Feeding The Habit

Sometimes

2011-05-27T11:58:00.000-07:00

This isn't easy

I never said it would be

It's harder than I thought

I only said it could be

Today's Thoughts

2008-02-11T10:29:00.000-08:00

There is more to hear than there is to say.

There is more to see than there is to make.

There is more to become than there is to do.

And there is always much more to believe.

Thoughts Today

2006-09-08T01:33:00.000-07:00

Nothing in this world is urgent.
Even the rain leaks slowly down
trunks into the dark earth.
We are not that important thing.

There is
no fast approaching day.

Every night I try
as the evening wakes
to find some time and pray&mdash

dripping words
like an overfilled bosom.

Truth

2006-04-11T23:00:00.000-07:00

In greatest need or
dimmest flash,
it is you I find on my lips.
It seems the soul knows
what the brain can’t-
regardless of whether the two can ever reconcile.

2005-08-18T18:22:00.000-07:00

Where were you
when I stopped
and cried
out with joy
at your good fortune?

I was here with you.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-07-04T16:57:00.000-07:00

The river flows
like water. The water
stays, then rushes
like a river
from my opened mouth.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-06-26T10:54:00.000-07:00

In the world
in the mist
there is some angst
and is not
a dirty word.

It is there
I fall
for you.

In the word
in the midst
there is some pain
but is not
a dirty world.

For you
it is there
I fall.

In the midst
of the mist
in the world
with these words
I am for you;

fallen.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-06-19T20:19:00.000-07:00

Today I read your face
like a novel
and couldn't put it down;
all those lines
and well ordered words
that just fell out of it
over coffee and dried out bread.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-03-27T13:22:00.000-08:00

We lay down every night, whether it be
to the sound of bugs
or the hum of an AC outside the window.

It's nice to rest, to dream of heroics
and soft songs. It's nice
to know, every morning, we can rise again.

Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going...

2005-03-21T02:44:00.000-08:00

She walked into the store. She kept the purse gripped close and let her eyes scan across the aisles. She decided on aisle four, since it was as good as any, and headed towards it. On an impulse, she turned down aisle three instead. She stuck out her hand to deftly grab a snickers bar and dragged a finger across the box holding them. It cut in deep. A paper cut, just what I needed, she thought, then wondered if it ought to be called a cardboard cut instead. It didn’t matter though, she was at the end of the aisle and had to turn left. Any other day that snickers bar would have been hers.

She walked past the coolers with bottles of pop until they faded away into small gadgets; scissors and such. To the left the aisles were running now lengthwise along with her course. They were running towards the pharmacy and it sure would be nice to have some of those pills. But that would have to wait. It was time to turn right, to go through the double doors that were usually locked but now were open. It was the storage room she was in now. It was dark like he had said, little cracks of light sneaking in through the sides and bottom of the loading bay garage door. He was in the back right corner, also like he had said.

“You got it?” he asked.

“Yah, It’s here,” she said, and began digging through her purse. She pushed past the tubes of red lipstick and mascara and put her fingers around the cold butt of it. She pulled the gun out and extended it towards him, tried to look into his eyes, but found them fixed on the gun in her hands.

My fingerprints are probably still gonna be on it, she thought. Even if they aren’t, they’ll trace it to the guy that sold it to the pawn shop and then to the sixteen year old boy that bought it from the pawn shop that gave it to me.

The first two will be easy, they’ve got nothing to loose. The only hope will be with the boy. But the boy will talk, people always talk. We know you bought this gun with a fake ID, they’ll tell him. Do you know how long we can put you away just for that? Not to mention it somehow killed someone and you’re the last person we know that had it. Now all you gotta do is tell us who you gave it too. And then he’ll tell them, it’s really that easy. That will be the end of it.

He took the gun from her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry baby, it’s gonna be alright,” he tells her.

But all she can hear are the speakers back through those double doors. They’re playing Strawberry Fields. She remembers an interview she watched once when John Lennon was talking about what that meant. “Strawberry Fields,” John said, “It’s that place, that place you want to be. It could be anywhere. All you gotta do is just… go there.”

At last she looked up into his eyes. “I won’t talk,” she said.

Dropping the Ball

2005-03-13T22:00:00.000-08:00

I'd write the world
if I had the chance
and ask how it was going.

Just to see
really, if she were paying attention,
if the storms
or the big waves
washing
hard over us

really meant anything at all.
I think sometimes it's just a dream
she's having or a small bit
slightly hinting of negligence.

Woudn't it be strange to wake up
one day in the cold heat
of the morning and
stark naked realize: like that moldy cup,

the one there on the coffee table,
you've been forgotten along with us all?

Sunday Thoughts

2005-03-06T18:03:00.000-08:00

Close your eyes. What
do you see? Is it
a quiet black,
or is it all that rage
that lives there inside you? I
took a drink of water once,
and for what it was worth,
found myself thirsty
some few hours later.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-02-20T12:42:00.000-08:00

Linger in the cool morning grass
And let the sun rays dance
Underneath that subtle
Guise you play. Your warm smile of sometimes
Hope, how it makes me grin.
Only now and then when you
Unearth
That strange greatness of
Love inside of your heat,
Only it’s undisturbed joyful
Understands what it’s like to feel it, what it’s like to
Drink all the world has to offer; and when ready, to scream.

Third Eye Blind (excerpt)

2005-02-17T23:47:00.000-08:00

Snoop shut the door behind him, quietly, and made his way through the house. Some things he felt with his fingers, others, he smelled.
With eyes closed, he let his fingers lead across walls until he stood in what must be her bedroom.
He refused to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see it.
In the closet, he settled down on top the pile of shoes and clothes, ignoring at first the heel sticking in his back, then, as the hours cam closer, focusing on it, isolating that pain grinding by his spine, passing the haze, making his eyes see splashes of white.

He dozed there through most of those hours until he woke to a steady breath.
The slit of light that had shot through the closet door when he arrived was replaced with a solemn black.
Slowly, Snoop crept out from his nest and felt along the foot of the bed. He followed it the length until he came to the dresser, where he quietly took off his shoes.
The top of it came just above his waist, and its length stretched out as long as a coffin. Carefully he climbed on top of it.
Her breathing came quicker as the jewels in the box rattled while Snoop steadied himself.
Finally, he sat, perched on the edge of it, toes hanging off, facing her on the bed below. He listened to each breath dragged in between her teeth, his heart beat slowed at intervals of each breath until it matched hers.
He reached his hand around to his back pocket and slowly began the count to one hundred.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-02-13T14:37:00.000-08:00

Little spark of red
and life to live on. The
hours through the rain and
the long green feilds
of the valley pasture
you have shown me.
Live up to these. Be good
to your new friends.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-02-06T21:39:00.000-08:00

There is this chance

and that chance. I'll take one

or maybe the other,

but the next time it comes around.

Converstations from Building Twelve

2005-02-06T21:36:00.000-08:00

Walking along the sidewalk, one man comming, the other going.

"What's up?"
"How's it going?"

Nothing more.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-01-30T12:36:00.000-08:00

In the springtime, in the valley,
where the morning sunrise grows
and the ants drink the nectar
from the dewcup leaves, the great
basin of the trees. There
you shut your mouth. You
leave it closed. The quieter you are, see,
the more you can hear, the more
you can breathe, the more you can leave there
in the valley, in the sunrise,
in the springtime as it grows.

Non-Automated Biography

2005-01-29T23:28:00.000-08:00

A Saturday Night

The air was still. Light from the street gleamed across the porch making a triangle of bright across its surface. Mark sits writing, bent over his lap, sketching furiously. His tan work boots stick out from the bottoms of his blue Dickies. I smile at his narrow face and whisp of a moustache and beard poking through the sun-burnt skin. His hair is matted and pressed down against his forehead from the ball cap he wore all day.

Britt comes out the front door and sets off the motion light. She throws herself down and throws one leg over the other. A flip flop, black one, hangs carelessly from her toes. She lights a menthol and her cheeks sink in as she sucks at it. Mark bends down further with his brow creased. Deep furrows, head turning sideways to study his creation. Britt's wearing a skirt and a black top that makes a tease of the shoulders.

Nine years ago she was ten. A cute little thing. Now, it's deffinately something more than cute. Normally, too, it's just jeans, jeans with holes in the knees. I lean back and take a drag from the offered smoke. Its cool mint singes my tongue. I wonder why she's not wearing jeans.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-01-23T21:22:00.000-08:00

I like the old day
when the word
was a poem itself—
spoken from the drip
of a tongue
and a mind
full of all that wonder.

Converstations from Building Twelve

2005-01-20T23:38:00.000-08:00

“Do you know what time it is?”
“No, I don’t. It’s not that late.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“What’s on my mind?”
“Yes, what’s with you lately?”
“What’s with me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. No I don’t.”
“You just want to pretend you don’t. Pretend there’s nothing the matter.”
“Why does something always have to be the matter? I’m sitting here. Sitting here like this pillow is sitting here. There’s nothing with the pillow, and there’s nothing with me.”
“No? But maybe the pillow on the other couch is lonely. Or tired of this damn tv.”
“Don’t you start. You know I have to watch Sports Center for my blog.”
“Sure.”
“Sure. What is sure? Is that supposed to be some silent dismissal? Like what I do isn’t important?”
“It hasn’t been for years. You know it.”
“Do I? That’s just mean.”
“How does it feel?”
“How does WHAT feel? Do you always have to talk in code? When you’re talking to me? Like I’m supposed to read between the words? If you want to Say something, then just say it for chrissake, don’t just drag out some crazed bullshit at me.”
“That’s not it and you know it.”
“Oh, Oh, here we go again, on and on about what I know. What makes you think you have any idea what the hell I know? You’re just a God damned pain is what you are. Little games and tricks. Is that what makes you Happy? Is that what-

“You have to have something.”
-makes you scream in delight?”

Wasted

2005-01-19T20:15:00.000-08:00

I have been described three times in my life as something not fully of this world, an angel more or less. Other times, to many to count, the very hand of God, coming at the exact moment that nothing but that could have saved them. I’ve yet to know what to make of it, how to deal with the accusations.

There are times when I do in fact feel it. Disconnection. Lost to myself and the world. Only from this I am always snatched, always brought back, harshly almost, into the dim thriving of life. It’s purpose we all seek. Purpose that I have lived out so many countless times. But really, it brings no satisfaction save the dim thrust every now and again of joy.

