Three weeks before I arrived home, I got a letter in the mail informing me that I would be called as a witness in the trial of three kids from my junior high class. The youngest of the three has admitted to a college friend that she had seen a dead body once, and eventually the whole story came out.
People should not tell these kinds of stories at two in the morning in the communal lounge of a dorm at a large state college. Because someone is going to know someone else whose dad is a federal prosecutor.
State troopers pulled Lona McIntyre out of a mid-term exam and she hasn’t seen her classroom since. Within a day she had spun an astounding but not entirely unbelievable story about a student in her junior high class whose sister had gone missing and stayed that way. The other student was arrested – picked up quite literally off the street where he had been living for five years. His best friend from high school – a career FBI agent, as it turned out – was also implicated in Lona’s story, and he was brought in for questioning.
By the time the time I heard anything about the story, all three were on trial for negligent homicide and obstruction of justice.
I was received the summons and things started to slip. I could see the hand covered in dirt, the skin color at once bleached and ashy. I couldn’t shake the oppressive smell of fresh earth and the first hint of what I later realized was decomposing flesh. I had effectively walled off all the sensory information about what I had seen. I wasn’t tortured by it, wasn’t in therapy, wasn’t really experiencing the information in any meaningful way. But it was obviously there, because the doors had opened and now it was pressing down on me like a brick wall with no mortar. I couldn’t hold it back.
Your emotions aren’t what you expect at this moment, one I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. You think you’ll be solemn and thoughtful and composed, but it’s messier than that. I feel responsible, sick, confused, terrible, and stupid. I didn’t know it was her. I didn’t even think it was real, couldn’t believe ordinary kids from an ordinary town had stumbled on – let alone created – an actual victim of a heinous crime. It seemed ridiculous. We thought it was thrilling, just a few years before, when Rif Gardner stole money from the closet of his senile aunt down at Ben-Gay Manor. Nobody was killing siblings and burying them in dirt.
The events of the day remain sketchy, only the incident itself, with the bundle of sights and smells have sharpened since I read the words on the yellow piece of paper notifying me that I was a witness in a trial in Westover County. When I saw the names of the people on trial, it was like I fell backwards, chair and all, and just kept falling.
I guess I was trying to get back to the spot where I had received this oppressive weight. I wanted to give it back, rebury it in the half-dug wall of dirt partway down the mountain-hill behind the old school. I think I wanted something from that wall of dirt because I felt like it owed me now, after a month of hauling around its tonnage. I didn’t know what I thought I would get from it. I was pretty fucked up by the time I mustered the strength to go to the school.
The building’s gone now, weirdly covered over with the kind of grass that doesn’t normally grow in Elgin. Creative horticulture, or the unique conditions created by razing an asbestos-laden monstrosity meant that the new groundcover was spongy short grass like you’d find on an English soccer pitch. It flexed under my feet and made me feel like I was walking on an engineered surface, Astroturf or new playground. The old building loomed over the road like a bent-back vampire, poised to strike. As you passed in a car, it looked menacing, and if you had the misfortune to walk into it, the effect was heightened by angled walkways and a final staircase. You didn’t enter the building, it ate you.
Now the low stone wall that started this effect was all the remained. The short, neat grass curved smoothly from the wall and continued to the rusty fence that separated the property from the craggy drop behind. As I sat in my hospital bed, thinking about the fourth doctor I had seen (the first one whose name I remembered), I realized that the I couldn’t satisfactorily explain to myself how I got to the school, got over the fence, and began to tumble toward the train tracks and creek bed below. Surely, the body had been found and the wall had been tramped under a hundred beat cop, forensic team, coroner and detective shoes.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
I. Rescue Eight
By the time they got to where I had fallen, I was pretty sure it was too late. All the things dying people describe in books – their hands getting cold, vision fading to black, peaceful sensation – I had felt each one. Oh, it was my end, all right.
Then I saw that kid with the giant teeth from the fire hall and I realized I was probably going to be saved. I never even thought about the fact that those kids with the mullets and the “Rescue 8” t-shirts from high school actually rescue people. I never connected those people with the tangible, critical act of saving lives, pulling people out of wrecked cars, or extricating them from a tangle of thatches and tree branches, immobilizing their necks and hauling them halfway up the hill behind the old high school.
But that’s what they were doing to me right then. I was cut and bleeding all over, and somehow my coat sleeve had become caught as I was coming down and nearly pulled my arm out of the socket. It hurt something fierce, and was the main reason I just hung out in the bramble expecting to die with an obstructed view of the twinkling lights of the Conrail repair facility below.
The Rescue 8 guys were very professional about everything, moving me around carefully but talking as if I were an awkward piece of furniture they were moving down a staircase lined with family photos. They were all “easy” and “put ‘im down gently” and “careful with the leg” and they really were careful. I’m sure I was a sight to see, with piss in my pants, blood all over my shirt, a crazy cracked up arm and one missing shoe. I don’t remember the ambulance ride much except for the beginning. I remember thinking about the sound of the cobblestones of the street under the chained wheels of the ambulance. It sounded like sudden water rushing over loose pebbles, or your dresser-top box of quarters when your sister throws them down the stairs.
The doctor was neither stereotypically Asian or anachronistically upbeat. He was dour and white and older than you thought a doctor in an emergency room in the middle of a February night should be. He was wearing ugly scrubs with an unrecognizable hospital logo repeated all over them, possibly to discourage physicians from stockpiling free clothing at home. “We didn’t know where to start with you. The arm was bad, but the bleeding was a bigger concern, because we couldn’t figure out all the different places it was coming from.” This is the first thing the doctor says. I didn’t catch his name, but immediately decided that was okay, because I wouldn’t be seeking him out for any future treatment.
After his initially upbeat assessment, things leveled off. My arm had been dislocated but was slipped back into place in a scene I don’t recall but I’m sure was really, really painful. It would hurt for a long time, and there were stitches inside my shoulder underneath other stitches, all of which would dissolve while causing plenty of itching and being drowned in ointment. I was covered with cuts and bruises – the doctor called them contusions, which sounded vaguely made-up because I’ve only heard it on crime or hospital dramas – but most would heal after some time.
Apparently I was in something like an intensive care unit, though they called it something different, like critical care center or crucial care corral. My room was really like a stall, and from where I lay I could look out the door and window past the foot of my bed. Through the glass nurses and slouchy-looking other folks (orderlies?) hustled around, creating a reassuring murmur of activity. I had stopped listening to the doctor, but it’s possible he had stopped talking. I heard him ask me my name.
It seemed weird to me that he had put stitches in the cartilage in my shoulder but didn’t know my name. I said my name was U___________, which was really my middle name. I don’t recall if I was intentionally being evasive, but he seemed to think so. Honestly, I was getting morphine or something in my good arm so I could have said my name was Angelo Bruno and I wouldn’t have known the difference. He turned to go and said that someone from billing would come to get all my information and figure out who to call to check on me. My eyelids felt heavy and unbalanced, and I felt one droop closed as the doctor stood in my doorway with his back to me. He had set my chart down somewhere, and he pushed his empty hands into his pockets. My other eye closed and I heard his voice in the hall, but he wasn’t talking to me.
When I was a kid, I visited what was once called Elgin High School only a few times. For the last fifty years of its life, Elgin High was called just called “Fourth Street” by pretty much everyone. The school district of the bedroom community that had grown up around Elgin had eventually absorbed the little town’s half-dozen school buildings, and the high school had become a weird stopgap middle school between elementary and junior high. Everyone spent a year at Fourth Street before going on to one of the two junior highs known only as “North” and “South.” Both sucked, but North was close to the high school and therefore enjoyed an undeserved sense of superiority. Townies from Elgin went to South.
Having my academic life artfully split between a Catholic school in bad decline and the public school system when the cash ran out, I never attended the churning sausage-grinder of Fourth Street. The Catholic school’s disastrous basketball team periodically practiced in the Fourth Street gym, whose floorboards creaked like a back porch or an unfinished attic, but were finished like the dark-wood gyms of the Midwest. The ceiling felt claustrophobically low. I was tall and thin, and completely lacking in the coordination necessary to play basketball or any other sport. I remember an errant pass hitting the ceiling of Fourth Street and a chunk of plaster or tile or asbestos splintering off and spiraling to the ground over a fleeing center. He put both hands up to protect his head and ran toward jittery bleachers in a maneuver I don’t doubt he perfected after years of being menaced by garden-variety bullies.
