Saturday, December 21, 2013

De Rigueur Gestation


“Wait. I’m dead? No way. I want a second opinion.”
“Hold it there, Poncho. Whoa. What’s crackling? Why so rankled?”
“Well, you see, I’d go ahead and have a nervous breakdown, but it’s just that I’m not quite sure how.”
“No need to get right to it or nothing. Everything the more, I’m growing older less gracefully all the time.”
“Fuck all this. I’m getting hitched. Jumping the g.d. broom. Tying that sanguine knot of matrimony and perpetual bliss.”
“Married? You? Shit. You’re not even strong enough to carry her over the threshold.” 
“Fuuuuck…you.”
“No. No. Listen. Let’s pay attention to nothing. Let’s cuss at flowers. Let’s go bowling in the morning. We’ll be unstoppable.”
“Shit. We’ll just be us. That’s all.”
“Sure. Sure we will. Rattlers and bad habits and practice, practice, practice.”
“Perfect.”
“Morally dense.”
“If nothing. Or everything else. We could shape our lives like spoons or arrange them as if we were distinct types of coffee beans drying in the sun.”
“If I come home, when I come home, the kids will be all grown. And the dog? He’ll be needing my vacation hours. ‘Plowed’ is the word that will describe me best. The survey says, ‘Push more paper!’”
“Like pleading with a fire hydrant, ‘Like me back. Please. Please. Just like me back.’”
“Not as slick as you’d like to be, huh? Magnets on the souls of your shoes.”
“Something in the orange juice around here. It makes us all bootsy and bat-shit sane.”
“If I come home, when I come home.”
“Stop saying that. I do not think it means what you think it ought to mean.”
“If I were a carpenter. God. If I were.”
“Then there’s the computer in your heart that’ll never be just okay ever again. The flash is gone from the pan, Jack. There are just so many ways of choking a ‘yes’ into looking back.”
“Paltry, this showy crap. I’m constantly in the process of packing and unpacking my things. All these objects; so few places to put them.”
“Mark Twain was an asshole.”
“Sure. But he was his own boss. That beats the band, don’t it?”
“Depends what band. Big?”
“Compared to?”
“A toast basket.”
“Oh. Well. Then. Oh. Well.”
“Handwriting signifies everything. I am not about to dream worse scribbles, scratched persuasion, or fiddle with the broader strokes. I’m just the sans without the serif. The flowers of my time here are just wilted petals, and not even a bee around to like me. I am signing ‘Mud’ from here on in-and-out.”
“Under and in, Chico. Under and in.”
“Wait. I do believe I am no longer with us. Hear that? It’s Alas mimicking Alack. All close things have become far. And I cannot stand tears.”
“Be not of, but with. That’s no secret. That’s no way to tell the truth. That’s all the opinions you’re getting.”
“But right isn’t always correct. There’s left too, right? Gone’s staying. I mean to say I don’t mean to mean what I meant.”
“Says you.”
“Say you, say me, say it for never. Is that the way it shouldn’t be?”
“It depends on how this ends. There should be ease where there once was only fretting and nail biting.”
“Remove the excluded wish from the wash. Try worse. Chronicle your fall to fameless impecuniousness.”
“I will be wearing a T-shirt reading, ‘Fuck off.’”
“The occasion will suit it.”
“If I cannot beg any more pardons here, I’m never going on back home.”
“When?”
“No. You’re asking the wrong questions. More like ‘Where?’ or “Man, how come?’”
“Eating worms. That’s all. Dining on a dirt sandwich. I leave this place with all of my opinions intact. And my teeth.”
“One last haircut for the road, the longest road, the one that never begins or ends.”
“And what about ‘If?’”
“Yes. And ‘If’ too. And all that. And less.”
“We are dreadful, but not too serious yet. That’s what keeps us wounded but never disabled. That’s what keeps us stuck.”
“What about the song?”
“The song? Well, ahem:

“the song, it ain’t so sad
and the road’s busted with blame
secured to the rind
hankering toward a slip’s sorry slide

“the song, it lends a cheat to law
and the head’s crammed with regret
spackled to the core
guessing away the night

“the song, it’s a mess of wrong
and the push is shoved with cruel
trucked to senility
lapsed with contention’s slap

“the song, it gets booked and bored
and flagstones break the news
aged to gangbusters
blonde in the dishwater light

“the song, it’s season tickets lost
and corks won’t ever pop again
shredded to a mask
swooning towards another hell

“the song, it’s parked cannonballs
and pests clue the soul’s style
crested to a gentle nadir
upset and hounded to life

“the song, it’s convicted late
and bargained badly for a tack’s shine
clued and cracked to a midlife’s worry
luckier less than a lost cat

“the song, it’s hummed to the curb
and crabby with delight’s steam
docked unsure and incongruous
whistling hot-and-cold running slime

“the song, it’s blushing in the moonlight
and ended to more’s clutch
posted and plump and scratched
fleeting in bowled-under times.”
 
“Oh.”
“Got it?”
“Great enough, I guess.”
“Let’s split.”
“Spiffy.”



Monday, December 16, 2013

River Of No Return


“The only thing you like better than scotch is sympathy.”

“And?”

“And? And you are the most milquetoast creampuff of a sickly obsequious loser I’ve ever come across.”

“The world’s a mess. What can you do?”

“Nothing. That’s just it.”

“There’s no nuance left in my hot water. Just scalding and icy. That’s all the choices I’ve got.”

“And?”

“And I’m sicker and tireder than most. And I don’t got the wheels to keep lugging around this stuff.”

“Take five. Or fifteen. Whatever you need.”

“I could use a haircut.”

“Snitch.”

“Empty rooms to explain away your days in. Lots of pop with no fizz. A scandal never made.”

“Sure. Sure it is.”

“Loot. That’s all we’ve got to do now.”

“That’s it. You’ve got it.”

“Read the labels on food packages. The ingredients are the best poetry we’ve got: polysaccharides, torula yeast, thiamin mononitrate, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, maltodextrin, monosodium glutamate, yellow 6-lake dye, extractives of annatto, xanthan gum, sodium hexametaphosphate. It is the pure poetry of the pure products of America.”

“I am narrower in my shortcomings than in my low-brow likes. It’s getting to the point of pierce or be sunk around here. It is all junk food for thought.”

“More disarray in the boiler room of my skull than ever before. Walkers for the tanked. Crutches for the tipsy. We’re all unmatchable.”

“Grown down like this, and then more stumbling, and then we order takeout from the fishmongers. Just bushels of likes less likely to wimple our way out of trouble.”   
    
“Rippled? Or am I staunch in my favors?”

“Go against it. The coolest thing about aging is the process.”  

“But then, well, get this: I’m at the gas station filling up with my lady, and you know what I says to her? I says to her, ‘Could you read that mileage to me, beautiful?’ Then she comes on out of the Chrysler and she kisses me flat on the lips. I’m thinking, ‘Wow. I just haven’t felt this good since ’87.’”

“When you get it. Or when you need it?”

“The present shocks just as much as the future once did. Nothing is happening, here, now. Nothing. Therefore, everything.”

“That doesn’t completely not make sense to the concupiscent-lorn shards of who currently breaks at being me. I am determined to be a wayfarer of waffling dismay.”   

“That’d do a shill like you. By the way, what day is it? What’s the year? Who’s holding public office around here? Huh?”

“I don’t make a practice out of giving advice to strangers, but you really could use some counsel. And a shower or three.”

“Lose the sour-guy act. I’m not giving away party favors for the out crowd.”  

