Some catch up time...more to come soon

3/19/09 Happiness

The soft morning glow crept over their nude forms like the ocean’s foamy hands over the graham cracker sand. The sun pressed their sleeping lids gently. Morning stood directly outside, awaiting their presence. The two awoke, the corners of their mouths curling upwards in anticipation of day. Movements still dreamy and thick, they sauntered out into what could only be called paradise. This is what is must have been like for Adam and Eve. The sand rejoiced in glittering winks, the ocean roared in glee, and the sweet breeze tickled their ears and necks. All was well. All was well.

3/20/09 “I’d like to stay in love with you all summer…”

“I’d like to stay in love with you all summer…”

“That’s a nice tune. Who’s it by?”

“Dunno. Dad used to sing it.” She looked out the window and watched a little woodfinch jump hovering around their backyard lemon tree.

“Do you want to talk about something else?” he asked.

She shrugged. He came over and put his arm around her.

“We’ve done this thing for awhile now. We can see it through.”

“It’s only Spring,” she said.

“So he’s got time.”

She looked at her brother and then back outside. “…and after fall, I’ll keep you warm through the winter ooh…”

3/21/09 Desperation

“You’re fucked.” She took a sip of her flask.

“Adele, we’re in a coffee shop,” I whispered.

“Whatever. I’m hung over.”
She looked different now. Her hair was coarser, her skin leathery, but she still wore the same red jungle lipstick and carried the same leopard-print purse.

“Look sweetie, I didn’t say it to be mean, I said it ‘cause it’s the truth. Adele leaned in. She smelled like stale coffee grounds and clove cigarette smoke.

“So what are ya gonna do?”

I half-expected her to add “huh? Punk?” and I think she expected an answer or at least a squeak.

3/22/09 Desperation continued

But instead I took her flask and took a gulp. She raised her eyebrows.

“Ugh,” I grimaced, “Tequila in the morning?”

She laughed, “You know Jose and I have a love affair that lasts a lifetime. Anyway, look girlie, you called me for a reason. I can help you, but you gotta ask. The girls haven’t forgotten your sassy little ass and I’ll tell you right now, I’d take you back in a heartbeat. You’re my girl.”

Her red lips curled, revealing tequila-stained teeth.

“Okay,” I said, “I need help, Adele. Just please don’t tell Marc.”

“You got it, Mama.”

3/23/09 How to run a hotel smoothly

“What we have here is a failure to communicate. The captain paced with one hand behind his back and the other twizzling his moustache.

“I don’t appreciate the behaviour I’ve seen this week. Dropped calls, misinforming guests, and to top it all, one of you leaked all over the lobby floor!

He looked at the crew searchingly. They stared dispassionately back, their beetle-black eyes pulsating to the tune of elevator music that seemed to pervade spaces other than the elevator.

“Understood?”

In a symphony of monotone drone, the silver borgs responded, “yes, sir.”

“Then off to it!” the captain barked.

3/24/09 Sometimes a step

Sometimes,

just a step will do the trick

Small,

but deliberate and well-placed

Yeah. That should do it.

And sometimes,

a fall

might send you back a couple,

--especially if you try to leap.

That’s okay, though

Because you’ll have your laughter

To catch you

And your humility

To spring you back up

But sometimes,

Pride stands in the way,

Silly thing

So will shame.

They’ll grow like brick walls

if you don’t kick them down

when they pop up

Sometimes,

just a step will do the trick

Small,

but deliberate and well-placed

Yeah. That should do it.

3/25/09 Wriggly Wriggly Wriggly Poo Song

Wriggly Wriggly Wriggly Poo

Squiggly Squiggly Squiggly Poo

Giggly Giggly Giggly Poo

Diggly Diggly Diggly Poo

Piggly Piggly Piggly Poo

Biggly Biggly Biggly Poo

Miggly Miggly Miggly Poo

Iggly Iggly Iggly Poo

Wiggly Wiggly Wiggly Poo

Figgly Figgly Figgly Poo

Higgly Higgly Higgly Poo

Jiggly Jiggly Jiggly Poo

Priggly Priggly Priggly Poo

Tiggly Tiggly Tiggly Poo

Stiggly Stiggly Stiggly Poo

Bliggly Bliggly Bliggly Poo

Psyggly Psyggly Psyggly Poo

Spriggly Spriggly Spriggly Poo

Chiggly Chiggly Chiggly Poo

Ziggly Ziggly Ziggly Poo

Thiggly Thiggly Thiggly Poo

Driggly Driggly Driggly Poo

Pliggly Pliggly Pliggly Poo

Griggly Griggly Griggly Poo

Liggly Liggly Liggly Poo

Catching Up On The Last Week Or So

March 30: "Writing"

What comes out of my fingertips is what comes over the airwaves and comes into your eye sockets. Where it goes from there is all a matter of synapses. Nerve endings? Memory banks? I don’t know and I only care a little. What I’m worried about is the specific connection between my fingertips and the non-biological cavern in my brain where original thoughts are spawned. If the connection is unimpeded, the transfer between the cosmic and physiological reactions pure, then the writing process is complete. You, the reader, are inessential. But of course, I’m still happy that you are there.