Otherwise, Fourth Street was a mystery. Elgin was a small downtown set on an unnamed creek and weakly climbing the hill away from the water all the way to a highway that predates the Freeway. The creek winds around the town and carves a deep gash traced by a windy two-lane and a pair of railroad tracks. As the hill climbs out of town, the place feels two-dimensional to newcomers. “What’s back there?” I remember my first girlfriend asking once on a car-tour of Elgin. Fourth Street was still standing back then. It seemed like a strange question to me. “Back there? Nothing.”
Because back there was a steep, shaggy drop of unmanageable trees, bushes, vines and ivy, maybe half a ton of trash deposited by sixth-graders and the reason I ended up in the hospital.
Then I saw that kid with the giant teeth from the fire hall and I realized I was probably going to be saved. I never even thought about the fact that those kids with the mullets and the “Rescue 8” t-shirts from high school actually rescue people. I never connected those people with the tangible, critical act of saving lives, pulling people out of wrecked cars, or extricating them from a tangle of thatches and tree branches, immobilizing their necks and hauling them halfway up the hill behind the old high school.
But that’s what they were doing to me right then. I was cut and bleeding all over, and somehow my coat sleeve had become caught as I was coming down and nearly pulled my arm out of the socket. It hurt something fierce, and was the main reason I just hung out in the bramble expecting to die with an obstructed view of the twinkling lights of the Conrail repair facility below.
The Rescue 8 guys were very professional about everything, moving me around carefully but talking as if I were an awkward piece of furniture they were moving down a staircase lined with family photos. They were all “easy” and “put ‘im down gently” and “careful with the leg” and they really were careful. I’m sure I was a sight to see, with piss in my pants, blood all over my shirt, a crazy cracked up arm and one missing shoe. I don’t remember the ambulance ride much except for the beginning. I remember thinking about the sound of the cobblestones of the street under the chained wheels of the ambulance. It sounded like sudden water rushing over loose pebbles, or your dresser-top box of quarters when your sister throws them down the stairs.
The doctor was neither stereotypically Asian or anachronistically upbeat. He was dour and white and older than you thought a doctor in an emergency room in the middle of a February night should be. He was wearing ugly scrubs with an unrecognizable hospital logo repeated all over them, possibly to discourage physicians from stockpiling free clothing at home. “We didn’t know where to start with you. The arm was bad, but the bleeding was a bigger concern, because we couldn’t figure out all the different places it was coming from.” This is the first thing the doctor says. I didn’t catch his name, but immediately decided that was okay, because I wouldn’t be seeking him out for any future treatment.
After his initially upbeat assessment, things leveled off. My arm had been dislocated but was slipped back into place in a scene I don’t recall but I’m sure was really, really painful. It would hurt for a long time, and there were stitches inside my shoulder underneath other stitches, all of which would dissolve while causing plenty of itching and being drowned in ointment. I was covered with cuts and bruises – the doctor called them contusions, which sounded vaguely made-up because I’ve only heard it on crime or hospital dramas – but most would heal after some time.
Apparently I was in something like an intensive care unit, though they called it something different, like critical care center or crucial care corral. My room was really like a stall, and from where I lay I could look out the door and window past the foot of my bed. Through the glass nurses and slouchy-looking other folks (orderlies?) hustled around, creating a reassuring murmur of activity. I had stopped listening to the doctor, but it’s possible he had stopped talking. I heard him ask me my name.
It seemed weird to me that he had put stitches in the cartilage in my shoulder but didn’t know my name. I said my name was U___________, which was really my middle name. I don’t recall if I was intentionally being evasive, but he seemed to think so. Honestly, I was getting morphine or something in my good arm so I could have said my name was Angelo Bruno and I wouldn’t have known the difference. He turned to go and said that someone from billing would come to get all my information and figure out who to call to check on me. My eyelids felt heavy and unbalanced, and I felt one droop closed as the doctor stood in my doorway with his back to me. He had set my chart down somewhere, and he pushed his empty hands into his pockets. My other eye closed and I heard his voice in the hall, but he wasn’t talking to me.
When I was a kid, I visited what was once called Elgin High School only a few times. For the last fifty years of its life, Elgin High was called just called “Fourth Street” by pretty much everyone. The school district of the bedroom community that had grown up around Elgin had eventually absorbed the little town’s half-dozen school buildings, and the high school had become a weird stopgap middle school between elementary and junior high. Everyone spent a year at Fourth Street before going on to one of the two junior highs known only as “North” and “South.” Both sucked, but North was close to the high school and therefore enjoyed an undeserved sense of superiority. Townies from Elgin went to South.
Having my academic life artfully split between a Catholic school in bad decline and the public school system when the cash ran out, I never attended the churning sausage-grinder of Fourth Street. The Catholic school’s disastrous basketball team periodically practiced in the Fourth Street gym, whose floorboards creaked like a back porch or an unfinished attic, but were finished like the dark-wood gyms of the Midwest. The ceiling felt claustrophobically low. I was tall and thin, and completely lacking in the coordination necessary to play basketball or any other sport. I remember an errant pass hitting the ceiling of Fourth Street and a chunk of plaster or tile or asbestos splintering off and spiraling to the ground over a fleeing center. He put both hands up to protect his head and ran toward jittery bleachers in a maneuver I don’t doubt he perfected after years of being menaced by garden-variety bullies.
Otherwise, Fourth Street was a mystery. Elgin was a small downtown set on an unnamed creek and weakly climbing the hill away from the water all the way to a highway that predates the Freeway. The creek winds around the town and carves a deep gash traced by a windy two-lane and a pair of railroad tracks. As the hill climbs out of town, the place feels two-dimensional to newcomers. “What’s back there?” I remember my first girlfriend asking once on a car-tour of Elgin. Fourth Street was still standing back then. It seemed like a strange question to me. “Back there? Nothing.”
Because back there was a steep, shaggy drop of unmanageable trees, bushes, vines and ivy, maybe half a ton of trash deposited by sixth-graders and the reason I ended up in the hospital.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
The Road in Mind
There are times in your life -- Bob wrote about this in a poem he read onstage at Carnegie Hall about Woody Guthrie -- when your back feels completely against the wall. I don't think it happens for most people in a physical sense. You rarely feel do or die, really, with a life change hanging in the balance. But by the end of his poem and by the moment of truth for most of us, it's clear that the challenges pushing us closer to the border line aren't loaded guns or cold steel at our throat.
Rather, you're just at your end. People reach this point and quit jobs or break up with girlfriends or get divorces or move out of their apartment with a post-it note on the door to the asshole roommate, or whatever.
Bob's poem ended with advice. When you feel this way, he advised, you can go to the "church of your choice" or to Brooklyn State Hospital. He said you can find God at the church of your choice or Woody at the Brooklyn State Hospital. But he said, quoting now, "It's only my opinion, and I may be right or wrong, but you can find them both at the Grand Canyon, sunrise."
And I don't really know if I get there sometimes. Everybody's a little wrecked up from time to time. Artists paint, my favorite band no one knows keeps struggling along, endlessly destroying themselves and rocketing through the cosmos playing their hearts out while they dissolve like tablets in water. Real writers -- who write to live, not to eat -- probably sit to compose and feel breath failing in their lungs as the letters fill the page.
I'm a million miles from that. Nothing fills the lungs with oxygen, everything feels like choke in a bottle. Everything is pressing on and nothing's shifting for safe passage. Another writer asks why it always feels like I'm in an undertow. It does.
It's the scene, I guess, for the fantasy drive. On the fantasy drive, it's cool and the roads are carless. The vehicle is compact and it feels like a capsule or a pod rather than a car. I stop rarely and when I do I can hear my wheels cut into the asphalt as the speed decreases and the final movement of the tires sounds like someone approaching in heavy shoes.
