No Sense in Figurin’ on When

“Just look at him. Standing under that same fucking lamp post like nothing’s going on.”

            Steam like Spirits eschewed from the hood of Dick’s rusty-not rustic- 1985 Mustang. Ice, melted to slush in the off-warmth of the day, nestled into the bosom of the street-curb, solidifying in the chilled night air. John strained his eyes trying to make out the kid. The lamp was flickering as they approached, but died when they killed the engine.

“Can’t get him into the light, can we?” Asked Dick, fooling with the heater. “I like to look at their faces.”

“It’s all the same shit to me.”

“Same shit.”

            The kid leaned on the lamp post, lit up a cigarette, and tapped his knees together. Beyond that, it was hard to make out his face. Had the light not gone out, and the only light been the distant lamps reflecting off of green dumpsters and the side panel of a grey impala, they would have been able to make out his face, contracted and wrinkled in the cold, wind-whipped and sun-blasted (leaving an irregular, patchy tan like a Pinto whose Maaco paint job had seen one too many years), with a pair of eyes painted a dark brown melancholy; a visage carved from out of adolescence, which looked much like James Dean…post mortem.

“Turn on the radio won’t ya, Dick.”

“Speakers blown out.”

“When’d that happen?”

“Dunno. No since in figuring on when.”

“Not like it matters much.” John mumbled in exasperated tones, stretching his arms back, interlacing each finger, cracking every bone, smiling in satisfaction, his eyes squinting in the pleasure of a good stretch. But it would have mattered, had he turned on the radio, which was set to some phony radio-vangelist who would have said thirty minutes of bullshit, rapping around a single line that would have saved John’s soul. Still, “Probably best to keep quiet.” He thought. “Whaddaya make of this kid, anyway?”

“Dunno.”

“Just stands in the dark, waiting for cars to come by.”

“Standing,” he breathed,  “…waiting.” Waiting just as they waited. Breathing just as they breathed. Though the kid, alone, would occasionally respond to a slowing Jetta playing techno music, and perform and intricate performance with his and the driver’s hands. “It’s too damn hot in here.”

“You know what Joe says?”

Dick didn’t give a fuck what Joe said.  But he gave John an appeasing, “What does Joe say?” as he tapped his fingers slowly on the dashboard; tadadadum…tadadadum…

“Says the kid ain’t got no folks. Whaddaya make of a sonnovabitch kid ain’t got no folks?”

“Sad story.”

“They’re all sad stories.”

“Same shit.”

John and Dick watched the kid from the comfort of their steaming ‘stang. They smoked cigarettes and wiped the grit from the corners of their red eyes, though they were red for different reasons. Dick was allergic to cigarette smoke, and his eyes would burn and water every time that he took a puff. John had insomnia, and got about five hours of sleep a week. It was easier after a drink and a smoke, but he was dyspeptic, and the drink would irritate his bowels, so he only drank in private. This was a problem, because he felt like a drunk, drinking alone.

“Did you bring the camera?” John asked.

“I got the camera. In the trunk.

“Well that’s not gonna help us much is it?

“Seat folds back.”

“You gotta think sometimes, Dick.”

“I’ll hold your cigarette.”

“Forget it. It’s almost burnt down anyway. How am I supposed to move around back here with all this shit on the seat? No wonder this car smells like wet socks.”

Dick’s mind was elsewhere. Like machine with a primary function, he maintained locked on what he was programmed to do. Blood, like oil, flowed through his veins to fuel the engine of his heart, which ignited a system made to do one thing without conscience; one thing without repercussion; one thing guided by nothing but his own stock coding to survive, thrive, enterprise, and be the last one standing—standing on a pile of obsolete predecessors.

“Here’s the fuckin’ thing.”

“Just step into the light you little shit. Just step into the light…”

 

Snap. Shot.

 

            The eye is such a complex organ that scientists have yet to develop a comparable device to mimic the capabilities of the original organ. The beauty and intricacy of the retina, the pupil and the iris—the versatility of a lens that can focus in a deep field and a shallow field, in crisp, vibrant color. No physical human capability—no individual talent—can replicate the delicate precision of the eye. All human kind has to attempt to replicate the ocular miracle is a camera–(a lens and a mirror that must be manipulated by hand) that strange device-that fascinated John since he was a child.

