night away, talking a walk along the pond that lined his property, that i handsome jefferson came up behind and clonked his head with a brick.
tied up in the hotel room chair, charles sterling, would meet his opposite. he had the face of angel slumped forward, dried line of blood down his forehead as i paced the floor wondering how to make such an introduction.

2.
charles sterling could not keep his balance. so as the birmingham moon came creeping through hotel window it caught a glimpse of one of the town's shining stars leering over and crashing down while tied to a chair.
i could not contain the laughter that caused my stomach to jiggle chilling my flesh as the sweat cold shirt stains landed on new patches of skin.
'ah, so you must be wondering how you got here. so you must be wondering who i am. well let me start from the beginning.'
as i spoke from the rough draft notes, that would become my non fiction best seller previously mentioned, i could see a glimmer of understanding spring to light. he tapped his finger against the wood of the chair in what seemed ( to my amateur understanding of morse code) to be a message of congratulations.
as i graciously accepted the compliments of his tapping, i turned him towards the corner table where i had placed a delicious pile of pizza, soda, subsandwiches and blocks of cheese.
'what we are going to do, mr. sterling, is trade weight. you are going to consume that pile of food, then when you are done you are going to call up your beautiful girlfriend and break up following that you are going to quit your job and move to eugene oregon. if you refused to do that i will club you to death with this brick.'
he flops his neck about and waggles his fingers in protest.
'now, now, you see you have had the best of our connection. while you excelling, while you were gaining fortune, muscles and the company of beautiful women i was wallowing in the gutter. you see while you were gaining, i was just gaining weight.'
there was a cacophony of insects and wild hogs mating that rode upon the night and into one's ear.
charles sterling waggled and bopped from his position on the floor.
'yes i understand that you get certain bonus points for having to spend your entire life in alabama, i mean, by god i wouldn't bury an opossum here. well neither would you from the looks of the daily special board.'
god i am witty. i know that a woman must judged from the outside in. she must judge as if it is the father of her child. i don't blame her, if i had to be the one that got pregnant i wouldn't sleep with anyone whose bank balance i didn't get emailed to me every morning. i know, i know that it isn't all about money, but when you see a big fat mess like handsome jefferson your mind trails to a tiny handsome being teased on the playground, to having to play lineman in football to the wretched life of the overweight.
so while this sterling is living it up i have to wait for the woman that is the care taker. the woman who will take the time to look at the inside, to judge not the books cover but to read the contents in full. this is not the woman who has the beautiful breasts. this is not the woman with the flowing hair and fine clothes. the woman who understands the principals of pleasure. no, just like most of us can not afford a fine european car, most of us can not afford these women, and if by chance we were allowed an opportunity for one of these ladies we wouldn't even know what to do with them.
by god there is so much to think about.
charles sterling, lying on the floor taping out his fear of diabetes, his family history of high blood pressure all the while staring down the barrel of a large pepperoni and sausage pizza. this man he has lived his whole life with these options. he is the man who gets the fine european car, or whatever passes for said car in alabama. this charles sterling understands what it takes to be important to be thin, wealthy and ready for anything. maybe, in our union, there is a reason he has been chosen for his task.
as i am thinking a hoot owl crashes down through the window and grabs a footlong meatball sub. my mind wanders as i watch it move away down towards the invisible horizon line.
who could live in such a place. i stare at charles sterling. i study the perfection of his face, those piercing blue eyes like frozen steel, the close clipped auburn hair. if standing he would raise to the magnificent height of 6'4" slim, athletic, a man made for success. such a beast would be wasted if the scales were turned.
'i am sorry charles.' and with that i pulled his chair bound form from the ground and began to release his bindings.
when he had been released, instead of smashing my nose in, hollering for help or just rushing out the door, charles sterling stayed seated.
'you know, my friend, i am impressed with your study. as i was bound, i began thinking this is a man who has truly suffered the slings and arrows. this is a man who knows what it takes to survive. just look at him, he probably couldn't afford a stead dinner if you spotted him the potato.
'this sad sack of a man, why, he is my hero. handsome, you are the fullback for our team. without you clearing the way i would never have been able to score so many touchdowns or rush for so many yards. maybe you are right...'
we sat across from each other rubbing our faces, he were he had been clubbed and me dabbing the sauce from my chin. though the silence did not last for a high piercing scream came resounding through the broken window as a hawk appeared.
'it has to be too late for this,' i said.
'you know the slogan for birmingham?' he said, as the hawk grasped a piece of pizza and retreated to the night.
'no, what is it?'
'it's always the right time for a free meal', and we both laughed.
there was a general warmth between us, as if two halves of a broken quarter had finally been reunited.
'handsome,' he spoke arising from the chair and grasping my hand, 'i want to give you a gift.'
'really?'
he held my hand helping me rise from the metal folding hotel chair. as our eyes met he placed his free hand on my shoulder.
'yes, this is going to be the year of handsome.'
'you can't mean...'
'shh, for the next twelve months we are going to switch positions. i am going to grow fat, i am going to grow slack at my job, by god i am going to live life as if i was the laziest man on the planet.'
as he spoke i could feel my heart leaping from it's cage in my chest and smashing against the yellow wall of warden fat.
'but what if you lose your way. i mean oprah was never skinny.'
he stood quiet. my knees began to buckle as he turned his magnificent profrile from the window and stared deep into my eyes. he stared so deep that if there is a soul, my soul began to stir.
'it's a risk worth taking.'
'you sir, are worth your weight in gold.'
'now we have a tradition in the south, that every deal is consummated by making love.'
i do not have to tell you, that charles sterling was a tender man. he was a man of passion but he is never overtaken and i swear by all that is holy he is a man who waits for his partner to be satisfied until he is finished.
while we lay there discussing the possibilities that lay before me there was a loud holler and the door caved in. i screamed as a shotgun blast screamed through the air and right into charles sterling's chest. i screamed and leapt for the window, falling two stories into a rhododendron. i lept from the bush just as the wild pig gnashed for my pants as i had stirred it from it's slumber.
from there i ran. i ran to the nearest tree and climbed all the way to the top so that if you were on a street in birmingham and looked up you would have thought there was an eclipse.
after two hours clinging to the tree in terror sleep, as it always will, began to creep in. i do not know when i feel from the tree but i do know i woke in the hospital bed my leg cast and a patch over my right eye.
i was told by the friendly gentleman to my right, that they had to pull the snake from the empty socket where once my eye had been. you see while i was unconscious a wild chicken had pecked out my right eye and in the absence of being filled by an eye the opening was taken by a small gardener snake.
'do you know a man by the name charles sterling?' i asked.
'oh yeah, terrible thing, shot by his fiance for having a gay fling with some foreigner. they think he was german, because apparently the german's have a thing for duct tape.'
'so what happened to him?' i said fearing the worst.
'how would i know?'
'well you knew the first part.'
we lay in battle. the ancient american game of the staring contest, the one honest way to break a man down. he stared with his rotten half filled mouth his eyes red, burning into the depths of you. he was a man on fire as the fire burned with in.
while he stared i mustered all i had to stare back. down an eye was a true disadvantage as i had learned the ancient art of the double twist, a hypnotic suggestion from the eyes that causes one to blink.
as we stared the time fell away, the scenery fell away until it was just his face framed by the black of concentration. it was at this critical moment that i felt the need to pass gas. the sound was near deafening, but the smell worse, as my body grew accustomed to the humidity and cuisine.
'by god, did somebody try to land a seven forty seven in here?' called the wino.
though he did not blink immediately, the smell burned causing a tear to fall and then finally he succumbed. ten hours later i had my answer and was looking for the first bus out of town.