The fantasy drive has no weather to speak of, but a coolness and open windows and no squinting. If it is overcast, then the rain, when it comes, will be perfectly attuned to the beat of the wipers and mists so the windows can stay down and the windscreen feels clear always. The air feels fresh, like life itself could take hold in the atoms of oxygen and nitrogen. The air finally enters my lungs, pushes in deep and floods every vesicle, every little floret of crusty tissue, shaking the dry collapsed edges of my disused organ. The rush of breathable, sweet air pouring in the windows lights my brain up like a beacon on a tower, spinning, scanning, suddenly anything but idle.
God, I need a drive.
Rather, you're just at your end. People reach this point and quit jobs or break up with girlfriends or get divorces or move out of their apartment with a post-it note on the door to the asshole roommate, or whatever.
Bob's poem ended with advice. When you feel this way, he advised, you can go to the "church of your choice" or to Brooklyn State Hospital. He said you can find God at the church of your choice or Woody at the Brooklyn State Hospital. But he said, quoting now, "It's only my opinion, and I may be right or wrong, but you can find them both at the Grand Canyon, sunrise."
And I don't really know if I get there sometimes. Everybody's a little wrecked up from time to time. Artists paint, my favorite band no one knows keeps struggling along, endlessly destroying themselves and rocketing through the cosmos playing their hearts out while they dissolve like tablets in water. Real writers -- who write to live, not to eat -- probably sit to compose and feel breath failing in their lungs as the letters fill the page.
I'm a million miles from that. Nothing fills the lungs with oxygen, everything feels like choke in a bottle. Everything is pressing on and nothing's shifting for safe passage. Another writer asks why it always feels like I'm in an undertow. It does.
It's the scene, I guess, for the fantasy drive. On the fantasy drive, it's cool and the roads are carless. The vehicle is compact and it feels like a capsule or a pod rather than a car. I stop rarely and when I do I can hear my wheels cut into the asphalt as the speed decreases and the final movement of the tires sounds like someone approaching in heavy shoes.
The fantasy drive has no weather to speak of, but a coolness and open windows and no squinting. If it is overcast, then the rain, when it comes, will be perfectly attuned to the beat of the wipers and mists so the windows can stay down and the windscreen feels clear always. The air feels fresh, like life itself could take hold in the atoms of oxygen and nitrogen. The air finally enters my lungs, pushes in deep and floods every vesicle, every little floret of crusty tissue, shaking the dry collapsed edges of my disused organ. The rush of breathable, sweet air pouring in the windows lights my brain up like a beacon on a tower, spinning, scanning, suddenly anything but idle.
God, I need a drive.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Haberdashery
I was in a hat store the other day and I thought about buying a porkpie hat. I didn't actually try it on, because it's weird to pop a hat on your head in a store. They recommend ordering a hat to your hat size, which I don't even know.
Anyhow, I was in a coffeeshop today and saw some guy in a porkpie hat and was really thankful I didn't buy one. He looked like an asshole, and I'd have to hate myself all the time.
Anyhow, I was in a coffeeshop today and saw some guy in a porkpie hat and was really thankful I didn't buy one. He looked like an asshole, and I'd have to hate myself all the time.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
your pizza
without passion, like most professional athletes
who wear stoles or ridiculous chinchillas befitting only of Phyllis Diller,
you knuckle and knead like a substitute teacher teaches.
and your lack of fervor is evident with each successive bite I take.
your slouch-shouldered, knock-kneed technique.
your blasé ingredients.
pats and dough-sprinkles delivered with teething baby acuity.
haven’t you ever thought about its origin? Naples, Rome.
maybe somewhere surprising. Crete perhaps.
then over to the boot, where it was later perfected.
how about the utopian tomato?
was it fare of the workers or aristocracy?
or maybe the murderously delicate Mediterranean sun;
did you ever noodle around with that one?
Apollo’s rays unleashed upon the Seven Hills.
sandals and thick granite.
semolina fields wavering to Orpheus’ lyre.
Hannibal-tainted skin and olives of the same color.
ample women wearing careful smiles leading obedient kids to the table.
i want a large Anne Sexton.
a T.S. Eliot with half pepperoni-half Etheridge Knight.
your pizza is a roses are red, violets are blue poem.
who wear stoles or ridiculous chinchillas befitting only of Phyllis Diller,
you knuckle and knead like a substitute teacher teaches.
and your lack of fervor is evident with each successive bite I take.
your slouch-shouldered, knock-kneed technique.
your blasé ingredients.
pats and dough-sprinkles delivered with teething baby acuity.
haven’t you ever thought about its origin? Naples, Rome.
maybe somewhere surprising. Crete perhaps.
then over to the boot, where it was later perfected.
how about the utopian tomato?
was it fare of the workers or aristocracy?
or maybe the murderously delicate Mediterranean sun;
did you ever noodle around with that one?
Apollo’s rays unleashed upon the Seven Hills.
sandals and thick granite.
semolina fields wavering to Orpheus’ lyre.
Hannibal-tainted skin and olives of the same color.
ample women wearing careful smiles leading obedient kids to the table.
i want a large Anne Sexton.
a T.S. Eliot with half pepperoni-half Etheridge Knight.
your pizza is a roses are red, violets are blue poem.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Saturday, August 26, 2006
discs of cake
floppy like eight-paneled hats, flatter than a can of grandpap’s blatz,
saturday morning pancakes more massive than channel cats,
not all the time, but once in a while they’re an event,
akin to running into that girl you love--wearin’ a scent,
slap butter on 'em like yarmulkes on heads in synagogues,
now shrouded in fat like london-night beds hidden in fog,
but that’s the flavor, as you already know too well, me maties,
pancakes without butter is like a devil-less hell, a styx-free hades,
not to be outdone by the all-enveloping sap of the maple, of course,
syrup sinks into my shortstack like absorbine jr. soothes a charlie-horse,
but easy on your pour, i’m not the guy for excess sugar that relax in tooth cracks,
this is a hungry man’s breakfast, get your hyper toddler some sugar smacks,
eat them quick, the heat’ll vacate the premises now that the syrup’s aboard,
rip into them with a utensil, in relevance to your plate, the fork’s starboard,
aft i’ve had my fill, my stomach’ll appear to you as a hogshead offshore,
my tee-shirt snug, holding on for dear life, clinging close to my core,
i pound down some one percent, the red cap is a bit too heavy,
my belt and i are gonna bust like brian bosworth, his movies, and louisiana levees.
saturday morning pancakes more massive than channel cats,
not all the time, but once in a while they’re an event,
akin to running into that girl you love--wearin’ a scent,
slap butter on 'em like yarmulkes on heads in synagogues,
now shrouded in fat like london-night beds hidden in fog,
but that’s the flavor, as you already know too well, me maties,
pancakes without butter is like a devil-less hell, a styx-free hades,
not to be outdone by the all-enveloping sap of the maple, of course,
syrup sinks into my shortstack like absorbine jr. soothes a charlie-horse,
but easy on your pour, i’m not the guy for excess sugar that relax in tooth cracks,
this is a hungry man’s breakfast, get your hyper toddler some sugar smacks,
eat them quick, the heat’ll vacate the premises now that the syrup’s aboard,
rip into them with a utensil, in relevance to your plate, the fork’s starboard,
aft i’ve had my fill, my stomach’ll appear to you as a hogshead offshore,
my tee-shirt snug, holding on for dear life, clinging close to my core,
i pound down some one percent, the red cap is a bit too heavy,
my belt and i are gonna bust like brian bosworth, his movies, and louisiana levees.
Friday, August 25, 2006
your set of 32
your teeth, your teeth,
allow those words to pass by,
they should’ve slammed shut like
heavy black gates
in almost any movie you can think of.
them teeth of yours.
32 flags of surrender,
giving larynx carte blanche.
foolish bicuspids,
i bet you're sorry the ones with wisdom got yanked.
those teeth that are in your mouth.
aren’t judicious. they don’t edit.
they just linger in hot darkness
like stalagmites and stalactites,
caring nothing of your blather.
allow those words to pass by,
they should’ve slammed shut like
heavy black gates
in almost any movie you can think of.
them teeth of yours.