John used to photograph beetles that he found under piles of fence posts that his father always intended to put up. Rollie-pollies and pincher bugs were a favorite subject. He made a pinhole camera out of a Pringles can, black electrical tape, and oven paper. His jaw would slump as he stared through the spy-hole, observing the inverted, black and white, blurry version of the world in front of him. In order to see through the pin-hole camera, however, he needed light. So he would take a jar, gather the bugs from the shaded mud under the fence-posts, and transplant the bugs to a sunnier spot; to a slab of concrete in the front yard. On this slab, John used to lay out the six or seven bugs he caught, get out his camera, and excitedly stare at their movements, save for the ones that died along the way.

He would stare longer at the dead dung beetles and pincher bugs, in awe of the stillness that he had yet to achieve, not understanding the finality of their stillness; not understanding the pain of suffocation or the confusion of entrapment, the blinding burning eruption of light forced upon nocturnal sensors magnified by the concave glass jar; magnified by time; time lost, time illuminated, breathless, daunting, foreboding, diminishing…

 

The kid felt heavy in his converse as his thirst demanded that he find something to drink. His throat was like a an introverted cactus. As he swallowed, the needles would scrape against the soft skin of his esophagus, and no descending liquid he could provide could soothe the gashes created by those needles. So he gave in, walked from his parched desert of darkness, and stepped into the light.

 

“What now, John?”

“check his pockets.”

“Kids pockets are empty.”

“Check his jacket lining?”

“The thing’s got guts all over it.”

“I said do it!”

“Got gloves?”

 

“Here… Whaddaya make of this orphan now? Ain’t got no hair on his chin. Scrawny arms, smells like the back seat of your car. D’ya think he was figurin’ on getting’ plugged today?

“…”

“You think he saw our car?”

“There’s nothing in the jacket.”

“What if he saw our car? Knew we were here? Was just waiting for us to come over? Do you think he recognized us?”

“I don’t recognize us.”

“Don’t any of them recognize us?”

“Little bastard’s got at least three G’s sewn into these pants.”

“How many people have we done now?”

“Split it half?”

“How many?”

“Fifty.”

“Fifty…”

“Fifty percent.”

“I’m done.”

“It’s getting light out.”

“Kid’s got three G’s and still don’t shower.”

“Put him in the trunk.”

“Hehe…Kid smells like piss.”

“Put him in the goddamn trunk.”

“Do you even know what he did?”

“I don’t give a shit what he did. Stop laughing.”

“S-sorry. But I just ain’t killed a kid before. It’s just funny to me.”

“I’ll pop the trunk. Get it together.”

“Never killed a kid. Never really pulled the trigger. You know, Dick? Come to think of it, I always just sort of watched. You’re apprentice you know? If you really think about it. This shit ain’t my fault, if you really think about it? It’s all you isn’t it…It’s all you… I ain’t done shit. Just along for the ride………Kids, ya know. Goddamn kid. Stay home! MAKE MONEY! Could’ve had something. Punk little orphan bastard sonnovabitch… Goddamnit you’re a stupid kid…Stupid fucking kid, John.

 

Snap. Shot.

The Elevator

            Mr. Price kept looking at the little scrap of binder paper with the curious note on it.

It will be a good day, Mr. Price

 

When he woke up that morning, his jet-black hair in a net, and his monogrammed silk pajamas shining in the sunlight through the Biltmore window, he was, in fact, in a good mood. “But who the fuck put this note in my shoe?” He scratched his head, yawned wide, and was abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door.

            Christ-all-fucking-mighty, he thought. “Come in.” He said.  A fat old nurse in a flower-print dress with a nametag that said Eliza stepped through the door pushing a cart full of spray bottles with green liquids, clean white linens, and gray-blotched washcloths.

            “Good day, Mister Price.” Mr. Price grunted a response as he took his brown wallet from the bedside table and stuffed the piece of paper behind a picture of a young girl where his ID should be. She was a beautiful brunette girl, almost eight years old, and she was sitting on the ledge of a water fountain. A smile played across her lips, but her eyes were as intense as her father’s.  

                                                Love you, Daddy.

 

            “That’s a lovely ring, Mister Price. Are you married?” Eliza was getting a set of towels and washcloths from her cart for the bathroom when she had noticed the ring on his finger as he set his wallet on the table and cracked his knuckles one by one like little chestnuts.

            “No. Not any more.” He went to the window and looked out onto the world. The sun shone too bright for his half-woken eyes, so he shut the blinds. With the sleeve of his shirt, he polished the ring on his finger. Normally, his lips would be pressed tight together, his thick brow furrowed, and the crows feet beneath his eyes would be like rivers of shadow that flowed into the lake of his blackened eye. But when he polished his ring, his mouth hung just a little bit slack-jawed, and the furrowed brown became one deep in concentration. After the ring shined to his satisfaction, he began to get dressed.

