February 9, 2010
i’m not gonna talk to you, i just wanna get some thai food.
don’t judge me, you hear me. i got nothing to say to you.
my mistake, i just thought, well, you know that you were going to ask me for something.
i’m might, but not now. i might, but no, i’m hungry, move.
maybe on the way back i’ll hit you up, no, never mind.
seems like an honest mistake, you were coming right at me, looking at me.
i’m getting my food and not looking at you anymore, let me be.
when I’ve got some thai food, i’ll get energy and then shake rattle my cup.
i drove by you and you didn’t even look at, man, i looked right at you, you just thrust your arm out at the last minute and
rattled your cup.
February 8, 2010
It’s all there exactly as we left it only now its all in boxes faded and priced to sell.
It served me well when I needed it and it served us each as it was made to do.
It’s missing something or marred a bit, but it’ll go well.
Just throw it away.
It’s all there arranged as I left them only now the walls are gone and the rain pours in.
It served me well when I needed it and it did just what it was supposed to do.
It’s an eyesore or a living rotting work of art I suppose.
Just burn it down.
It’s all there somewhere as I remember it being, but it only comes out just all wrong.
It’s served me well when I needed it and they do what I wanted them to do.
It’s my brain playing tricks on me as I say the exact same things.
Just bury me.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Chamberlain County, Choking Doberman, Gagging Chihuahua, Short Story, Tad
February 7, 2010
Tad and I were headed back to his or the “safe” side of the river. Although, he was also just a “come here” in his own right, Tad enjoyed a unique status as a local curiosity. He was a true individualist with a heart of gold and not a judging bone in his body so when he and I were out in the Choking Doberman on his side of the river, we essentially got a free pass. The only problem is that we weren’t on his side of the river. We were still on my side where we enjoyed very few privileges aside from the occasional flirtatious glance from a local girl, but this only added fuel to the fire – I’ll get to that later. For now we were about one half mile from the turn off to the Rassanutten River bridge that connected Chamberlain and Leister counties. We were popping homemade cassettes of our fledgling band in and out of the tape deck when we saw the flickering red of a cherry top coming up fast behind us. With the Doberman in this county in this condition with Tad and I inside, we were in for a long night.
Of course we pulled over. Tad was behind the wheel this time as he was sober and I usually took over only when he had somehow procured alcohol which was not the case tonight. We waited as the large vehicle pulled up behind us and basically blinded us with the high set lights of an overly raised, ridiculously ramped up off road vehicle. Tad and I giggled nervously as we waited. I suppose he was doing a plate check. We had nothing to hide and no reason to scramble so we just sat their waiting for our fate. I swear it must have been about ten minutes. Tad finally turned off the car…
“What the hell are you two doin?”
Was all we heard as we were startled into looking out Tad’s window into the close set eyes of twitchy double barrel shotgun. No lie.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Chamberlain County, Chocking Doberman, Fiction, Gagging Chihuahua, Growing Up, Installment, Short Story
February 6, 2010
We were driving along in Tad’s 1962 For Galaxie 500. We nicknamed her “Choking Doberman”. I think it was going to be the name of our production company when we got around to becoming media moguls. For the time being, it was a very worn out ’62 Galaxie. As a side note, a few years later I would acquire a 1963 Chevy Nova as my first car and it would be christened something that I think Tad was secretly jealous of. We called her the “Gagging Chihuahua”.
Tad and I were driving the Chocking Doberman pretty much everywhere. I don’t recall how legal she was, but we somehow had both the state inspection and registration stickers proudly displayed on her surprisingly clear windshield. It was in this car on one particular night when we encountered Timmy, the son of an affluent local from my side of the river. Affluence usually guaranteed certain rights of way that the rest of us didn’t have Affluence was determined by the simple fact of where your family was from. If you were from one of the dozen or so local families you had it, if you were a “come here” you didn’t. I was most certainly a “come here”. Tad? He wasn’t even from this side of the river so he was essentially no better than a “tourist” or simply the lowest of the low, at least this was the case in the eyes of the affluent. Tonight was the night that Timmy decided to put the “law” into his own hands.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Desire, Free Time, poem, Politics, Protest
February 5, 2010
I want your time. I want that space between days. I want that possibility.
