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... forward

*translated from nigerian

the memoirs of dr danladi bako

oh woe, oh what a dump i have been born to. lagos nigeria, land of a thousand tears. my mother wakalo bako, sturdy build and warm of heart would try to cheer me. 'danly, oh danly' i can still hear her sing song cries, 'i have bake bread for you, my wonderful sweet heart.'

i spent the night in a sweat. dreaming of how all my attempts at fiction would fail, my ear began to ache. the dull pain moved from the ear to the middle of my head and caused an end to this nights writing.

my wife is thin, sharp featured and beautiful. she reminds me of boise. there is a danger outlying the comfort that is close. a wilderness there and she has no time for my aches and pains. she has no time for such trifles as long as these children are about. so i suck my teeth and tap the pen against the table trying to maintain verbal silence while expressing, beating out the rhythm of the wounded.

our two children are 2 and younger. they move like natural disasters through life. things are blown over pulled apart, lives of plants destroyed to the music of their laughter. some say laughter is the best medicine, though the victims of these toddlers would disagree.

this is not to say they are rotten to the core...no, no, no. for they are truly a blessing. truly wonderful and manna for the heart. there is nothing that can warm a soul like the love of your child. it is more than likely, the pain of education these objects feel for like god children have no malice in their heart.

while i have sat here tapping and rubbing my left pinkie finger through my ear canal the book shelf has toppled, the curtain has been tugged to an inch of it's life and our video game machine was almost dropped from a dizzying height. my wife watches, chases and restores balance and order. the curtain is soothed, the bookshelf stood up and refilled.

the children have dusty blonde hair and blue eyes after me. my wife is raven haired, my wife is brown eyed and olive skinned and she has a thin athletic build i hope they inherit. myself have inherited a long body but soft and plump in the middle. i sometimes daydream out the window about what efforts my sister has to make to fit in Los Angeles where she is champion to the stars. my brother is a master executive for a national bank and lives in portland. so his massive wealth should over shadow any or all of his shortcomings.

i have a mother, she loves these grandchildren. she shows them like prize ponies and takes them in her arms whenever she can. my mother is a titan of good will and lives along the ocean. she comes when she can. we go when we can.

i have a father, he is in a war to be a good man. i have a father who has either run off to mexico or decided to dodge all phone calls or is scared and secretly dying or dead from prostate cancer. one can never be sure of these things.

i walk for the post office. i live in fear that today could be the end of my job. i secretly wonder if god will crush every option in my life because i am story teller and there fore must tell stories. everyone i know or meet is either faking happiness or has discovered where ever they are going. when your heart beats in daydreams about wild fantasies or your mind bumps into strangers and creates their whole life causing you to follow them (sometimes all the way home) to get the whole story, i don't know. really we all don't know, i guess.

i study and practice the orthodox faith of christianity. i think of the baptist in his lake screaming and pouring water and the faithful he collected. i think of the christ, his miracles and his lineage and the doubters he collected...

i think of this damnable ear that has moved to my head. i gather the tools, i fill the netty pot and with all this manic youth and crush of creation going about i pour the water through the nose looking for relief.

...lagos nigeria, home to my many generations. generations all the way back to the first. i am a child in this memory.

there is my brother with his high bushy hair standing in the doorway. we have not eaten this day and i am angry at him. he is a tall child athletic and lean whose muscles dance underneath the skin rippling and straining in activity. he is a soccer player, as most every child in lagos, with great promise the first to start on the lagos U-18 national team in his first year of eligibility. there were great cheers through out the streets of our village as he sprinted across the radio broadcasts.

'cunt scores a goal!', the announcers would shout.

'cunt cunt cunt!' cried the people.

yes, the world was wide open for my brother at the age of 12. there are talks of world cups and a retirement to politics. i am a plump child and while they talk i dream of buffets. i see lobster tail, elephant ears and fried candies. in this vision there is a fountain of chocolate gurgling, i can take whatever fruit or food that maybe handy to dip and enjoy.

the larger his success the more opulent my dreams. there was famous american actress sheryl strausburg with her large breasts and flowing blonde american locks arm and arm with cunt on the shore line staring out at the mighty atlantic.

'oh dandy (she would call me)', please fix my hair.'

i would oblige. while listening to how 'those fairies in beverly hills can never get it right!', i would clip straighten and beautify.

in interviews ms. strausburg would talk of nigeria, would talk of her famous soccer lover and most importantly would blush and say 'my secret' when asked how her hair was always so beautiful.

oh life was so wonderful then. the goals came like the spring rain causing the gardens of our hearts to blossom and overflow. though late at night, i would lay back on my pillow and stare at the roof to our childhood room listening to cunt talk of the pain.