In my dreams I am immortal, living on through the ages with ever growing wisdom and strength. My hand at the same time touches kindly and lovingly the leaf from a twig and the soft hair of a child’s head, both wet with the same dew. In my life, I grow older by the hour and think, perhaps this is what eternal is, perhaps it all ends with me.

Sunday Thoughts

2005-01-16T19:01:00.000-08:00

You see the sun as it ends the night. I rise up
like water and melt there into it. The past
is all that remains; it is all we have,
and all that will last to blaze
through the white fires of eternity,
through the realms of our certain immortality.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-12-19T21:56:00.000-08:00

In a fog and on the banks there
you soaked your skirts and splashed
through the rapid's afterthoughts.
You kept time with the fire
while the moon calls and the wild calls
brought on more burning,
more guteral growls from the deep throat
of my desire, but
my wet lips, your damp thighs: all night
kissed only by wind, kissed on
as the soft thought of a towel.

Sunday Thoughts on Monday

2004-12-13T23:49:00.000-08:00

It is more than words, this thing
that overcomes me.
It is a full-on flight:
all this caos
pulling towards some center,
instead of apart.

Pot-Luck

2004-12-10T13:47:00.000-08:00

The phone rang twice. "I am calling because I have saved you," the phone said.
"We are going out to eat?" I said. I looked at my watch and saw it was dangerously close to twelve.
"NO, I have cookies to give you so you do not have to show up empty handed," it said.
"Fabulous," I said, and frowned into the phone.

Standing at the end of the fourty minute line, I peer towards the table. At that distance, I am not quite able to make any of the food out, but I imagine it must resemble a pig trough.
Coming closer to the table, the food was really not much more recognizable. It was all likely something with "casserole" tagged onto the end of it. Corn casserole, green been casserole, meat casserole, stuff left in the fridge casserole, you get the idea.
Really, I thought, it should all be called mush, instead. I was not optimistic towards eating any of it.
"Mmmmm, doesn't this look good?" she said.
"No," I said.

If I had my way, I would rename the occasion; call it, Pot-unluck. Except that unluck is not a word. Which is probably why they decided to call it luck, instead.
"It's all just about good advertisement," I say.
"Oh, corn-beef casserole!" she says.

Non-automated Biography

2004-12-08T17:30:00.000-08:00

The hymn was about to begin. Bobby nudges me and nods his head towards the pew in front and too the left. We both chuckle.
God would much rather have some instruments when he starts singing, we both think.
A Great and Mighty Fortress Is Our God soon is boomed across the small sanctuary.
The hand-waver is leading with all the gusto of a ten year old on Christmas.
We try and build a fortress in our ears, block out the old man’s deep off key bass, then think of the sheet forts we will make later that night for our rubber-band war.

Bobby nearly lost an eye once during one of those wars. And he cried for about an hour. It was swollen shut the next day.
“All’s fair in love and war,” I told him as he lay there holding his eye and tasting the tears.
I had a cocky smile because I knew I had won, which seldom happens.
He hit me square in the jaw.
“All’s fair in love and war,” he whined.
And I spent the next hour crying with him.

When I looked back over at the old man singing, there in the sanctuary, there were tears in his eyes, too.
Really, I don’t think it had much to do with how bad he sang.
I decided, every now and again, old men just get hit in the jaw too.

Wish You Were Here

2004-12-07T16:51:00.000-08:00

She turned off the lights and sat on the edge of her bed. Just the other night her neighbors were broken into. Or maybe now it was a week ago.
"The place was cleaned out," the young man said. "Lucky for us we weren't home."
And then he continued to load the U-Haul.

She hasn't slept through the dark hours since that conversation. Outside apartments are always crawling with noises, always something to bump and knock in the night.
She got off the bed to prop a chair against the front door.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-12-05T19:14:00.000-08:00

The wisp cold light
of the Sunday rain;
it falls on you,
it ever calls
towards morning, or the day
on some grander scheme after.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-11-28T19:05:00.000-08:00

You were all that was there
while under the moon's gaze
I dream and real
in a field full of clouds low hung
and evening
as it crept across sky.

I dance on the water with you
and drown slowly
in the folds of your mouth.

An owl sweeps on a mouse
in the distance
and there in the branches,
in the full tuft of that bush,
I take it's place. I hunt
for the small creature
that screams
in the center of you.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-11-21T19:54:00.000-08:00

The mind dries up with an old creek, but I'll give a penny or two for a thought comming from you. My head is like a combine on an old farm: grinding and grinding over the same corn. I like to eat it still, with butter.

Uninhibited

2004-11-21T19:41:00.000-08:00

She thought, What the world needs is to be more wild, and took off her clothes.

She looked around at the clutter. It sat there too often. For some years, months at a time.

Walking over to the door, she glared out the peep-hole, then locked it, firmly.

She went into the bathroom and stepped into the tub.
The curtain was left open.

Squatting down, she peed. It was all that she needed, and everything she had hoped it would be.

It's not a perfect world

2004-11-15T14:07:00.000-08:00

Today was a chicken mystery wrap day. These are the days where time for food is short and you eat at the place called a Kiosk. I don't know what this word means, but somehow it is inseparably linked with undesirable food. Or perhaps just undesirable chicken wraps, which is always the only item on the menu.

I think because they are called wraps, some confusion has been created causing the head chef to feel they should be somewhat like presents, and for that reason, they are made to contain a surprise; which generally means something that doesn't belong.

Worse, there is no option. Only one kind of wrap a day is made. The first wrap I had the pleasure of sinking my teeth into was the Caesar Chicken Wrap. Now, a random anyone, such as myself, would suspect this wrap might contain lettuce, chicken, and ranch mixed with anchovy paste. Sort of like a Caesar Chicken Salad. But to my delight (surprise!), or rather, the lack of it, it also held within the confines of its many folds, whole slices of green apples, Sour green apples, to be exact.

In case you were wondering, this is not considered tasty when placed in the mouth along with chicken and anchovy paste. The same could be said for the pecans found in today's Santa Fe Chicken wrap. At least I was not caught off guard. My friend from Canada tells me this unpleasantry happens because women make them. The women, I am told, like to eat them, and then have something to complain about, and laugh about when others are buying them, because they know they are gross.

But my friend from Canada also says aboot, so I am not so sure how much credit to give them.

I ordered a coffee to offset the disgust I knew I would experience from the chicken a la crap wrap. As a treat, I get what my friend calls not coffee. A flavored latte. She says Americans don't drink real coffee. She says it is a desert. But it is coffee, as best I can tell, with a lot of steamed milk and sweetener added for kicks. And I watched my friend get a coffee once. She ordered it with four creams and five sugars, which really didn't seem all that different than a flavored latte. But I let it slide. I like to drink my coffee black as a rule anyway.

Tim Horton's is the fancy chain for coffee where my friend lives. They affectionately call it "Timmie's" and go there often getting random doses of sugar and cream. They do not sell out though and add, god forbid, a flavor. I tell my friend that Starbucks is the popular place around here, but that I have never once felt compelled to call it "Buckie's". I have never ordered a chicken wrap from them either, and really, I think that is probably a good thing.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-11-14T21:43:00.000-08:00

It is, for some, at some times, a need
to have pause. They can feel it in breaths
and in strides of day in and out again over
the whole face of this life. Voices
from inside saying: You are, you need
this only, and that also, too.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-11-07T14:58:00.000-08:00

Goodbye hangs even over hello
and it does like a fog on certain days.

I would crawl down, if I could
into a fetal heart and sit there
or lay, maybe outstretch, into soft songs

of whatever might be God, whatever
might be good. Would you with me

feel the warm breath of the desert sand?

One evening

2004-11-05T11:16:00.000-08:00

Spencer was running and stumbling, full ahead, his heart racing.
"I'm givin 'er all she got Cappin!" His mind echoed. It was always full of tv quotes, always skipping frantically around, as if it were unstable.
"Free at last, free at last, Thank God I'm free at last," it now thought.
It was like Spencer had no control over what went into and out of it. It all just raced past him. But all that mattered was his tunneling under the outer fence had finally been a sucess! His back was scraped and would likely scar, but this was joy, he didn't care. If only he could get each leg to work properly and together he would be there in no time!
It was almost upon him!
And he heard the shouts from behind like alarms going off in his head, but he had to push on, he had to run.
It was almost there, almost there, he could smell it, had been smelling it for days, years even, and there was the ditch! Now the smell, the smell?
Where, Where, Where? There! There!

Spencer squatted and took a big shit on the spot.
The perfect spot.
The only spot that needed it.

It was everything he had hoped, just like he had dreamed.
He wanted to roll over in it, to be bathed, cleansed and free.
But there were the voices that had been behind him.
They were closer now, almost there, and still yelling and crying and calling.
"You feel lucky punk? Well do ya?" he heard.
He tried to change the channels.
He should give up, he knew, and give in, just let it go.
But there was the big green bin not twenty feet away, and another one twenty feet after that, and then more, all along the road, all just there and the smells, oh, the smells, he darted off, just missing the grasp of two hands, the two hands that wanted to carry him home, Oh, but he could already feel the urge lifting his leg!
He darted between pairs of legs, the green bin moments away!

Non-Automated Biography

2004-10-25T23:45:00.000-07:00

A taxi drive

My Grandmother was a large woman, though somewhat frail she had always seemed to me. Even now, wrinkled and bent over, I can still feel her tower over me. But really, I have her by few good inches. I remember mostly, when I let my thoughts drift back, her arms. Not so much their largeness, as when they were at her sides they were rather thin—skin sitting over bones—but more so the bottoms running elbow to chest, how they would wave back and forth more than the hand she was using to say goodbye.

But it wasn't even the gentle rocking back and forth of it that sits most in my mind. It was the way they would clutch me, desperate, just before goodbye became final.

She would hold on like she would never see me again, the arms smothering. I would be choked up and gasping like hell to try and suck what air I could into the still half closed nostril that I had managed to wiggle free. And I remember the tears streaming down. They eroded her face, washed trenches in makeup that wasn't supposed to carry such a burden. And then her arms would crush in more, covering my eyes, and everything goes to black.

That's as much as I can remember of that. Oh, and the kisses and the tears and the sobs and the "I'll miss you so much." And while she was doing all of that, I could never understand why. "I'll see you again, Grandma," I would look at her and say. But it was never enough it seemed. Just words lifeless in the air.

It took a long time for me to understand, but one day, on one goodbye, I did. It was a time when I had wrinkled up into my heart and tried hard to stretch out my love. It came easier than I thought it would. It was rather effortless really and I could feel my whole body ache. Suddenly, I became aware of the things that had been in the past elusive, I could feel a slipping of what I had so quicly come to know as a daily joy. The tears, the sobs, the kisses, they were all there and came at me like fire. "I will miss you" was all my mind seemed to understand, all it seemed to cry out with. Each minute moved by so quick.