3 in summation

i was not the first for charles sterling. it appears i was duped, as the south does not agree on every deal with sex. charles sterling was a closet homosexual and his fiance had had enough. though she left after the gun shot she did not kill him. charles sterling was a fighter.
when cynthia learned that charles had survived she hired a professional. this man was superior in the art of strangling, in the art of karate and in the art of knife throwing. it was under this umbrella that he arrived in birmingham.
it was told that she waited in their bedroom for the call. that she drove his treasured porsche to the hospital and that she screamed, not like a woman learning of her pending widowhood but as a woman disappointed that she wasn't.
it was here that charles sterling had had enough. he was tired of the double life. he was certain that the double life was ruining the life of your hero and so he made a decision.
the professional opened the door and saw the blood. the professional opened the door and thought the job was done. the professional made a phone call. the professional took his check (though it should be noted that since, he thought, the job was already done he only took eighty percent. as he was an honest man) and disappeared.
what he thought he had seen was actually an operation.
charles sterling was now on his way to hannah sterling. hannah sterling would heal. she would take her families fortune and her now growing plump frame off to florida. she would take her treasured porsche and cash from the home sale and buy a condo in florida.
hannah loved the beach.
it was during this brief period, that i received the postcard.
'enjoy your year cs' was all it said.
the year turned into three months, but what a three months.
it was during this time that i fell in love. it was during this time that she fell in love. it was during this time that i published the book that would make my fortune 'mirror image: how to make your life balanced by finding your balance mate'.
when the weight returned it was almost welcomed. when she did not leave it was most welcomed and 'so tonight, after all this my dear will you marry me?'
'oh my dear,' she says her hazel eyes staring deep into mine, 'oh handsome...'
she said before i blacked out.
i blacked out at 265 lbs obese but not disgusting. i woke at 386 two weeks later. it appears that hannah sterling was out in the atlantic partying. that hannah had consumed three shots of tequilla and copious amounts of cocaine and fallen into the water. charles/hannah sterling was dead.
'it must be an allergic reaction to the drugs,' said the doctor.
there was hazel eyes, she grasped my hand and said 'in for a penny, in for a pound, i do.'
there is hope at last.