“Listen, did anybody come into my room earlier this morning, or last night?” He asked.

            “I’m not sure Mister Price.” She walked into the bathroom as she spoke. “Will you be staying with us another night?”

            “No. Have my bags sent down.”

            “You will not need them, Mister Price.” Said Eliza. Mr. Price almost missed it. His shirt was halfway over his head and his pajama shorts hung round his ankles. Through his shirt, he felt the ring on his finger, twisting it with his thumb and middle finger.

            “Excuse me?”

            “It will be a good day, Mister Price.” That was it. He walked to the bathroom.

            “What’s going on here?”

            “Is there a problem, Mister Price?” asked the nurse as she pulled back the shower curtain to scrub the tub.

            “Yes. Yes, in fact, there is a big problem. I did not ask for anybody to come into my room last night.” Mr. Price was inches from Eliza, but she kept going about her business.

            “Please, relax. That would make things so much easier for us?”

            “Who is us?”

 

                        Dee-dee-da-da, dee-dee-da-da, dee-dee-dum-dum-dee

 

            Mister Price looked at the name that flashed across the screen of his cell phone, then opened it and shut it abruptly, the sound of plastic clapping against plastic echoing in the bathroom.

            “It’s going to be such a nice day.” Said Eliza as she made her way toward the bed. “You’ve come as far as you need to go.” She threw the sheets and blankets off of the bed and began replacing the sheets with fresh linens. “The bed will be fresh for you tonight, we guarantee that.”

            “Get it through your fat ugly head, Woman. I’m not staying another night!”

            “Today is to nice of a day to go running, Mister Price.”

            Mr. Price pressed Eliza’s hand against the bed as she folded the sheet over, and he looked her straight in the eyes. “Where would I run?”

            “There’s no place to run around here Mister Price.” She pulled her hands away and continued bustling about the room.. “It’s always too cold. Too much traffic.”

                        Dee-dee-da-da, dee-dee-da-da, dee-dee-dum-dum-dee                       

 

“Jesus Fucking God All mighty!” muttered Mr. Price.

“Don’t abandon him too, Mister Price.”

                        Dee-dee-da-da, dee-dee-da-da, dee-dee-dum-dum-dee

 

Mr. Price turned off his phone and ran out the door, over to the elevator, stopped suddenly, and ran back to the bathroom, grabbing his comb from the black toiletry bag on the counter. He combed his hair as he ran back down the hall.

            “It will be a good day, Mister Price.” Eliza said as soft as ever.

            “Bring my bags down.” He shouted from the hall.

            “You will not need them, Mister Price.”

            “Fuck off.” He said, as he ran to the elevator, combing his hair, his pressed white shirt untucked, his belt undone, his pants unbuttoned. Impatiently, he pressed the DOWN button over and over and over again until finally, a small bing announced the arrival of his departure.

The door opened, greeting him with the quizzical stares of a beautiful woman and a little girl, about eight years old, with brown pigtails. His heart jumped through his chest and he stood, unable to enter the elevator.

            I love you daddy

 

“I’m sorry, I left something in my room.” Said Mr. Price.

“We’ll wait for you.” Said the woman.

“You don’t need anything from back there.” Said the little girl as she stepped out from the elevator and took his hand. He was powerless against the force of her little grip pulling him in. The door closed, and he looked at the ceiling, remembering his appearance. He tucked his shirt in, and, though he was much taller than either of them, he felt two inches tall.

 

                        IT WILL BE A GOOD DAY MR. PRICE

DEE-DEE-DA-DA, DEE-DEE-DA-DA, DEE-DEE-DUM-DUM-DEE

                        i love you daddy

 

The little girl let go of his hand and he reached into his pocket. She nuzzled her head into her mother’s side as she tussled her hair, smiling down at her.

           

                        DEE-DEE-DA-DA, DEE-DEE-DA-DA, DEE-DEE-DUM-DUM-DEE

 

Again, Mr. Price cut off the phone call.

“Avoiding someone?” asked the woman. Mr. Price pretended not to hear the comment. He watched the lit-up numbers as they went down, floor by floor. He felt the little girl’s hand on his own, and looked down to see her holding his hand up to her mother.

            “Look, Mommy. His ring is just like Daddy’s.” The woman nodded, and then looked at Mr. Price.

            “Married?” she asked. Mr. Price pulled back his hand and stuck it in his pockets.

            “It’s just an old good luck charm.”