March 29: "Song For The End Of The Day"

The toad says grub grub grub
The toad says grub grub grub
I sit in my tub tub
Down in the suds suds
Listening to grub grub grub
 
The moon goes down down down
The moon goes down down down
I wear a frown frown
My head spins round round
While the moon goes down down down
 
The wind says sigh sigh sigh
The wind says sigh sigh sigh
The earth can’t lie lie
Or give another try try
My mind says sigh sigh sigh
 
Goodbye goodbye goodbye
Goodnight
Goodbye goodbye goodbye
Goodnight
 
Grub grub goodnight
Sud sud goodnight

Goodbye  

March 28: "Jules Verne"

            I opened a heart-sized chest in a Chinatown tourist shop, and inside I found Jules Verne.

            He was resting against the end of the box, reading a tiny copy of Chuang Tzu.

            He told me all the human beings – writers, thinkers, inventors – I look up to are also waiting, just like him.

            After we discussed for a time how to find giant crystals in the earth’s core, I gently closed the chest and walked into the street.

            That’s why I lift every mossy rock; why in every field of dandelions gone to seed I look for Albert Einstein.

March 27: "Odds"

            Two jet airliners collided high above the Midwest on Tuesday.

            United Flight 291 and Virgin America Flight 48 struck head-on at an altitude of 30,000 feet, instantly destroying both aircraft. An estimated five hundred total passengers and crew were on board.

            “The chances of this happening are astronomical,” said United spokesman Barry Clark in a statement released late Tuesday night.

            Dorris Greenwater, a resident of Topeka, Kansas, described the explosion. “I could see two contrails getting pretty close up there, then a bright flash like a camera bulb, then nothing.”

            Crews are combing the state of Kansas for fallen debris.

March 26: "Towns I've Been In"

Aberdeen, Anchorage, Antelope, Astoria, Bakersfield, Bellevue, Bellingham, Bend, Berkeley, Billings, Boise, Bozeman, Butte, Capitola, Coeur d’Alene, Cooke City, Corvallis, Dubois, Federal Way, Fresno, Friday Harbor, Gig Harbor, Gilroy, Hayward, Kent, Key Center, Lakewood, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Medford, Missoula, Moab, Mobile, Monterrey, Moses Lake, New Orleans, Oakland, Ocean Shores, Olympia, Palo Alto, Playa del Carmen, Pocatello, Port Angeles, Port Orchard, Port Townsend, Portland, Puyallup, Redding, Redwood City, Renton, San Diego, San Francisco, San Jose, San Ramon, Santa Cruz, Salem, Salt Lake City, Sausalito, Seattle, Shaniko, Sitka, Spokane, Tacoma, Tri-Cities, Vancouver, Victoria, Walla Walla, Washington D. C., Weed, Wenatchee, Yakima, Yreka.

March 25: "Speckled Fingernails"

            My fingernails have always had flecks of white in them. Today I found out why.

            I went in to donate blood, and when I was strapped into a chair, I could see my blood draining through a clear plastic tube into a baggy by my left foot. Every few seconds, I noticed, a patch of chalky white blood would move through the tube.

            The nurse was worried, for obvious reasons.

            They did tests in the hospital all afternoon and finally called ten minutes ago with the results.

            The white liquid in my veins that condenses into my fingernails?

            “Genetic miscalculation.”

March 24: "Unfortunately, The Bench Is Destroyed Too"

“Dude that bench has our name on it.”
“Word! Pristine pizza eating spot.”
“Man I’mma eat this shit in three bites.”
“Wait, yo, what the fuck?”
“What?”
“Check this plaque man.”
“What. ‘In loving memory of Blake Lundy and “Corkscrew” Bailey.’ Yo, shit man.”
“That’s fucking us.”
“What the fuck is our name doing on this bench?”
“You asking me that? Dead people are supposed to be on benches.”
“Well, we aren’t dead, it’s some sick joke.”
“Dude, this a omen. A sign.”
“Whatever man. Let’s nibble these slices.”
“I got a bad feeling.”
“You’re hungry. Cheers, to greasiness!”

METEORITE

March 23: "Things"

The trail through mossy gullies
The beach with its dried band of seaweed
The fences with wobbly corner posts
The ponds, each with its own disposition
The trees and their rings
The porches and patios where people grill and chat
The mountain that rests across the bay
The bridge across the lagoon
The barn with its smell of chickens and dusty machinery
The afternoon sun going over the hill
The tideflats out under shallow water
The birds that call and soar
The houses where people end up in the evening
The forest that wraps like a scarf around the farm

Conversation

“My mouth is like a vacuum.”
“Is that so?”
“A hugeass black hole vacuum.”
“You’re not sucking me in.”
“Well you’re clearly to big.”
“Calling me fat?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Look, just because of your freak show mouth – “
“My what?”
“Your crazy sucking mouth – “
“Black hole vacuum mouth is a good thing!”
“Good?”
“The best possible thing!”
“OK, explain yourself.”
“It doesn’t suck like a vacuum, it inhales, ingests.”
“You’re talking about food?”
“Picture a steak hovering between us.”
“Man you’re falling off the beaten trail. Levitating steak?”
“I’d be done before you swallowed one bite.”