You know who you are. You spend it carelessly.
You throw it away.
I wish I could dive in and grab it before it smashes on the floor.
I want your day. I want that morning that night. I want that frivolity.
You know where you are. You spend it recklessly.
You let it turn stale.
I wish I could dive in and grab it before it turns to bitter crumbs.
I want your simplicity. I want that empty headedness. I want that calm.
You know what you are. You spend it mindlessly.
You rub it in our faces.
I wish I could dive in and grab it before it turns to dust in your hands.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Boss, Contradictions, free verse, poem, work
February 4, 2010
He is an all right sort. He does not let you know what you do not need to know and he does not let you know anything. There is no need to know basis because he does not know so what is there to know after all.
He is an odd sort. He tells you to stop writing and listen to what he saying when he is talking to you. When he is talking to you he wants you to write things down as it is important to remember what he says.
He is a quiet sort. He does not want to hear what is contradictory or what is inconsistent from others. He does not want to tell you what where how when how much or anything like that as you should know.
He is a wanton sort. He has had enough of all of this and that is that and all that and he wants guidance and supervision and instruction and accountability and he wants none of it to ever happen all at the same time.
He is a wondrous sort.
No he is not.
Not really.
Yes.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Gods, Grotesque, Loose verse, poem, Pray, Sin
February 3, 2010
This is not sin eater’s lament
But you may think so
I am a sin eater
So you can be beautiful
I walk these streets and where these clothes and eat these foods
So you can be clean
This not a sin eater’s song
But you may think so
I am a sin eater
So you can be at peace
I live in this place and work this job and live alone
So you can be free
This is not a sin eater’s psalm
But you may think so
I am a sin eater
So you can be loved
I am impure and I am grotesque and I am unhealthy
So you can live
This not a sin eater’s cry
Even if you think so
I am a sin eater
Look at me
When I turn to you tell me what I want to hear
Do they gods pray to us
For forgiveness
For their failings
For their fatal flaws
If they do
Will you join me
And eat their sin?
February 2, 2010
I am trembling so much that I can’t even hold the books in my hands.
I can’t let them see that.
I am trembling so much that I can’t do anything but smile.
I can’t let them see it.
I am trembling so much that I can’t walk fast enough.
I can’t let them know that.
I am trembling so much that I can’t find my way in.
I can’t let them know it.
I am trembling so much.
I am trembling.
I am trembling so much.
I tremble.
I walk on.
I am hiding so much that I can’t even focus on the words in front of me.
I can’t let them see me.
I am hiding so much that I can’t do anything but laugh.
I can’t let them see it.
I am hiding so much that I can’t relax my throat.
I can’t let them know me.
I am hiding so much that I can’t sit still.
I can’t let them know it.
I am hiding so much.
I am hiding.
I am hiding so much.
I hide.
I fall down.
I remember so much that I can’t tell you what to do you have to find out for yourself.
I can’t let you see me.
I remember so much that I can’t do anything but pray.
I can’t let you see it.
I remember so much that I can’t tell the stories.
I can’t let you know me.
I remember so much that I can’t talk.
I can’t let you know it.
I remember so much.
I remember.
I remember so much.
I hold on.
You will know.
You will.
I am thankful.
For you.
Now go.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: 11 years old, Fighting, Home Town, Prose, Reminiscience
February 1, 2010
We’re in the backyard, it’s probably about six thirty and its pretty dark for this time of the year. Del is standing about ten yards behind us, facing us, but with his back to the shed that he does not live in, but spends most of the hour of the days of his life there. He is wearing the stained coveralls that he’s worn every time I’ve ever seen him. Rob and I are facing each other in the front of Del. We’ve been hanging out the whole day and by this point we’ve probably gotten on each other’s nerves. My guess is that we were having such a good time goofing off that we thought it would be cool if I hung out for dinner.