The only problem was I didn't understand the need for suffocation then. I hadn't been learned that yet.

But then I knew it as soon as I drove away and found myself staring out the back window. I imagine if my Grandmother had been much of a philosopher and was around to say it, she would have told me there are few times in life when we have a chance to learn this love. It will come hard and quick. The trees will blow softly for you though, she would say, and that great ball of the sky will beam down. Love's lesson will fall like a hammer, a sledge in the hands of an old spike driver. He'll later rest his arms and look back at the miles of track he has layed.

Looking back though, my arms only felt large and empty resting on the back dash of that taxi. It's as if they were waving alone, slowly back and forth in the wind, wanting something to squeeze, and needing something more than a wave goodbye—

I turned around and muttered something to the cabbie about alergies and wiped my eyes dry. They would be wet enough soon again, I knew, too. And besides, it wouldn't be too long before I learned also; I could still feel you in my mind.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-10-17T11:49:00.000-07:00

The wind blows, and sometimes
we should stop to listen. See
the trees, how they lean in
with their leaves rustling?
It sinks in slowly at first, but
this world is talking,
telling you things in a whisper.

His name was Bill

2004-10-15T02:21:00.000-07:00

He stood facing the last sliver of a setting sun beside a dirt road. He held the name tag clenched in his hand. Looking down he lingered over the words, mouthing them softly, “Bill Frances. Maintenance, Staff.” He let his arm drift back down then held it back, poised, like a pitcher. Bill took two shuffled steps and gave it a hardy side-armed throw. He waited and watched, determined, until it cleared far over the other side of the dirt road. The corn fields seemed to be waving at him softly in the breeze.
They have no idea, Bill thought. It’s not like I come a dime a dozen. He walked back over to his pickup and slammed the door. The pedal sank far down and brought some satisfaction as rocks flew and pelted on the no trespassing sign. The truck pulled a nice 180 and headed back towards the main road; wind rushing in through the windows. Bill liked the way it obscured the steady click of the tires and the engine’s hum bearing down over the Metal on the radio. He fumbled with his pocket knife, fliping it open, and then back closed to pass the minutes of the drive home.
Pulling into the suburbs, he turned the radio down. Those filthy pigs. They think they can drive all over without any care to who might be around, who might be trying to sleep. I’d show them a thing or two, Bill thought as he pulled into his driveway. Bill pushed the door shut on his blue pickup and wiped the dust off his jeans. The screeching hinges had a welcome sound that tried somewhat to soothe him. The telephone was already ringing as he opened the door. He walked slowly towards it as the ringing stopped. He picked up the receiver anyway.
“Yah?” he said as he fumbled into the cabinet for a glass.
“You weren’t at Bubba’s tonight man, what’s going on!” the voice at the other end said.
“Just not in the mood. I’ll see you there for drinks next Friday night maybe.” The voice went on for a while about what a great game Bill had missed and how the Dolphins looked like they might make a comeback this year. Bill thought about the neon signs and how they always looked so bright against the dark sky all the way down Jefferson Street. A strip club under the guise of a sports bar was no place for a guy like him to hang out at anyway. The voice was hollering something about his birthday next week and Bill came back to the conversation. “Uhh, I don’t know,” Bill said, “I’m supposed to have dinner with the kids.” He pried the cork out of a gallon jar of wine and poured the first glass.
“No way, just move it to the next day. Your birthday is for you!” the voice responded. Yah, maybe I will, maybe I’ll do that, Bill thought as he set the phone absently on the counter. He swirled the tumbler of wine under his nose then cleaned the glass without breaking for air. He poured another and set it on the table remembering to carry the child support check out to the mailbox. He raised the flag and slid the check in over the rest of the mail that was in there. He ignored Sally waving at him from the window next door and went back inside. When he thought about it, life was a lot like the gallon bottle of wine. He took a full gulp. It’s only worth it when someone is there to enjoy it, when someone is there to savor every sip. And sooner or later, it’s bound to be empty. Bill set the roast he thawed that morning in the crock pot. We’ll put this on slow.
The cutting board had deep scars as Bill set it on the counter. He always liked the faded off-coloured pine and all the childhood memories it held. It’s important to have an heirloom. Something of worth to pass on to those you leave behind. Bill was always bragging about his worth, how important he was. “It’s not like I come a dime a dozen,” he’d always say after a good story about how he fixed the mess someone else had made. And rest assured there were plenty of those. Every stripper in Bubba’s knew to steer clear of Bill once he’d had a few. It always started with “you’ll never believe what this idiot…” and by the time he was done he was telling the girl how to get out of her pitiful line of work.
He once met Carla and her not knowing any better told him how she was stripping to make a good life for her two kids. You think you’re doing anything good for your kids? disrespecting them like this! Bill had yelled after his lap dance was over. He started escorting her towards the front door forcefully, determined to make her leave and start a new life. She was yelling about her clothes. Oh, so now you’re ashamed are you? Bill said. And moments later he was knocked out cold by the big guy watching the door.
Bill set the Butcher’s knife down beside the cutting board and went to take a shower. He stayed for a long time under the hot stream of water, leaning against the wall, until it turned a bitter cold. When he finally got out, he climbed naked and wet into the bed. Most of the night was spent sleepless in a drunken daze.
It was the lawnmower that woke him late that Saturday afternoon. He stumbled up and into the kitchen to put the coffee on. It had been so long since he remembered to savor its rich fragrance, even though he still bought only the best coffee from Venezuela. “The damn roast oughta be ready by now,” Bill said out loud. He moved over to the crock pot, turned it off, and reached in to pull it out. He ignored the scalding juices as they ran quick between his fingers and he thumped it loudly onto the cutting board. Sally would be over for lunch soon.
He picked up the knife and let it slide through the first slice. Normally, he liked to cut it delicately and thin. Today it got cut thick. He thought of the turkey he had carved on so many holidays. The smiling faces and “hurry daddy” seemed so far from him now. He felt his heart tighten in his chest with each resounding slice. He watched the browned flesh as it pulled away from the hump, lifeless. On slice six, the knife stopped dull as it struck a bone. He looked up out the window and saw sally walking, dressed in a mini skirt and a tight shirt from her front door. Her heals clacked loud on the sidewalk.
A huge gasp welled up in him and he walked back as if struck until his butt hit the table. He sunk slowly to the floor. Floods of the past two years washed over him like a memory. It brought out a huge sob and his eyes began to overflow. He saw the knife still grasped in his hand. He could almost picture it slicing through his skin. Sally knocked on the front door and the knife fell, clattering on the kitchen tiles. He put a hand on the table to try and pull himself up. It fumbled and knocked over the half filled tumbler he had left there the night before. He let his hand fall back down beside him and he watched as the deep red wine poured down. It formed a puddle around his outstretched body.

What I would have thought on Sunday

2004-10-12T16:19:00.000-07:00

I listened to the wakes of your
lengthwise breath. I felt their sighs singe
only my hopeful ear. The truth of the
vacant heart is in its fullness
every time I wander, though vagrant, through the
yesterdays of tomorrow. For all I’ve thought, I know
only of the heaven’s lifting through the
understated and ever greater meaning of you.

Non-Automated Biography

2004-10-11T16:22:00.000-07:00

Recess

The hot embers of the sting spread from my cheek slowly. Its redness soon covered the whole face. The echo from the slap was still resounding like sunlight. It was the first time we had met. He was some chubby little black boy and he thought he could kick my ass. Moments became hours.
"You wanna fight me now?" he said. As he spoke again it was some cross between a snake and a gurgled whisper. But there wasn't one ache in my body that wanted it. What I needed was to sit, to curl up even into the dirt, and cry.
The background noises grew louder. And not the ones of the voices and murmurs around me, but the quiet ones you don't usually hear. Noise like the hum of your computer, or a fan, or sometimes the sound of water lightly dripping. That day it was all the rustling of soft leaves. They were deafening like an angry child's scream.
The little chubby boy was still waiting, anxious for an answer. He was looming over me for being about the same height. I twisted my face into something I hoped said determined and slowly shook my head back and forth.

With me there were others

2004-10-08T16:43:00.000-07:00

It was three times, four times I hurled into the darkness
and watched those stars like complication, overwhelming.

And I felt your teeth inside me
and I felt you breath beside me. I saw your hand at my ear.

A child then said:
look at the trees, their bark is like your skin their
roots are like your tongue, your thoughts
are like their leaves.

And for the fifth time, the sixth time I currled into the darkness:
All the tears shed being complicated.

Big River (Little Bug)

2004-10-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

The wasp stops lightly on a blade that
dips down into the river.
The Rio Grande.
It's about as big as the creek I used to play in.
Anyway, I'm watching the wasp as it follows the blade's curve
down to the water's breath.
It reminds me I was terrorizing a poem. What for?
Some people just want words; anyway you put them on a page.
I'm fine with that. I turn the page over.

2004-10-06T14:58:00.000-07:00

My world is but a dream and I fumble in it sometimes.
Lignthing dashing out from the inside.
Today I don't want to hear. I don't want to listen.
Tomorrow will be better.

Imagine larger than what you can see. Think bigger
than words that are falling. Fill your head up
with all these viscious lines. They are less
than what you think.
But somehow, still, so much bigger.

Thank You

2004-10-05T00:03:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's nice to know someone. They comfort you. If you want it, that is. And sometimes you want it. It slides down your spirit like a good wine. It wraps you like an old blanket. And brings that smile along. It's nice to know you. It's nice to think of those dangling days.

Road Kill

2004-10-04T18:06:00.005-07:00

Two cars approached on a dark highway.
They illuminated, if just for a moment,
the dull eyes of a hare. The deep forest of pines
watched and stood by--
each looking solitary and alone. The hare,
bathed in the warm, radiating light
at last saw the night revealed.

Unsure of how to feed it he leapt full force
into the light. Tires squealed
and headlights veered, the rabbit
left cowering against the dark.
He looked over at the twisted heap.
It steamed like a volcano, then
joined the pines in their solidarity.

Broken

2004-10-03T17:10:00.000-07:00

Sunday Thoughts

2004-10-02T23:22:00.000-07:00

I am standing there, looking behind the shadows
and the sprinkled drops of last night's dew.
I still see your footprints in the courtyard. I
still fumble inside of myself for you.