'oh dandy,' he would say, 'soccer is fun and all but who makes a life of a hobby? to make a career out of a sport would be the same as to make a career out of building model trains.'

'yes, but they are not willing to open the treasure chest for a model train master. the people cry for soccer,' i would say.

'the people are poor. the people are crying out for release. they cry out to be transported out of these ghettos if only by a ball and if only for a few hours. i understand that, i do.'

'you are a great hero cunt. you must bear a great burden.'

we lay silent for a bit. i could feel the hunger rattling about my stomach. there was the whistle of single men on the prowl and the smell of salt water wafting into my nose. somewhere in the front room of our home there is my mother and father doing their nightly prayers.

'you know what i have always dreamed of doing?' cunt asked breaking the silence.

'bring the world cup home to the motherland?' i asked.

'for the people i would, but for myself i have always wanted to be a song and dance man.'

'what use is the song and dance man?' i asked.

he was silent chewing on this for a moment and then spoke the word that caused my heart to leap.

'a good song and dance man could make a living here entertaining the people but a great song and dance man could travel the world and appear on the silver screens of...hollwood.'

'oh cunt, that sounds fantastic but how? is there a teacher in lagos?'

'can you keep a secret?'

i bit my lip and considered. secrets, if discovered usually lead to thrashings, not only of the accused but also of the silent accomplice. the dream of hollywood caused me to commit.

'yes,' i whispered.

'i discovered a man, in the back of a smuggled life magazine. this man wrote that if you send him 10.00 he would send you 'dr. jack chambers secrets of the hollywood actor' it is an education course that teaches the secrets of how to act, how to dance and how sing.'

'by god, when does it arrive?'

'any day now.'

there came a noise from the front room and the loud step of a parent coming to check on their should be sleeping children. we went quiet and held our eyes shut while the figure stayed in the doorway for a few minutes or longer i can not remember for i faded to black to dreams of hollywood.

if it wasn't for the drinking i would have no escape. for any free day i try to spend the evening before drinking. i remember the fury of youth, walking red cheeked against the night sky watching my breath and thinking of fire and possibilities. there were places to go then. even though these were the same places i could go now, there just seemed to be an importance to being there out amongst other bodies.

we were all drunk then. we would spend our free time stumbling about looking and sounding like psychotics.

'hey christ was all about pr.'

'hey she got a great smell.'

'hey lets us go fall in love.'

it was a fury of midnight steps that lead in a circle from apartment to street to bar to street to apartment. there was a magic of possibility in those foot falls, there was a great volume of hope in the echoes of our laughter against the dirty brick building sides there was a burning for adventure and love in the flash of our eye.

i can in my children that tigers prowl and i know they will be alright.

i can see that flash in my wife's eye and how she still float when she walk, how we still can sweat from laughter, how we can still talk quick rubbing our hands together.

i got a pain in my tooth. it hurts to temperature. i rub my tongue along the grooves looking for a hole or some mush feeling. my idea of a cavity is from the toothpaste commercials, the leering black soft monsters grumbling and gnawing away.

my wisdom teeth are slowly erupting, pushing my teeth together causing them to slowly overlap. i get headaches, jawaches and earaches but keep them to myself. i have never had a cavity, never had braces though i must also say i had never really gone to the dentist. i have a great fear that my teeth will become rotted, disfigured or terribly crooked causing my smile to become all lip.

a revelation! in all the pictures i have attended or been a focal point of my smile is always forced. i use to think it was a general fear of the camera due to my 1/16 indian genetics but now believe it is from never attending the dentist. think of the torture of never being assured of your teeth. could you imagine amongst all your peers you never went to the dentist? i am sure the other's knew, at least subconsciously, that i never went because i never missed a class for that reason. while other's talked of first cavities and the fear of braces i played dumb. while other's commiserated about the thick fingered dr. wollick i tried to steer the conversation to the new scraping on my knee. while my family sat at dinner talking of their days i kept mine under wraps never to whisper a word about the pain of being absent dentist.

i was a meaty child, athletic yet portly. some could say, 'aha!' that was the reason you feared the picture. the fact that your mother wanted you to be her diet helper, was the true cause of your low self esteem. you could have a point dear friend, if it were not for the fact that the most dreaded picture was the student yearbook picture where they did not show my bulbous gut only my face and most painfully, my teeth.

by god the torture.

jack chambers prints chap books in a flat that overlooks the ventura freeway. this is a man with half a head of hair. this is a man that stoops forward as if always ready for the attack. while talking, jack chambers, will drip spittle like a leaky faucet and putting the speckled into bespeckled.

this man is a mess, his hair unkempt he wanders about the apartment looking for the stapler to finish his next shipment of chap books. there are many different titles:

jack chambers: a life in magic

dr. jack chambers: welcome to chiropractic medicine

jack chambers: cooking with the greats

dr. jack chambers: secrets of the hollywood actor

jack chambers: make her fall in love all over again (secrets of a hollywood romeo)

each title is numbered and placed into a corresponding envelope. while mr. chambers is busy folding and stapling there comes a heavy handed knock at the door.