9/28

2009-09-28T08:12:00.000-07:00

'husben' she says
husband husbound has been thinks husben.
lips red lips going wet to her tongue near the dinner table while leaning against the wall. she got fresh paint on her toes, polish clear on her fingers and a ahhhahhahh baby on her arm. it's hungry she hungry we all hungry waiting for the silence, angry for consumption.
'lalalal' goes the wife translate to 'disappointment over dish not done. disappoint me over spill on the floor onto the weather to cold got to get a sweater.'
an he sigh
an there is the floor that he eyeballs amongst the spill, dirt and childrens things he traces lines in the linoleum creating another vision.
dream on! goes the has been.
hold on! hold that daughter strong. while hands make the shape of tide pools across her back.
ba ba bah! says the baby, already a woman already noticing everything goes wrong.
ha! squeals the son ha la ti da mama! goes the son spinning in circles waving his hands in imitation of jido.
there is the sun creeping like a theif blowing warm kiss across table atop plate down to hands down to fingers that smooth flat comforted.
wish on! goes the holy trinity moving through the house on their way to shopping center. mother son and holy daughter double strollered mother son and holy daughter secure in their chairs secure in car secure on road secure to their way.
orphan dad off to use his hands pack muling the mail day away.
hi hi says a neighbor to wave
he he goes the young the innocent the bicycle gang all ready for daredevilisim and garbage can smash.
the thud is not the crash of tin cans from the 80's the thud with the secure lid is sad as it lays on it's side the victim that doesn't complain and they screech to a stop staring down uncomfortable at it's ease angry that the lights don't go on waving tiny balled fists at the heavens for creating such safety against the violence of youth.
an there are miles for miles an there is weight an there is the ghetto the barking dog the affront of smell the shock window eyes of the foreclosed home and yawning open mouthed boxes some guarded by violent gnashing mouths of dogs and some easy left alone to be stuffed as he pleases.
he dreams
he sees visions of families
of great two story homes on the water
of the escalade
huflis
of their first loves
school
wedding
grandkids
from the beginning it seems like a distant horizon line.
husband husben husbound has been
to the holy trinity
mother son and holy daughter
heavy lifting these catalogs
bills
and gifts from home
they got freedom burning causing blood to boil
causing them to moan at night
from nightmares and passion
they got freedom burning
they got dreams
they got dreams
they got dreams
dream on!

9/26-tiny dancer

2009-09-26T07:39:00.000-07:00

he is lithe. an elder gentleman that floats more than moves across the stage. the crowd thrills to the spin of his tie as he holds his arms taught in pirouette. the partner flies through the air, towards him, her muscular legs straight toes pointed piercing the distance between them. there is a piano playing a singer singing about tiny dancers and they meet. there is a gasp as the passion of their bodies colliding eyes connecting washes over the audience.
it takes a moment, then as she turns away, as she walks away as someone tear filled eyes screams 'no!' the music stops the light fade. all dark you can hear the crowd weeping, gnashing their teeth screaming 'it can't end like this!', suddenly a spotlight. he is bathed in white, he is standing low, like a man broken, a beaten down 65 year old ex republican senator. he has lost his life, his love and the frustration, anger of the moment the impossible pain of being alone explodes out from him.
'ahhhh!', he screams launching his appendages from as if they are missles being launched only to hit the extent of his reach then slamming back towards his chest until he is a huddled mass collapsed into a crouch as a slow beat begins to fade in 'shwoop shwoop pitcha pitcha shwoop shwoop pitcha' and he rises.
'ba dat' goes the sound, then silence, then he begins again dancing, tap dancing with a great fury. he is pounding out the sound with a veracity of the starved man.
'bah bah' goes the music. he spins his gray hair perfectly still while he leaps onto garbage cans kicking them over banging the lid always keeping perfect rhythm with his feet. as he moves, as the music thumps the crowd becomes swept in begin to snap their fingers then clap then stomp until the theater is filled with the thunder of human sound.
'arrrrh!' he cries and moves towards the center, sweat pouring, once taught tie is grasped as if it were a snake. he wrestles it taps while shaking it squeezing knuckles white then in one brilliant motion he spins stomping his heel and in mid spin the tie is thrown into the air 'whoosh' the crowd stands to applaud and from off stage comes another sound the weeping of a broken lover.
she appears, he is now open collard and pounding his chest more animal than man as she come leaping, twirling towards him. she takes a chord and moves towards the sky, circling his head as he is frantic pounding trying to break the wood stage floor.
the move the crowd is soaring with them until it goes black for an instant, goes silent then before one could catch their breath the spotlight comes on and she is covering him he is still across her lap as she strokes his hair and then finally there is black and the crush of applause.