            “Does it work?” asked the little girl?

            “No.” The elevator stopped and an involuntary groan escaped Mr. Price as perspiration speckled his forehead. The woman and her daughter stood silently, smiling, content. Mr. Price took his hand from his pocket and again twisted the ring on his finger. He pressed the emergency button repeatedly.

            “It’s okay to be scared,” said the little girl. “But you don’t have to be.” Her mother picked her up with a little bit of a groan and straightened her dress. “It seems like you’ve already let go of so much, you might as well just set yourself free.” Said the woman. Mr. Price kept staring at the elevator door. “I just want out of here.” He moaned.

            “She’s pretty, Mommy.” Mr. Price turned to see that the little girl was looking through his wallet at the picture of his daughter. The scrap of paper fell to the floor.

                        It will be a good day Mr. Price

 

            The woman took the picture from the wallet and ripped it to little pieces. “You will not need this, Mr. Price.”

            “What the fuck is your problem?” said Mr. Price as he lunged at the woman, grabbing at her blouse. She did not move, and he could get no control over her. He struggled and grappled with her while her daughter just smiled. She again grabbed his hand and pulled him away. Mr. Price collapsed on the floor of the elevator, and looked up to his reflection. He saw the tears streaking his face, and the tufts of hair sticking up. He wept and pleaded, “Get me out of here.”

            “Don’t cry, Mister. It’s such a good day.” Said the little girl, who had begun bouncing up and down, making the elevator shake. DEE-DEE-DA-DA…the girl took the phone from him, and turned it off. Mr. Price whispered, “You’re just like my daughter.”

            “You will not need her anymore.” Said the little girl. Then the lights in the elevator went out, and the little chamber was filled with the sound of a child’s laughter, and a Man’s tears.             

Good Music

Good music bleeds. Good music cries when it is sad, and it screams when it is angry. Good music goes beyond what the critics say. It stands tall and says “fuck you Rolling Stone. I kick ass despite you.” When the undertaker comes, a good piece of music will knock him on his ass. When the floods wash away mankind, a good piece of music will float atop the waves of washed-aways and swim before the survivors. Good music is strong and heartless while at the same time merciful and loving. Good music is a beaten dog that will not surrender to maim and mange. When the last pop tune flies off the shelf, good music collects dust in the back row, uncannily aware of its own magnificence. Music dies in the memory, and leaves a lasting imprint on the mind; good music, that is. And all this, is to say nothing of great music.
Great music is a massacre to the temporal lobe, pinching every nerve and bursting every blood vessel. Great music inspired the rise of Sitting Bull and begat the fall of Rome. Only the greatest drums served to win the harshest battles, and only the strongest horns helped to wake the most calloused soldiers. Great music suffocates when you hear it, and from sea to shining fucking sea, great music will venerate the plow and manifest itself within the mind of the homesteader and the Gold miner alike until every god-forsaken soul has the spirit within him to do whatever god-forsaken task his mind is set out to complete. Great music is a sinner in the hands of an angry god. It defies nature, right and wrong, left and right, up and down, life and death, choice and fate, depression and ecstacy, drugs and sobriety, heirarchy and democracy, killers and doctors, lawyers and saints. Great music is a cancer to mankind which we do not rid ourselves of because the pain hurts so fucking good.
Great music is the orgasm that sex can never acheive, and it is the experience that life can never physically quantify.