'hello, my bald eagle, are you there?' it is the voice of a man.

'door is unlocked hon.' comes the response.

this is an average man with clear kind eyes. this is a stout man with a full head of salt and pepper hair though it is close cropped it gives the appearance of a wild bush that is ready, at any moment, to break free and over take the head. hon has a beard, the beard is also spotted with grey it wrinkles with the fold in his neck as he tilts his head to look at the books and envelope addresses.

'big order weekend, i see.' he says.

they have the comfort of an old married couple. jack stands and rubs his bald head, he emits a careless fart that does not interrupt their hug or kiss. after the embrace hon comments on the 'what no appology?'

'i am sorry, i must have eaten some bad fish...'

'oh, please, i love your farts. no whats going here?'

they both stand and stare at the stacks of books. there are twenty-five in each stack under each title.

'that damned TIME magazine was a great idea.'

'oh, good then maybe we can finally take a vacation,' said hon.

'yes, for sure, did you see this?' jack chambers asks as he places an envelop into his lovers hands.

'wow, is that really...'

'yes, nigeria. crazy right?'

'so exotic. let's make a promise right here, an now jackie.' hon grabs jack's hands and moves him to the center of the living room, there he brings him to his knees. 'let's promise to the universe, on our love, that we will go to lagos nigeria. what do you say?

jack tries to take his hand away so that he can rub his temple or wipe his glasses as he is prone to do during difficult decisions.

'no, you won't mister.' said hon.

'well, that is so far away. it's just that it might be risky...'

'oh, our whole life is a risk. can't you just imagine the passion of the nigerian plains? the wild animals running free. hold me with our eyes closed. hold me in the sun so i can dream i am in the fields watching those animals at play.'

'it does sound wonderful,' jack says as they embrace.

'close your eyes, close your eyes jack and dream with me. close your eyes, dream of the wild, dream of holding me in the moon light while the lion calls, while the elephant trumpet blows, oh jack, if you ever felt love for me feel the power of that love on such an adventure.'

they lay silent, eyes closed, hon backed against jack whose arms pulled him, held him so close. jack could see the adventure. he could feel the hot son and the electric pulse of fear of the unknown the wild dark man with his yellow eyes and mystery.

'ok.'

'okay?'

'ok.'

'yes, you are...it is going to be...oh life how wonderful.'

'this is a danger, a risk and a danger but such is life, right?'

'you only live once.'

'you only live once,' repeated jack as a knock came at the door.

'who is it?' asked hon.

'mail man,' responded the voice.

'shit, i haven't...damn i'm not ready.' whispered jack.

'okay, let me get it for you.' said hon.

'what are we going to do?' said jack frantically starting to stuff envelopes.

'slow down, jack, we'll just give him what we have finished and take the rest later.' said hon, picking up a pile of envelopes and heading towards the door.

'good afternoon sir, how's it going today?'

'oh, you know, can't complain,' said the mailman.

'and who would listen if we did, right?' said hon.

after a quick scan hon handed over the envelopes.

'thanks for coming to get these, i couldn't get them all done today, sorry about that.'

'ah, no worries.'

'can you hang on i do have just one more that is really important?'

'sure.'

jack gave him a questioning look to which hon responded for both person's to hear.

'it's going to lagos, nigeria. can you believe that?'

'wow, that's a nice distance away...'

hon absentmindedly throws, 'jack chambers: cooking with the greats' into the envelope and hands it to the mail man.

'yeah we are planning a vacation there.'

'nice, well have a good one.'