2
somewhere there is a man with a mustache, he is regular looking plain with glasses. this man, joe smith, is sucking a pencil studying the numbers.
'there is something fishy going on.' he mumbles across the pencil in his mouth.
'but is there enough for the news?' says another man only known as editor.
they are huddled near a computer monitor like parents over a new born. there is a sense of fear and excitement that cuts across their faces shaking the editor's old loose jowls.
'i am not going to lay my reputation on the line for a witch hunt', says a beautiful big chested brunette known as Lisa Koin, she is the anchor.
'there definitely is something but we need more time.' says joe.
'well we have to get the story out to own it,' says the editor.
'i have a fucking peabody i don't want to risk it on something that could or could not be complete shit. i say break it on cable.' says Lisa Koin her chest heaving as she runs a ruby red finger through her hair.
'brilliant!' calls the editor causing his huge stomach to leap as if startled.
joe takes the pencil from his mouth, turns it so that the eraser is facing the screen, taps the screen and says, 'this is our way in.'
all three peer in.
'what we will do is get ted from that damned left wing screecher's show and paul from that other's radio show. tonight we put it in the middle of the television show then run it across the breaking news crawler. tomorrow we use it as a seccond hour call in topic. then we watch if it's good tinder the fire should take care of itself.' says the editor.
'and if we're wrong?' says joe.
the editor's gigantic body began to convulse as laughter slowly fell from his billowing purple lips, 'we're never wrong, we just abandon the topic, or we find something in the response that we can also interpret into an attack.'
'well if i am talking about it, we know we got something. now if you'll excuse me it takes some preparation to win my time slot.'
as lisa koin took her perfume, hour glass figure and vivacious breasts out the door the editor turns to joe, 'so how do we frame it?'
they turn and begin to work.