32 flags of surrender,
giving larynx carte blanche.
foolish bicuspids,
i bet you're sorry the ones with wisdom got yanked.
those teeth that are in your mouth.
aren’t judicious. they don’t edit.
they just linger in hot darkness
like stalagmites and stalactites,
caring nothing of your blather.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
XX Observations About Life Now
1. When I walk around my city, I'm secretly worried about terrorist attacks. All the time, I eyeball every threat suspiciously. Each random overstuffed plastic bag, every open grate venting subway heat, everything makes me think of the devastating explosion that could follow. I think about how easy it would be to completely terrorize this city if half a crazy really put his mind to it. The special effects in my secret worst-nightmares are incredible. I'm stepping on the concrete between two grates when the explosion hits and shielded from the heat and force of the blast. I'm rounding the corner of the next building when the dingy Toyota I've seen circling the block detonates its charge. Time passes between bouts of hysteria and these thoughts subside. Then some crackpots get about a quarter of the way down the road to pulling off a scheme, and it all comes rushing back. ¶ The worst thing about these imaginings is that I feel a vertiginous pull toward the aftermath. In all these strange little imaginings, I narrowly avoid disaster, and by surviving, I am a suspect, and as I peek down that rabbit hole, my life is destroyed, and I wish that the explosion took me instead.
2. Keen focus on mortality, if kept in reasonable check, can be a useful thing. It's this focus that makes people go to the gym, run marathons, eat diets free of carbohydrates, wear seatbelts. I ride a bike, based on my physician's insistence that I will eventually die if I don't do something other than leisurely stroll from the train to the office and call it 'walking a mile.' I zigzag around the streets like the worst courier in America, collecting sneers from cabbies and the obvious derision of other people on bikes, and putting myself into stupid positions like being caught heading the wrong way down a one-way street with a high sidewalk and no curbcut, thus having to stop completely and awkwardly crab-walk my bike over the giant curb. ¶ The other day, the forecast was miserable, so I took the train to the office. I was again leisurely strolling to the train station, but now feeling like a tourist because normally, I'm telling myself, I ride my bike. At one intersection, someone is jogging and is caught by the red light. They jog in place, huffing, to keep their wind up. The light turns and we all step off the curb, and the jogger breaks from the pack and heads up the hill. Bad red light timing reunites us all at the next intersection. In my head, despite my blatant bicycle amateurism, I ask, "How fucking inefficient is jogging?"
3. The power went off hours after a recent lightning storm. Throughout the low-cloud lightshow, our electricity held steady, with nary a flicker. The post-storm humidity is insufferable, and the house is locked up tight so all the air conditioners can perform at their peak efficiency. My wife is upstairs asleep, as are my children and dog. I'm brushing my teeth, and everything goes black. ¶ I spit. I wait for my eyes to adjust, but there is simply no light. There is also the eerie sensation of hearing no sound; eerie because our home is normally host even in quiet times to the constant thrum of fans, air conditioners and dehumidifyers. They are all silent. Nobody moves. Nobody else in the house even knows the power is out. I follow the walls to get candles, matches, flashlights. My dog tragically walks down the pitch-dark hallway and slips on the top step, roll-falling down the entire staircase, kicking up a spectacular racket. I recognize immediately that it could be no one falling down the stairs but our dog. If someone stopped me on the street and described the situation and then said, "Then you hear something falling down the stairs," my response each time would be, "That's going to be the dog." ¶ The dog is stunned and sits at the landing at the bottom of the stairs. I've gassed the first floor of the house with a strange mixture of musk and vanilla, since the only candles we have are a mismatched passel of scented candles. I arrive at the landing to make sure the dog hasn't broken a bone, and the warm teaberry and vanilla aroma rushes up behind me like a vampire's cape. The dog raises her nose to the scent, sniffs a second time, then exhales gruffly, simulating a derisive snort. I have no response. ¶ Everything is electric now. The phone doesn't work, nothing works. I find my cell in the dark and call the power company. The touch-tone response system is metallic sounding, and the long pause to 'research my report' leads me to believe that either I have beat my neighbors to reporting our outage (the entire street and houses behind ours are similarly dark), or something more sinister and ominous is afoot. The voice chirps that I have reported a new outage, it is being investigated and there is no timeline for repair. The line goes dead, and as I stare at the words "Ended" on my phone's screen, the silence makes me feel for a candid moment like I'm the last man on earth.
2. Keen focus on mortality, if kept in reasonable check, can be a useful thing. It's this focus that makes people go to the gym, run marathons, eat diets free of carbohydrates, wear seatbelts. I ride a bike, based on my physician's insistence that I will eventually die if I don't do something other than leisurely stroll from the train to the office and call it 'walking a mile.' I zigzag around the streets like the worst courier in America, collecting sneers from cabbies and the obvious derision of other people on bikes, and putting myself into stupid positions like being caught heading the wrong way down a one-way street with a high sidewalk and no curbcut, thus having to stop completely and awkwardly crab-walk my bike over the giant curb. ¶ The other day, the forecast was miserable, so I took the train to the office. I was again leisurely strolling to the train station, but now feeling like a tourist because normally, I'm telling myself, I ride my bike. At one intersection, someone is jogging and is caught by the red light. They jog in place, huffing, to keep their wind up. The light turns and we all step off the curb, and the jogger breaks from the pack and heads up the hill. Bad red light timing reunites us all at the next intersection. In my head, despite my blatant bicycle amateurism, I ask, "How fucking inefficient is jogging?"
3. The power went off hours after a recent lightning storm. Throughout the low-cloud lightshow, our electricity held steady, with nary a flicker. The post-storm humidity is insufferable, and the house is locked up tight so all the air conditioners can perform at their peak efficiency. My wife is upstairs asleep, as are my children and dog. I'm brushing my teeth, and everything goes black. ¶ I spit. I wait for my eyes to adjust, but there is simply no light. There is also the eerie sensation of hearing no sound; eerie because our home is normally host even in quiet times to the constant thrum of fans, air conditioners and dehumidifyers. They are all silent. Nobody moves. Nobody else in the house even knows the power is out. I follow the walls to get candles, matches, flashlights. My dog tragically walks down the pitch-dark hallway and slips on the top step, roll-falling down the entire staircase, kicking up a spectacular racket. I recognize immediately that it could be no one falling down the stairs but our dog. If someone stopped me on the street and described the situation and then said, "Then you hear something falling down the stairs," my response each time would be, "That's going to be the dog." ¶ The dog is stunned and sits at the landing at the bottom of the stairs. I've gassed the first floor of the house with a strange mixture of musk and vanilla, since the only candles we have are a mismatched passel of scented candles. I arrive at the landing to make sure the dog hasn't broken a bone, and the warm teaberry and vanilla aroma rushes up behind me like a vampire's cape. The dog raises her nose to the scent, sniffs a second time, then exhales gruffly, simulating a derisive snort. I have no response. ¶ Everything is electric now. The phone doesn't work, nothing works. I find my cell in the dark and call the power company. The touch-tone response system is metallic sounding, and the long pause to 'research my report' leads me to believe that either I have beat my neighbors to reporting our outage (the entire street and houses behind ours are similarly dark), or something more sinister and ominous is afoot. The voice chirps that I have reported a new outage, it is being investigated and there is no timeline for repair. The line goes dead, and as I stare at the words "Ended" on my phone's screen, the silence makes me feel for a candid moment like I'm the last man on earth.
Monday, June 05, 2006
poetry, pre-wifey
i write a poem for them, and they
say aww, that’s so sweet. what made you
think of that?
but that’s the wrong response.
not the one I was looking for.
i shrug and play humble like it’s a member of the woodwinds.
awkward silence now spins me around,
slaps me on my ass,
and sends me forthwith.
my heart topples like a redwood in the most guilt-
arousing deforestation documentary ever.
a systematic voice yells timmberr.
say aww, that’s so sweet. what made you
think of that?
but that’s the wrong response.
not the one I was looking for.
i shrug and play humble like it’s a member of the woodwinds.
awkward silence now spins me around,
slaps me on my ass,
and sends me forthwith.
my heart topples like a redwood in the most guilt-
arousing deforestation documentary ever.
a systematic voice yells timmberr.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
wet
rain comes down as if God lost someone.
like i should expect to see shut-eyed orangutans
and pot-bellied tribesman stalking dinner
outside my window; water beading-up
on their slick straight bangs.
but i dare not rise from pillowed comfort
to separate the hanging sliced privacy
to bolster my suspicions.
instead, i lay like stones
that are perfect for skipping,
while God uses window sills and wet
to send monday morning morse code.
like i should expect to see shut-eyed orangutans
and pot-bellied tribesman stalking dinner
outside my window; water beading-up
on their slick straight bangs.
but i dare not rise from pillowed comfort
to separate the hanging sliced privacy
to bolster my suspicions.
instead, i lay like stones
that are perfect for skipping,
while God uses window sills and wet
to send monday morning morse code.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
patio penance
i’ve been digging like lucas with the frigid grip.
or andy dufresne.
but I’m not being obtuse,
just relentless
with a spade and a some old sneaks
that i forsook like
those drunken college years.
unkempt exposed stomach soon to be crème brulee.
soufflé becoming syn co pat ed from countless crust punctures.
such is soil toil.
or andy dufresne.
but I’m not being obtuse,
just relentless
with a spade and a some old sneaks
that i forsook like
those drunken college years.
unkempt exposed stomach soon to be crème brulee.
soufflé becoming syn co pat ed from countless crust punctures.
such is soil toil.
