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.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
the weather and time change
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.
Friday, October 30, 2009
10/30
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.
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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
10/26- back from vacation
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?
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?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
10/14
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
10/13.
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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