3.-practice makes perfect

9/25

2009-09-25T07:47:00.000-07:00

micheal mustoff is a collection of wires. well a wiry man, thin man whose full hair dances in the devil breeze of the santa anna winds. he is clean shaven, no glasses, fresh clean khaki pants and golf shirt. mustoff drives an expensive sports car. mustoff has the latest cellular phone. mustoff always has a beautiful woman on his arm. mr. mustoff has a never ending supply of money.
micheal mustoff a vegetarian and once president of National Association of Healthy Living is now considered a benedict arnold. in the words of the NAHL 'mr. mustoff is a turn coat, and in these halls he has another name...judas.'
judas mustoff is the creator of healthy ideas. healthy ideas is the company that invented the positive affirmation containers. positive affirmation containers are used in every fast food restaurant in the world, are used to cover every soda can and candy bar. they cover junk food, fast food, all the food that is considered unhealthy.
now you must be wondering what it is that they do?
well let me tell you, dear reader, the p.a.c. contains a few simple phrases like 'you deserve', or 'working hard? treat yourself' or 'every once in awhile is not so bad, especially for somebody who is always on the go.', when the container is open.
consider that you are on the go and have forgotten your lunch at home, well you just pull into the drive through get your burger and fries. when you pull over, ready to tuck into your meal you feel that small tinge of guilt over the damage you are going to do to your body. how your trainer or wife or whomever in your life would be standing right now at the window, or behind you waving one finger in your face saying 'tsk tsk' or just giving you the eye of general disappointment. you pause, bag on your lap, considering the pros and cons how when you get home, if you make it before your partner, you have to either eat your lunch or throw the bag away then when they come home and ask how your day was will you spill the beans? will you go to the garbage open the can and show them the offending trash, tell all through tears and then have to listen to all the rhetoric about 'you work so hard on this', or that 'a diet is hard, that is why nobody likes to do it.' or even in extreme cases how your partner grabs all your clothes, your 'skinny jeans' and throws them into the garbage or for even more dramatics places them in the fireplace and sets fire to them screaming in your face 'failure!'.
these images can make one stop, put the bag on the floor and go through the day hungry, just drink water. so that when they get home they can explain, they can get the pat on the back from the spouse/partner/trainer about how 'we hate to lose money but it's worth the lesson' and then you can high five, get a free session or make sweet love finally able to be on top and act like the dominate man that you are.
these ideas of reward would usually be enough to put the bag down, to return to work. but with mr. mustoff the bag comes playing a fun song, that in fifteen seconds from being handed off starts spouting affirmations of your purchase.
'hey buddy, mmm hmmm these fries smell good, you deserve to treat yourself.'
'let's crack open this bag and taste these golden, delicious rewards.'
'it's your life, your the man, open us up and take what you deserve.'
once the bag is open then there is the hamburger:
'hamburger? or ham delicious? you decide. if i had to be eaten, i'm glad it's by you, because you deserve it.'
the fries chime in:
'nothing goes better with that burger than these guys right here. dip and enjoy!'
followed by the soda:
'and end with a tasty slurp of your's truly. you're a man with a busy schedule, the man, the bring home the bacon man. a man like you deserves to feel full.'
and so they go, on and on cheering each bite and celebrating the trip from garbage can to the recycle factory.
'let us serve our righteous call, and make our way to heaven.'
now full or with a mouth full you call your trainer/partner/spouse and it's them with the tears. your a man 'damn it' your a man who likes his soda and hamburger, your a man who isn't going to eat 'any more rabbit food.' your the man who 'enjoys the view from the top and so tonight i'm going to take what i want.'
your the man who will leave the grease stains, the ketchup stains, your them man who slowly begins to spill out of his clothes. soon, instead of just a quick lunch you're making a pit stop for breakfast, for lunch, snack on the way home from dinner. soon enough you have the frequent fooder card that runs your name into the machine, the messages tailored fit, the p.a.c representative is using your life as a case study. soon men across the country are going to be hearing your personally selected positive affirmations soon enough they will see your picture on the container soon enough it will be your testimonials spouting from the drive through boards before the order is taken.
judas mustoff has a private jet. he goes to fiji for breakfast, lunch in costa rica and dinner in jamacia. mr. mustoff, micheal is never at home. he keeps an arms length from america, from his company his product his results, ruling from webcast aboard the plane. he notices, judas, the weight his employees are putting on. he notices the news when they talk about profit margins, how 'americans are eating at home less and less.', he notices the obesity rates sky rocketing.
'we never felt better,' they say and soon he is getting calls from other avenues. there is the p.a.c. for booze, for cigarettes, cable boxes and new cars. soon prostitutes and strippers carry speakers that transmit through certain fm frequencies their specials.
micheal mustoff reads the news papers. he knows that marriages are not crumbling but promiscuity is rising. he hears about the failure of the olympic sprinters to qualify. how the athlete's once solid frame is now starting to spill over split their lycra uniform. he hears the calls to asterisk the previous generations for drug abuse as home run records how world records all records are farther and farther ahead of the current leader.
there is the call to shorten the football field, to decrease the sports quarters, to make baseball four innings and the decimation of all classes but the heavy weight class.
he sees american farmers pushing aside all other crops save weight, corn, potato. how cattle, pig and chicken farms are exploding being overwhelmed by the demand of fast food chains.
mr. mustoff is shrinking as the countries waistline is expanding. he watches the news via satellite seeing the NAHL's headquarters burned, seeing vegetarians being forced to flee north to canada or south to mexico. he see's all this and somewhere above the pacific as the sun sets judas mustoff hangs himself.
there is a period of national mourning as he is laid to rest, in the brand new p.a.c. coffin that plays muzak while a soft voice confirms, 'you lived a good life, you were somebody special.'
it is at this nationally televised event that the signal is hacked, that a computer graphics genius had mustoff leap from the coffin as others leapt from their grave and began zombieing the attendants. it is this attempt at dark humor that caused the country a mass fatal heart attack that killed 65% of the country.
it would have killed the computer hacker too, if not for the fact his rifle was new from p.a.c and when he went to point it at his head he heard it say, 'hey nothing is that bad. let's go shoot some deer instead, kill dear and make sweet love to a beautiful woman. how about it?'