There are two trees along the outer wall of my heart.
The dog barks between them,
breaking the silence, loudly. It's only so far
I can shove you away. There is this corner

and that corner I try hiding in. There is
the outside street sounds of Mardi Gras.
Their bright beads and flashing skin do nothing
to soothe me. Would you like to take a hand

and dance with me, whoever you are?

On the quest of Lighter than

2004-10-01T21:21:00.000-07:00

Why do we dream of endless nights
and forlorn wisdom like it would matter?
What is the form of impeccable
that you would cling to?
I could go on over the days
about hard labor
and golden sunrise that falls,
not on the ground and its seed,
but on me. And only for a little while.

It is for reason that I refrain. The time
to make this thought your own
will only last as long as you want it.
It will only come once you have
fondled it, tasted it, and are ready. There is
nothing more that I could show you.
Nothing and everything
sits waiting in your own head.

It is all there. Even though it never has been.

How long until tomorrow gets here,
and what then will you do?

Writers Block

2004-09-30T16:50:00.000-07:00

I was making a way through the many rows of books. There were people everywhere bending and standing. Pouring themselves over the back covers of paperbacks they would buy and never read. Sticking their asses out far enough with each bend to trip me in my delicate progress.

The cup of coffee was warm and smooth. I cradled it against my chest hoping to protect it, hoping against all odds not to spill one drop. It was hard though. Because my focus was divided between that cup and the current quest. I approached the end of each shelf with hopeful eyes. At last! I found an empty chair.

I settled into its soft embrace. It was a rare find indeed as I am generally forced to retire to the hard backed chairs pushed against the wooden study desks. This was a magical day. This time I would read in comfort like I always wanted. Let the old man who got up to take a piss look at me with jealousy. This was my time, and for now, my chair.

I fretted for a few moments over the new dilemma: there was no desk to set my cup of coffee on. I tried to balance it carefully on the arm of the chair. I watched in dismay as the cup teetered and let some of the dark fragrance slip over the edge and onto the worn fabric. I swore over the chairs good luck. This simply would not do. There were eyes resting on me as I considered my options.

At last I got up. And side stepped quickly. At the end of it all, it was a wrinkled, wry looking woman that replaced me. Her contender, the little boy with the Curious George book, he looked as if he might cry. The woman just beamed. I retreated to the wooden chair and set my coffee deliberately down on the desk, gave a little “harrumph,” then swore again as some splashed out onto my thumb and burned me. Sometimes you just can’t win.

I opened one of the three writer’s journals that I snagged from the magazine rack.
Page one: Thirteen Tricks to Tease Yourself into Writing.
I sighed.

I figure real writers probably never open a writers journal with hopes for anything more than a good laugh. But I am a real writer. And I was opening a writers journal. Or should I have a Question Mark on that sentence two back. I wondered if William Faulkner ever sat surrounded by pages and thought, “What the hell do I do with these things?” I wonder if he then shuffled them up a bit and reread some to see if it sounded any better all out of order. Hell, maybe that’s how he got the stream of consciousness thing going. I don’t know. It never seems to work for me.

Trick number one is “keeping your workspace tidy.” Maybe I should clean up a bit. Maybe I should throw the pages up to the wind and leave every story unfinished; open like the mind of Curious George. It would be a new writing technique. Possibly i could even win some novel style award. Then there would be no doubt I am a writer. Everyone else would believe it and that would be enough to convince me. Someday I'll have to try it.

But in the mean time, I suppose I will just let those pages be scattered around. I’ll let the words fall down like an anvil. Let them crash like thunder if they want to. Then when it's over, I’ll make the end something of a mystery. The important thing is found in caring for a good cup of coffee anyway. It's not like William Faulkner ever thought of that. It's not likely he ever will.

Dancers

2004-09-28T23:58:00.000-07:00

They clash! in an
ecstasy of tumbling.

Sweet veins still
pulsing with the warmth
of fluid motion, flowing
down softly
with a gentle breeze

that hangs from
the lazy sky. How Rare
in the summer,

when all life
fights to thrive, seeing
two leaves
from a naked tree
falling.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-09-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

Where am I on this road? Am i filled with some sort of remorse and anger? Am I screaming for my words to be heard?

No, I think I am just sitting sideways in the gutter. Letting the sewage wash over me. Feeling it rush between my toes. I know what it means to be free.

At a bar, on tuesday

2004-09-24T23:28:00.000-07:00

There was a vintage light in your eyes. It almost
made you mythical. The smoke haloed his thoughts.
I read: wanting. And shifted my weight to the other foot.
I look down into myself and find you still there waiting.

I don’t know for what. Not for the life of me.

Remnant

2004-09-23T11:40:00.000-07:00

I am convinced that I must unknowingly wear four pairs of underwear a day. I will wash them, grudgingly, each week. There usually appear to be enough of them to clothe the naked bottom of every stripper across Europe.

But here it is, Thursday, and I am staring at the last clean pair I can find. They are a thing of the past. Delicate, lacy. A thong. I hold them eye level and give 'em the once over. Carefully I lower them and slide one foot in. The wrong hole. I try again.

The thin cotton slides between my cheeks and I stand for a moment. Facing sideways to the mirror. I admire the roundness of my bottom. I almost look... Sexy. I bend over to get my pants off the floor thinking I could hold this feeling, elated, all day.

The thin cotton rides up uncomfortably. I suddenly feel less sexy and more elderly.
With hemorrhoids.

I pull them back off and decide to be brave.

Sometimes

2004-09-20T22:35:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it all feels lost.

Sometimes the world's caving in.

Sometimes it all blows apart.

Sometimes it all turns to sin.

It isn't.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-09-19T20:23:00.000-07:00

Was it yesterday that I looked up
and saw the moon staring at you? Were there
thoughts that you held closer then?
Have you let them go?
There is time tomorrow to think again
but you have this moment now.
I wonder if you will make the most of it.
I wonder at how
you have lived so far. There is life
breathing all around you.
It is waiting to be recognized,
just a little thought on your tongue.

Non-Automated Biography

2004-09-18T21:52:00.000-07:00

Tree House

It was in the woods, strangely dark for the afternoon.
The trees loomed over us knowingly, like they might have something to tell us.
We were running full tilt down the trail.
"Betcha can't chop through that," Bobby screamed.
I slid to a stop and turned to see what he was pointing at.
It was huge.
Being a boy, I screamed the only response to a challenge I knew,
"Can too!"

I heaved the little hatchet I was carrying and wailed into the huge oak. It let out little sighs while I chopped like I was mad.
The air smelled sharper for the exposed flesh, and it was only Wednesday.
What was worse was the dent I made. It was barely noticeable.
I knew it would last.
But I chopped till I felt like a desperate rat and then let my arms hang down, glaring at it.

Bobby looked at my effort and then at me like I was a failure.
"Gimme that," he said.
And he went into the same craze that had driven me. There was a need to prove something. Neither of us had any idea what.
After twenty minutes worth of whacks, the dent wasn't much bigger. Bobby looked over at me and I could see the rage in his eyes.
I fumbled in my back pocket and pulled out the two cigarettes I had swiped from my moms purse, hoping she wouldn't miss them. Bobby's eyes softened as he reached for one and asked for a match. That made it worth the risk even if she did.
"You ever had one of these before?" I asked.
"Yah, sure," Bobby said. He eyed the smoldering cigarette briefly and with caution.
After that, our eyes didn't separate. We stayed locked and brought the smoking thing up to our lips deliberately.

We sucked in deep because we had to.

It's hard to say who choked first but we were both teary eyed and hacking like we swallowed a cat by the time the smoke hit the back of our lungs.
I don't think I ever laughed harder than that, after I remembered how to breathe.
"YOU LIE!! You aint ever done this before!" I jeered proudly.
"Bullshit!" He yelled. "Like you have."
It was a bright smile that Bobby wore. We layed in the leaves for hours.
Afterwards we talked about building a tree house in the big oak, how we might be able to steal a hammer from his dad.
It seemed like a promising idea.
Maybe tomorrow, we would.

Devour

2004-09-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

I took her in. I swallowed her with my eyes, enjoying every bite. It seemed like the thing to do. She looked back. She took a lick.

Contents, like a bottle

2004-09-16T23:48:00.000-07:00

She took off her shoes in class.
There was nothing but the smooth
all the way from her big toe
up to the top of her thigh where
the shorts started.
The boy, dressed in black,
he let his eye linger over
those cool feet those
hot legs stretched and stretching
for miles. He let a heavy sigh
and felt it welling up inside
like a black hot knot in his yearning.

She was in love with the jock—

The boy came in two days later
after having thought, tired of being mocked
feeling confident and cool.
For the first time he made a
straight way walking toward her and
pulled out the block—
held his finger steady and squeezed.

The rest was on the news
on channel nine,
I’ll spare you the bore!
and only think we ought to come hoping,
labeled like a bottle of pop:

Contents under pressure—
top may blow.
Point away from place and people
Especially while opening.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-09-12T15:31:00.000-07:00

There is rain falling on my clouds-
Little quick drops and slivers.

I reach with my tongue for nothing
but to taste the sweet and fluff

of emptiness.

The sky doesn't seem to mind though
as it just keeps eating me up, lick

after marvelous lick.

Of Rocks and Islands

2004-09-11T21:05:00.000-07:00

Rock
There is none tougher
than this solitary force of breaking.
Few dare to cling. Fewer
stay for long. The rain pounds
only to cause more beautiful.
The sun beats to harden,
but I harden on my own.

Island
I am that lone hill sitting-
one tree away from desolate,
one drink all for quenching.
No rock has known this-
they sit with the earth. They sit
in company. I stare at the horizon.

Short Comings

2004-09-09T23:24:00.000-07:00

When Johnny was three years old, he would lay on the dirt caked hardwood floor, exhausted over the rough day of play. He would lift his two little blackened feet over his head cutely and grab his toes looking at me. Generally he would miss one at first and it took a few tries before he could get a firm grasp on them both. “Look daddy, I have two!” he would exclaim. Kids. I just smiled at him and leaned in my chair, rocking it far back while I stared out the window over the cool Georgia Mountains. The soil wasn’t good there but there weren’t too many people around either and I liked that. Somehow, it’s what made me feel normal.

It seemed everyone in town loved Johnny just as much as me. They were always giving him free things and going on about “how cute.” All I had to do was roll into the hardware store and Mr. Johnson was already fishing about for his latest slingshot. Someone really should have told him a three year old has no business with a slingshot, but I just let it go. I’m still not really sure how he didn’t mind Johnny running all over the store but the old man ate it up. Sometimes even, on the few occasions he could get the boy’s attention, he would stand there hopping up and down making faces while Johnny rocked back and forth humming the star spangled banner off key. I think maybe Mr. Johnson didn’t feel quite so normal up here in the mountains and Johnny just reminded him of a better time. A time when he felt free. For what ever reasons though, I tolerated it. He was a beautiful boy.