Today:

I’m disappointed I’m disappointed I’m disappointed I’m disappointed I did things today and for each thing I did I remembered that I’m still disappointed I’m more sad and despairing than disappointed because I looked forward to it so much and all of a sudden I can’t because of one tiny detail I’m disappointed and sad and lonely and though I still have friends around me I’m disappointed for each thing I do I get sadder and more disappointed and yes I am angry too like why me I’m disappointed disappointed I’m sad and lonely but it’ll be OK I guess.

Start Writing...

Sputter me sideways and grind the pattern down
I’ll mutter my guidance and mind my business
Trying to end this or is this pretentious
Mention the jealous get kicked in the gut
Who wants what, pick your type of gamut
Can’t see it or scan it, scheme it or slam it
But accept the famine and begin to vanish
Looking like lambs or new hands on the job
New bookies to rob like cookies and jars
Your getaway car’s like a fallen down star
I’m calling the game so complain from afar
I’m training my ears to ignore musical bars

A Return From Travels

            He sat on the roof of a squat skyscraper, waiting. It was a brilliant day, and the air conditioning boxes around him whirred happily.

            Right on time, the five-foot door opened and a young woman, dressed as a secretary, came crunching across the roof’s gravel.

            “Welcome home!” he shouted, jumping up to embrace her.

             For several minutes they stood in the sunlight, catching up with each other.

            “Was it a good trip?”

            “Well I was the only one in the elevator!”

            Eventually he said, “Shall we go?” They grabbed hands and leapt up, up, and up into the atmosphere.

A Tipping Point

            I think a great tipping point in a person’s life is how they react to the realization that they are the only human being on earth. When one realizes that everyone else around exists in a state of non-existence, two emotional options emerge. Either great freedom or great desolation. Is this revelation inevitable? I do not know, as I have experienced it myself and know that others are not real and knowable as I am. And I do not know either what my reaction has been. I try to forget the revelation, but at times freedom and desolation overwhelm me.

For Spring

Speckled brown and pink, the egg did not know what to think.

Should it hatch here, so the world can rejoice and cheer?

Or should it sit and wait—the best surprises always come late.

But it could not ponder for long, for it sensed something very, very wrong.

Its nest was shaking, shake-a-lake-a-laking.

As a something drew near, the poor, helpless egg almost cracked in fear.

But no worries, little one! It’s your sister, her life has just begun!

So now you’re spurred on to make this hard exterior gone

Crick-crackle-pop! Stretch peek blink. Hop hop hop.

Breaking News from Station 5!

The world has died.

That’s right, folks. As of 3:32 pm today, Eastern Standard Time.

It was a tragic, but beautiful event as she collapsed into herself, furrowing along the equator, steam rising in bellows as oceans and oceans disappeared into the crevice. While it is impossible to report on any sound, witnesses commented that they imagined a crunching noise to accompany the crumbling structures that once were inhabited by the very people of the space stations. It is a devastating report we have here, but she lived to the ripe age of 6.5 billion years.

Back to you, Tom.

Play on a Desk

Sunglasses: Hey baby.

Keychain: Oh please.

Sunglasses: You’ve got the keys, but I’ll open your lock.

Pencils: Ha! Is this guy serious?

Sunglasses: No joke girl,

Wallet: Enough!

Sunglasses: I’m sorry man, didn’t mean anything by it.

Wallet: I’ve told you to stay away, now you’re gonna get it.

Sunglasses: You serious? Shit, bring it man.

[Wallet picks up Sunglasses and carries him over to Pencil Sharpener.]

Pencil Sharpener: Gzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Sunglasses: AHHHHHHHH

Speakers: “We are here with nothing to do today
Its something we can’t explain
And tomorrow, where will we be tomorrow?
What will we see today?”

Keychain: Wallet?

Exams in Spring

This day is so warm that it glows and exudes carefree. It smells like wednesday arvos in high school when we'd all buzz off to the beach and go surfing in sandy wetsuits, paddle out beyond the sharp, cool breakers and feel like life was too fun to be fair.

Now i'm sitting inside; learning many things.

But my window's open and i can smell the sun and the birds are cuckling gently and the quiet sounds of keys jingling and doors creaking and loose chatter somewhere outside the window are comforting and loving and life is simply too good.

Let's

Let’s go to the sea,

--you and me,

to revel in delight

us creatures of the night

Let’s fly to the moon,

whilst whistling a tune,

in frantic orbiting wheels

like twirling orange peels

Let’s plunge into earth,

feeling its laughter and mirth

to celebrate the soil

for its hard work and toil

Let’s sweep into the breeze,

so fast so no one sees

accompanied only by the leaves

From naked trees that grieve

Let’s stand here and be proud

Saying, we are human and we are loud

We use our minds to ponder

And at times think and wonder

Thought Trail

Boobs. Rhymes with tubes. Of toothpaste. My toothpaste is minty. And fresh. But then I can’t eat sour things after I brush because they’ll taste icky and bitter. But then again, you’re not supposed to eat anymore after you brush your teeth. I should brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like garlic. Garlic is so good. It’s so pungent and prominent. It’s like, hey I’m garlic, hear me roar! And it’s like that in everything it’s in. It’s pretty incredible. Like the incredible hulk. But not the first movie. That sucked. The second one was better. That’s what she said.