9/24

2009-09-24T07:15:00.000-07:00

'my name is bob, bob waywood, and i am an architect,' said bob waywood as he positioned her legs across his shoulders and stared down at what lay before him.
'if you were to make a documentary of me,' he thought flexing his pectoral muscles and staring down at her taut passion clenched lips, ' you would find a laundry list of pleased women. you see i please women, i take my time. as an architect i study the design of her structure, i use foreplay as a way to get up close and personal with all her hallways and byways. i study the safety of her entrance and exits. then when satisfied i pull her close and whisper sweet nothings into her ear as i make a mental blue print. when the blue print is finished i lay into her with the tenacity of a workaholic.'
bob waywood uses his free time to stretch and weight lift. he uses his free time to attend seminars and happy hours studying the mind, studying her designs.
'you see some women are simple spec design where one is satisfied just like the others, then there are the few that are unique, they may like their toes tickled while you wink and massage their colons. i will do whatever it takes to make the customer happy.'
'you see the architectural field is the last true bastion of customer service. we must give the client whatever he or she chooses in order to be paid. not only that, we have to solve all the problems that arise and meet the county code regulations along the way. we do all this with a smile and let's see your grocer do all that. why if i go into my local grocer and find one rotten apple tell them that they might want to check their produce i'm surprised if i am ever allowed back in. can you imagine, with such a lack of customer service skills, how any woman is satisfied with these men. i mean people have asked me, 'bob do you think homosexuality is nature or nurture?', an i think it's totally nurture. i mean if you aren't satisfied with group a then how are you going to stay away from group b? it's like two dissatisfied furniture store customers getting together and opening up their own shop. not only will they be happy but the staff they gather will be trained to make the customers of group b happy and those customers will tell all their friends that group b is the way to go and soon enough we have a whole community of business built to service group b exclusively.'
bob takes a moment to move the hair from her face with his left hand as he takes his right and messages her right above the anus. she is grinding and moaning with satisfaction.
'so it is up to us, so to speak, architects to deliver for group a. the straight life has to survive. what desperation must it take to drive one man to another? i shudder at the thought. now i know some will say 'ohh, i just love men,' but there are always lazy people among us. no, i'm talking about the man who tries his best but has never been taught true customer service. he's the mailman just walking through your yard and stuffing the mail into your box the back end of the envelope hanging outside the box while maybe the lid is still in the air. lo, to be his wife. he probably thinks foreplay is taking off his shoes or turning away to belch. it's this kind of man who claims that he is making love, and if you're a woman and you are told that this is love with a man, i mean what wouldn't turn you towards women? women are soft, they are kind, sensual they like to shop to organize to take their time with things. women enjoy multiple stimulation, the candle scent, the music, the massage the questions of their day. why if i was a woman just getting flipped and screwed and left for football i surely would not be straight.'
there is a rattle of jewelry on the night stand as he thrusts with full force causing her to gasp and claw the air.
' so it is up to me, so it is up to us architects to save the world. one by one we pursue these women from a list that is generated by nervous mothers and reverends. think how dire the situation when the catholic church turns to the architects and say 'please find it in yourself to make love to cindy s from wisconsin because we have seen her buying sarah mclaughlin albums.' they must reconcile the sin of premarital sex with the greater sin of homosexuality. though we do not force these women, oh no, quite the contrary. we give them the option we talk at bars we talk at library or coffee shops, we bump into them in a mall. we spend time with them seducing them caressing their hands cooking them dinner buying them something small that relates to something they had told us about at an earlier time. in truth we give them a glimpse of what true heterosexual love is all about. then when we arrive at the moment we make love to them giving them the greatest gift a man can give a woman, the orgasm.
'at the same time we are finding men, we are teaching them, talking to them at fantasy football drafts, over beers and baseball games. we are everywhere, living to the motto 'do good by keeping society structurally sound'. the fact is if you are interacting with an architect it is not fate that brought you together but the weight of your community leaders saying, 'save this woman/man from making a terrible mistake.
'i like to think of the words of christ 'let those with ears hear' we are the beginners tune that all can listen to and slowly understand.'
she is spitting cursing her body unfolding into orgasm, shaking feet beating against the sheets and soon there is peace.
'as quickly as we come to the site we retreat. once the work is finished, the building passed the final walk through and the customer paid with orgasm or in a man's case the final field test, we retreat. cindy s whose mind is focused on love with this man, her body tuned to the true pleasure of being with a man can no longer understand or enjoy her time with group b. it's hear that we introduce her to our 'old friend jack walterson or whomever', they hit it off, of course and as their friendship grows while waiting for our hero to arrive at group get togethers because our hero is locked up in the office with another huge project in amsterdam, we slowly retreat. when the tinder is laid and all is ready to spark the flame between them, our hero comes with the bad news...transferred.
there will be tears now, but soon maybe two weeks to a month there will be new tears, tears of joy watering the buds of a loving tree. i will wait until i get the call from jack about how he and cindy, he doesn't know it's just that something is happening and he doesn't want to be a jerk or ruin our friendship but 'really, shit, i feel something great could happen between us,' it is here that i give the blessing.'
bob leans towards her, this lady, kisses her deep, 'that was beautiful' she said.
'no you are beautiful, that was something more.'
'oh i have never felt this way, bob.'
'i feel it too, i think i am ready to take this to the next level.'
'oh me too,' she says propping her head on one hand while the other pulls his chest hair playfully.
'i think i want you to come to the bowling alley tomorrow.'
'but isn't that your bowling with buddies day?' she says a nervous smile on her face.
'well it's just me and tim but now i want it to be us three. i want you to be not just part of my life but hopefully to share in a life.'
'oh, i would love that, ah, this is...'
he kisses her, 'shh, i know. i know'