'you too,' hon says and closes the door. he turns to jack and says, 'alright on it's way!'

dear c.h______

i have always wanted to write for television. the breathtaking action of the undercover agent swooping in at the last moment to save the day. two lovers cast about in the sea of life, first pushed together then pulled apart then finally pushed back together for a happy ending.

i can remember the lone ranger galloping across the screen to the tut of the brass instrument. i can remember the awkwardly tanned He-Man holding aloft his mighty sword against the evils of Skeletor. i can remember the parades of game shows and after school programming. oh how my fingers trembled, each saturday morning, while the house slept and i was engulfed by cartoon.

these dreams were before every house had cable. those were the days, and i had weeped for them thinking they had gone forever. it was not until i saw your show that i realized all was not lost. oh, how perfectly you placed the verbal jab, oh how sweet your tender eyes would take it all in as these contestants told you of their pursuit of love or tearily confessed their mistakes. yes if only there was an opportunity to write for your television show i would greedily grab it and clutch it to my breast.

enclosed please find my resume.

sincerely

r.k___

i had placed the letter into a blue collection box when there happened upon me a large black dog. this animal was shaved for the summer save for his head which allowed him the look of the lion. i stared into his tender warm face while he nuzzled my hip. we stood for a moment before my hand instinctively went to the top of his head.

this is the evening. the moon hung naked against the warm summer sky as the sun had already found it's bed. i can not lie, i am in my pajama bottoms with my wife's flip flops cutting into my skin. she is home with the sleeping children, watching the news.

'you can't really send that,' she said from the couch with the white skin showing small crack lines.

'hope has to be fed. life is about action,' i said placing my feet in her sandals.

'they'll think you're a joke, or worse yet call the authorities,' she said trying to reach for my hand,but i step back firm, resolute ready for a change.

'we shall see.'

these pages must call for honesty!

so an admission. i had been drinking red wine steady for an hour and a half. it was mid way through the second bottle when the overwhelming emotion to etch out a heartfelt transmission had arrived.

'god rewards the active,' i thought, 'for every action there is a reaction. so let me take this letter rock and throw it into the universe pond to unleash the ripples and see what washes against beach me.'

it is not a nervous breakdown when you decide to sit next to a strange dog. it is not a nervous breakdown when you lean against the blue collection box petting the animal that now has sat beside you. the duties of children, the duties of monogamy, the duties of working to provide can make you feel as if your in sand. your footing is always questionable, your wages always slipping away.

while that letter slept in the belly of said steel box i pressed my face into the mane of this dog. i sobbed into his fur. the dog began to pant and howl while we reflected on the hard times on the beauty in life of all things great and small, two gentleman, two strangers commiserating at the current cross roads of their lives. it is not a nervous breakdown to pat his back to the rhythm of passing traffic and whispering to the air, 'forward.'

it was a daydream i found myself in. while laying against and underneath the palm tree feeling the gentle breath of a spring breeze, my eyelids grew heavy and soon i was into the ethereal mist of sleep. i could feel my body tumbling, could see my arms and legs flailing against the empty space as the ground sucked me down, through the black of dirt, mud and other sediments of the underground. these filaments offered no restriction but bent and danced between fingers and toes as the speed of my descent grew. i could breath and felt not the anxiety of claustrophobia.

the tumbling lasted for, what seemed, moments, but could not have been for i soon popped up against out of the ground as it replaced itself so as to hold firm against my back and feet.

the air was crisp and my head rested against a mighty tree, this monster whose limbs contained needles of green not leaves waved hello as the chill wind caused it's top to effort at a bow. fear grew as this behemoth creaked and groaned like a senior citizen as the wind pushed it about. i should have grasped my shoulders out of chill as their was snow on the ground and i was dressed only for the warmth of lagos. i should have felt the chatter of teeth and the pimple of flesh, but there was none. i breathed the air and felt the chill on my tongue, i stepped on the ground and heard the crunch of snow but there was no pain of cold and i turned my focus on my surroundings.

beside the tree there was only dark. i could look up and see a sliver of sky about the tree. i cast my eyes about and see only the murk of black save for a line of steps that shone a bright gold. i used my ebony hand to rub the thick nap of my mane and then sucked my teeth as i played with my belly button thinking, weighing the risk. it seems when one has been sucked from one's home land and delivered to a mysterious spot that it has been directed from on high and one has no choice but to go head first to, either his demise or his fortune.

'...forward,' i thought.

as i took each step the step behind me, the land behind me went dark. it was as if i had been placed into an incredible shrinking box. twelve steps later, i am at a red door. i knock and wait. there is no answer. i tap and whisper, 'hello', to no avail. i try the handle and it gives, the door opens to a humble room. this room is sparse, a large area rug covers the middle while the sides are lined with furniture and babies toys all eager like wrestlers waiting the call to action. there is a (what i know now) medium sized television with a flat screen. i call 'hello', though no one answers. the room is dark but can be seen by a faint white light coming from some strange l-shaped square (what i know now is a computer). i tip toe towards the the light and what i see is a collection of english words that cause me to gasp, grasp the strange machine and fall backwards. i do not hit the floor but bolt upright from the palm tree where i had day dreamed.