Courteous Bite Back

Lilly was really a sweet girl. She didn’t know how she gleaned a reputation for being the opposite. Well, here’s how it happened. Lilly was walking down the street after volunteering at the hospital when she sneezed. She was uncertain whether the old man on the bench said, “god bless you.” She didn’t want to offend, so just in case, she said, “thank you.” From then on, she resolved to always say thank you after she sneezed in public to reciprocate anyone’s politeness. However, this ended up making people think she pretentiously expected people to faun over her bodily functions.

CALLEGE

I love: Drinking. Beer. Cheap. Keg stands. Chug. Red cups. Ping pong balls. Cup pyramids. Women. Sex. A la carte. Upside down. With two. Parties. Late nights. Later mornings. Saturday nights. Friday nights. Thursday nights. Occasional Wednesday nights. Fuck it, Tuesdays and Mondays too. Sunday sleep. Daylight’s for pussies. Hookah. Pot. Dorms. Chiclet lights. Bunks. Stained carpets. Home at break. Generic music. Dining halls. Trays. Buffets. Late night grease fest. T-shirts. Jeans Sneakers. Branded sweatshirts. Nicotine with alcohol. Blackouts. Hangovers. Sports. Football. Tailgates. Hotdogs with mustard and onions. Cheers. Screams. Bikes. No helmets. Class? it’s cah-lege. CALLEGE. Live it, bitch.

The Diamond

            Son, we were born when your great-great-grandfather was as little as you and found a diamond under a leaf. It was on the side of a cart path and he carried it home in his cheek. He kept it there for the next seventeen years and never told anyone. Once he was sure he had swallowed it in a thunderstorm, but the next morning there it was again. The coroner was the first to discover it, under the limp tongue, and the moment he set it like a fragile seed into the young widow’s palm, she knew she was pregnant.

Bread wars

You know the difference between a piece of pre-packed pita and a hunk of plastic-wrapped naan? Everything. One’s thin, crispy-yet-soft, conveniently pocket shaped, and delicious; the other is a useless slip of defecated pseudo-bread that’s better used for slapping disobedient prostitutes limply in the face than stuffing down one’s throat. Pre-packaged, whole-wheat, cold, spongey naan soaks up all that is good in this world and grinds filth into it. It shits on angels. It spits on saints. It is the starchiest fucking antichrist ever baked into existence. It crashed the stock market and caused AIDS. But there’s no pita left.

What Happens On A First Date

            Under your skin, a layer of parachute troops crouches. Your entire body, toenail cuticles to skull skin, is hyper-dialed-in to every bit of inconsequential contact. The parachute troops do a jumping jack spasm any time skin meets skin and then spin like a dog chasing its tail in longing. Your noodle does a million things trying to stay calm, reign a discombobulated body into confidence, and float iceberg conversations. But every time she stumbles up against your arm, epidermal chaos makes a willy-nilly rush into the bloodstream firing sidearms and trying to start Mardi Gras right then and there.

Quickie Poem

Clap on, clap off
Life like Bernie Madoff
The twisties and turnies
Go tap tap tap tap tap tap tap
At my doorframe
“I want more fame”
Or
“I got more game”
Sellers selling snacks and shacks and syrups
People telling me where to attack
Where whacking the system
Will spare my system
And who kissed them?
The paraplegics
The wary medics
In short, the ones you see pacing the sidewalks
When hiding your face
Is saying mission abort
But the moral of the story is still more
More more more more more
Stores, floors, seashores
Tapping down your door

Future

Two similar adults sit in a pitch-black room. One is deaf; his name is Arimel. The other, Nostradamus, hears the metal-on-metal chink a cocked firearm and footsteps approaching.

Arimel is clueless. But Nostradamus knows. The only difference between the two is their perceptual abilities, yet one can much more accurately predict the future.

If you disengaged your brain’s heuristic shortcuts, which increase attention and speed but ignore perceptual details, you’d become holistically aware of a situation: its context; related events; probabilities. This increased clarity would be nearly a sixth sense. Like a gut feeling, you might even see the future.

Fancy Fantasy

Sexual fantasies must be spontaneous*, have a status-shift*, and involve non-intimate personas*.

They lurk in the silent shadows of the human psyche. They are fleeting, alien, and immensely powerful. Like everything, they can be explained with science.

When we’re outside of our comfort zone, acute stress responses kick in. Cortisol floods the bloodstream and brain, releasing energy and heightening sensation. A fantasy uses unreality* to create this. Then combine with sex; you feel unsafe and energetic as if running from a predator, yet aroused and reckless.

Two primal urges combine: survival and reproduction; and the result is perceptual nirvana.

See

One day Alice woke up and her eyes were on the ends of her index fingers. She touched her face and where normal eyes are, there was just skin, as smooth and continuous as flowing sub-Saharan dunes. She could see everything more or less normally, but her vision flew around all over the place when she moved her hands. Walking in a straight line was challenging because when she swung her arms her whole world flipped up and bucked.

She got toothpaste in her eye when brushing her teeth.

When she grew up she became a military field surgeon.