Looking back on it, I was probably an additional mouth to feed seeing as they lived in a three room house and there were three girls, them mom, Del and Rob to feed as it was. Whatever the case, I know that we probably were milking a fun afternoon for all that it was worth and by the time nighttime came we were probably a little sick of each other and we started bickering. Most likely it was over matchbox cars or star wars figures and who got to play with which ones. All I know is that we must have been bothering someone in the house with our rough housing. Rob and I were shoving each other and we pushed each other again. It didn’t take long for Del to stop whatever it was that he was doing in that shed of his and come into the house and literally grab both of us by our ears and drag us outside. He held us by the ears and twisted until we quit our griping. After he let go of our ears he told us that we were going to get this out of our system and we were going to do it like men and not like a couple of sissies. He told us that neither of us was going anywhere until we fought like men and until one of us drew blood. Then and only then would that be the end of it. Then he shoved us toward each other.
At first I couldn’t look at Del or Rob and all I could think about was how much I wanted to go back to my own home where this kind of thing didn’t happen. I was probably being a sissy, but at the time that’s what made perfect sense to me. I figured that Rob was probably used to this sort of thing and expected him to get the first punch in. I looked up and saw Rob’s eyes and instead of the blank stare of resignation or the false sneer of some eleven-year-old rough neck I saw a real fear in his eyes. I saw that he was pausing a bit so I put up my “dukes” as it were and we moved around in some silly circle like we were two prizefighters about to fight for the golden gloves. As we moved around this circle Del reminded us that we had to do this until someone drew blood and that he could stand out here all night and if he had to he would whip the both of us. I looked at Rob again and he had the same bright-eyed expression splashed across it. A look of “what next?” I looked at him and realized that between the two of us this could go on all night. I mean we were two friends staring at each other who had realized that we had way too much fun together to take this any further and that sharing matchbox cars or star wars figures wasn’t really all that big of a deal.
We actually had a détente and were ready to call it a night, go to our homes and hook up later in the week to pick up where we left off. But Del was having none of this. The fight was on and he was getting sick of waiting. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was not trying to prove to us anything about how to settle our disagreements like men, or even how silly we were being, he simply wanted our fights to be real and not verbal. He didn’t want us to act like sissies and even in that moment our silent understanding was only a further act of “sissiness” in his mind. I didn’t know what to do and Rob didn’t know what to do. In the end, I just decided to punch Rob in the stomach. I realize that this would not draw blood, but I figured we had to get this started and I couldn’t hit my friend in the face. Turns out that I misjudged and what I actually ended up hitting was Rob’s belt buckle and I got the skin between my pinky and my ring finger caught in it and when I pulled back I tore the skin and blood trickled all over my hand and started to drip on the ground. I realized that this was all that Del needed so I turned to him, asked if he was “happy now”? and I walked back into the house. I got Rob’s mom to call my mom and she came and picked me up. I didn’t recount the story to her because I knew that would not allow me to visit Rob any more. Despite what kind of life Rob may be living there, I liked him and I wanted to hang out with him. I’m actually not sure I ever told her the story. I do still have the scar on my right hand between those two fingers.
January 31, 2010
There are words that I will not use. They will be cliché, rudimentary, the obvious. There are words that will pigeon hole and disrupt. There are words that will get a rise. There are words that will level the playing field. There are words that will reveal the aphorisms that I hide. There are words that protect the adages I want to fling. There are words that I simply will not use. And then there are words that I can not use. They will be inflammatory, inappropriate, slanted or biased in one way or the other. There are words that will forever decide, forever divide, undue and then close. There are words that I cannot use no matter how hard I try. I say them, but they come out all wrong. There are words that I cannot use no matter how badly I want to because they are not mine. There are words I cannot say because I do not know what they mean. And that is nobody’s fault but mine.
The Best Years of Our Lives 