Monday, April 24, 2006
always there
the silhouette of a grandfather,
painted on an april afternooned window,
gameshow reruns suspended in time,
tic-tac-dough or joker’s wild,
something with tweed sportscoats
and microphones that look like martian antennae.
coffee that’s cold in a styrofoam cup
sitting there all day,
adjacent to a remote
with buttons the size of boggle cubes,
resting on a christmas-themed tv table,
always there, while I come and go.
painted on an april afternooned window,
gameshow reruns suspended in time,
tic-tac-dough or joker’s wild,
something with tweed sportscoats
and microphones that look like martian antennae.
coffee that’s cold in a styrofoam cup
sitting there all day,
adjacent to a remote
with buttons the size of boggle cubes,
resting on a christmas-themed tv table,
always there, while I come and go.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
shots and her
he came out of her,
he’s back to her.
instead of giving him the tit,
she’ll be making macaroni with meat sauce,
and asking what his plans are now.
he’s back to brushing his teeth
in her kitchen sink while she’s asking
what his plans are now.
of course she’s talking macro picture.
he’s not.
he’s capping the toothpaste,
he’s opening the screen-door,
pending divorce, living at mom’s,
pretending to be proud, he walks to the bar,
thinking about shots and last words.
he’s back to her.
instead of giving him the tit,
she’ll be making macaroni with meat sauce,
and asking what his plans are now.
he’s back to brushing his teeth
in her kitchen sink while she’s asking
what his plans are now.
of course she’s talking macro picture.
he’s not.
he’s capping the toothpaste,
he’s opening the screen-door,
pending divorce, living at mom’s,
pretending to be proud, he walks to the bar,
thinking about shots and last words.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Argument
"You son of a bitch."
Randall didn't really yell it as much as growl it as he came through the door of the bar heading straight for my drinking companion, Howard.
Old Howard didn't have much of a step left after our fairly robust celebration of opening day, or Easter, or whatever excuse we had cited earlier for drinking heavily and immediately after work. Randall's first punch was more like a bear's huge claw, swatting at Howard's head and neck without discretion.
Howard went down from his stool with some general arm-flailing that didn't impress Randall or me. People got quiet as Randall stood there about three feet from Howard breathing heavy. The bartender quipped the perfect bartender statement: "I think his foot was stuck on the stool," and began to move away from the action without looking like he was going anywhere.
Howard and I weren't friends, mind you, and my obligation to defend him from the much larger Randall was close to zero. We had been drinking on a pay-as-you-go basis, so I wasn't owed anything. For all I knew Howard had killed Randall's dog or slept with his wife. In my head, I believe the 'barrier for entry' into this particular conflict was something like Howard's imminent demise. That wasn't in the cards just yet.
That said, I'm not a fellow to give up my barstool and make room for a thorough beating. I remained in my spot at the bar. Randall continued to breathe heavily. The air pumping out of his lungs was sickly-sweet, and I couldn't determine the flavor. Gross.
On the floor, Howard assumed the standard position of a four foot eleven bald man with weak muscle tone and glasses who has been thrown to the ground by a larger opponent: armadillo-ball. There was whimpering coming from his general direction, and it seemed pretty clear this wasn't Howard's first time down there. The bartender's voice floated across the bar saying something about 'squeaking like a mouse,' and I decided his role as a commentator was annoying me.
Randall wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and inhaled noisily at the same time, as if his salivary glands were working doubletime. He was not, however, drooling. Thank goodness. He said, "Get up" twice, once quiet enough only Howard and I could hear him and once again loud enough for the entire bar to take notice. Howard's hands fell away from his face and he stood up very fast. Presumably, the standard high-school bully routine didn't go much further than the swat-kick-spit-disappear four-step tango Howard had been rehearsing all his life. This whole 'get up' business caught him by surprise.
I was expecting a sitcom-perfect second swat, and I was right. Howard didn't go down, but instead skidded with some comic value from the bar to a trivia-terminal mounted on the wall. His elbow -- and possibly his funny bone -- hit the keyboard and he pursed his lips and started sucking air to make the hissing sound that indicates quiet pain. Randall stepped to him and I decided that not enough backstory had been provided for me to make a judgement. But I was interested in preserving the trivia terminal, so I quick-legged alongside Randall and stopped him with a hand to the chest.
"What's, uh, your big problem with this little fella?" I asked Randall. Howard rested a flat, glistening hand against his forehead as if he was taking his own temperature. He rolled his eyes slightly and left his hand just sitting there.
Before Randall could answer, there was an explosion outside, and people screamed like something important was happening. I looked back over and Randall wasn't there. Howard hadn't changed a bit.
After the sirens died down, we all went back to drinking. Nobody had seen Randall before, so it wasn't like we were all wondering where he went. Howard, who I had seen around and thought was mildly amusing, was gone the next day as well.
Two weeks later, someone at the bank let it slip that the safe in the basement had been blown through in the back, and nobody even noticed because the racks inside had hidden the damage. By 'let it slip,' I mean they were fired and came over and told everyone in a disgruntled fashion. It was one of those new-wave banks with long hours and matching t-shirts and weekend promotions. I didn't like using their ATMs because it reminded me of a video game at South of the Border. The story eventually got to the press, and the Virginia B.I. let it be known that they were keeping the heist hush hush until they smoked out some potential insiders involved in the scheme. They showed two headshots on the news.
You'll never guess who.
Randall didn't really yell it as much as growl it as he came through the door of the bar heading straight for my drinking companion, Howard.
Old Howard didn't have much of a step left after our fairly robust celebration of opening day, or Easter, or whatever excuse we had cited earlier for drinking heavily and immediately after work. Randall's first punch was more like a bear's huge claw, swatting at Howard's head and neck without discretion.
Howard went down from his stool with some general arm-flailing that didn't impress Randall or me. People got quiet as Randall stood there about three feet from Howard breathing heavy. The bartender quipped the perfect bartender statement: "I think his foot was stuck on the stool," and began to move away from the action without looking like he was going anywhere.
Howard and I weren't friends, mind you, and my obligation to defend him from the much larger Randall was close to zero. We had been drinking on a pay-as-you-go basis, so I wasn't owed anything. For all I knew Howard had killed Randall's dog or slept with his wife. In my head, I believe the 'barrier for entry' into this particular conflict was something like Howard's imminent demise. That wasn't in the cards just yet.
That said, I'm not a fellow to give up my barstool and make room for a thorough beating. I remained in my spot at the bar. Randall continued to breathe heavily. The air pumping out of his lungs was sickly-sweet, and I couldn't determine the flavor. Gross.
On the floor, Howard assumed the standard position of a four foot eleven bald man with weak muscle tone and glasses who has been thrown to the ground by a larger opponent: armadillo-ball. There was whimpering coming from his general direction, and it seemed pretty clear this wasn't Howard's first time down there. The bartender's voice floated across the bar saying something about 'squeaking like a mouse,' and I decided his role as a commentator was annoying me.
Randall wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and inhaled noisily at the same time, as if his salivary glands were working doubletime. He was not, however, drooling. Thank goodness. He said, "Get up" twice, once quiet enough only Howard and I could hear him and once again loud enough for the entire bar to take notice. Howard's hands fell away from his face and he stood up very fast. Presumably, the standard high-school bully routine didn't go much further than the swat-kick-spit-disappear four-step tango Howard had been rehearsing all his life. This whole 'get up' business caught him by surprise.