Tetris Overload

He thought in tetris. His life was built the way those colored blocks were built. One day, he built up the courage to quit his job. It was like clearing the whole damn screen. But then he realized he had no idea what he was going to do now. The blocks started piling on too fast. Holes. So many holes! Clear lines, goddamnit! How was he going to pay rent? The T-shaped block just missed it’s spot and collided with a square block. His girlfriend would surely dump him now. Only three lines until the top. Oh no. BEEEEEEEEEEP

Home Alone

I sit and read in the kitchen—the warmest room in the house. My dog’s jowls sink into the floor, his eyes heavy and red-rimmed. It’s late. The microwave numbers blink their pixels at me, 2:34 am. It’s quiet, except for the occasional bone cracks of this old house’s frame. The soft yellow light is beginning to wear on my eyes, and I think of closing them and slipping into a dreamful state. So I gather my things, pat my dog on the head, and make my way to my bed, off to the realm of the unreal and the uncontrolled.

A Letter To Friday The Thirteenth

              You sir are an interesting animal. I can’t figure you out. I think about the time I ate pad thai, chomped down on something hard, found a baby tooth in my mouth. Looked up, there you with your hands folded like some kind of jester. Or how my first kiss ever was actually lush and brilliant. There you were. What are you trying to pull? You pop up at the most unrelated moments so that I’m never expecting that it’s you when something happens. Then I have to try to piece all those random somethings together like they mean something!

Read This Poem And See What Happens

Whoa.

What if the things you read went through your digestive tract like food.

So you actually shat out what you read.

I bet Camus would make you constipated.

I bet Gabriel García Márquez would make your poo green and turn into little dragons.

What if you read what you wrote, what would happen?

Chuck Palahniuk would be some crazy shit.

In fact, I think maybe that’s how I’ll start looking in the toilet bowl from now on.

Especially in public restrooms.

He’s been reading the For Dummies... series, he’s had a little too much Apostle Paul.

It makes sense.

Some Of My Favorite Times

            We’d get in Mike’s maroon van during seventh period and listen to The Colours all the way to Point Defiance. Sun shining off everything. In the park we took off our shoes and climbed trees. Down the cliff face, at the secret tree fort by the Sound swinging over the water on a strand of rope until someone slipped on the clay and we all got wet. We recorded songs in the back of the van for the girls with us. Life like guitar riffs and rolled down windows. Tacoma streets spreading out like the sun glinting off the waves.

Wanted

Looking for roommate for two bedroom flat with a great view. Female, preferably in late 20’s to mid-30’s. Clean and at least somewhat organized. Organized clutter OK as long as it stays in your bedroom. Hygenic and health-conscious, preferably vegetarian. Must have own underwear and own toothbrush. Must be willing to use toilet seat covers every time. No foot or inanimate object fetishes. Pets and relatives allowed only during the solstice. Must be comfortable with my guests/clients at any time of day. Must be comfortable with loud music. Heavy sleepers are very welcome. If interested, please contact number listed.

A Response to Chris: What the numbers 1-10 remind me of

1. An asparaguy
2. The silhouette of a swan
3. The head of a bone, possibly the only thing left after a dog has chewed on it.
4. An embarrassed flamingo, ducking it’s head away so that you can see only it’s legs.
5. Wheelchair
6. Thumb up
7. A pecking beak up to its mama hen, who resides at the top right corner.
8. A vigilante superhero (who can fly and be invisible) with a malfunctioning invisible mask.
9. A model, curving in towards the left, hands on hips, and elbows pushed out forward.
10. A dead, holy saint.

What The Alphabet Reminds Me Of

A: Beach house.
B: Pregnant woman.
C: The moon eclipsing the sun.
D: Erect elephant ear.
E: Skyscraper.
F: Telephone pole.
G: UFO.
H: Balance.
I: Geyser.
J: Handle to an umbrella.
K: Remote glacial valleys.
L: Firm carpentry.
M: Treasure map route.
N: Armed conflict over disputed borders.
O: Most planets.
P: Bus stop sign.
Q: Huckleberry bush.
R: Chutes and Ladders.
S: DNA.
T: Door cracked open.
U: Concealed pit.
V: A duck paddling across a lake.
W: Stalactites.
X: Keyboard stand.
Y: Poetry, and in particular one poem by Robert Frost.
Z: My brainwaves when the sun heats my head.

Coffee in the Morning

            “I love that book.”

            I recognized her, she always got coffee around the same time as me. We chatted for the first time.

            A week later and we had sipped our coffees together each morning.

            “Wait, so what is your name? I haven’t even asked.”

            I felt funny telling her, even though I already secretly liked her.

            Six weeks later and I unexpectedly came to my senses in her bed. We then agreed to stick to coffee and the weekends.

            “It’s because we’re working people, we have trouble focusing.”

            Ten weeks later and I had found a new coffee shop.

Fast Friends

You!

Me?

Yes!

What?

Your fly has come undone.

You shouted at me from across the room and then walked over to tell me that my fly has come undone.

Yes.

Who are you?

Patrick.

Okay, Patrick…do I know you?

Yes.

From where?

From across the room. Remember? We met when I told you your fly was undone.

Are you insane?

Still is, by the way.

What?

Undone. Your fly, that is.

There. Consider it done.

You're welcome.

Uh, I didn’t say thank you.

Geez, what a rotten friend you are!