“We sometimes pay for the mistakes of others, right? Back shot by a no-good floozy. And all’s for not, and not’s for us all. So, goof off. Go ahead. It’s probably a more meaningful way to drudge your way through this dreck. The pomp’s gone from the circumstance. The glove’s got no hand. Cramped is the way. You know what? Sometimes I wish that someone were spying one; I think that it'd make me feel less lonely, somehow.”

“Perpetuating insolence with a twist of restraint. Don’t call a nurse. I would like to be deceived about my blood pressure. And my prospects for making it through another week of wakeup-work-eat-sleep logic. Besides, all the black cats I knows aren’t just crossing my path anymore; they’re hissing and attacking me.”

 “You’ve got a head like a boulder.”

“I’ve always been a Robert-Mitchum man, myself. I laze about and ogle women applying makeup in the rearview at stoplights. I am corrupt with innocence. These eyes whose scars are along…these eyes. Damn it. I’m so damn lost.”

“And now we’d like to return you to our regularly scheduled program.”

“By jingo, I’d never be that lucky.”

“But the Desiderata still comes in handy sometimes.”

“My noise. Your haste. It’s the mathematics of hooligans and scofflaws, the jury-rigging of latent psychotics with a taste for corporate takeovers and condo flipping. I want my beer colder than my women. Nothing ever works, in or out. Nothing. I might as well hang on for a few more weekends. I hear the beer bars will all be gone soon. People want crafted artisan cocktails and pork-belly preserves with duck-liver aioli instead of beer nuts.”      

“Let’s go yuppie hunting. One last time. We’ll go around ripping pink mustaches off of cars and egging the elite as they app-barhop on their smart phones.”

“It’s no use. We are just us. And them? They’re pretty much the rest of everything. Can’t stem the tide of a tsunami. Can’t block a mass stampede. We don’t have to cower. But really, what’s left to do?”

“Appease with an ostensive surrender. Placate with professed indifference. And our will? Just to be left alone to our own devices. That’s all. That’s it. Duffers are getting younger. We’re young duffers now. That’s all that’ll be left after their goddamn bubble bursts. Then we’ll look back and say, ‘What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck? This place is in ruins, and for what? A few measly, greasy bucks?’ Fuck. It’s so sad. We’ll be left here for dead, attempting to tidy things up after this place’s been gutted. Desolation might suit us. Who knows?”

“I greet you at the end of an insignificant career, which yet must have had a long foreground in corrupt avarice and greed, for such a start.”

“Rub your eyes a bit. Look around. There is everything and everywhere. See?”

“Sure. Keep telling me that. Maybe the night's got no more magic left in it. But I’ve still got a few more mornings left in me, I do believe, to make nothing out of.” 

“That’s the stuff.”




Friday, December 13, 2013

A Stripper Named Christmas


We’d only been dating here and there for about a month or so, so it wasn’t like you’d call it horseshit or nothing. And what’s worse is human shit, really, if you really want to like know from my personalized experience. But we go about it all, and call bullshit when we should be saying that it’s a bunch of h.s. or c.s., like, you know, cow shit. But anyways. Fuck all that. People? People fucked up. That’s one thing for sure. Can’t emphasize that one enough. People’ll do all kinds of stupid shit, horse or cow or bull, but, you know, like, human’s still the worst. That’s all the for-sures in town, man. I do know some things, right? Any-fucking-how, I tell you, this lady’s been doused with a carafe of the brown liquor cure, and she’s ranting on like some begrudged and loopy and deranged crackhead-of-a-broken-tooth-spitter. And me? I gots to take it as it comes, you know. Like I’m the one who’s resting easy in all of it, just dipping my toes in for a test of the waters, you know. Like, you know, we’ve been dating what? A month? Fucking less than like 5 weekends? Something like that. Just here and there. Just chowing down on whatever pie’s dangling down for me. I’m in it just for a taste, you know? I got other things to like sate my appetite and all. Shit. But this lady’s on a damn chapel pew with a few more than a few in her gut, and so it’s I who has got to like rearrange my mettle to sidestep the bitch, with or without the appeal of the choir, or the pleading of all the fucking fifths in the world about it. Well, turns out she’s on that Leavenworth stuff. The whole 14 blocks knows, and then some. The howling is Muzak to my ears. And me? I ride elevators all the time. Ask any See You Next Tuesday around. And all the giantess man-whores along Larkin know the tune I’m scratching out in the ponderosas. I gots my two-toned ways of blending with the scenery, see? And this cranky lady’s gone blotto, and she’s leaping up on hoods of parked cars all along Ellis, shouting devil-knows-what at taxis and buses and whatever dregs of society’s passing on by at like 11 in the pm of a weekday. She’s high-pitching stuff like, “Shutshutshutshut the fuckfuckfuck up!” as she’s leaping on and off hoods and zigzagging her way through the street. She’s even giving fire hydrants a piece of it, like “You little fat fuck of a fuck! You ain’t shit without water! You just some out-of-work shortstop with no range! Fuck you!” Well, me, I gots my high hat on for the birds and the devil, whichever comes first, like chimneys for doves or minks in the cellar. All that avian and, like, rodent shit to clean up. Think about it. Shit. That’s about all I do. Shit. Like I says. People fucked up. That’s a good one to know about. But this tipsy chick’s blaring like a car alarm, and I’m the only one around to keep her toeing some sort of damn line, or at least make a grab-ass attempt at it. Now I’m wishing for a there instead of more heres. But that says it, really, like, don’t it? We all get afraid to let our devils leave ‘cause our angels maybe might get on up and leave us too. Lord on low knows hers were a goner that night. I grabbed her good and hard, tore her down from her makeshift soapbox of a busted Cadillac. I tell her, “So. Is this that whole ‘What’s-a-gal-to-fucking-do?’ crap?” She says to me, she says, “Not this again.” Then she rattles out a smoke from somewhere hiding away in her shedding stole that she’s like wrapped around her waist now, and she blares out, “This!” And she cold-motherfucking-cocks me. I’m batty with it. I go down like Tyson in Tokyo. I’m seriously fucking reeling along on Ellis there, drinking gutter water for dessert. She gets me good and solid on the jaw. It’s so fucked I can’t believe it. And this crazy bitch is off to the races. I can hear her fucking heels clicking all wild on the concrete like somebody’s gone and thrown a bunch of marbles to the sidewalk from four floors up. I’m just dazed and trying to hold steady. All my pastures are ruined with cow shit. But I remember then that I sort of pulled myself together there under a streetlight, which was glowing down on me in all sorts of bad shape. And my eyes seemed like they belonged to someone else’s head. I thought I’d return them if I could. Shit. They never did me no good at all. She was gone. Maybe for good. And I thought, ‘That’s good. That’s finally just good.’ So, I picked up all the pieces of being me and stumbled and labored my way into Jonell’s there on Jones. There wasn’t much of a crowd. Just a few drunks and some cheap whores with awful smiles and worse makeup. I sits myself down there at the end of that horseshoe bar there, and I order a whisky ginger from the too-happy Korean lady behind it. She’s fucking giddy with my order. So I drink it down and get another, and then, you know, another too. The juke's making its stupid sounds, all that thumping-bass garbage they put on it. I’m sitting there all woebegone and shit-faced, and I think, ‘This. This. This is all that is. Me here. She gone. Smoke’s lost from the engine, lady. I’m stalled and beat.’ But I didn’t have no lady to call mine. I didn’t have a damn thing except this this. Whatever this was or is or…shit, whatever the human shit, I don’t know. I’ve stepped in my share, sure, but who hasn’t? I drank down my drinks, one after the next, and started to not care about anything, even my own self. Then I gets to thinking things like this: ‘It ain’t what you got; it’s what you make.’ Nobody was bothering me just then for a while of it, so I kept right on with that stuff. Whisky-kissed. Troubled and undone. I’m all out of tune, you know? Is the something wrong what's wrong with me or with everybody else? I don't know. Raised on the weak stuff. It all gets to suit me. It really does. Just a tip’s stick and a jiving around move with all the wicked and the worried in the world. No more fire escapes. No more trash trucks to wake me up before the sun. No more girl to drive me to do horrible things. Shit. I’m all out of being done. Like some horse-shit sucker making the sound of my name, it proves me just enough guilty of being me to keep going on. Shit. The gun’s gone from the hips, fuckers. People all kinds of fucked up. I’m through.



Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Slightly Less Orange Than Vermilion


Scarlet, my dearest, it seems that I have fallen madly in love. Again. I know this timing is dreadful, but is not it always when it comes to such things? When it comes to such things.

You can’t possibly imagine how difficult it has become for me to rise from bed these mornings. The gelid sting of it all whips me into a composed dissolution, and so I lie bricked under heavy covers in wonder-less antipathy towards daylight and other mediocre tchotchkes in the clutter of being alive. On some days merely crossing the street seems like a Herculean labor. (You would say, “Heracles.” I know.) On yet others I am confined to this dour room in a state of nervous apathy spelled by quaking bouts of ferocious want. Please do not disown my kind just yet. We are all, after all, merely a bunch of sorry suckers stuck in these bodies. What can one do?

Scarlet, my lovely. Can you not still sing for me with that voice you own? The most wonderful pipe set in the known world, it is. If my druthers were but mine alone, that voice would ring out beyond the hills of my sadness for all the grape-green world to hear. Alas, this purporting gets one nowhere. I grow stale and shiver, dreaming of hot water and mischievous handmaids.

The crowds have come for me. I cannot shake them, or this emotive tug on my willpower. Laundry is war; nothing is fair.

Scarlet, my Chattanooga baby. Lest we fail to take into account the charity-case of my disappearance from broader circumstances-- us, who should be so fortunate, fortunately not to bevel our lives with such circumstantial stuff-- there, in the coddled bowsprit of a Tennessee blush, like face cards never held or folded, well-not-to-do or be, we are.

To what merrymaking does sturdy the functionality of rise-and-shine readiness to face another day of whimpers and high ceilings? To where? And who faces this reflection daily, too? Who? Well, let me not disregard the alarm from this disaster. And I would definitely enjoy to extrapolate on the condition of the sober pansies of the world in these meager and cushy times we find ourselves in the midst of; but that is but a work order for one more substantial and hardy than I. You do not nor ever have or could understand such matters, correct? If I were but only wrong. Another if. Yes. And we, as always, are just these fluttering, flimsy and fragile organisms who run on bacteria and sunlight; who shave and take in the paper and feed themselves and mope about their surroundings. Leading on that there might be more to us, we developed this ability to craft language, to sucker those around us into believing it too-- as if any of us who live only in a drop of eternity’s split second could matter at all. “Just passing through,” as you used to say, just like only you could.

Deepest Scarlet, all the colors of me are runny and blurred. Madly in love? Perhaps that is just a substitute for this dissolution I’m behaving through. My intrepidity has swam away in a riptide of fashion. To fall, to grandly just go, to reach a “there” in love’s throes and echoes. It is all madness. You must understand this etiolation brought on by the constant shift from fasting to gorging. Perhaps I will trademark it. Set up shop on the 14th floor of a decaying sandstone office building and sell my wares low and high, and lower and higher all the time. But, alack, I am not a carpenter either, and you are not my lady. Madness? I am shifty with it.

Scarlet. I am boring.

Through the window’s blinds I see slits of outside. I am wound loose, sashed, disposed to lugubrious tries. The shutters can’t keep me. The curtains are for other more heavyset dahlias-of-fancy to contemplate. Turn me in. I am not pleading. Through the opaque glass I am lost, eyeless in a thousand Gazas. Do not let on to the help. Disguises suit and betray what condolences I have left. Another thing’s coming. I am certain of it.

To train oneself in the business of disaster, corrosively or not, to a matte finish, and then, again, the imponderable chore of rising from bed each morning evolves into one long evasive morass. “What next?” I ask myself in the long shadows of another drizzly ominous afternoon. I lie there and inspect the ceiling, its cracks and peels ribbing out in absurd faces of bulbous eyes and racehorse brows. Cartoon bubbles of lurking skulls and guillotined smiles. Scarlet? You know me. I can never lie low enough.

Love’s mad vilipending intercedes, and I know my conscience cannot take what is proffered; but, again, I take and take without regard to sense’s hark or thrift’s lump-of-coal sadness. Scarlet, my Scarlet, lie low with me-- or lower still. We could roll and rock away all of this, together, in the company of each other’s arms. Do not envy the dash of what this moon-mad music portends. Just one more together, and then…splat goes the moth’s dreams against the wall.

Again. There it all goes. Society hushing all genius except those whose genius is making money. It gives the finger to the temperamental genius of the artist, for it produces no taxable income. Again. There I go too. With it to be mostly not with it. Without it, and, at last, to be without you too, my lurid Scarlet. Yes. I am broken. But were not I always?

As my feet grow colder I have taken to placing my socks on the heater. Pulling on those toasty cotton foot-covers is now my only pleasure. But it is a great one at that. And I do not think I would be still here yapping away about these things if it were not for it.

So. Blather, blather, blather. Scarlet, this was not done for you, or only for you. Not at all. I am not what I think. Blather. Blather.

Scarlet.
I am not so true,
sincerely,

Oberon’s Jester



   

Sunday, December 8, 2013

a ‘66 dodge to Carolina


like cover crops
clover and winter rye 
a rare prairie
a distinct murmur’s mum
like right’s misstep
or wrong’s hard-won lease
a breeze it is
like suffering’s blight or
birmingham in the moonlight
put it off
we’ve got bad gaskets and worse excuses
the radiator’s leaking rum
put it on
the reason’s just an estimate
time’s just a swindle’s purr
a wounded vet’s moan
a move-over’s beef
a locked hurt
like licked pieces of jerky
like a robbed heart’s loan
meaner though
and with it
nuzzled to sleep through it
bottled and run out
pounding the dents out of our souls
nobody’s giving any of it
veiled to rope off the whole scene
copping to it
rules are extinct
we’ll get on fine without them
i am sure of it
a trail of smoke’s the only witness
and the hemi’s dreaming on the lam
cross-flowing through the double-rocked gist of us
tossing orange peels in the rearview’s glance
everything's planted
we’ll be tied to the stakes
in some dive bar somewhere
plugging up the holes of resistance
with just a few more for the road
i am sure of it




Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Everyday Sightings #11 (flowers on the bus)


flowers on the bus.