Drive

She loved the sound of Cobain’s voice. I adored the sounds of hers. And we both loved the taste of a long drawn cigarette in a short lived moment. Our lives weren’t long at the time, and they seemed to be getting shorter. We enjoyed the precious little pleasures while debating the world’s preposterous pressures. All the while she kept sneaking glances at my button down shirt; the one with brown and gray dampened stripes that seemed to fade into the musky gray background, reminding me of Rocky Road Ice Cream.
“It’s an interesting shirt.”
“I found it in a box on the side of the road in New Orleans.”
She laughed. I laughed. We stole another precious moment, seizing the opportunity to sacrifice another five minutes of our lives for the stress relief that the cigarette companies guaranteed. They weren’t liars. They were right. I was going to die. Happily. She smoked slims, I smoked 100’s; a Virginia girl and a Marlboro man, face to face in an L.A. delicatessen. Well, an L.A. Starbucks with a view. The fresh brewed coffee played off the smoke, and gave life to the room; the sort of life that you would assume permanently encapsulated the life of James Dean, until, well, he drove his Porsche off the road after doing a driving safety video. Either way, we lived like nu veau Deans, and we dreamed of crashing our Porsches in order to go out in just such a blaze of glory. Unfortunately, we would have to settle for something much less expensive. Tangent. Back to my shirt.
She had seen one like it before. I had worn it before. I asked her where she’d been, and told her where I’d been. We’d both never been. I had lied about New Orleans to make the conversation more interesting. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was long, dreamy, hopeful and sad. It was a silence that screamed “get me the fuck out of LA!” and it was a pause the sparked a spurrious conclusion.
She put out her cigarette in the tastefull Starbucks tray next to the three cigarettes that already had occupied it, and, grabbing my hand, we stood up.
“Let’s get the fuck out of LA.” she said. And we began our planning. First, she wanted to make on honest man out of me, so we picked up a map in a gas station, and hit the road for New Orleans.
She drove, and I rode bitch. Twenty and licenseless. In order to pass the time, I continued the conversation about my shirt: where I got it, why I liked it, how much it cost, and my consideration for buying another just like it.
“If you say one more thing about that god damn shirt you’re riding in the engine compartment.”
I did not say one more thing about my god damned shirt, and the ride proved to be much more pleasant. As we drove, we smoked. As we smoked, we died. As we thought about death, we really needed another cigarette. The topic of conversation soon rolled around to expenses. I had twelve bucks and a deck of playing cards. She was brutally attractive and on good terms with her father. We weren’t going to have to worry.
In love, lust, or luck we left our homes and lives with nothing but a fake story of a scholarship opportunity and a cooler full of capri-suns, in hopes of going someplace just for the sake of saying we’d been some place. A few hundred miles ahead and a long trail of ash behind, life was good. It may have been short, but for the next week, it would feel oh so long.

Her name was either Jennifer or Jane. His was something along the lines Daniel. Jane was a beautiful ray with porcelain complexion and long locks eschewing any possibility of negativity in her world. Brushing up against her lips would feel like moist rose pedals, and her eyes, when she was sad, would sink down inside and darken to the more aggressive shades of green. When she was happy, they would light up without having changed that hypnotic color, and they would beam through everything around her. She was long, luxurious, and lovely, even with a cigarette hanging daintily from her lower lip. The smoke from the stick was as sensual as sin, and the bitter fragrance only made her more exotic; more uncontrollably desirable. The light tremble of her fingers taking the cigarette as she relaxed between drags was like the ecstatic shiver that runs down every man’s spine when the woman they want gently brushes against their shoulder. She was preposterously pretty and cordially canonical; like candy and coffee to the brain and soul.
Daniel was pudgy and shaved once a week. The two of them had wonderful conversations about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (sex). They also spoke about morality (it’s not fair unless you go down on her too.) And popularity (size does matter).
The day waned into night and the line on the highway in Jane or Jennifer’s pretty blue eyes got longer and longer; blurrier and blurrier. They had money but none to spare, so they pulled off to the side of the road. Aquafina, Cheetos, and cigarettes maintained their voracious appetites. They side on the hood of her navy blue Volvo, and took a look around. They hadn’t given much thought to where they were going. It was about ten P.M., and they’d been driving for a good four hours. A look around revealed an enormous fucking parking lot.
“Where are we?” Inquired Daniel, who had never seen such an enormous fucking parking lot. Jennifer – possibly Jane – took out her palm pilot and checked the on board GPS.
“Quartzsite, Arizona.”
Daniel puffed thoughtfully. “What’s there to see in Quartzsite, Arizona?”
“The world’s largest parking lot.”
“I’d kind of like to see that.”
“There it is.”
“That’s an enormous fucking parking lot.”
In light of recent observation, they decided to spend their peaceful November night parked in the lot, which had a ten dollar fee. When they woke in the morning, they found the enormous fucking parking lot transformed into an enormous fucking flee market. And as Daniel wiped the sand from his eyes, he wept a little bit, for this was the stuff of dreams. The bargains, the buyers, the sellers, the traders. Music and Churro wafted through the air, and his stomach rumbled. Jane-ifer concluded that, since they were going to be their for a while, they may as well stock up on some needed supplies.
Walking through the rows upon rows upon rows upon rows upon rows…
Upon rows upon rows, they managed great bargains on a glowing plastic rosary and a box of old records that someone’s ex-husband probably wanted back desperately. With the necessities out of the way, they proceeded to pick up the eccentricities of water and food, and a bottle of tylenol, which they were assured was not tylenol, thus guaranteeing that it was tylenol and not anything good. November is cold in Arizona, but that doesn’t matter to the Arizona sun. It burns in cold or heat, and the ground is quick to reflect. They got back to a sweltering leather interior car, and found that the engine was too cold to start. The perplexing paradoxy did nothing but delay their exit.
They smoked and they drank, and they heckled passers-by. Another hour found them drunk, haggard, and forced to spend another night in the enormous fucking parking lot. Fortunately, Arizona sunsets were beautiful. Like LA, the smog settled into the basins and made for spectacular color gradients and dazzling shimmers and shines. Their was no sea salt to accent the night with a cool and fresh scent, but the sky was larger and the people were quieter. The parking lot cleared late in the day and they hit the road with a sense of a fresh start and a real sense of detachment. Pointless as say “I slept in America’s largest parking lot” may be, it was still something that could not be said for many. The rules of sights and roads were skewed from that moment on. Completely free to see all that was around them, the two wanderers saw all that was around them.
Daniel was sullenly quiet as the road passed by. A night on an Arizona highway was different. Hughes of red painted the rhe rock walls that jettisoned from the ground. Cactus abounded; the real kind that you buy at Lowe’s or Green Thumb Nursery. They were hideous in their natural habitat, but when you thought about them, all that came to mind was how each time the cactus branched represented another hundred year. Damn near every cactus they saw was older than Daniel and Jane combined. He would die before they would, but they would stay in their place, storing water only to be raped of it by cruel birds and desert moochers. Daniel gathered as he grazed, and he left not a crumb at his way-side.
He mentioned to Jane as his thoughts drifted, “ People don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?” she asked.
Half speaking to himself, Daniel continued, “They don’t drop their lives off at Starbucks and hit the road.”
“Well maybe they’re all wrong.”
That seemed to be the most plausible explanation. The world was wrong, and they were right to roam and not contribute; to treasure the things crafted by those without the privilege to enjoy their own creations.
“Don’t you think it’s selfish to take advantage of a world that we haven’t contributed a single thought to?”
Jane or Jennifer had never thought of it that way. Her Dad worked hard so that she wouldn’t have to. She would go to school and see the world the way Kerouak and Whitman saw it. She loved and adored the world she saw, and wish that everyone could, but her tragedy was her lack of solution, or the where-with-all to contrive one.
“Fuck ‘em.” She said. And they fucked ‘em and kept driving.