I’m not your friend!

And you never will be!

Guest Author: Sam Toh

            It was the way the street looked that struck her: the silent buildings, the craggy trees, the ground, wet from an afternoon rain. So many feet had tread on that same ground, but still the road would return to loneliness; it gave her a feeling of such concrete separation. In that second, she only had the sound of her own breathing, clouding into the air, and some music in her head. Still, it wasn't a poor kind of loneliness. Walking that mile with a lingering C# was in itself a kind of company, not quite human, but still, warm.

Illness

What does it take to become ill? A bad clam in a delicious paella. An projector screen with your name on the slide. A candlelit table with two chairs, one vacant, and another apologetic text message. A stealthy deadline rearing its hideous head after it’s passed. Seeing someone vomit. Hearing someone vomit. Smelling someone vomit.

What does it take to get better? Time. Awareness that this too shall pass. Memory of when life was beautiful. Love from a stranger. Love from a friend. Hard meds. Harder testicles (even if you only have one). Good cheese, good wine, and a smile.

Brake

The resounding crunch-thud made Sid freeze. Thank god there was no one else on the highway this late. He steadied himself and got out of the car to find a deer, eyes wide and rolling every which way in astonishment. With it wrapped in his sweatshirt, he rushed to the hospital. “I’m sorry, but we only treat humans.” Sid swore. Placing his hand on the deer’s neck, he felt surrender. There wasn’t more he could do. So he just held his hand there until its marbled eyes focused no more. Then he sat on the parking lot concrete and cried.

Erosion

            Once I could have told you how I came to be in my house, which memories go with which underlying beam. I remember most clearly the morning I was born in a meadow. It was dewy and I yelped when my toes touched the grass. I lay here with my head on the bathtub because it feels like my mother’s trembling stomach that morning. Someone please remind me how I am now wrapped in these itchy blankets. The walls are shifting like a labyrinth, where are the clover heads? My heart wanders and I have lost my sense of smell.

Tigers and lions and bears, oh my!

Tigers and lions and bears, oh my!

Cholera and TB and flu, oh my!

Cancer and West Nile and AIDS, oh my!

Obesity and diabetes and fat, oh my!

Russia and China and Cuba, oh my!

Weapons of mass destruction, oh my!

Terrorists and bombs and war, oh my!

 

Hunger and suffering and thirst, oh my!

Job loss and poverty and stress, oh my!

Killing and raping and crime, oh my!

 

Heartache and sorrow and pain, oh my!

Hating and sadness and fear, oh my!

Dying and living and pain, oh my!

 

Happiness and warmth and love…oh my, oh my.

Habit

Hey kid, it’s time to stop. You heard me. It’s a disgusting habit and I won’t have it being done here. You think that’s funny? What do you think you’re gonna look like when you’re thirty, huh? You think you’re gonna be all young and pretty forever? No. You’re gonna look like shit. You’re insides are gonna be incinerated like the bacon fat in my frying pan this morning. Think that’s funny? Oh, I get it, you don’t believe me. Come over here, will ya? Yeah, take a good, long look down my throat.

Uh huh. That’s what I thought.

Naples

Some places are so alien, absurd and strange that there is no way to fathom what living in them might be like. They are dark and scary and gloomy and dangerous, but mainly, they are hopeless. When a place lacks hope, there exists no possibility to improve it and it must remain squalid and lethal until… until it always will. There is stagnation; new bodies fill new pits, peppered with new bullets and fueled with new drugs; but the place is the same and the lifestyle is the same and the deathstyle will be very much, and tragically, the same.

Goodnight

I am so tired my eyelids drag my forehead down like anchors, and my legs tingle after every movement, and the final notes of today’s orchestrations are reverberating, and my heart is slowing, and the frogs are croaking, and any natural thought patterns are dissolving into a contented mire, and every other living thing is far far away, and the day has staggered away like a grizzled amputee, and the universes are dancing around each other, and am having trouble remembering where to brush my teeth, and my eyes are closing, the sun has set until tomorrow, goodbye and goodnight!

About

 
How about this?
We discuss the snail-trails of illustrious nickels.
We contemplate the green spice of shiny windowpanes.
How about this?
The capricious photographs circle in towards us.
The memories of titan intricacies dance like the tides into our minds.
How about this?
Every atomic sheet of musical bars commands skeletal vibrations.
Every variety of plum changes.
How about this?
For asphalt moments the sugary captain speculates.
For spectral carpentry the scenery capitulates.
How about this?
A scant flint echoes the bony mirth of charged helicopters.
A newsprint kitten flicks the omnipotent caricatures off her nonexistent ideals.
How about that?

500 Words: Running Through

Getting started is always the hardest part, but you know that once you’re up and running, everything will ease into its rightful groove. Your joints are springy and fresh, quite up to the task at hand.

You’re off. 

“Wanna play?” says your kid brother, holding a water gun in the middle of the road.

“Not now, gotta run,” you reply, dodging him in one stride. His pouting is palpable for awhile, but the guilt soon subsides.

“Watch where you’re going or you’re going to trip on something, dearie!”

“Thanks grammy,” you say, waving back.

Your feet pump beneath you in a steady rhythm, faster and faster.