I am built of rain showers
(there is dumbness here too, see?)
nothing’s number blatzed to a blah
you?
you are built of chopsticks and beans
lilacs and snores and woodchips 
first. just let me,
tell
you
I
I am built like this, here,
see?
with this the worst (of it) in chilly
spoons
nosed to you over dinner’s pancakes
saved the night--
not you-- instead (we and us) run
bathing clothed
(cooler than you’d guess or know) into
what’s built of danger’s channel
(changed safer, but
still…
you know?)
something doesn’t give
takes to roll under (doesn’t
it? rightly not chosen
there in when’s yet)
and all my’s yous
built lastly to fall
(the way of hickeys and snow)
just as the weep tears wreckage from sighs
(worlds deceased go,
this
way, and, dancing, mostly,
that)
or you built like a show’s say:
tap shoes in one hand, cigarette (spelled)
in the other.
I am built of typeface and heys and
shivers and.
(you?
hell)
you must have the coldest feet in all of heaven ( . )



Twenty Highly Ineffective Habits Of Mostly Ineffectual Persons


1. Upon waking, using a prescriptive method to get out of bed, to stretch, and ladle dreams back where they belong, and then to say a loud, “And, in the middle, there were none. So, wake me up, fucker, before you go-go.”
2. Saving quarters for laundry on the top ledge of a chest-high bookshelf, so that said quarters get knocked around a bunch because keys and wallet and other accoutrements are also tossed there for storage, and so that some quarters perforce take nosedives and become lodged in strange places between things on the floor.
3. Labeling thoughts as either “Out Of Order” “Gone Sunday Driving” or “Furthering Conclusions Never Reached” (If one is alone too often, or more so than most, it would be best to forget about this one. It doesn’t work.) 
4. Writing down a “Plan Of Action” every morning for what lies ahead, daily.
5. Never crossing off anything that has been written on a list.
6. Stocking up on gum. Chewing said gum quietly, softly, with mouth closed. Deposing of chewed gum in wads of junk mail where it stays in exile, awaiting either execution by fire (done with matchsticks, of course, in the bathtub) or a pauper’s grave burial in a brown grocery bag.
7. Imbibing coffee in the afternoon, vodka in the evening, and Benadryl spiked with codeine after midnight.
8. Cursing at oneself while blowing hot air on cold hands.
9. Hating gerunds but still using them all the time.
10. Listening to the same song over and over until it loses all emotional meaning, and then listening to it some more.
11. Avoidance of repetition at all times, i.e., “I am not a bus. Do not ever call me Ishmael, or any of that Holden Caulfield kind of crap.”
12. Constantly in the midst of the obfuscation of one’s inner life so that it might appear inchoate and muddy to others.
13. Using just a small dollop of toothpaste three-four times daily.
14. “Learn how to fucking type, you moron!” (This, screamed at oneself on multiple occasions during the day’s course, is par for most of these courses.)
15. Sleeping on a threadbare mattress on the floor, wanting to be classified, wishing to be stereotyped, yearning to be a statistic.
16. Conscripting ideas to go along with the murdering of tiny winged insects while muttering, “All genius is bullshit.”
17. Attaining the optimal level of guilt to make magic not happen, perhaps by stubbing one’s toe, spelling pretty much everything wrong, mispronouncing one’s own name, or just thinking, ‘Nobody left to take in the mail.’
18. “John Lennon was an asshole.” (This, being said to strangers at odd times, goes without saying, of course.)
19. Living in a coffee cup, sleeping in a derby, kissing bottles, rooting for the away team, getting bored, using a lot of hand soap, returning all of one’s sentiments to the cheap seats-- and all of these things to not live by or do too much of. 
20. No calendars. No gloves. No socks. Shiver with bad luck. Pull out some hair. Don’t shower. Don’t eat. There you go. That’s it! You’ve done it! Now, see how well and proud you feel? Isn’t it wonderful?


Monday, December 2, 2013

The Devil Is A Sissy (Act 2, Scene 2: Barroom)






“Why don’t you go ahead and call yourself a cab?”

“Okay. I’m a cab.”

“Holy Christ without a even a crutch. Come on. You’re better than that. Really.”

“No I’m not. I’m worse.”

“You want it straight?”

“No. Give it to me crooked.”

“Either way it’s this or not that or even maybe some other way too. And the greasy capitalists lie at the steps of The Grand Old Lady Of California, choking on their cigars and furnishing their otherwise empty souls with stock offerings. The Corinthian columns like bored sentinels guarding whatever’s left of all this nothing we’ve helped make this world into, the colossal colonnade surrounding the guts of the place, all that empty space, and that’s all we are anyway, any old fucking how.”

“Pour me a reason and I’ll spill out a few more whys and why-nots. That’s all I got stopping for me.”
  
“Don’t mention it. I’m acting out the scenes from somebody else’s life story today. Tomorrow? Tomorrow knows not or wherefore about it. Shit. I’m all done for, here at least.”

“This is me not mentioning it.”

“Going in for that reluctant taker act again, I see. Well, pop a boner over yourself and get on with it already, will you? I’m exhausted with waiting for the show not to go off.”

“Things we’re too dumb to know follow us to our graves, that and the morose silence of our deepest appetites, never whetted properly or given the distinction they deserve. My baby does the hokey pokey, but she don’t look back as often as she should. And, sure as hell’s ire steams out of the street grills, probable cause doesn’t care. Hell, you know what? God was trying to teach me a lesson, but I was too dumb to know. That’s about that.”   

“Don’t not mention it. I’m getting odd, singing your alibis to the trashcan: ‘He looked like Robert Mitchum, with a hobbled gait’s hitch tied to his stride and a nail dangling from his lip like a toothpick. He’d had a few too many cups of The Joyful Woman. Death was on his side.’  

“The devil’s in the big picture stuff too. I got my eye on the ramifications, the steps down and out and cracked in the worst of luck. Things wear out, you know. They get old and we move on to other things. Doesn’t stop you from wanting them worn-out things back, though. Hell, all the I’ll-have-anothers in the world don’t cut it. Not for this sad sack. I’m drawing up restructured clauses on cocktail napkins with a borrowed pen. Hell. I’ll have another.”

“Unsubstantiated claims. All of it.”

“Mind me. Go ahead. Mind away.”

“It’s all a gimmick of misunderstandings. Piss-stained marble tiles lining the pissoir in our least cherished thoughts.”

“Here comes the devil. All dressed in plaid. No mistakes made but for the right to make them makes clearer the ways not to, yes?”

“The devil’s a sissy. He takes way too many prisoners.”

“Perhaps we’ll never not come to some misunderstanding about the whole skedaddle.”

“To err is our affair.”

“Or, air out our affairs. Like some bona fide turkey licked and sobbing, knocked to the canvas by some unaware jerk. I always, always want something less. You?”

“Sure. Always a bit too ripe to not be picked, and still, not, ever in any-old never, picked.”

“Or picked last. Or worse.”

“Things we’re all too dumb to know.”

“Well, all I know is these here drinks are not going to just keep pouring themselves. We all need that great bartender in the sky sometimes, don’t we?”

“Sure. Sure. All He knows is that He doesn’t. And that, that my old bro, is all there is.”

“My spirit’s so light, but still nobody can lift the damn thing.”

“So we lift a glass, we raise our right hand and cuss before we swear. It’s all so easy to have, and so hard to know. It’s all we’ve got, given, or had. Lots and little of it is all we’ll swim around with before it’s easily lost.”

“By the way, by chance, are you a spy on the retreat from his classified inner struggles? You seem testy yet dour.”

“By the way, go fuck a tree trunk.”

“Oh, that explains it. I’m getting on the horn. I’m phoning this whole thing in.”

“Don’t worry. This is just the planning stages. Buy me one or another? The devil won’t care. Trust me. To smaller and better things to come.”

“Ok. To laugh. To sky’s a bit less blue. To wrong-of-way times and the crookedest boulevards in all of Hades. You, me, and the bottle makes…well, something out of something.”

“That’s about it, huh?”

“Away from the world. Away from it. And I’m calling the devil names. I’m ruining my own. Forget about it. I own this fucking place, from this lopsided stool in my head to the chipped paint in my eyebrows. Borrow another tomorrow and own whatever yesterday it suits you to make up. The policy on loose women here is vague at worst.”

“Tight men, though. You’ve got to admit.”