By the time Johnny was turning four, I was glad. Kids have to be kids. They have to run wild overturning every rock they can come too. It's such a wide world of mystery, especially with the deep dark crevices of the mountains looming all around. I'll be the last one to hold them back. But really though, I had had enough. He was always running all over and out of control. He did it to taunt me I think. Because he knew I couldn’t catch him while he was dodging all over the place. He was a quick rascal, but he was old enough now to understand discipline. I just had to make it as easy for him as I could.

“Are we gonna have bifday cake tomorrow?” he said bouncing around. I smiled at him and nodded. His eyes lit up big. “And fer breakfass?” I could tell he loved me.

“Sure for breakfast,” I said. “And all day long if you like. Tomorrow is your special day.”

He curled up on the hard wood cot next to the tool cabinet and after a while was breathing heavy sighs. I hopped over as quietly as I could to the edge of his bed and looked down at his sleeping self. I took a moment to get steady because I knew balance would be important. In one smooth motion that made me proud I put a firm grasp on the axe from the cabinet and another on his ankle. I stretched his leg out and brought the axe down hard just above the knee-- Johnny's little face wrinkled in some torment that must have been horrible. I watched the blood poor out and smiled. Johnny didn’t even scream too long really before he passed out. It would be hard, but eventually he would understand. I went to work stopping the blood. For storage, Mr. Johnson had been kind enough to donate the clear crystal jar himself. It was the finest I had seen!

In the night

2004-09-09T00:40:00.000-07:00

She fluttered for a moment
and about it
until it was over-
it had gone around
and played in the smoke
of my cigarette. There was no need
for a moth
to take such interest.
The light bulb was bare
and waiting. She hung there
hovering
wondering too
why I was staring back.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-09-05T17:52:00.000-07:00

I have been waiting for your time to come,
looking towards that sunrise. There is
no holding the thoughts around.

Every writer knows
how to express themselves. Every fall
of the moment you can feel. Do you know how
to escape this?

Do you know how, let's say,

to express me?

Laced Burritos ( and Texas law)

2004-09-04T18:51:00.000-07:00

For my first weekend traveling adventure, I stopped at a gas station to buy a quart of oil for my thirsty Saturn. She loves it when I wind out the gears and taunt Semi trucks but knows she deserves her reward: 10W-30 Castrol oil and nuthin but that.

I pulled into the gas station cool and let the engine rev a bit, cruising to a stop just a little too far for the hose to actually reach the tank. I played it off like I didn’t want gas anyway. There’d be another station down the road. The eyes of Biker Man were on me as I walked into the Quick Stop. He was envious. They always are.

Browsing the aisles I found a good deal. “99 cents a quart! Just like Castrol.” I was sold. She’d never know the difference. I resisted the temptation to pick up a “Barney and Friends Greatest Hits” cassette and followed my nose to the sweet savory smell of Cafeteria Burritos. Now we were talking; fried, lardy goodness.

I picked up two and plopped them and the oil boldly down on the counter. The cashier looked me up and down. She could tell I was a badass.

She rolled her eyes a bit and declared some identification was needed. To say I was put off would be an understatement. With my grizzled exterior I coulda walked out of there with an eighth of marijuana and nobody should have thought to stop me. To be carded over a burrito was too much.

“What on earth do you guys put in the burritos?” I asked as I looked at them in disgust and terror.

“It’s for the oil,” she told me.

I imagined myself being seventeen after I had just bought my first car and slinking around outside the parts store like a criminal whispering, “Hey man, could you score me some oil…” There were probably jail cells full of under aged oil offenders. I would not be one of them. I’m a badass. And older. And just to be on the safe side, I wasn’t about to eat those damn burritos.

Walking out of there I narrowed my eyes and gave a don’t-fuck-with-me nod at Biker Man while I tripped over the curb. The burritos broke my fall, their sauces pouring out onto my shirt. They smelled spicy. I decided to tear into them after all.

Desire

2004-09-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

Like a habit I have waited
and longed for
what you are-
to hear those things
that could whisper,
“tomorrow.”

The joy that feeds me
is
and will be
mine.

Time Keeps Us

2004-09-03T19:51:00.000-07:00

The begining

I looked over at the offer. Saw the glass sitting full and waiting. It didn’t want me to drink it. I said I would pass for now, and started walking towards the door. On my way out I could see Bill already rummaging through the trash. Trying to dig out Beckie’s number. He’d probably call her pretending to be me, just show up, and then see what happens. He deserved a good time. Some guys just do.

After the door I took the stairs like a dead man. I hit the sidewalk like I was drunk. The night sky smelled stale and there were memories all around me.

----------------

She walked down the street like she owned it.
She was too young to have her jeans slit across both cheeks.
Old enough to not use underwear.
It was the tight little perfect body. I could have been a pedophile that day.
I just watched her walk down and turn the corner. She flicked her cigarette across the can and towards the open window of a passing crown vic.
It was her street. And she owned it.

I knew she’d be back. I took a drag off my smoke, walked over, picked up the sheet of crumpled, folded paper, and leaned up against the light post.

A few minutes later she rounded the building a full stride scouring the ground.
Once close enough I said, “looking for this?”
Her eyes snapped up and met mine dead on. I saw it all.
They narrowed and the corners of her mouth turned up coy.
“Hi, I’m Julia,” she breathed.

----------------

I picked myself out and walked down towards the square. There was no telling when.
The trees were all leaning slightly to the left. Listening.

Surrender

2004-09-01T16:24:00.000-07:00

Maybe God has a Notebook

2004-08-30T18:49:00.000-07:00

It was Sunday in the bathroom behind the sanctuary. The night before was spent under a lamp pouring over Pretty Pink in the back corner of Bobby’s room. There was something inviting about that dark open mouth. The images were still in my mind, fresh like a pot roast. It was time to take care of business.

A fast minute later though, I was a heap. Exhausted and spent. Vulnerable.

Something was uneasy and there were murmurs in the hall. Low voices like I had been had. I prayed with all my might.
I was in a church. It seemed like the thing to do.
There was begging to get out unfound, pleading that I never would again, swearing that my life would be his, and, I suppose, asking for forgiveness too.

Later when I told the pastor what I did, the prayer part at least, he said I had been saved and had the secretary make a little plaque that held my name and the date it all happened.
It declared, “I have been Saved.”
You need one of those to get into heaven after all. I mean, How else is God to know?

It was the Methodists that told me I was in fact not saved. And that salvation is a process. I had to keep trying and keep proving that I was worthy enough. I tried to show them my little plaque, but I forgot I had wanted to see if metal could burn when it was attached to wood. I figured, just like salvation, these things were important to know.

So I was stuck. Without my plaque I had to work for it now. I thought I could outsmart the system-
Go back over to the Baptist Church, and sure they’d make me up a new one. They told me though, if I was once saved I am always saved and if I had gotten saved but now wasn’t saved then I never was saved at all.

That was a lot for a fourteen year old boy to take in so I decided to go back over to Bobby’s and see if he had any thing new. While we thumbed the pages and greased up he asked me if I had figured whether I was saved yet or not. I looked over at him, back down at Pam, and figured I really hadn't ever felt more saved than when those eyes were looking back up into mine. “I’m still working on it,” I said. Bobby just moaned.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-08-29T11:34:00.000-07:00

To love and be loved-

that is perhaps the greatest gift

this world has to offer.

Lessons On Hate

2004-08-28T19:01:00.000-07:00

Each morning I would be there at six. I would stand, determined, and wait. At night I drew and sketched things. Pictures of cars, pirates in ragged clothes, and men. The men would be wearing jeans, the baggy ones with elastic around each ankle-
And lots of zippers. Sometimes, there were too many zippers.

My jeans were from K-Mart though; the husky section. Even then they were too tight. I knew it didn’t matter what you wore. The person inside the clothes was more important. Still, I would have liked more zippers.

When the bus pulled up, and the door slid open, I climbed the stairs. I looked straight into his eyes and said, “Mornin!” The expression inside the afro didn’t change, but his eyes met mine, and the whole head nodded. Sometimes, with all that hair, I wondered how he managed to get his head back up straight. He always did though, gave a hefty pull on the lever for the door, and slid his gloved hands back over to the steering wheel.

My eyes after that were fixed on the back window. I almost couldn’t hear the other guys laughing, patting me on the back, and jeering, “Su’up Tights! Gimme luv nigga.” I sat in the first empty seat, convinced mankind was corrupt, destined to taunt me. I would think about going on a diet. I would watch the retarded kid in the front seat suck on his fist then wipe it all over his face. He’d shake his head back and forth like he was possessed.

I always waited to be the last one off, my eyes at the seat behind me. The afro would turn towards me and say, “You have a good day.” It never spoke to anyone else.

Those days passed slow.

Ten years later, the bus route was still the same. I could still see that afro driving along on my way to work. I wondered if he ever thought about shaving it off so the kids would stop laughing at him.

I wonder sometimes too about my little league team. The one I was on the year before I started ridding the bus. About how when my uniform came it was one size too small, and the team gave me the nickname, “Tights.” They all liked me even though I was white and a lousy ball player. They thought I was funny.

My teammates, they were probably the same ones on that bus. The ones that I was too scared to look at. The ones I was sure would jeer me before I even got on that first time. The ones that were part of this corrupt world.

The ones that were all just anxious to understand love.

From the archives of horrible poems:

2004-08-28T13:36:00.000-07:00

Too Much For You

I’m too much for you. Trust me, you couldn’t handle it. You’re a type, and I chew you like a steak everyday. But all your gristle and fat just makes me want to laugh. To bad too much of you is worst than the last. Don’t want to talk to me? You couldn’t even if you tried. Nothing next to me. Might as well see a fish talking to Sophocles telling him lies. When I Suck you in then just let you Drip back out like you saw your mom to your dad do you’ll know it’s time to Fuck you. Think you’re smart? Smartest thing you ever did was stay the hell away cause the best you could of hoped for was maybe get laid. Thought you could hurt me by not giving time of day? Whatever brought the thought that I would ever want it Don’t you see you’ve been played? The things I said are just my game. There’s nothing but pure evil running through these veins. You did good to walk away. My loathing is cued just stay that way. Don’t dare think I’ll try to find you. Not because I can’t, I could and have you too. I just don’t want to. This is a type I’m better than and you knew it all along. That’s why you’re sick sad and scared Stand there in a piss puddle see if I care. Let the dogs come lick it up and lick you out cause that’s all you get. Go ahead and pout. Walked on a grave lately? Have you destroyed that sanctity that way too? What other kind of human being wants to be more hateful than you? Glad you met me. Too bad I’m too much for you

I'll Make it up.