“Slow down, honey! These are the best times of your life!” your mother calls from the side of the road. You leave her an apologetic glance.

You’ve hit an arduous uphill streak and your muscles are screaming at you. You ignore them. You notice that sitting on the grassy slope is your best friend from high school, coked out of her mind and staring at the sky listlessly. Your rhythm falters slightly but this hill is far from the end, so you keep grinding on.

You take a deep breath at the peak.

“A college graduate. Wow, hun—hey, wait!” you father shouts from the top of the hill, but you’re going so fast down that hill, all the scenery’s a blur.

You’re flying, and it’s freedom and liberation and love, but all of a sudden someone’s arms clutch your sides and you’re wings are clipped.

“Let go!” you yell, and the hands recoil as if trod upon by your very feet.

Now it’s just white light and road. And you can barely make out the words being shouted at you now.

“I’m leaving,” you think you hear your husband, but you’re too gone to even be sure.

Your legs are getting tired, the bottoms of your feet are burning hot, but you know you can’t stop. You need to make it, and you need to make it fast.

“Where are you going?” your boss yells, perched on a tree, “we just promoted you!”

You can’t spare a second, not even for an acknowledging wave or thumbs up. No time. No time to answer. No time to celebrate. Gotta keep going, you tell yourself.

“Gotta keep going for what?” a bum asks, warming his hands by a trashcan fire. It’s dark, you notice. Nighttime, and the stars are plastered on the sky like your daughter’s glow-in-the-dark ones on her ceiling. But that was ages ago. You recall passing by a swing set before when it was still early, but it’s all a blur.

So you start ot answer, but you realise you’re so far past the bum and his fire, and the euphoria of completion is imminent. Your feet can’t feel anymore, you don’t really remember the last time they did, but you jump anyway. You jump into the ground, solid upon solid, and you breathe in your triumph like flesh upon soil.

Manifesto

     I found an old bottle on the beach, and inside was this message:

 

    “We are the jellyfish!

     This is our manifesto!

     Please don’t bother yourselves wondering how we found out English, or kept this paper dry in the ocean, just pay attention to what we have to say.

    We have no enemies.

    We have existed for five hundred thousand years.

    We know what goes on in mountain ranges, in cities, in hospitals.

    Please learn from us: we float with the current and are happy!

    It is quite easy and natural.

    If you ignore us, we’ll be content.

                              June 18, 1824”

Story

Johnny Pop ate all the cherries he could
Till one day he could eat no more.
He looked to the left and he looked to the right
And saw pips on the floor.

Thousands of peach coloured pips lying there;
He sighed with deep relief.
For his Mum had just died and his Dad’d passed away,
And he’d finally drowned his grief.

Just out the door and over the hill
Was a land that he called home
So he left that slum on the vast cherry fields
And kicked down the garden gnome.

Upon his return he became incontinent. Fin.

500 Words: Terminal

Paul stared at the departures screen, fiddling with his keychain, the wildcat high school mascot now looked out of place amidst the other keys. 1530. CDG-Paris. On Time. No gate number yet. He looked at his watch. 12:00. Stupid business trips. He was so tired of airports, even if they were in Europe.

He found a little lounging area and lucky enough, an entire couch was free. He was about to take a nap when someone tapped him on the shoulder. There was a woman who looked about his age, dressed comfortably in black pants, and a slouchy grey sweater. He allowed this intruder one eye, blearily peering over the magazine page he had set as a make-shift eyemask.

“Hi, I’m so sorry but there aren’t any couches left and you look like the kinda guy who’d take mercy upon a kind soul?”

Paul let her have the other eye as he swung his feet off and motioned her on the to have a seat. Yeah, after all he was, in fact, that kind of guy. The nice kind. Damn, he thought.

“Thank you. I just have such a long layover. I wonder how much time people spend in airports? More or less than sitting on the can?”

Paul didn’t know what to make of that, so he just gave a standard two-beat chuckle.

“I’m Lucy, by the way.”

 “Paul.”

“Enchanté,” she said, blowing fake smoke from a pretend cigarette. “And where are you off to, Paul?”

“Paris, actually,” he winced.

“Oh come on! Paris? You sound like you are on your way to the guillotine—albeit a French sounding word, but c’mon. It’s Paris.”

“No, you’re right, it’s just not for fun,” Paul said nodding to his briefcase.

Lucy stuck out her tongue and made a face.

“Exactly.” He sighed.

 “So, where’s home?”

“Boston.”

“No way! I live in Back Bay!” she said, jumping a little closer to Paul.

“Really? I didn’t mark you down for a Bostonian. No accent and all,” Paul remarked, not complaining about the decreased space between them.

“Well, I grew up in San Francisco.”

“What? Wait—I did, too!”

Lucy’s jaw dropped dramatically. “Where’d you go to high school?”

“St. Ignatius, you?”

“Oh no,” Lucy said, in a mock grave tone, “I don’t think we can be friends.”

“No! Don’t tell me you went to Sacred Heart!”

“Mortal enemy. I’m sorry. You seemed like a nice guy,” Lucy said, shrugging.

“Hey, since we both have an unendurable amount of time before our flights, wanna grab coffee?” Paul ventured.

“Sure! I just gotta use the loo.”