“Tying it on the tightest, as always. And it’s just another Monday morning in the universe. So fuck it. I’m not as mad as hell as I might let on.”

“None of us are…or is.”

“Would I were a worm to worm the worry away, but the worried worm still wins. The worry will always win.”

“In the middle there were us. Family gatherings be damned. We just wanted a little later last supper; that’s all and that’s none. So go be one with your childish teething, your coddled and muddled damnation of all that’s realer than below. I cannot stand tears, sir. And of this? Of this I will have pretty much none.”

“Pour it on thin. Lay it on slow. I get it. I don’t. There’s something less that I need, and it gets less and less all the time. Pour me another. Please? Help a low mucketymucker out. Please?”

“There ain’t enough pleases left in all the thin red hells to hide out in now. I bet you’re not on to something there, but I won’t bet much.”

“All not in. As you will. As I won’t. As my drinks are stirred with woe’s wreck. Appealing, though, isn’t it? All this trouble we find?”

“It’ll do until it finds us, I guess.”

“Firstly, I’ve got a habit of getting to them first. How about another? And another too?”

“Also’s just another alas. It’s all the difference’s same. Okay. Pour ‘em out. See? I’m gazing downward, not up.”

“That’ll do. That’ll don’t. That’ll really do, and that’ll really don’t.”



Sunday, December 1, 2013

Highlights From The 147,212 Stages Of Grief



12. Learning not to dislike people who say they are, “Sorry for your loss.”
232. Thinking, ‘I am not breathing for just me now. I’m breathing for two,’ while standing on a chair in a Chinese restaurant.
111. Nobody remembers.
67. The point has come when one realizes that, no, time won’t tell anymore.
889.  An older, rather dapper and doddering, hardscrabble and pleased-with-himself gentleman telling you: “Keep them dreams in your head, where they belong, kid. Wrong’s the reason. People don’t always behave as they ought to. Types like us get the worst news and spilt. So, just hoist up a few more of these here oilcans, because the telephone pole is reading me my rights, and time’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Listen. I’m going to relate something to you that’s not made up.”
55,411. Pass the gravy, please.
10,010. And into the room comes that ecstatic condition many once or often refer to as a flash of excruciating devastation, and there are no more once-in-a-whiles to have, and so the condition ceases at some point, perhaps when a light is extinguished or flickers.   
147,006. Not a cry, but a whimper, not for help, but for more whisky.
67. Not those big-time tears, but the Little-Leaguers, the ones that shed softly, light, to a bewildered blink. Thinking oneself a “big, insensitive bastard” who wells up so calmly and takes the heart’s ruffling as a mere sign of age. Not so true, as it turns out, anything one might come to amass to fend off the quaking spasms of gulped hurt.
747. We are not insects.
1,243. Simplicity does not reign. Even when doors are not held, they get opened again, and if there are gates to hold back this welling nobody’s in the habit of saying.
2,249. Listening to yourself say things to yourself, not sure if they’re aloud or not, such as: “I used to work for the Gopher Sign Company out of St. Paul, Minnesota. We had a good run. The signs sold themselves: Parking signs; No Parking signs. We produced our own scrap. We took cover when the cooks retired. On off days I’d collect ticket stubs with my birthday’s date on them. People would bring them to me from odd corners of the city-- rummagers, fledgling hat saleswomen, boycotters, label thieves, poncho hawkers, and blubber-fed postcard aficionados. I opened my mail only on odd-numbered days. Once in a while the night watchman would play the warped piano in the warehouse bathroom. It tinkled and jounced the atmosphere with a grainy death sentence. And sometimes, if things slowed more than normal at the factory station, I’d grow even less garrulous than normal, sink my chin down into my chest, rest my elbows on my desktop’s edge, and think about Ida Lupino singing One For My Baby in the movie Roadhouse. That job didn’t last long.”
19. Torn awake all the time, all through the night.
1,999. Movies and television get substituted for compassion and regret.
411. Numbers deleted from phones.
554. Numbers added to phones, again, and kept there until further notice.
140,535. Further notice.
133. Waking up drunk on the floor, in the fetal position, with arms wrapped around an urn filled with ashes at 3:47 in the afternoon.
609. Hanging signs, painting brushes, fooling around.
6,512. How does one get others to pay attention to what one is capable of doing? In the airy consolation of anonymity flies the do-nothing and the too-much-doing just the same. We reach and expand towards our limits; but the eyesore of your own regurgitation becomes all too common. We give up before we’ve even given ourselves a chance. It’s easier.
79,909. Partitions that do anything but separate.
15. Acceptance.
16. Disavowal.
140. Songs take themselves out to breakfast: “How far, my love? How much will take this space and go? Just then seems when you were right here making toast in my kitchen. My love, my love, where’d you go?”
565. You can’t use the phone.
11,007. The chatter of gulls in the early morning fog wakes you from the most profound and restless slumber. You’re woozy and stunned, but alert enough to grind coffee and grope for the kettle. And then there’s the bread, the toaster, the pad of butter. It all gets in the way. But you get through it, on the stilts of still damp dreams, and muddle your way into the bedroom again, where you plop down on a stool and stare out the window at whatever’s out there. The bleat and wail of car alarms quakes the stillness, and you reconvene with your dreary emotional state, saying howdy to this hiding place that has become your prison.  
990. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had champagne.”
141. These boots were made for anything but walking.
77,778. Your heart’s just a couple of panhandlers duking it out over the rights to a street corner by a freeway off ramp where everybody is getting off.
101. That door is locked for a reason.
100. Nothing depends on a fucking red wheelbarrow. Not a thing.
888. More singing, alone in a room with all the window shades pulled tight, the lights off, a martini in one hand, a bottle of vermouth in the other: “Do you remember things? The smell of things? The waft of your favorite pie? If the time won’t take, if the pie won’t bake, then we’ll have to be held in goodbye.”
41,410. Punctuation stops, i.e., “it won’t take and it won’t stay still it’s something that matters in the gist of being me in the tired happen of now that lends itself to a better way to rust or roam or never go less than away anyway that roughs up the lighter stuff in the time it doesn’t just take to be run out or over or between too now that this is just fact from figure and it doesn’t so the moon’s shape’s just a bowl of lettuce and we’re walking we’re always walking and all the sidewalks in the world just aren’t enough to hold any of it they never were so just be patient and kind because that’s all that matters you asshole you.”
999. Fumble!
1,666. Bedtime for doldrums. Go west, Spaghetti! Denver’s lost in lamplight again. The hospital aroma of it all. Neckties wrapped around a wrist, asleep, or drunker than the piano’s slant. Not without it. An ectomorphic wish delayed into an endomorphic hope. And then, also, with the moods that don’t stick: strange weather we’re not having.
10,011. There is no room.
707. Gently the sweep of crowded loss maroons not your craven doings. You weep in public sometimes. You scold the TV. Preaching transmogrifies to just shutting-the-fuck-up in suspect places filled with strangers who do not complain or try on the fit of your patience. A laugh. A moan. A teetering on the cusp of sticky memories that have no place to go. So you tell a companion: “When I first met Anna I’d just seen Bergman’s The Passion of Anna, and every time I’d see her I’d raise my voice, ‘The Passion!’ It was great. She hated it. Which made it quite something, in my book. And Bergman’s a real fucking badass, in my book, by the way. And our rented apartment in Paris had this unique musty lime scent to it that grew with the windows shut. At first it seemed to be choking us, invading the air of our lives with its stinky tendrils, and so we opened up all the windows to let it out. But over time we grew so familiar with it that we didn’t want to live without it. I still catch a whiff of it sometimes. It’s hard to describe. Something damp, gluey, shellac-ish-- a moldy citrus-like thing with a dollop of ginger and vinegar and wine-- refreshing and dank and pungent, like falling in and out of love.” 
140,002. And then, suddenly, this too: “And there are no letters in the mailbox, and there are no grapes upon the vine, and there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore, and there are no diamonds in the mine.”
808. Be that as it may, or may not be, we can take the huckleberry cake and give it away to rusty figures of fame. Even if there are no more anymores to have. Even if, or be that as it might not be. Even if.
47. Shaving in the broken glass of the mirror you smashed six-and-a-half years ago, thinking, ‘Just 6 more months to go.’
291. Unnecessary roughness. Beginning-less day. A flood threatens the circus.
1,977. Go for a walk. Read the headlines. Check your pulse. Look at a nice view. Sit on a bench in the shade and think about the old days: “The old-gym odor hung heavy in the late afternoon’s hush. The squeaks of sneakers gone. Bowed deliverance taking odd shapes in the arcing ceiling’s shadows-- all the kids home now, all the balls heaped in a rolling cage-- as the moon winked its way out the fugue of daytime sleep and into the spooling drift of bleak and tattered clouds. Big Gulps to quench that after-scrimmage thirst. To lie awake most of the night dreaming about that girl two grades ahead-- the one with the purple hair and all the safety pins clinging together her torn leather jacket-- in the throes of the restlessness of frenetic youth.”  
7,710. All out of stock on prayers, you whisper through your smoke-stained gloves, “I miss you so much.”
313. Broken light fixtures. Holes punched or baseball-batted or tennis-racketed into drywall. Cigarette burns in the carpet. Records snapped in half or cracked to smithereens. A nose that does nothing but bleed.
41. A pinch of blight sneezes its way through the backs of your knees. A splinter of rusty need never tweezed by remorse until now rises like peptic acid in your throat, until this hankering gush ebbs. There are a lot of places like away, like, “Nobody’s left to like the things I do.”
229. There are soggy Mormons moping in your dreary cereal, oyster pirates foraging for scraps of scavenged quiet, and in the rowdy crucifixion of forever-less-than-current events.
12,745(a). Jilted and haggard and habituated to the constant drain of it all.
12,745(d). There’s always something left, something wasted, ruined, abject in the lees of it all.       
6. Get over it. Don’t get over it. Don’t need to get over it. Never will get over it. Don’t want to get over it. Scared of not getting over it. Want to get over it. Need to get over it. I don’t need to get over it. I’m over it.
108. Here, there, now, then, when, for never and never.
11. The house always wins.