9/23

2009-09-23T07:09:00.000-07:00

ed macaffy an angry man stared down at the smudge across the fender. 'damn you!' cried ed macaffy as he followed the finger print the three inches across gold pin stripe and midnight blue paint. the fury tinted his cheek and ground his teeth, his once pure pt cruiser now defiled. her head lights once wide with innocent wonder now appeared wide and approachable a real flousy of a car. his baby patty cruiser, license plate read 1 2luvpt now a advertisement for all the licentious men in town.
it was friday and he drove his bald head pounding from the wind that beat across it while he drove with his head out the window. patty, the once sweet vanilla aroma was now the smell of a pier hooker calling all the navy boys home. ed macaffy owner of a giant belly long straight arrow loafers, untucked button up and black pleated slacks pulled into the daily dive for happy hour.
'why that bitch takes all comers we'll see if that rubs both ways.'
he appeared near the lottery machines, crossing the carpet stain, past the empty booths up towards the bar.
there were two or three women there, the most beautiful could have been a transvestite so she would be left as a last option.
at first it seemed like divine inspiration. carla! CAR LA! he thought as he watched her smoked wrinkled fuzz lined lip curl into a small deliver small talk of hard times over her highball glass. she had blond but the roots hair, she had a loose not stuffed enough slump pillow body, she had two legs that dangled almost to the floor covered in panty hose and flats, she had the dress of a retail clerk and she had a vagina which is all that ed was after.
'i got your drinks darling,' he said.
the hours crept and he talked, she talked, they laughed as he secretly cursed patty, reveled in her body growing cold in the night. he thought of those big doe eyes, her down pout fender mouth and taught racing ass once so confident now growing nervous anxious wondering about her man.
ed didn't smoke, but carla did so out they went. he would do it. now he wasn't stupid enough to ruin the potential resale of smoking in patty but he would show her he didn't care that at a moments notice he could smoke in her. that carla was worth it, worth anything. he laughed hard at her stories glancing at the lights he twisted her playfully in the night watching their bodies reflect off the paint and he kissed her mouth! he kissed her right in front of patty, eyes open looking past carla's cheek to the fender where the street light highlighted the smudge the scarlet finger burning a hole in his heart.
it was too much, the smoke, the cheap booze, the terrible conversation how far would he have to go to prove this point? wasn't this far enough? he thought then turned it still glimmered, the wide smile of the guilty lover it trailed across the high arch of her wheel fender down down down to almost across her mouth. all the time burning, like a volcano first his body tremored then a bellow 'enough!'
who knows what happened with carla. there was a gasp but then nothing more as he strode to the fender screaming the whole way, 'why!' screamed it over and over rubbing the fender with his dress shirt sleeve. he was ferocious rubbing slobbering cursing calling tearing leaping tearing at his chest taking one shoe beating the tire.
wherever she went she returned. she returned with two drinks. exhausted he big bellied to the ground. exhausted he took the highball glass and placed it at the summit of his stomach. exhausted he didn't move when carla sat beside him placed her arm about him. she leaned into the car her hair brushing the fender and finger print and as she turned towards him her hair performed a miracle. it moved and brushed against the gold pinstripe against the midnight blue paint and rubbed it clean.
he took her face and brought it towards him. they kissed, and as he felt the wet strands, her hair that she had dampened in the woman's room soaped with hand soap, he broke down and cried.
later that night after they had drove to oak meadows off foster road, after they had parked next to teenagers, after he took her in the back seat after she screamed kicked writhed and orgasm. naked after all this carla spoke 'shit, patty he can fucking screw!'
an love began to blossom in their laughter.