2004-08-26T15:00:00.000-07:00

My mother tells me I will be late for my own funeral. It’s unoriginal, but she’s probably right. I see the thousands that will be there. Some that knew me well, and each holding back their own tear.
The march slowly down the aisle would begin, couples hand in hand. Those alone would already have found each other—
Shared in the comfort. Touched one another. It would look like a massive group wedding in Vegas. A few elderly couples; dignified, unhesitant. The rest dripping in sleaze, unsure what they might do next. Or after.

And they would march slowly down towards the coffin. That centerpiece. Wanting just one more glimpse. Then a shriek, an old lady faints. Everyone rushes around to stare and scream in horror at the empty coffin. Someone had stolen their love!

There would be rumors, sure, that I was Jesus. There always are. They’d wait for me to return, to share again.

I’d be sitting at home though, thinking, “Fuck, I’m supposed to be somewhere.” It wouldn’t be a good situation.

Much more serious than being late for work. I'm not worried about that today. Especially since it was so worth it.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-08-22T14:16:00.000-07:00

She stood there

with both her great arms

waving over and bye

like she would never see me again;

each leaf looking less complacent for the wind.

A Leaving (part ii)

2004-08-20T19:38:00.000-07:00

The rain lifted more than my spirit on the drive. It trickled down lightly falling like yesterday. We walked through the streets of Chicago and laughed at the strange people. We moved furniture like it was someone else's job.

In Missouri we stopped to see the large arch and made exclamations on its largeness. From the observation deck at top every single thought I had seemed so small. We got in on a discount with Her state parks pass and had planned to tell them we were married if they asked for mine. They didn't ask.

It was just as well. There's only so far a single pass will get you after all.

Over dinner I told her how much fun she'd have in this new city and how the Hancock Observatory was best climbed at night. It overlooks the pier and all the downtown lights. The Sears Tower should be saved for the day.

When it was time to go, I told her how much fun I had. How I would miss her. How I'd see her soon enough even though I knew I wouldn't.

I never told her though, how I couldn't imagine living without her.

Smiling

2004-08-20T19:30:00.000-07:00

With the absence of written word around here, I thought I could provide a bit of audio in the interim. (It is all the rave lately) If you have five minutes, do enjoy.

I want to tell you who I am
I want to make you understand- just what beats in here
But I really do not know
the past is all I sow- but I’m alive again
There’s a cripple boy inside
who is dying to collide, with your arms open wide
Do you feel the heat the rain
that’s falling on this pane, that I am looking from

**
I want to be to ride the four winds of the sky
and be so pleased to know the sun is smiling
breathe the air, the leaves are falling
down upon reflecting pools of puddled tears

I want to hear my quiet voice of contemplation
sitting on a stone

So won’t you tell me who I am
this fabricated story line let’s leave it all behind
Enter into my subtle mind
and on this thought recline- We’re but the waves there beating
On this rock of solid stone
a fortress I have built alone will be torn down
but I am here with you

(**)

I will not become an ancient star
and I will not possess the things you are
and there is time to change
but I will change for me and me alone

(**)

[We'll be back to our regularly schedueled weekend bloging here soon]

A Leaving (part i)

2004-08-07T21:09:00.000-07:00

Three hours later, two cars were crammed tighter than a pair of petite jeans. I polished off the rest of my beer, looked down at my sweat soaked shirt, and shrugged. We moved towards each other.

It was a good hug.

"See you tomorrow morning?"
"Bright and early."

Sleep didn't work that night. It seemed someone had snuck in and broke it when I wasn't watching. By morning the clouds opened up and dropped what I kept telling my eyes to hold in. She was soaked by the time they arrived. Karen plopped down on the couch exasperated.

"Are you guys gonna be able to get going?"
"We probably better wait."
"While I'm already drenched I think I'll go and get McDonald's," She said. "Anybody want coffee?"

Two heads nodded up and down, sinking a little deeper with each nod.

After She had left and we both sat for a while, Karen looked at me and asked, clearly at a loss, "Have you decided what you're going to think about on the drive?"

It was a dumb question. But I didn't blame her for it. Karen had never had to watch someone driving away knowing they wouldn't be coming back. Luckily, She arrived with the coffee and broke the tension. I gave Her some dry clothes and the three of us just sat there, sipping coffee and waiting.

It was the worst way to start a 1,200 mile trip; three friends who would never be all in the same place again and with nothing better to do than sit together dreaming of yesterday.

Falling always scrapes your knees

2004-08-01T20:40:00.000-07:00

Like a wave

or better

I am strong enough to make it

at least til tomorrow

where I will

on the rocks and over them

break and break for hours.

Time Keeps Us (story begining perhaps)

2004-07-21T21:27:00.000-07:00

There was a sway to the whole body when you watched her walking away like that. I suppose things in motion always catch your eye. B-e-c-k-i-e with a heart over the “i” is her name. The crumpled up receipt made a three pointer swish in the trash can before I had a chance to read the number. She’s not a regular. Probably not even a local. Maybe an older student at the community college one town down. I’m just glad she thought her night was a success while it was still early enough to make it down the steep stairs without tripping. No telling how long she’ll wait for a call tonight before she realizes I’m not coming.

“You need another one of those?”

Bill was a nice guy. Of course, I’ve only known one tender, but he was by far the best. The place overall was kind of crazy the way it was built. From the front you see an old boarded up dress shop and then this dilapidated doorway almost hanging from the side. Twenty years ago, my first time coming to it, I was afraid to walk in. I held onto my dad’s hand tight and pulled my knees repeatedly up too my chest trying to conquer those stairs. The entire stair well was encased in rotting paint and plaster and that was all you could see as your eyes followed the steps straight up. At the top you were facing a wall and to the right was another doorway, also without a door. My dad turned without pausing other than to brush the cobwebs out of the doorframe and walked right in. My own hand dropped from his and I just stood there at the edge. I was unable to move. Even back then I didn’t like change but that wasn’t it. It was one of those feelings you get when you walk into a room and you feel it at some other time and it just doesn’t feel right. You can hear the voices and catch little glimpses and snibits but nothing concrete other than the understanding that these things being experienced seem familiar. I didn’t realize what was going on back then but it’s a feeling I know all too well now. The only problem is that you don’t know if these are things that are going to happen or if they already have. Not that knowing the time would make any difference. It’s just nice to know what to expect.

“Daryl,… you want another Beer or not?”

Stones and Arrows

2004-07-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

There is a little up arrow in my dashboard that lights up every time I should shift to the next gear. My car thinks it knows how to drive better than I do. My car is an arrogant little prick. I still pat it lovingly and encourage it up the hills every day because it doesn't realize what an arrogant prick it is.

-------------------------

Six years ago and in Guatemala I entered a jewelry store. There they sold the finest jade. I bought a turtle-pendant necklace for my sister that hung from a lovely silver chain. To delight me, they gave a piece of uncut jade with my purchase.

"This has problems many" the jeweler told me in broken English. "It is not good for making jewelry."

I replied back in Spanish to say that was too bad. I assured him the dull, unfit stone would find a home with me. When I returned to the states, I found the small rectangle of jade fit perfectly over the small panel that held the offending arrow in my dash. The little blinking wouldn’t bother me any longer.

--------------------------

For the past six years, whenever I am on a long trip and in fifth gear, knowing the arrow will hold his peace; I remove the stone and rub it between my thumb and forefinger. It's a nervous habit as much as it is a way to pass the time. For the past six years though, it hasn't escaped my attention that the stone is becoming more and more beautiful with every passing drive.

Sunday thoughts

2004-07-18T18:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, like all the others
I felt unwound. The blue smoke
of tomorrow halos my inwards
and I wonder
if you are not making this
harder than it should be.

Once, in the distance

2004-07-10T22:30:00.000-07:00

Her words were the strongest thing I had ever heard. They stirred my soul and left me wanting, wondering. The pressure was unknown in our condition. My hands fumbled over what might have been her silhouette and caressed softly. A gentle purr was at my ear. All that night I held her, loved her. We listened to the sweet music and confused it with our souls. There was laughter but it did not change us. There was no need to speak. In the morning we did not say goodbye, for we had never met.

Drowning

2004-07-09T19:42:00.000-07:00

I find myself drowning often and with no water around.

It's the edge of the moon that I hang on to--

it floats high enough sometimes to lift me.

What I would have thought on Sunday

2004-07-06T18:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday as I drifted off to dreaming daze
I dreamt I talked with you. You told me
how much fun you had and how you sold a thing
or two. I looked so deep into your smile
I heard of how was well. And of the man
with big moustache that bought some little bell.
With bottom lip uncovered grin and
whiskers holding lunch--
he spoke, you said, of beauty held...
by some certain little belle.

And then we smiled truth together
knowing of what he spoke
while looking into those same bright eyes

that held me now enthralled-
while I lifted off to dreaming daze
together with you falling.

Changing Expressions

2004-07-06T02:13:00.000-07:00

Well, I think the bullet will simply remain on my plate. You never know when one of those things is going to go off. As far as Chance goes, I’ve decided to leave him be. I’m going to go back to hanging out with someone less obnoxious. Less risky. My old friend Fate. Now, as Chance would have it, Fate has been a pretty dull and reclusive individual in my experience. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he has no friends at all. I just can’t get past all the people telling me how lucky they were that he was on their side and led them to meet the most wonderful life. So in good faith, I’ll just wait and see what Fate turns up. I sure can’t get over that smug grin on his face though.

Julia (a character introduction)

2004-07-03T00:59:00.000-07:00

A woman is like a puzzle, only the picture is in her head instead of on some box top where it can be seen. She alone knows what it should look like and it’s up to you to try and slowly unravel it- piece by piece. The hardest thing to figure is the first kiss.

For some this is easy and it’s given over without hesitation, before even names are shared, it comes; wet, sloppy, and lifeless. It’s happened too many times to make this kiss any more extraordinary and the only purpose it serves is too keep the guy enthralled because he is sure to get more of something later if he just keeps talking.

Other women understand that it is simply part of the first date goodnight rites. Their lips pucker and wait for the meeting. With a little prying the lips will part if it was a good night and the tongue says hello.