Wednesday, November 27, 2013

such a small thing



my love it is such a small thing
you can’t pick it up or drop it much
or try it on for size
or take it out to lunch
it deeks my better judgment
and rubbles smooth spilling its guts
or into the mathematics of the trees’ glossy mend
it whispers “potato salad” to a leaf’s tip’s bend

my love it is such a small thing
it’ll slip through any grasp that’d hold it
finer than hair follicles
it mushes and sloths and brooms with hurt
and it won’t beg or moan for more or less
it has what it is already
being empty and full of all that it holds

my love it is such a small thing
it dizzies and drizzles in the rills of a dream's palm
wrinkled and pressed
but nothing to touch
it makes its own logic from big hunks of dust
to sprinkle like powder on nothing’s “a bunch”

my love it is such a small thing
it wriggles and writhes in the margins of books
spread out and jumbled but exact just enough
to be erased or remain or coolly adjust
to a diet of pie touched with lost looks
and lobster-claw hands like pillows with hooks

my love it is such a small thing
it is heavier than a laugh but lighter than crow
and you’ll never catch a glimpse of it
no matter how far gone you go or forgo
it is inside and out and all over too
it runs in a spiral
and in the arc of a lune
it knows no steady course
but its path’s my favorite tune

my love it is such a small thing
it matters less than words
it travels less drooling than any hunting dog would
it smashes its lenses in the runny sky’s kilter
just to be off if it could
it rules and it kowtows
and when it flashes you’ll just know it
without seeing
somehow

my love it is such a small thing
smaller than the lilt and broken glass in your voice
as tiny as the daze of your crooked smile’s tilt
or the baize distance of your bunchy eyes
or the way of your hourglass on-tiptoe rise
delicately spooning out old coffee grounds
and its silence is you asleep purring almost not aloud

my love it is such a small thing
you can’t patent it or call it a cab
it’ll slither beyond any attempt at a nab
for its life’s just a curl and a moment’s gone wisp
a thing never noticed until it is missed
and then it’s forever and bigger than the world
or the universe or god
or any of that crud
because my love’s indecent and higher than above

my love it is such a small thing
and still smaller still
so it doesn’t require attention or praise or some dumb arrow
it’ll get on just fine being neutrino-large and largely ignored 
just so you know
so just leave it alone
don’t even phone
and watch how it’ll grow
smaller and smaller
if you will
and still smaller still

my love it is such a small thing
it roves indistinct
it marries the sunset to the subtlest wink
it perches in alcoves hidden in tears
it is nothing and everything and the kitchen sink
it slings gumdrops to crinkles of silver balloons
and muddies in marmalade its clown-paint face
but never goes in for an act that disappears
even in the loneliest night there’s always a trace

my love it is such a small thing
it swipes the bull from adore
and yells “ole!”
past the dropped red dress on your floor
it’s the bite of your violin sigh
it’s the tinsel’s twist in your style
it’s starry and rough and wornthrough and long
it’s a prayer’s soft luck and a crippling song
it’s a sewing machine’s rumble
or coloring’s crush
where angels get drunk
in the voicemail’s hush    

my love it is such a small thing
with nowhere to be put
it won’t float or drown
or stay or flee
or make up its mind or just disagree
so i keep it close and away
at once and for always
for never and for keeps
and for just the hell of it
i guess
like my sink’s dripping
some rhythm to have
when there’s nothing left to sing

ps--
don’t worry
i won’t mention any of this
to anyone ever
my love’s a small secret stashed and stowed in forever
and i won’t let on
that it’s in all of my ways
some specter that grovels and haunts all my stays
puts the world round and spins it through all of my days
i’ll be mum when it comes to all of this stuff
in public or private i’ll call it a bluff
don’t ask for my love
on any new or old day
because it’ll be gone
and here just the same



Saturday, November 23, 2013

Shovels & Rope



BLACK BART: Triple or everything, I’ll give it like I take it. It is moronic to idolize the famous. Swimming pools say more.  

IDA TARBELL: Trite. Convalescing. Out of it spins to in. There goes that 90-proof dame again, on the nowhere wagon to everywhere.

BLACK BART: But suspects line down the boulevard.

IDA TARBELL: Up it.

BLACK BART: Oh, that too. Bewildered, they haunt the long-gone rose gardens, they turn mugwort eyes on the fiasco and chew on egg rolls in the early AM.

IDA TARBELL: I know the shape of his shadow by liver, by spleen, by kidney and ileocecal valve. There are no escapes, only more entrances, more condiments and dressings.

BLACK BART: Suspicions that never rise much above the hips.

IDA TARBELL: Arise, my un-esteemed colleague. Tap that payment card at any pay station but mine, Sally old gal.

BLACK BART: There will be no credit cards in heaven. It’ll be a cash-only affair. I’m ordering my valet to bury me with my watch on. I think angels will vie for my attention if I glimmer and shine.

IDA TARBELL: The ants are beckoning. The yaks are becoming supper. Me? Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to live through any of this.

BLACK BART: Thought so. That’s analogous to chintzy querulous patterns of wimps ducking out of battles and confrontations. It is situational, no? There are more socks to wear than you’ll ever own. Get out in the sunlight and be you.