9/22

2009-09-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

'i write my best rhymes on the toilet,' thought robert carr. well, i should say me. i'm robert carr aka mr. fairweather aka king sheets aka busta right rhymes aka ptown kingballer aka the white mamba aka bobby blanco. i was born to this by mc frenzy who was begat by lord crisp who was begat by dj freckle face who was begat by joseph the record slinger who was begat by king tones who was begat by the one and only mc gold tooth. so you see my lineage is deep an correct.
check it
i got short brown hair
an crazy blue eyes
got fat stomach
you know i don't lie
it's from the money x2

i got sweet damn hoes
an a long ass benz
it got the fresh ass rimz
that attract all them
hoez
bitchez
whateva you see
call me fred ass meyer
you one stop shopping
cuz
i need the money x2

got to collect my endz
i need the money
to detail my benz
gotta have the money
for my ill ass chainz
i need the money
to shine up my diamond ringz

an that is just off the top of my head. i take crazy long dumps until it feels like my legs are gonna fall asleep. i beat on the walls giving my neighbors no peace. then when i lay down my lines, i feel the blood rush like i'm owning all time. you know i hits the club, you know i perfect the beats, you know the bitches call out when they see me , 'oh it's bobby blanco, the king of the streets.'
everybody has something that keeps them alives. what was the old saying, 'the world is the snake that eats the dream and the dream is the snake that eats the world'? i think of that shit when i see the picture of the one snake eating it's tail. i think how you gotta take a lot of shit to get what you want.
check it, i was cold maxing at a club with my man dj fatso when this hella fine piece of ass comes breezing. i mean the smell of her caused my joint to do a back flip. i hollered up to her 'hey slim, hey birdie it's the man on the scene the king of ptown, white mamba bobby blanco the dopest mc.' she didn't flinch, didn't bat an eye an just kept heading towards her booth. now you know i won't let a bird get away i chase it with fierce lyrics until she decides to stay. i turn to my right i spoke in our code whisper dj fatso, hell yeah spin it slow.
dj fatso about a quarter a ton lumbers to the stand an proceeds to get it done. as the beats climb an the tempo unfolds i proceeds to the booth my greatest pimp stroll. i limp peg legged aviators cover my eye one white sweat pant pulled to about mid thigh got a diamond inspired fugazi pendant of home, picture of idaho homage to where i was born.
she is quite banging in her mini black thing heels two stories high an a deep cleavage pink sea. her hair is straight an it's framing that face a picture of beauty that i could never erase. so as fatso proceeds to set the stage i stare deep into her brown eyes to get her heart out it's cage.
hey sweet baby
you know this feelings so real
let bobby the ghost
become mr so real
now i'm gonna tell you a story
that ain't full of lies
about a pimp an a hustla
that came to realize
that love unlike life
is forever for two
so lets take a chance
on it being me an you
i was once for the hustla
an only the game
but now that i know ya
lemme turn all that page

she didn't turn over her head to come face to face, was to busy just staring straight out into space. was until her girls taped on her hand that she turned towards blanco an began to understand.
she was not a great fan of hip hop or sound, through a ruffle of paper an pen the answer resound. that this angel this beauty this girl of my dreams was deaf in her ears to all spoken things. so dj fatso he came an tapped the beat on her cheek i recleared my throat an began to speak. slow was how it moved from the front to the back retelling all i had spoken an avoiding the wack. an after all i had spoken all had been saved i gotta an email address from this beauty i craved.
so white mamba so blanco so king of the streets he writes her some sweet lines before hitting the sheets.
an as another day comes another day pass i take this heart to bed with dreams of waxing her ass.
peace.

2-bobby blanco an susan b. deaf!

9/15

2009-09-15T07:43:00.000-07:00

as my wife just gave birth to a baby girl on the 8th my mind is a little scattered but trust i will return. coming soon: no fat chicks allowed! the saul mellow story, peg leg: harold conquers all! three some or how rick naljev lost his virginity...twice. so i think it will take a few days to get back on track, but, god willing we shall!

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