But it’s over as quickly as it started.

Then there is the one that wants to get to know you. The one that thinks "who you are" actually maters. This is Julia. She moves in slow and soft with her whole body and then darts away like a phantom. She lets you know she wants more with her eyes but would never provide the opportunity. It’s a game of how long will you wait for me. Or how badly do you want it? Can you guess my rules?

Sunday Thoughts

2004-06-27T14:31:00.000-07:00

Is it alright with you if we just sit here for a while
and say nothing at all?

Magnolia

2004-06-24T23:12:00.000-07:00

I climbed a tree tonight. Jen sat below talking on her cell phone and looking up occasionally- Skeptical.
It had been so long.
The wide mango tree of 1985 was probably still in that yard, lonely. Its fallen fruit still wanted to be tossed at one of my friends. My friends wanted to dodge it, wanted to be covered in that sweet sticky sap. We wanted to hang from every bough. Normally it came with some effort.
Tonight the branches lifted me. The birds fluttered away. My body hung close to the trunk as my hands drifted searching for the next branch. Slowly I curved my way up and rested for a while as necessary.
Below started to fade into the same darkness that I couldn't see above me. The world was calling out and asking me to join it. I wished I could but I was committed to moving hand over hand towards the crown. Towards some accomplishment. The stars were filtering through the leaves. The breeze, at the top, hit me. It washed over and told me this was alright.
Jen was calling out. I looked down at the blackness I had left behind. She wanted to know if I was okay. I wasn't.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-06-20T14:14:00.000-07:00

Often hardly the wind speaks up
and offers, constricted, it's thoughts
on laughter steeped in draughts
and liquor filled over cups

that hold a time past remembering. Turn
to other ways burned spent yearning
for some tangent held taught in confliction.
Moon rises slowly over desert breeze

and is, to the channels, no less filled
with angst than the sun as it climbs
every hour wasting a day to build

what could only in four stanzas be thought
as good. Beauty only lasts long enough
for the hourglass making its own time.

Road Trip

2004-06-20T11:44:00.000-07:00

I was taping the Alabama state map over my sun roof. It was nice to sit in the shade of the bridge while the big rigs roared by.
The little sliding door had come out about two years ago because the lining had fallen and was rubbing my head. I would have put it back once the lining was fixed but a year later a leak formed around the glass and I had to silicone it shut for good.
I don’t procrastinate, I just find other things to do.
Things that are more important than the sun beating down.
Who needs to figure out how to get anywhere in Alabama anyway?
For the first time in eight hours a good song came through the fuzz on my radio and
Zepplin was heard trying to buy a stairway. I decided to sit for a while longer and see if he could get a good deal.
At least now, whenever I’m lost, I just look up.

Produce

2004-06-18T10:59:00.000-07:00

Understood that the world is an apple yet
falling. Realized that there is time to find yourself.
The tree drinks for hours what I never
thought to offer. The apple rolls happy in the grass.
The worm stops to thank God, amazed
at its good luck.

2004-06-10T01:20:00.000-07:00

Point me at the man

hiding in his shame, spent.
What happened to the days
where sin left us shattered
and sitting in a puddle with our hearts rent?

Point me at the man

who is such a coward to steal
what should never have been
his. Doesn’t he feel
something so precious
can only be a gift?

Point me at the man.

He is my fiend. The one
who comes in the night to conquer
will be nothing like this
heat
blistering
hatred
that I am to become.

Point me at the man.

I won’t pull that trigger
but he’ll wish I had.

Mid-Week Post

2004-06-08T06:50:00.000-07:00

I've seen lots of lists and thought, "Hey, I don't have any lists."

So here it is, my first unofficial list.

Don’t you just hate it when…

1. you forget to save?
2. there’s two spoons and only one bite left
3. then you wonder who’s had more?
4. Monday lasts longer that the weekend?
5. you run out of underwear?
6. your flip flop breaks?
7. you forget what you were going to say?
8. that look is shared but you both keep walking?
9. the bird flies away?
10. you thought you had one more piece of gum?
11. you can’t play in the rain?
12. you want a cigarette?
13. the nearest bathroom is closed for custodial cleaning?
14. your road trip companion wants to play that same song over and over again?
15. you can’t decide?
16. they can’t decide?
17. the desire is only yours?
18. the packing material doesn’t pop just right?
19. the lid is up but you sit down?
20. the day ends?
21. your heart breaks?
22. the morning comes?
23. your spirit shakes?
24. you don’t know what to say?
25. you have to wait?
26. it happens too fast?
27. the last song is played?
28. you want nothing more than to run down the streets naked
29. and screaming?
30. you’re drunk and playing truth or dare and you knew you should have taken a dare?
31. you have to wear shoes?
32. you step in it?
33. you don’t realize you stepped in it until you get to the kitchen?
34. you think of the last time that you…
35. a telemarketer calls
36. and you think they sound cute
37. but you have to say, “No thanks”?
38. the techno station from Austin isn’t coming in clearly?
39. the perfect date ends?
40. every good book has to end?

Sunday Thoughts

2004-06-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

There is that feeling
that it will all be alright.
There is that notion
that the darkness can't hold on.
There is this love that is ever lifting.
Nothing good is ever found
without our heavy hands
ripping clovers from the ground.

But we know that good luck
is ours

because we worked for it.

Bling, bling

2004-06-05T02:05:00.000-07:00

I don't really know what bling, bling means. But something tells me I should. Leaving the building yesterday I heard, "Hey man, you know I got the bling, bling." There were some emphatic "Yahs" and both high and low fives were exchanged.

I have this sinking feeling that I am slowly slipping out of whatever small level of coolness I once had...

Not that it was ever that high. I'd say on a cool scale of one to ten, I needed decimals.

Really.

Or one of those cool kids to hang out with. And they would. Hang out with me that is. But then they would take Rocks and my dad's free weights and smash all of my matchbox cars. And then laugh. And I tried not to cry, but I usually did.

They would say "Ha ha! Looks like the comet struck!" They thought mocking would make me feel even worse.

It didn't though because I knew I could watch the comet all night- slowly creeping across the Florida night sky.

Back then I was sure of nothing but my mother's love. And it has still been carrying me strong through this day.

I'm really pretty cool now though. All of my friends think so.

What more do we need than love?

House Guest

2004-06-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

I had him by the back leg and he had my peanut-butter sandwich grasped firmly and dangling from his mouth. Together we looked kinda comical. It was almost like a TV sitcom and everything was happening just like we planned it: dog took the cue and grabbed prop, main actor lunged desperately flailing after dog and just barely snagged him. But there was nothing comical about this. My eyes were filled with rage and that little guy knew the thing was bigger now than the peanut-butter sandwich. It was about dominance and the simple ability to enjoy that fucking sandwich.

I could tell in the first few hours of being there it wasn’t going to be easy. “Here Boy, come get your supper,” I said all sweet and cute-like when I first arrived. (You always have to make friends with the dogs first). This dog had been sleeping and too busy at it to bother with me when I walked in. Now he came tearing around the corner. He slid sideways across the kitchen’s tiled floor with his legs going in no particular direction then came to a brief thud against the island bar. This act, which would have embarrassed most dogs I would think, didn’t even seem to get noticed. Instead the dog revved his feet at full throttle, knocked over a few stools, and came scampering over to where I was still trying to pour the brown stuff out. Now if the little beast would’ve had any manners, he would sit there and wait until I was done. Waiting was apparently the farthest thing from his mind. For the next moment or two all I could make out was muzzle and bits of dog food going everywhere. Somewhere in the backdrop too I could see this tail going. Eventually I got the bowl settled on the washer and was able to use both hands to pin the sucker down. I gave him a good holler and then he moped off back into the living room.

I swept up the mess, looked into the bowl marked “Codie” and sighed. There were maybe five pieces left in it. Just incase the dog hadn’t learned his lesson, I set the bowl on the ground this time and started pouring again. Sure enough, before I even finished there was a thud, scraping chairs, and this dog face-first in the bowl. The last few bits would have poured on top of his head if I didn’t raise the bag. I thought that would be it. He’d finish, which he already had, and I’d give him a treat. But the thing was, there were no treats. The Milk-Bone box was bone dry. This presented a problem as I stood there looking dumbfounded and Codie just glared at me angrily. I don’t like to deal with this sort of shit in my profession. I shrugged my shoulders attempting empathy and made to move forward thinking the dog would get out of the way. I was ready to check out the stereo and the thirty-seven inch TV I noticed on the way in. He wasn’t having it though. He tilted his head to the side and back a little. I could almost hear him, “Look, I ate this bowl of shit… now gimme my fucking treat. I deserve a treat.” Well, I couldn’t blame him. If I had to eat that crap I’d want a treat too. So I rummaged through the fridge past the pricey wines and Zip-Lock bags with fancy names on them and finally turned up some deli ham. I pulled a greasy slice out and handed it to Codie then wiped my hand on my jeans. The dog seemed content then and I went upstairs to hunt in the closet. I needed to find something that was a little more fitting to the grandeur of this house.

I was unfortunate enough to have the company of my new friend yapping along behind me. While this was a bit of a bother, I didn’t pay him much attention until he turned his yap into a snarl as I leafed through the grey and black suits. He was quite the guard dog weighing in probably around thirty pounds and standing two feet tall. Codie might even have held a minor presence if it weren’t for the rib bones poking through his sides. I wanted to laugh. “Back off mutt!” I yelled and stomped my foot. Dog are for weak people, people that need the validation of being loved. I don’t need it and don’t have the time for it. I just don’t want this hump of mange to get any ideas on taking a nip out of me. Codie just sat there though and flattened his ears back a little. This animosity was foreign to me. I fed him and even gave him some ham. What the hell did the dog want out of me? Stroking the back of his head seemed to calm him down a little but as soon as I went to trying on the pants he latched heavily onto the cuff and started tugging with all his might on them. “Forget it,” I said. A few steps and a hardy swing left the dog tumbling across the carpet and me standing there holding the tattered leg of the suit pants. As Codie came tearing back at me I gave up on the idea and dropped the clothes on the floor. That seemed to make him happy enough and he went back to yapping and trotting behind me like one of those miniature ponies as I inspected the rest of the house.