Over and over, every time more potent than the last. Every kiss like an injected sedative; every touch like a shot of adrenaline. We are lovers outside the box; friends within our boundaries; lost on the line which separates. Her brown cream skin and light chocolate hair are more intoxicating than the first snuff of a fine glass of brandy, or the final sip of a cheap glass of back-country moonshine. She tastes like angels ought to taste, though our actions are of a most condemnable nature. But we have a silent contract of iniquity. Whatever the consequence may be, the moment is beautiful, like a molten magmatic bubble in the innards of a blown glass work of art. It draws far more attention than the piece itself; its imperfection is its beauty.

She is gyrating and dancing, suderiferously swaying like a dew glistened window pane in a howling storm. My hands ride her hips, following her lead like the wild Sioux, bareback on his painted pony. What will be said will be said, and judgement will be passed, but we will not take back our actions, though we may hope to silence the repercussions.

Motherhood

She kept trying to squeeze the spoon between the toddlers lips, but the flesh was sealed shut, and his beautiful Buddha belly ceased to rise and fall with the initial breaths of life.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” she whimpered through gasping, airy sobs, “you need to eat.”

But the child’s lips did not part, his stomach did not rise. His fine hair still ran through her fingers in the same way, his little socks were still too big for his feet, but they would never grow in. Mentally, physically, and spiritually, the child remained an infant. Where does the soul of a child go? This was beyond our poor maternal sufferers concern. It belonged with her. His breath belonged to her; his hands, which once clung to her nurturing bosom, which now lay cold and limp, belonged to her. There was no man, there was no family. It was simply son and daughter fighting against a world she was thankful had once refused her the right to an abortion, but now found herself wishing her child had never been born; wishing she would have never had to suffer this irreparable damage.

The stars did not penetrate the barrier issued by the street lights, and there was no place for her to go that would make her child’s stone face any less grimacing. His eyes were shot open, but blank as a summer school board. They were windows to empty rooms; aquariums of lifelessness.