IDA TARBELL: Pale is my only accoutrement. Pasty and bland is my mise en scène. Look out above. I’m quite ready to not jump.

BLACK BART: I fought the yuppies and the yuppies won.

IDA TARBELL: The untold story of an unknown stranger’s life. Yes. That makes your eyes teary. That ruptures your little rapturous moment there, doesn’t it?

BLACK BART: If it’s Wednesday in the parched confines of another shoddy week’s work, then the Tasers are all set to Kill, and this while the beaten-to-death lie prone and proud on the asphalt.

IDA TARBELL: Muck it. Really. Muck all of it.

BLACK BART: Doesn’t have the same effect.

IDA TARBELL: No. But listening’s useless, there and then, and I’ve got hopscotch to play with the pleasantly and most willfully discharged marines you’d ever know, or not know for that matter.

BLACK BART: Don’t get to the point. Rile the faithful. I know the 100-proof smile you’ll be messing around with soon. Breath like a topped-off gas tank. Moods that reinvent themselves forty times a day. I don’t want powdered milk in my Cocoa Puffs. Breathe. Go ahead. Try it. Breathe. That’ll do.

IDA TARBELL: And the heart’s song is tuned to goodbye.

BLACK BART: Yes. Let’s wait for some accompaniment.

IDA TARBELL: The dash of hesitation that’s palling around with unrequited distance is a both-feet-forward kind of thing.

BLACK BART: I do, and I do not.

IDA TARBELL: Because of where we go and where we don’t. I am unlisted in hell’s phone directory. Dial M for missed.

BLACK BART: Nuts.

IDA TARBELL: We are only what we think.

BLACK BART: Just a gull’s dream foraging for favor in the spray of _____, the mist of _____, or in droplets of ____ __ _____.

IDA TARBELL: _______!

BLACK BART: Damn.

IDA TARBELL: Please do not cross the yellow line. Do not bother the operator. Do not wish anything away. The fools are in the details. The roof’s about to collapse. It’s all steam and Moroccan scent on the way to getting away, on my way. If it were. If I could. Okay. I’ll stop singing someday.

BLACK BART: You’d know best. The stupidest among us rule with a plastic hammer and a blow-up fist.

IDA TARBELL: A cure for bad dreams, but not nightmares.

BLACK BART: A hypnotist’s cloak worn inside-out for none of the world to see. Demanding less, the sunsets flicker off into the wattle of the world. And me? I’m going for Shyest Guy On The Planet honors.

IDA TARBELL: The records we won’t set.  

BLACK BART: I’ve been settling for so long. I’ve forgotten how to be serious. Nothing goes together or stays apart very well. 

IDA TARBELL: Yes, we can’t. As I die and wheeze. Cool. Cool. Huh?

BLACK BART: Sure fired on Uneasy without a dot of distance blipped between them. Who was it who lay then, there, in the lying of whom, up before down, as it weren’t, sleeping, only?

IDA TARBELL: Who?

BLACK BART: That’s not a direction. Nobody’s taking or following orders. Go on and rope off all the unclaimed territory, used as ever, in the potbelly of your eyes.

IDA TARBELL: Ditched, and tabulated in all loaded accounts of this is the wherewithal to not muster the Biff-Loman supporters to rally but to only cry.

BLACK BART: It’s all scratched and folded into my vocal cords. I say differently the same things with no difference in the casual lullaby’s passing. But we were all less than happier then.

IDA TARBELL: And it was all included in the framework, scars and cracks and wreckage and rubble and all. And my hands are no longer as lovely as they used to be.

BLACK BART: Just for a long while less. 

IDA TARBELL: The leaves here are more golden than we let on, more worthy of letting go.

BLACK BART: The Queen Of Ravioli is on the make, and I’m foxtrotting with demure savages in high-rise multiplex ballrooms. Here, there is so much gone and so much left.

IDA TARBELL: The way we weren’t, it tells the same story through and through.   

BLACK BART: And so other people are somehow supposed to know what the recently deceased would have wanted me to do? Hell, I don’t expect anything from anybody after I die. I won’t be around to know anyhow. You just do what you can and must and will, and you do it almost as well as you shouldn't.

IDA TARBELL: The past comes and goes. Let’s get some dark on the object. And run errands for the sappy in the big unjust. I haven’t become completely insulated from the elements as of late, yet, but then again, or now, I just want to read upside-out.

BLACK BART: Well, get his then. Something from Jackie’s limo ride in Texas-- “I have his brains in my hands. Jack, what have they done? Jack. I love you. This is terrible, Jack. I love you. Jack. I love you.”

IDA TARBELL: Something not of the sort, I mostly don’t see; and all of this while the tattoos of toothier goobers lose perceived value in the contextual confines of emulation’s choppy contractual obligations that are oh-so limited by supply’s demand. But me? I’m confirmed in my resignation’s desperation.

BLACK BART: Fucking tattletale.

IDA TARBELL: Who are you, who is anyone else to tell me what I need? I don’t need a damn thing. Not a damn thing at all. New York’s not on the skyline anymore. I’m rushing out of slowing down, and the moon’s new-penny bright scythe is slicing a spotlight out of the pitch in night’s blue-black felt skin. That’s all.

BLACK BART: It is, mostly, and then it is not too, mostly.

IDA TARBELL: Make it on your own. Or don’t. It gets lonelier here all the time.

BLACK BART: Slim up and fatten down. Ham. Ham. Ham. That’s about all I’m good for, or bad for not.

IDA TARBELL: Wish none of it here, but away to a cornfield like a Jack-in-the-box with a human head. Anyway, spring is for wussies. Fall is for the real standup-sitdown gals.  

BLACK BART: Every then and now we keep getting dry from distilling our souls too close to home in the alembic of hard, cold fictions.

IDA TARBELL: I bet we’ll touch on it before we die, though. Just a dab, a slight fingertip’s brush, a fallen smile, and then it’ll all be done.

BLACK BART: Be joyful, you fine-haired sons of bitches.

IDA TARBELL: Yup.
 





Wednesday, November 20, 2013

How Walter’s Drear Spumed To Spirited Indifference & General Interest


Walter left for Brunswick Bowl as the rain fell. “Knives.” And then, “Daggers? Stilettos? A thousand pointy diamonds dropped on rubber, or some hoof-plunk patter, some bubble-wrap plop. No. No.” It was counterintuitive to be thinking, comparing, placing nouns around. Help recurred, left him stranded at the bus station, no lettuce to go with his bread. It was just to get back, that’s all. Another shift in territory, odious and remote, to return but never stay.

What’s left of the drizzle is car tires skidding over damp cement. Permeable motion, a thistle’s prickly bract, and were it not for a top-heavy equilibrium we’d all be plunging likewise. No. Not close. 

The dark longs for more dark. Also, Walter’s brains got junked, scrapped, sold for spare parts. This was after the lanes closed, and, then, there was nowhere to leave for, or go to, or be from.            

The potted plants. Sam The Guy. Walter getting needled by the kids, again. Fish decomposing in the topsoil. “Brace somebody else.” Arrows evidently pointing to closer objects, and, “Behaving like a plainclothes dope, like in the midst of being whipped by Orion’s belt, like spitting towards the gutter, like chewing tea leaves, like undeniable parameters of not being just competent and content with it.” Sam The Guy. Yes. And. And. Yes, the potted plants, how they grew and failed too. The tilt and flush of Walter’s busy getting-by ways.

“Now I’ve got plenty of names to call myself.”