Lucy left Paul—who was looking more refreshed than ever, but she didn’t go to the bathroom. She walked past it, down a couple of gates, and spied a lone gentleman sporting a Knicks baseball cap.

In her best New Yorker accent, she said, “Hey ‘scuse me, do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all. It’s nice to see another New Yorker.”

“Born and raised,” Lucy said with a smile.

 

 

Christmas Cheer

He sat on a wooden chair in the corner of the dusty bar, the mesh ball of the microphone buried in his woolen beard. Eyes closed, he wasn’t chanting, or singing, or talking, but some ancient blend of the three:
 
Oh I’m miserable
Ding dong ding dong
Hear the Christmas cheer
Baby don’t you fear
I’m still over here
 
Oh the horses
The fences and the fields
Captain Time
Came for me and mine
I’m still toein’ the line
 
No one listened to him, but they couldn’t ignore him either.
 
Oh I’m home
Oh I’m gone
Over here
Over where?

Makes Sense

“Roses are red—“

“—No, they can be yellow and pink and white and—“

“--I’m trying to read you a love poem.”

“Oh, sorry. Go on then.”

“And violets are blue—“

“—wait, aren’t violets, well, violet?’ I mean, If they weren’t, they’d be called ‘blue.’”

“Arrrrgghhhhhhh It’s a goddamn love poem!”

“You haven’t rhymed yet.”

“You haven’t given me a chance to!”

“Oh. Well, go on then.”

“No! You suck!”

“Look, don’t get all bent out of shape. I just think your girlfriend would appreciate a poem that made sense.”

“It was for you, you moron.”

“Oh. Well, go on then.”

fml

Unable to sleep but able to cough. Pitiful petty puffs of smog spew out of his throat at irregular intervals, smothering his chances of decent rest. He’s not unhealthy, or sick in any dire way; he’s merely afflicted with the wimpiest of ailments, one that won’t garner him any respect or sympathy, one that’s impossible to live around, and one that threatens to infect others with ever coerced spurt. The throat, lungs, feel no different after the cough – unlike other healing bodily reflexes this one is entirely useless. So he takes drugs. And he stresses out. And he coughs.

Rainy Afternoon

            Today my being, as sometimes happens, is pushed towards some feat that I cannot formulate. It comes with slow longing, like a tide advancing upon my emotions. It is the rain coming from a sky that does not end, it is the earthworms poking their heads out of the earth. I need to create. Every sentence I have written, every poem I have unburied within myself, finished and unfinished, piles like fertilizer for the molding of something. But I cannot find a pathway anywhere, only a tiny, insistent movement of the air around me. Where would it have me go?

the stranger said to me

i don’t, like, children, see? And I don’t, like, dogs, neither. And when the two get together, on their little muffled paws, and feet, and scurry, I don’t, like, it. T’all. But even worse, is, when jack rabbit, the one who gone smoke them pipes, him, when he, goes, runnin, I pretty much fit to scare I am. I don’t, like, people. You can’t trust, people. And people, they’s animals. And so you can’t, trust, animals neither. Doris she don’t know it but she ain’t a person, she a warthog on a inside, and that’s why we get along fine.

We

“We” cannot be pinned down in a single concept. We, my dear, are a myriad of light particles, and these particles are swallowed almost immediately by the vast, seemingly impermeable emptiness of the cave, but the fact is that the illumination is relentless and perpetual, which suggests the never ending quest of understanding. Even against all odds! Even if they don’t want it, even if no one wants it, we can have it all—the palace, the junkyard, the pool house! WE, my dear, can be the heroes and the damsels in nights of white satin where ecstasy still drops.

Inspired by Hemingway

What are you drinking?

A virgin gin and tonic, she said.

So, just tonic water then?

Yep, she said.

Well, do you want the Bombay? I can go pick some up.  

Yeah, sure. Bombay is smooth, she said.

Where do you want to go for Christmas?

I don’t know, somewhere warm, she said.

I feel it, she said.

What’s that?

I feel it in my bones, she said.

It tastes like dried marigolds and mildew and rosemary, she said.

Don’t say that, it’s just a prick, a puff of air.

Right, she echoed, a pin prick, a tuft of air. 

What The Story Means

            I met an old man.
            “I’ll tell you a story,” he said. “A man in Chicago decided to undertake a daring journey, like Magellan. For eighteen years he prepared by confining himself to the local library. When he had read every piece of paper to be found in the building, he walked outside and did a somersault in the street. Only a lonely crow saw him do it.
            “Now let me tell you what this story means. Do you notice how your shirt is coming untucked on the side?”
            I nodded, tucking it in.
            “That is what the story means.”

Yummy Recipe!

Ingredients:
4 large Characters
2-3 Settings
Details
3 tablespoons Humor
4 cups Social Awareness
2 teaspoons Irony
1 tub of Surprise Sobering Ending
 
In large bowl, mix Characters, Setting, and a sprinkling of Details in no particular order. Add Conflict until the mixture is globby and force it into a deep tray. Add Humor, Social Awareness, Irony and stir into interesting patterns. Put it into an oven and let it bake for a while. When it is ready, pull it out and smear on a layer of Surprise Sobering Ending. Eat while hot, and enjoy your Subtle Literary Message!