She found herself wondering who would stand with her to mourn this beautiful baby boys denial of life? Who would sing requiem for his soul? No one. Not one soul beyond her meager own, would mourn her child, who was a victim of circumstance; carried away with a winter chill, after being conceived in a summer heat. She thought back on those little memories she had to hold on to. She was dumbfounded by the passion endowed to a suckling infant. As her nutrients became his, so did her heart. And with his death, so went her life. To be indifferent would have been her salvation, but she was a heart in hand, scarlet blazoned sinner of the most compassionate kind. A tear fell from her cheek to the little child, and she leaned her head to the brick ball she sat against, feeling nothing but the cold winter chill, which taunted her moment by moment, holding her child’s breath, refusing to return it; it was no longer his, or hers. His breaths would pass through the lungs of the more fortunate children of the world; the ones who had been bred from the pedigree class, who were not to proud to breath derelict air; or perhaps, too proud to admit that it was not theirs to begin with.

A coughing fit enraptured the poor young woman, and she fell sideways to the floor, embracing yet another cold surface. The only blanket to her name covered her precious little boy, and it was ‘round his tender torso it would stay. She would not lower herself to the level of those people who live for themselves, living without loving; giving with the expectancy to receive; and caring only on the holidays. She shivered, coughed, wheezed, hacked, and hollered defiantly, but she kept her child warm. She hoped the biting breeze would know to seize her too.

You to me

     A begrudging woman has captivated my conscience, making it hard to think; hard to act; hard to see; hard to breathe. Choice words and chosen expressions are my only source of consolation, and both lack worth for wear, for when it comes down to the women I set my soul to, it seems that the only source of compensation I receive for my efforts is a precursory glimpse at a relationship: the bit that makes you believe your in love, and then it cuts straight to the bit that leaves you with spit in the eye, and vomit in the stomach.

     My only hope is that the female of the species is more deadly than the male, for that would mean that my anguish will be short lived. All you women who have plagued my conscience, your time spent in my thoughts is incalculable, the true words you will never hear from a better man’s mouth are mine, and the true care that emanates from my heart, mind, body and soul, are the truest you will ever never know. I am the man who has no chance, because I have too much respect to take my chance. Chew these words, and taste the bite of a good man gone sour, for it will take a mad woman gone sane to bring him back.

Dancing

Hey Jack, I know what your thinking. And I’ll get straight to that point. Have a dance and die young. You’ll live a life-time through the rhythm while the rhyme winds up taking your breath away. But how can such a thing be stolen from you, when it’s already in the possession of a gorgeous woman across the room, or indeed, the gorgeous woman in your arms, turning, burning and yearning in time with the music. Go ahead Jack, slide one hand down the small of her back; let your lips touch hers, and taste the bullet she just shot down from the glass gun on the counter top. Jesus, God! It feels so good to be so natural. So free. So incapacitated, misappropriated, and inebriated. Watch her hair twist with her body and let the wild strands slap against your bare neck and cheek; the sharp kisses of a tango; the hard slaps of a Bosa Nova.

And so Jack, don’t you wonder what your thinking? I know what it is. Now’s as good as any to start drinking, Jack, but you just can’t tear yourself away, nor should you. You’re in the midst of a punch drunk love; K.O.’d by anticipation. Take in the hip-to-hip, lip-to-lip, sip-by-sip, excruciation of reincarnation, for you have been born again as nothing less than a soul, and something more than a man. So black out and tap out because she will not bow down quietly. She has your breath, she has your body, all that remains yours is your soul, and you are offering it up to her because she is a snake in your arms, caressing your skin, wrapping around your waist, and tightening into a death grip causing your legs to numb and your eyes to bulge. Back to reality.

You pull her close and she presses against you. You both are breathing fire and your cataracts are fogging. you free a hand from ‘round her waist, and cling to the back of her head. And in one fell swoop, you press her upon your own delicate flesh, and fight from mouth to mouth for what is rightfully yours. A more vicious war has never been waged as the one on this minuscule front. Wet with sweat you refuse to yield, and she refuses to surrender until you reach the point of a waltzing climax; a salsa turning point in which you break her deadly grasp, let your hand slide past her cheek, and fall through the front door on the wings of euphoria. This is your dance, Jack. This is your night.