I was expecting a sitcom-perfect second swat, and I was right. Howard didn't go down, but instead skidded with some comic value from the bar to a trivia-terminal mounted on the wall. His elbow -- and possibly his funny bone -- hit the keyboard and he pursed his lips and started sucking air to make the hissing sound that indicates quiet pain. Randall stepped to him and I decided that not enough backstory had been provided for me to make a judgement. But I was interested in preserving the trivia terminal, so I quick-legged alongside Randall and stopped him with a hand to the chest.
"What's, uh, your big problem with this little fella?" I asked Randall. Howard rested a flat, glistening hand against his forehead as if he was taking his own temperature. He rolled his eyes slightly and left his hand just sitting there.
Before Randall could answer, there was an explosion outside, and people screamed like something important was happening. I looked back over and Randall wasn't there. Howard hadn't changed a bit.
After the sirens died down, we all went back to drinking. Nobody had seen Randall before, so it wasn't like we were all wondering where he went. Howard, who I had seen around and thought was mildly amusing, was gone the next day as well.
Two weeks later, someone at the bank let it slip that the safe in the basement had been blown through in the back, and nobody even noticed because the racks inside had hidden the damage. By 'let it slip,' I mean they were fired and came over and told everyone in a disgruntled fashion. It was one of those new-wave banks with long hours and matching t-shirts and weekend promotions. I didn't like using their ATMs because it reminded me of a video game at South of the Border. The story eventually got to the press, and the Virginia B.I. let it be known that they were keeping the heist hush hush until they smoked out some potential insiders involved in the scheme. They showed two headshots on the news.
You'll never guess who.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
crumbs
you’re different daily
like bread.
flat and freckled staple
of countries that boast the minaret
one minute,
bloated and glossy loaf of the Ukraine
the next,
toast when you pick up the drink.
unrelenting manna,
contrived like sliced white,
dark drawers keep you from you,
I sometimes happen upon your raucous crumbs.
like bread.
flat and freckled staple
of countries that boast the minaret
one minute,
bloated and glossy loaf of the Ukraine
the next,
toast when you pick up the drink.
unrelenting manna,
contrived like sliced white,
dark drawers keep you from you,
I sometimes happen upon your raucous crumbs.
Monday, March 27, 2006
mondaiku
haikus are the things
that come to mind on monday
the day that ends fun.
i be westerner
friday is the orient
far and alluring.
that come to mind on monday
the day that ends fun.
i be westerner
friday is the orient
far and alluring.
Monday, March 20, 2006
that star and you
i hope that you tear all of your important tendons,
and that you get what’s coming to you--
million dollar baby.
you’re not worth the milk dandruff
that falls to the floor,
when I pop the cap for some utter-juice
pasteur made safe to swallow.
that star and you are a sight.
if I had my druthers, you’d be the figures
in marty mcfly’s photo,
when his mom was hot for him.
but I don’t. and you won’t.
you’ll set records and get a ring.
because I’m from a once mighty town,
now only famous for sandwiches and a fake boxer.
and that you get what’s coming to you--
million dollar baby.
you’re not worth the milk dandruff
that falls to the floor,
when I pop the cap for some utter-juice
pasteur made safe to swallow.
that star and you are a sight.
if I had my druthers, you’d be the figures
in marty mcfly’s photo,
when his mom was hot for him.
but I don’t. and you won’t.
you’ll set records and get a ring.
because I’m from a once mighty town,
now only famous for sandwiches and a fake boxer.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
ignoring the sounds
If hitler were to return today,
my scarred face wouldn’t be to his liking,
and he definitely wouldn’t fancy you—
what, with the melanin and all—
i’m sure he’d return to driving his machine
of war, cleansing the earth of races obscene.
stamping countries like envelopes with the swastika,
his fun-sized-snicker mustache chortling at the myriad thwarted.
we'd get it like the rest of them...
while we waited for our imminent demise,
my foot would be saying hello to yours,
unwrapping you from a package of sleep.
you’re not awake enough for me to ask
if you want potatoes for breakfast, but I ask anyway,
our bedroom air filled with diner idiom,
ignoring the sounds outside our windows,
of innocents getting yanked and plugged like chords.
our neighborhood becoming a ghetto,
bricks and mortar making it so.
my scarred face wouldn’t be to his liking,
and he definitely wouldn’t fancy you—
what, with the melanin and all—
i’m sure he’d return to driving his machine
of war, cleansing the earth of races obscene.
stamping countries like envelopes with the swastika,
his fun-sized-snicker mustache chortling at the myriad thwarted.
we'd get it like the rest of them...
while we waited for our imminent demise,
my foot would be saying hello to yours,
unwrapping you from a package of sleep.
you’re not awake enough for me to ask
if you want potatoes for breakfast, but I ask anyway,
our bedroom air filled with diner idiom,
ignoring the sounds outside our windows,
of innocents getting yanked and plugged like chords.
our neighborhood becoming a ghetto,
bricks and mortar making it so.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Behind the Wheel of a Large Automobile
We have two cars, and I enjoy driving them both for different reasons. 'The big car' isn't really that big, but it's a Japanese wagon that feels and drives like a family car. It balances a safe blend of zippiness with obvious size. I drive it like a dad, ostentatiously checking my mirrors, propping my hands in the 10-2 position, quick-spying my kid in the back-seat like I'm in an American car commercial.
It's probably important to note that this unconscious play-acting doesn't actually affect my driving speed, for instance. It would appear to be all pantomime.
Our other car is an older Japanese sedan that doesn't travel faster than any other stock Honda Civic or Toyota Corolla in my neighborhood. But compared with the big car, it enfolds me like a space capsule. The seat is devastatingly low to the ground if I hop in directly from the wagon. When I first get behind the wheel after my wife drives the car, I'm a pilot in a cockpit, wonkishly making small modifications in the seat position, tilt steering wheel and mirrors. During this pre-flight I'll often twiddle knobs on the stereo, slot in a new cd, meaninglessly pop open the glove box or close the slow-release door on the central cup-holder.
When I drive the little car, it is an extension of me in the way the big car can't be. I'm sitting astride the big car like a rider on a horse. In the smaller car, I'm the horse's brain. I think I'm probably more confident in the little car, which might be a dangerous illusion. But I know what it can do, I know exactly how far behind me and to the right the furthest point on the car is. And while I know this information about the bigger car, I never enter situations where those memorized parameters really get re-checked. I don't slingshot the wide outer lane of one of D.C.'s notorious traffic circles to beat stopping at red lights. I do that in the little car. In the big car, I decellerate like a tugboat captain. In the little car, I power-merge and drop speed aping the engine control I had in my old five-speed Toyota, then grip the handle above the passenger-side door and take a tight turn at a safe but daring speed.
When I take the little car into downtown D.C. is when the style really comes out. I jockey for position, light up taxis and tour-buses as enemies in the chess-game of road management, and perform smug calculations in my head about beating an asleep-at-the-wheel driver out of an intersection and getting into his lane before the row of parked cars makes mine disappear. I simultaneously pay more and less attention to the road as I meld with the car in these moments. The music is playing, a breeze happens through the slightly-lowered windows, a small engine rattle catches my attention for a moment. I juggle these sensations without ever taking my mind off the critical task at hand.
At these moments, I realize -- if I stop to think about it -- that part of this driving style comes from that of my Uncle J______. He drove a manual transmission Japanese automobile with an unsuitable stereo system, even though music was his life. He remains the only person I know to be cited for wearing headphones while driving his car. If you sat in the passenger seat, you would be hard-pressed to determine the exact moments when he was actually driving the car. He was fiddling with the portable CD player and the pair of external speakers he used when not driving alone. The little speakers -- a pre-cursor to computer speakers, I guess, but battery-powered -- would roll around on the dash while the first-generation and extremely skip-prone CD player was securely planted on a washcloth pilfered from my mom's house. J______ would be tracking through songs, drinking a soda, shifting into fifth, singing along, and changing lanes on the turnpike with the windows down. Driving was barely part of this ballet. He had more than his share of automotive mishaps.