There were traffic stops to manage. Nouns to mispronounce. Metal alloys had it made because of carbon, because of aluminum and iron, because of composites, and because of rising temperatures and harder times. To not belong was the newest way to beat the evens, like even in the dampest drizzliest November of the soul too. Walter tried to say:

“We used to walk on beaches all the time, you know? There was splashing stiffed with taped-down plastic ruffling in some mild wind. And, that old terrible night. And, of course, that. Too, a clasping, a rig of surf tapered with invasion’s lilt. Traipses not yet set, in the funding. Another type of mailman, not on his way, early, and then young or under the kitchen table, guitar-less, and the shoes, those too, and the On Switch flicked to Always.

“What was it that we did? Whiffing, and then the coolness came. That’s right. And about the other, in that order, questions of obtuseness, subjunctive and moody, fluttered in the, what, corner. That’s it. Round and toward the light, now. At difficulty, laboring with ease. Soda blue in the rummy matters of those most not usual and sure. My love, it’s such a random thing.

“What? Showing on, and off, in the routine’s unoccupied use. Oil spreads the most pillow-less parts, tiny. The shells’ cut to the toe’s forgiveness, wrong? It is impossible to relate. The ratings are for suckers and off-duty potato-chip cops. Curt and somebody else’s everybody, or thing. Sorry’s not calling anymore, now.

“And? My fish is a mother. Tell me that from a few kitchens away, so. Dreamed to pastures fouler than these. Or the right that’s rigging, and more than ever now, that is modern and wrong, all, and, all. My fish. My love. The water’s gone uphill.

“Chisel my dreams into the tree trunks, still? It is ravioli time. Or the dance might be ending without me. I am, grit, not so holy anymore. Buy me breakfast so I can chase down the whole deal. The, Pontiac thunders, balmy, into is gone. Lying beneath it, hunting Missouri’s moon still, open the up, still, still. Lie. It pours done through a fist. Lots and little, without’s holding court. Sun’s glassed in. Don’t give up on the snow. Drift a little, small, on the radar’s blip, Glendale, and with it the silent-film stars talking it over, over plain plans of bagel-less nows. My mouth’s where words go to die. And so? And so the rest of us live, for a bit, and then go on to merry-less ways, demure.

“Was it old timey cowboy songs? The rage of rest is ruined with doves, with, too, grade-school charm and circling the living room’s pasture. Pitted. Let’s rosebush the column to sleep roused in other places. Top of the telephone wires to it all. My way’s all scruffy and mussed. I am not that same monster, now, or, anymore. What is that that never that you’re never supposed to do? Supposed to do. The second’s not the song, yet.

“What’ll we not do? Rail the way. Two not left. I haven’t been around. Not so much. A new haircut, same old point of view. In the trying, it all gets us, and time’s jogging around me, tilled to tissue, last the remaining and then get on without it. Any slide will do. Court the wild, recall the normal of this to the quaint of then. Minneapolis is raining for me. A mansion flooded with waiting. It’s best to, not never to, run to, rather than from. Or just not to be ever adored. Spiders on the wall. Robots on the pot. Open to no west’s east, closed for all the norths of any old south. 

“There it is, you, but this is, the looking, correct? Aside, but from all that, like handholds dangling down from the grab rail of a subway, just like little nooses. Is it passable, this what, to get in of it, out to ruses and roses, also? This room’s inhabited by strange customers. Not working around the job, and could the went tell? No ships leaving for in. Though the coffee sippers are on strike, for worse. And there are no minds in the found and lost collection. Mine’s unmade for good.

“Brush off to brushed, fumed lit to exhaustion that kicks in, or the effects of little-missed berating, consolation the cure for offices of the undergoing plain wilted crush of plumbed shallows. In restraint the offer’s under the hedgerow, the tallest of all correspondence gone dull, steady, cool. In near harrumphing, go. I don’t choose much, and the list is common, worn above the heart, that one through six last, it is believed, so, possible and run to be given out, in, for the very same miniscule amount of trouble. Let’s pretend that we’re brave, at most, and push a shopping cart through it all. Even the radio-selected come rooting home in the television’s roar.”
   
Then Walter said, “Call me Isaiah, or Shirley if you will. I’m not below it, but certainly not above it. Perhaps close to nipple-high with it, is all.

“But shit, there I just go, on and off, taking up the rear in funeral processions and methodically knocking people’s hats off again. 

“And so it comes to this:

“A coldwater flat with a bottle opener beneath the bathroom sink. This is what happens. There’s no window screen, ten floors up, and the heat’s scrambling in with the flies and the moths. The stink of it all is tremendous. Night comes on fast, and the streetlights pop up like a thousand sparks of flint, and I’m alone with, which is fine. The guy next door’s having a contest with some other poor sap to see who can talk the loudest. It’s all politics and showmanship and bullshit. I race the brake lights of the traffic fouling up the street below with my eyes. It’s something to be doing. I’m running out of ways to be me.

“A Pepsi-cola smile ribs at my baser instincts. And believing’s just another way to not get by very well at all. Figueroa’s asleep with the lights on. 7th street is on the make. And we’re all anything but bashful around here. Prop me up at the door and get the money from me, sure. The girls are colder than my freezer, and my insides are drowned trout. The night’s lounging around with a smirk clipped from The Personals. I get it. I do. I’m ruled out, thumbed to death, and broke to top it all off. For the record, most everything else is broken too, even the Do Not Disturb sign. Hell, the heater’s the only thing that works right.

“Worm in to it, buddy. Let’s forget our laughs and trouble the ceiling for a light. I don’t rust so well in the gut. Over the sun and lying low beneath nobody’s moon. Whatever chases and doesn’t stick around. Where the rain don’t go, that’s a place that keeps showing up and off for the likes of one last sucker dangling from a street sign, just like me. Burning holes through what we used to be, it is rare and chancy, and it gets along just so alright. The echoes in this place are about enough to drive anyone to madness.

“The Hollywood sign like un-struck matches in the distance, as the smog bellows in on mediocre dog feet, and I’m willing away my demons with a paper cup of whisky. The helicopter noise is the same as always. The children yip and the ruined houses rot, and the music of the street ricochets and rackets its way through a few stiff ones. The Chinese food I had for breakfast put up a good fight in my gut, but it didn’t end well for it, or for me. I know she’d’a smoked the lights out of this place, if it’d do. All the pleases have left the dark on again. And we’re wired with money for better things not up ahead. You can’t see it, so, here’s the deal, or there it isn’t. In the pleading, everything lies close. Do not stiff-arm my instincts for self-destruction just yet. Hell, here we don’t go. Not just yet.

“Testing out the hardest parts of loss, checking for worth beneath the pillow. It is sunnier to be leering at dead neon signs. Often is the wonder of now.

“It’s all a load of old socks. Let the antelope hunters go bill the vets for stuffing. It’s not instinctual, basically, to sit beneath wall-mounted elk horns twisted into each other like leaf-less tree branches. It is something that is just done. Not so that you’d pick apart the Max Capacity signs. For if the music keeps this up, well, the neat business-suit happiness will still reign, but something’s still far from lacking. The polished silverware shine of black, it, though helping, dictates chilled-vodka smoothness to the flashing beachfront news. I am only hardly found out, in typewritten testaments, in wonder’s gall, a simple ache gone squashed to a whine.

“Rise and sin. It seems every time I check somebody’s yelling, ‘All aboard!’ Or that’s where goes gone on to. Compassion’s gotten somewhat musty, here. The mirror makes up its own music, but nobody’s dancing back to it. The brunt of the hammering’s been done. To us? For us? Or would that be from? What matters is that it doesn’t.

“There is an earring in my mustard soup.”