i immediately go to rub my eyes to adjust and see if i am home or in another strange land. it is here that, instead of flesh and bone, my eye is met with the sting of paper. i open the paper to see:

*translated from nigerian

the memoirs of dr danladi bako

oh woe, oh what a dump i have been born to. lagos nigeria, land of a thousand tears. my mother wakalo bako, sturdy build and warm of heart would try to cheer me. 'danly, oh danly' i can still hear her sing song cries, 'i have bake bread for you, my wonderful sweet heart.'

i vomit from shock and lean towards the ground wondering what black magic is at work.

you would think that babies love to sleep. you would be wrong. i contracted a mighty fever from exhaustion and did they care? no, they did not. my two year old son railed against the night like dylan thomas. he would scream, holler, rush about laughing, beg for the toilet, beg for water and if all that was not successful he would climb into his sister's crib and jump on her leg.

i am sweating, having visions and calling out to god for help as my wife tries to stifle the mini volcanoes. one goes down and the other explodes.

there are fitful dreams amongst the violence of their demands. their are visions and black monsters that leap out from the closet gnarl and gnash inches from the bed.

'i will chew your face,' says one with deer antlers and blood draining from it's eyes.

'i will leap down your stomach and eat my way out,' says his friend a spikey worm type.

some one has taken the liberty to knock the world off it's axis, throwing everything into a death barrel. when i stand i almost am thrown against the floor or wall, legs trembling and everything dancing like a ship on a angry sea.

'i will not vomit on the floor,' i promise myself.

my wife has raccoon eyes. she is casting about curses and threatening to put their beds in the garage. i kneel at the front of the bowl and wretch. there is the strain, burn and tears of heaving nothing but bile. amongst the cries and stomp of tiny feet i understand the legend of hell.

it is after wiping the caramel colored liquid from my lips and bowl surround that i lean against the cool linoleum that a dark cloud overtakes me.

we are just two men in a ring. a great pale fellow with red albino eyes stands stripped to the west and hulkling in my general direction. i turn to see the ropes and corner buckles. i cast my gaze even further to see the sea of people cheering, jeering, leering and ready to explode. my eyes move from the crowd to the ring announcers one in a black suit white shirt, the other in a gold jacket, gold hair and dark sunglasses while a third is another hulk of a man in a singlet banging the table with a fist.

a blizzard of hands come about me stripping away a gold belt, stripping away a silk robe. now it was i, who stood there hulking. the sound of a bell causing instinct to take over. we are grappling tossing each other from side to side. i am astounded by my strength, by the rippling muscle that has been placed on my frame as i lift this monstrosity off the ground and slam him down. we are sweating collapsing from the physical toll of lifting of being lifted of tossing and being tossed.

the band on his wrestling pants identifies him as 'zeus', there is a chant for the 'lightening bolt' from the crowd there is a picture of a lightening bolt on the side of his boots.

it appears that i am in over my head as he slams me to the ground. zeus leaps to the ropes brings his hands together in a thunderous clap that causes the crowd to cheer. moving to face me, he makes a motion like a lightening strike all his muscles dancing, alive, bulging out like a pack of hungry wolves. he takes to the sky flips twice and lands with a thud against my chest crushing the wind from my body.

as the count rises towards the number for defeat i can hear the crowd, it's manic cheers turning into the hollar of infants and as i slip from the ring everything spinning i can see a small black child in a bright wild land. he is against a tree, he is holding some type of paper.

gone.

i move back to the edge of the toilet. i wretch, i strain and tear not sure if these are the tears of sickness, defeat, or the strange cold fear of being robbed.

when my grandmother was my age she would be greeted by the sounds of nature each morning. she would sit us on her lap and press us close until we were enveloped by her bosom. it was nestled close that grandma would begin to tell us the stories of her youth.

'ah, before all this city noise one could truly hear the sound of the mother land. i remember the call of the elephant and caw of the black bird waking me from my slumber. but now it is all this shouting and car horning. too bad,' she would say.

the elderly will always take the time to reflect while the pots warm and the water starts to bubble. it is odd to see your mother, still thin and full of life and then to see her mother and what the future most assuredly holds. ah, the beauty of woman is no match for the passing of time.

'when i was a child the men would fight, as men have for all of time, but they would use their fists instead of guns. sure they would be hurt, some would break their bones and lose teeth but they would return home. now, with all these guns, there is no hope for a return. when a woman gives birth she cries for joy but also out of mourning that she may have to witness the burial of her child.

How to Do the Impossible

The Butcher

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

who to blame

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

or

why they rhyme

i don't stare at anything

in

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

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

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

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

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

'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

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

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.