When I started driving, I took up many of J______'s habits. One of my cars had a tape deck which no longer rotated the wheels in tapes but still technically still functioned in that the sensor would read music and send it to the speakers. I stole an elementary school-type tape player and connected it to the car's (extremely weak) sound system through a five-dollar tape adapter. I frequently handled large beverages while driving, and my cockamamie tape-player-to-tape-player was a downright dangerous distraction. I added smoking to the act in an attempt to one-up Uncle J______. I memorably drove my first car into a ditch severing a natural gas line and leaving three families without hot water for a week.
Another of my driving influences was a cousin named K______. He was legendarily irresponsible though I don't recall if any of his cars actually perished because of his negligence. Mostly, they rusted into oblivion before our very eyes. (Not by choice, I copied this in some ways as well: After a concert on the other side of Pittsburgh, Tracy Chapman if you'll believe it, I was driving home with a friend when he looked down to find a four-inch geyser erupting through the floor panel on the passenger side of the car.) The car I remember K______ driving was a grey Chevette. I believe it had a manual choke and was possibly only a four-speed. K______ drove the car like a worker-drone on a Russian submarine. He was constantly adjusting cranks and seemed to be operating pedals I didn't know existed in cars. As his feet worked furiously across the gas, brake, clutch, choke and who knows what else, at times he would release a pedal (clutch?) that would pop dramatically and send the car surging forward or lurching backward. His behind-the-wheel performance reminded me of the Wizard of Oz behind his curtain. Unlike my cultivated grownup combination of these two driving styles, K_____'s endless gyrations in the driver's seat frequently distracted him from the actual variables on the road. Driving with him was reliably risky. Accidental 360s and inadvertent contact with curbs and railroad tracks were not uncommon.
Driving is like life sometimes, I guess. The big car is my adult car, and it is the car in which I abandon the childish habits of driving like it's fun. It's a task, to be undertaken efficiently (and I genuinely enjoy the efficiency of performing the task in the big car). In the trunk of a Honda Civic I keep the harmlessly irresponsible youth, tucked away under abandoned blankets and a mismatched set of tools that don't correspond to the car in any way. The big car came with a sleek little toolkit. And that's really the difference.
It's probably important to note that this unconscious play-acting doesn't actually affect my driving speed, for instance. It would appear to be all pantomime.
Our other car is an older Japanese sedan that doesn't travel faster than any other stock Honda Civic or Toyota Corolla in my neighborhood. But compared with the big car, it enfolds me like a space capsule. The seat is devastatingly low to the ground if I hop in directly from the wagon. When I first get behind the wheel after my wife drives the car, I'm a pilot in a cockpit, wonkishly making small modifications in the seat position, tilt steering wheel and mirrors. During this pre-flight I'll often twiddle knobs on the stereo, slot in a new cd, meaninglessly pop open the glove box or close the slow-release door on the central cup-holder.
When I drive the little car, it is an extension of me in the way the big car can't be. I'm sitting astride the big car like a rider on a horse. In the smaller car, I'm the horse's brain. I think I'm probably more confident in the little car, which might be a dangerous illusion. But I know what it can do, I know exactly how far behind me and to the right the furthest point on the car is. And while I know this information about the bigger car, I never enter situations where those memorized parameters really get re-checked. I don't slingshot the wide outer lane of one of D.C.'s notorious traffic circles to beat stopping at red lights. I do that in the little car. In the big car, I decellerate like a tugboat captain. In the little car, I power-merge and drop speed aping the engine control I had in my old five-speed Toyota, then grip the handle above the passenger-side door and take a tight turn at a safe but daring speed.
When I take the little car into downtown D.C. is when the style really comes out. I jockey for position, light up taxis and tour-buses as enemies in the chess-game of road management, and perform smug calculations in my head about beating an asleep-at-the-wheel driver out of an intersection and getting into his lane before the row of parked cars makes mine disappear. I simultaneously pay more and less attention to the road as I meld with the car in these moments. The music is playing, a breeze happens through the slightly-lowered windows, a small engine rattle catches my attention for a moment. I juggle these sensations without ever taking my mind off the critical task at hand.
At these moments, I realize -- if I stop to think about it -- that part of this driving style comes from that of my Uncle J______. He drove a manual transmission Japanese automobile with an unsuitable stereo system, even though music was his life. He remains the only person I know to be cited for wearing headphones while driving his car. If you sat in the passenger seat, you would be hard-pressed to determine the exact moments when he was actually driving the car. He was fiddling with the portable CD player and the pair of external speakers he used when not driving alone. The little speakers -- a pre-cursor to computer speakers, I guess, but battery-powered -- would roll around on the dash while the first-generation and extremely skip-prone CD player was securely planted on a washcloth pilfered from my mom's house. J______ would be tracking through songs, drinking a soda, shifting into fifth, singing along, and changing lanes on the turnpike with the windows down. Driving was barely part of this ballet. He had more than his share of automotive mishaps.
When I started driving, I took up many of J______'s habits. One of my cars had a tape deck which no longer rotated the wheels in tapes but still technically still functioned in that the sensor would read music and send it to the speakers. I stole an elementary school-type tape player and connected it to the car's (extremely weak) sound system through a five-dollar tape adapter. I frequently handled large beverages while driving, and my cockamamie tape-player-to-tape-player was a downright dangerous distraction. I added smoking to the act in an attempt to one-up Uncle J______. I memorably drove my first car into a ditch severing a natural gas line and leaving three families without hot water for a week.
Another of my driving influences was a cousin named K______. He was legendarily irresponsible though I don't recall if any of his cars actually perished because of his negligence. Mostly, they rusted into oblivion before our very eyes. (Not by choice, I copied this in some ways as well: After a concert on the other side of Pittsburgh, Tracy Chapman if you'll believe it, I was driving home with a friend when he looked down to find a four-inch geyser erupting through the floor panel on the passenger side of the car.) The car I remember K______ driving was a grey Chevette. I believe it had a manual choke and was possibly only a four-speed. K______ drove the car like a worker-drone on a Russian submarine. He was constantly adjusting cranks and seemed to be operating pedals I didn't know existed in cars. As his feet worked furiously across the gas, brake, clutch, choke and who knows what else, at times he would release a pedal (clutch?) that would pop dramatically and send the car surging forward or lurching backward. His behind-the-wheel performance reminded me of the Wizard of Oz behind his curtain. Unlike my cultivated grownup combination of these two driving styles, K_____'s endless gyrations in the driver's seat frequently distracted him from the actual variables on the road. Driving with him was reliably risky. Accidental 360s and inadvertent contact with curbs and railroad tracks were not uncommon.
Driving is like life sometimes, I guess. The big car is my adult car, and it is the car in which I abandon the childish habits of driving like it's fun. It's a task, to be undertaken efficiently (and I genuinely enjoy the efficiency of performing the task in the big car). In the trunk of a Honda Civic I keep the harmlessly irresponsible youth, tucked away under abandoned blankets and a mismatched set of tools that don't correspond to the car in any way. The big car came with a sleek little toolkit. And that's really the difference.
Friday, March 03, 2006
wingspan
that fat white nerd at the company picnic
wearing a miles davis t-shirt:
you own stryper albums.
or that relentless we gotta hang out sometime guy
i barely talked to back in the day:
keep your card. i’m glad you consult.
how about the mayo-globbed mouth-corner of some prick
that just keeps talking. oblivious to situations me and he:
i’m not hungry anymore.
and there’s the barely employed guy on my block
it snows. his wife shovels:
quit the belligerent neighbor banter.
racist grandfathers.
the self-important noon time aid at my kid’s school.
the person that always wants to talk about brilliant oscar efforts.
the big guy on the train that thinks he can eyeball my girl.
ungrateful eastern-block defectors bellyaching about taxes, etc.
pegasus wings should painfully take root from me,
so I can shun you all, bloody and glorious—
wingspan in my periphery.
wearing a miles davis t-shirt:
you own stryper albums.
or that relentless we gotta hang out sometime guy
i barely talked to back in the day:
keep your card. i’m glad you consult.
how about the mayo-globbed mouth-corner of some prick
that just keeps talking. oblivious to situations me and he:
i’m not hungry anymore.
and there’s the barely employed guy on my block
it snows. his wife shovels:
quit the belligerent neighbor banter.
racist grandfathers.
the self-important noon time aid at my kid’s school.
the person that always wants to talk about brilliant oscar efforts.
the big guy on the train that thinks he can eyeball my girl.
ungrateful eastern-block defectors bellyaching about taxes, etc.
pegasus wings should painfully take root from me,
so I can shun you all, bloody and glorious—
wingspan in my periphery.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
ode to knots
i wonder if don knots and jim nabors
used to go fishing together,
off camera--
knocking a few back under a familiar dusk sky,
baiting their hooks,
asking each other:
people don’t really think that’s us, do they?
used to go fishing together,
off camera--
knocking a few back under a familiar dusk sky,
baiting their hooks,
asking each other:
people don’t really think that’s us, do they?