“You all got some sweet goods, don’tcha boy?” Codie’s tail went to wagging faster. I leaned back against the hallway wall and pulled out my can of Copenhagen. I gave it a few good thumps, twisted the top off and remarked, “You’re sure gonna miss it all when it’s gone.” Codie had no idea what I was talking about but he could smell the tobacco and figured that must be good. He took one bound and hit the bottom of the can square with his snout. That snuff went everywhere and I cussed him longer than I had ever sustained a good string of words before. Now I was down with the mutt on hands and knees trying to scrape up what could be saved and much to my dismay it wasn’t much. I shoved him off to the side. He came right back and set his tongue to licking right where my hands were. I shoved him back again and moved to a spot not drooled on. He came right back. I shoved and moved. He came back and lapped. Finally after a few minutes of this I threw in the lid and just let the dog have his way.

“Are you happy boy?”

“Ruff!” Codie just beamed. But that must have been about where it hit him. His eyes glazed over a little and the mouth opened wide. He let his tongue hang out, hunched his head over and just dragged himself along the wall until it ended. He was making this hacking noise the whole way. It occurred to me that I had no idea what would happen to a dog if it ate a whole can of snuff. The thought had never crossed my mind to test it out before. That would have just been a horrible waste of snuff. I did know how I felt when I swallowed some of my spit so I just imagined the dumb dog must be feeling it good right about now. Codie collapsed and rolled onto his back once he was out in the open room. He rolled back over after a few seconds and tried to throw up a little. It wasn’t like I could call the vet. The best thing to do was probably keep him company and hope for the best. I watched this house for a week so I knew the home owners wouldn’t be back for a few days. It wouldn’t hurt to be set behind schedule just a little.

After a couple of hours Codie fell into some sort of miserable sleep and I figured this would be about as good a time as any to start loading the Cherokee. TVs, Stereos, and electronics went out first. Those were always the easiest to front and usually got the highest prices. Lap tops were a rare find since folks always take them along but I personally had the luck of coming across one or two through the years. After that was the silver and collectables. This guy had a generous collection of hand guns and you can never have too many of those. Of particular interest though was the large display of miniature statues and eclectic boxes. I’ve heard these things are pretty pricey but seriously, who the hell would want to buy them? Picture frames though, those were like gold. The nice ones were anyway. A couple hundred of those at an antique shop could fetch almost half a grand. I spent nearly an hour ripping out pictures of this happy looking couple standing in front of landscapes of what must have been every foreign country out there. People are always so wasteful of their money. They think just because they inherited daddy’s company and every asset it had that they have no responsibility to the world around them. They never even give a thought to the ones dying all around them. Not even enough thought to feed their own dog.

Five hours later I was done. I couldn’t get the safe open so I jacked it out and put the whole damn thing in the back. If it weren’t for the uncertain fate of this dog I could go on my way. I had other things to do you know. But it just didn’t seem right to let the beast die alone. The jeep was filling up the third space in the garage so it didn’t make much difference. I decided to curl up beside the thing and sleep the morning through. Even if someone saw me leave it’s not like they could trace the jeep back to me. I smiled at this and dozed off to dreams of which pawn shop I would hit first.

When I woke up and looked at my watch it was three thirty. I scanned the room and saw Codie sitting proudly by the kitchen next to his puddle of vomit. The look on his face said “feed me.” Reluctantly I dragged myself up and did so. It was the same mess of jump kick and pour that I went through the previous night. Giving in, I decided to glare at him and let him eat the food off the floor. I didn’t give him a treat this time. If the bastard can’t sit still while I pour his food then he doesn’t deserve a treat. Having been sick the night before was no excuse. I told him so. Codie looked reproachful. Feeling my own hunger I sorted through the fancy crap and came up with a jar of peanut-butter and a loaf of “everything” bread. Now I still have no idea what everything bread is but the idea felt appealing. The peanut-butter got lathered thick on one slice and the other slice laid nicely on top. I had to laugh because there weren’t any dishes left to eat it on. Who only keeps fine china? I set the sandwich on the kitchen table and headed back to the fridge to find a beer. That’s when the dog made his last fatal move. He hopped up on the chair, grabbed the sandwich and made for the doorway. The dog darted. I lunged. There was terror in his eyes when I latched onto his leg and there was rage in mine.

“That’s my sandwich Bitch!” I shouted from my prostrate position. Codie could tell the urgency of the moment and his jaws started to go. He snapped his mouth shut and up like an alligator eating a steak-- devouring my sandwich one bite at a time. By the time I reeled him in hand over hand all that was left for me to pull out of his greedy mouth was one slobbery bite. I don’t think I had ever been so enraged. How could this little brat, after all the hassle I went through, steal the one thing I tried to enjoy? Man I needed a dip. Codie still sat there in front of me now sort of cowering down like he knew he did something wrong. I went through the cupboard list in my mind and tried to remember if I had seen any coffee. The verdict was none, only tea. I wished the pathetic mutt would have died the night before instead of putting me through this misery. His tail was moving back and forth on the floor. I looked at him for a moment in disgust. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and held him up with his eyes leveled to mine. They told quite the story. He whimpered a little. The tail was curled delicately over his balls. I had enough. I considered throwing him into the shower and turning the cold water on full blast. The idea of finding some nice chemicals to feed him crossed my mind too, but I decided against it. I tucked him under one arm, grabbed the bag of dog food with the other, then walked out to the garage and set them both down in the back seat of my jeep. As I pulled the door closed, Codie hopped into the passenger seat and went to yapping. His tail was beating hard against the worn upholstery.

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This story, though mostly fictitious, is based on a true dog. Please support you local Fuzzy Friends or animal rescue shelter by volunteering or adopting today!

2004-05-31T15:22:00.000-07:00

If you've been to this site and actually thought it was a good idea to come back, then you just might enjoy this. I never intended to have out going links on this page, but the idea of a group story just sounded like too much fun. It brings me back to the old days sitting around the campfire and just letting the imagination run wild- screaming "purple bunny! purple bunny purple bunny!" everytime the smoke started hoarding your way. So hop over, place your fingers down, and let your thoughts carry you away!

This is where it begins:

The rain was pouring. It was dark. Eliza was tired. She continued to wait for Tom by the tree per their discussion. Frustrated, she lit a cigarette.

She looked down a her shoes, her left one soaked. She lifted her foot to inspect her sole. As she suspected, it was cracked, the rubber of her trusty old Chuck Taylors had given up.

"That's what you get for hanging onto shoes you owned in highschool," she thought to herself.

Sunday Thoughts

2004-05-30T11:17:00.000-07:00

Listen
I have tried to make this easy
rolling your thoughts over my tongue.
There's just too much
in a day
to make it rise up
like a flame. I saw
when you walked over to the garden
and sat down in your skirts
thinking you were alone.
Your toes dipped
into the pond and I
plunged in after you.
Now I swim all day
looking for little nibbles or
just the brush of your shoulder afterwards.

Bakery

2004-05-28T16:59:00.000-07:00

They should just sell the cookie dough as is, really. There’s no reason to go through with this whole baking facade. We all want it Raw. Not hard and course. Not crunchy. We like the things that melt warmly and soft on our tongues, the things that are gushing life and depth. Love is best left alone. I only want your fingers kneading my flesh. Delicate little licks, quick and soft. Long and steady thrusts. It’s not worth spending all that time working on something to end only half baked. Convince me I’m wrong.

Haze (Instalment II/final)

2004-05-28T00:09:00.000-07:00

(It starts here.)

Overall, it looked like she had one Rum and Coke too many. Maybe I should have kept putting the Coke in her drink? But after the first two, she was really too wasted to make much difference either way. And so she sat; arms limp at either side, legs crossed like an Indian. Primitive. Just waiting for whatever and looking frazzled over the top.

The waistband managed to wiggle up between the rolls her stomach made when she sat sort of hunched like that. It occurred to me that I should probably set the trash can in front of her. Or at least motion to wrap this little game up. If they still made those clocks that sounded like a gong chiming in every hour it would have gotten tired by now. I didn’t even want to think about work the next day. Today rather. In a few hours at least I could put this all behind me. Move on to the normal things people do; like shit for a while then eat. Afterwards drink a cup of coffee and get on the Metra. Weekends work, weekdays school. But tonight, it’s sit and watch. For Hours.

Fading fast now my eyes start to slit. The cries of “I see it” won’t hold them. I glare over and think maybe this time I might actually see it too. A maroon haze around the grotesque form. Revolting, to even think, I would waste so much time drifting into otherwise settled… (It has always seemed like that moment just before you drift off into a dream that anything is possible.)

-------------

I’m not sure how but I am wide eyed awake now and the clock doesn’t seem to have made much progress. There’s sunlight through the curtains though and I figure the parents will be home anytime soon. Shoulda done this shit in the dorm. There’s a few people sleeping in the corners, on different couches, and random places on the floor. The girl is still half naked though no longer slouching over. It’s more what you would call “slumped” than anything. She’s left as a pile of flesh balled up and thrown into a puddle of vomit and piss. Yah, it looks like a mix of both as best I can tell.

I don’t know why, but for some reason I pity her, revolting chunks, yellow slime, and all. Maybe I’m still drunk. Maybe the throbbing head impairs my disinterest. I should be crowding everyone out. I should be forcing them to take as many handfuls of trash and left over cases of beer out the door with them as possible. And I should be cleaning, desperately cleaning. The whole moment throbs urgent.

But I can only think of her and how she might feel waking up in her excretions and seeing everyone she was hoping to fit in with walking around and over her looking disgusted and her feeling worthless and wondering what she had done and how she could recover and where she could go and it occurred to me that I simply had to get her out of there. I had to remove her from their sight before anyone could see her disgrace.

And so I lifted her delicately. For the first time now I looked down into that face. It was nothing extraordinary. Her eyes were closed snugly and the lashes fluttered only a little. I imagined them open and rolled back up into their sockets. It appeared she had put makeup on the night before in good faith but with little skill. The mascara and deep purple eye-shadow gave a look almost demonic and there was spittle hanging from the side of her mouth. Far from decadent. The thick scent drifted upwards, putrid, unhuman.

Being careful not to disturb the slumbering, I slowly picked my way through the intertwines of legs and bodies- carrying hers like a groom would. I reached the stairs and looked up. I decided that would be the safest place for us to go. The safest place for her to be hidden away. So the shame would be unknown. I don’t know what leveling of grace moved me to do this. I don’t know what passion caused me to feel like I did. But it was powerful.

I laid her down on my mothers side of the bed and pulled the sopped panties down and off. I smiled. She was safe from them now. I looked and the gentle blue aura was now clear, screaming calm and innocence. I moved slowly and placed my hand over her mouth. I could smell her stench. I dropped my pants. As I mounted her I could see those open eyes filled with terror. I felt her whole body try to cry out, but nothing could stop me.