Cereal with Water

 

 

That’s the breakfast that I had the morning I woke up on the damnable day. I was just comin’ down from a bad case of ‘cocaine blues’ and forgot to go to the store the previous day. So water and Cheerios filled my aching belly. It tasted like soggy card board, felt like it too. High in fiber and nothing else. I ate it out of a cup with a fork because everything else was dirty. As a matter of fact, I think the fork may have been too. Any way, I tossed those into the building pile of dishes and dirt as well, and went into the bathroom. Snorting a line off the linoleum, flicking a roach off the mirror and watching it drown in the sink, I gave myself a good once over. First, a glance at the old pallet. My eye was swollen and blue, with reddening around the edges and some yellow shit right in the corner. I braced myself and wiped off the yellow shit, and looked at my nose. Luckily, it was numb, because the sight of the gash through the right nostril would have caused it to sear. So I wiped off the dry, crusty blood, and turned on the faucet, cupping my hand to scoop out the cock roach. I took a crusty towel and rinsed my face, then ran a comb with missing teeth through my hair. Looking at my own grill, I wasn’t much less worse for wear. My left canine and my right front had disappeared, and, feeling around with my tongue, I found that I was missing half a molar as well. Once again, it had paid to be high.

I’d have to get that tooth fixed, so I figured I’d squeeze into a dentist, give her the old once over, and see what we could do about pulling it. Then I thought, “fuck it”, and pulled it myself. I ditched the tooth and scratched my scrawny, white arm. It was okay, but I was missing my shirt. And my pants. So buck naked, I made my way across the hotel room, and into my hamper where I found some torn up blue jeans and a wife beater. Itwas blood stained, but I didn’t care. Blood stain are pretty fuckin’ tough. Then I found my Jean Jacket, and a broken cigarette on top of the T.V. I lit the cigarette, dawned the jacket, and walked out the door, where I was jumped by I don’t know how many sons of bitches, and beaten unmercifully.

The next thing I knew, my Jacket was gone, and I was shoeless. There was now a burn mark in my previously healthy arm. The fuckers got me with my own cigarette. I made out the bunch runnin’ down the street, so I started runnin’ after ‘em. I liked those shoes. They didn’t know that, clipped to my boxers, was a box cutter.

I finally caught up to them. They were sniffin’ lines in the alley, so I crept up quietly, real still like, and gut one by the neck, blade to their jugular, and I said “I’ll be takin’ my fuckin’ shoes back.” And they gave me my fuckin’ shoes back. So I let the guy go.

Cereal with water: That’s the breakfast I had the morning I woke up that damnable day…And when I looked in the mirror, my eye was swollen and blue, my nose was slit open, my teeth were shit, and I had a cigarette burn on my arm.

The Drunken Asshole loves a Woman

There’s a huge class difference between her and I. She’s got it, and I don’t. But I don’t let such a small blotch destroy my fantasy. And besides, she tells me it don’t matter. You’d listen to anything swimming past those lips. If she hung me out to dry, I’d hang through sun and rain ‘till she saw fit to save me from her games. Come Alimony or matrimony, I’d try to reach the eighteen year mark with this one. She’s beautiful! Even without the aid of a glass of whiskey. I like to consider myself genteel; I like to lie to myself. I wouldn’t lie to her. That’s why it won’t work out. You have to play the game. Don’t set your cards down on the flop. Wait for the river. But this time, I holler “Aces and Eights!” and expect someone to bet against me.

Oh, this one I could tell you about. I could tell you about every nuance of her physicality, but first I’d have to find out what exact, the proportion of a nuance is. Eyes! Nothing catches me like eyes. They jump out from unexpected places, opening souls to strangers like hookers on Jerry Springer. Not that she’d ever be in a place like that, or likewise, that sort of profession. She’s no goddamned mother-fucking woman of ill repute. She’s a fuckin’ angel. She’d be mine if I wasn’t everybody else’s. Can men be of ill repute? That depends on how you feel about a condom.

I drink. I drink a lot. I pass out on the floor after rolling off of a woman. As a matter of fact, I am firmly of the belief that if you can ride the floor without falling off, you are not drunk. She don’t condone that sort of behavior. I still try to shower her with drunken kisses. She deserves them. What’s a woman like her doing in those kinds of parties anyway. Better me than some drunken asshole.

I don’t believe in love. But I love her. There’s nothing wrong with death, but I won’t live to see her die. I’m not a religious man, but she is a God-send. I cuss, spit, moan and fuck. Sometimes I shower. But every time I see those eyes, and I stare into that black, caring center, I look back and hold her close. I don’t show her my face, but the tears well up inside, and she thinks I’m just laughing, but I’, really in the middle of a very sobering moment. My right arm crawls under her left, creeping up her smooth neck, caressing the back of her beautiful head of hair, pressing her against my chest or shoulder, and my left cradles her waste and dances on the boundary between friends and lovers, unknowing which way it should go. She doesn’t know how I feel, and she doesn’t feel the same, but even if I could tell her, it will always be too late. I’ll crawl back to the floor, and hold her in the morning. The rest of the night is strictly for iniquity.