Saturday, February 25, 2006
go get pop.
we’d be up catching flies in the kitchen.
late nights when my brother wasn’t michelobing.
i can feel it in the air tonight, o lord.
he was older, so he had the technique down.
he’d sneak up on one, take it, shake it like craps dice,
then slam it off the ripped linoleum.
laughing like harlem folks in the apollo,
we’d wait for another one to come down from the drop ceiling,
panels stained, looking like rorschach tests,
as if some bum lived above,
passing out, spilling his wild i.
anyway…
we’d wait for one to come down,
catch it, wing it,
all night long. all night, all night, all night long.
we goin’ to mambo, carumba, keep the
back door open like u.s. borders that create tejanos,
flies check in, but they don’t…
we had those oscar the grouch trashcans
on the back porch. They were clanging about.
step onto the miniature-golf turf that cloaked the porch floor.
dude, what was that?
lids were off. a ‘possum eating stereotypical trashcan trash—
coffee grinds, eggshells, plantain peels, the like.
turns out the fucker had a skull like jaws from moonraker.
convulsing in the corner, hissing.
i pinned his neck down with the spade my brother produced
inspector gadget style
whilst he pumped pellets into marsupial melon.
15 or so spit from a co2 gun he got for christmas;
mr. opossum was o'possible to off.
all alliteration aside,
we were getting a little nervous with rasputin here.
my brother took over the spade-pinning detail,
go get pop!
i ran up the steps and woke him like revere.
excited ‘possum talk filled his thick ears,
he didn’t say a word, put his soles to that awful red carpet,
walked down deliberately in sagging fruit of the looms,
grabbed the spade from my brother,
beat that ‘possum to stillness with a shovel in his undies,
half asleep, his back hairs like armor.
late nights when my brother wasn’t michelobing.
i can feel it in the air tonight, o lord.
he was older, so he had the technique down.
he’d sneak up on one, take it, shake it like craps dice,
then slam it off the ripped linoleum.
laughing like harlem folks in the apollo,
we’d wait for another one to come down from the drop ceiling,
panels stained, looking like rorschach tests,
as if some bum lived above,
passing out, spilling his wild i.
anyway…
we’d wait for one to come down,
catch it, wing it,
all night long. all night, all night, all night long.
we goin’ to mambo, carumba, keep the
back door open like u.s. borders that create tejanos,
flies check in, but they don’t…
we had those oscar the grouch trashcans
on the back porch. They were clanging about.
step onto the miniature-golf turf that cloaked the porch floor.
dude, what was that?
lids were off. a ‘possum eating stereotypical trashcan trash—
coffee grinds, eggshells, plantain peels, the like.
turns out the fucker had a skull like jaws from moonraker.
convulsing in the corner, hissing.
i pinned his neck down with the spade my brother produced
inspector gadget style
whilst he pumped pellets into marsupial melon.
15 or so spit from a co2 gun he got for christmas;
mr. opossum was o'possible to off.
all alliteration aside,
we were getting a little nervous with rasputin here.
my brother took over the spade-pinning detail,
go get pop!
i ran up the steps and woke him like revere.
excited ‘possum talk filled his thick ears,
he didn’t say a word, put his soles to that awful red carpet,
walked down deliberately in sagging fruit of the looms,
grabbed the spade from my brother,
beat that ‘possum to stillness with a shovel in his undies,
half asleep, his back hairs like armor.
Monday, February 13, 2006
like this
Sedans compressed like a and b buttons,
uneaten pork chunks lavished with overdone rice,
waiting to be of some use again.
everywhere
there is white rooftop,
winter wonderland, glazed power line,
snot noses run toboggan time tests,
like engineers from deutchland.
more charles schulz than charles schulz.
it looked like this when we
formed to become a voltron spider.
your casket being the thorax.
i was the right, front leg.
uneaten pork chunks lavished with overdone rice,
waiting to be of some use again.
everywhere
there is white rooftop,
winter wonderland, glazed power line,
snot noses run toboggan time tests,
like engineers from deutchland.
more charles schulz than charles schulz.
it looked like this when we
formed to become a voltron spider.
your casket being the thorax.
i was the right, front leg.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Sunday Outside the Newsroom: Brantacide
Smoke II
At this point in my life, I was sneaking smokes. Life was full of promise, and I had made a bunch of promises, to myself and to my girlfriend and my mom and everybody else in my life who didn't smoke. It was time to quit, I was a grownup, there was that time I caught my shirt on fire driving in the mid-summer swelter, blah-de-blah.
I wasn't buying it. I snuck smokes as often as I breathed air. All these people, the targets of my promising behavior, they knew it, but we agreed to keep up the charade, as a team effort, throughout the first couple years after I left college. It wasn't that hard.
I headed into the newspaper on a weekend to dig into some work -- and to slip into the socially welcoming milieu of fellow-smokers. It was a Sunday, when a team of drones sat at a sad batch of Frankenstein-monster Macs and assembled tiny ads in ancient Pagemaker like Buddhist monks. The ad-building folks had ministrations that seemed precise and appealing even though they depressed me. They took a plastic sleeve with the information about the ad, usually dug up an older version from some far-away file-server, altered it slightly, saved and moved on. Their peaceful movements were calming, but it was the endless re-jiggering of the same dozen words and the same dull images in the same tiny box that put me on the edge of weeping. One column by four inches. Two columns by five. Half page. Forever.
I was at one of my desks sniffing through some old files to see if there was any way I could avoid doing reporting that week when I heard a fracas outside. I had come to work to get something done, surely, and to absent-mindedly think about unspooling my current setup over perpetual lies and fear of life getting a proper start sometime in the near future, and to stare at the tiny sliver of alabaster skin above the waistline of an art student who did paste-up on weekends, but I wasn't above an additional distraction.
The newsroom was wedged in a slight grade; on one side you ascended stairs to go out while on the other you walked straight into to the parking lot. I took the stairs two at a time and heard a reporter named Elkins who was a good guy and gave the impression -- false as it turned out -- that he took his job too seriously. He wore cowboy boots before Washington was taken over by Texans. He was yelling at Dean, a gigantic man who drove a Lincoln which made sounds like a dozen empties were rolling in the trunk. There was no way of knowing whether the sounds were anything other than exactly that, because the trunk didn't open anymore.
"...ducks!" Dean was shouting when I arrived.
"They're Canada geese, Dean-man, and they're harmless." Elkins was angular in a country star from the forties way, and had a concave body on which clothes hung like drying laundry. It's possible that he was thin and strong and wiry, but he sometimes conjured the image of a scarecrow with a notebook. I nodded to Elkins and lit a cigarette with an amused grin. He was sitting on a rusty-looking desk chair and I sat on the ground. Dean was next to his car, red-faced and possibly drunk. The decorum which doubtlessly rules most workplaces was absent in this particular bankrupt newsroom, and reporters, especially on weekends, would drink on the job without giving it much thought.
"They're filthy scavengers and they're shitting all over my car." Dean had a point here. The Canada geese who used the nearby man-made pond as some sort of way-station were pretty gross. They walked around eating grass and defecating pretty much wherever they pleased. I hadn't seen anything like this on my car, but I wasn't in the habit of inspecting my vehicle closely. Dean, however, was.
"They're just birds, Dean-man. Give it a break."
"They're too dumb for their own good," Dean continued. He got into his car and said through the open window, "It's time for some natural selection." Elkins momentarily looked at me with wide eyes and then made for the car in a clatter of boots on concrete. Dean had the Lincoln in gear and was moving by the time Elkins reached him. Elkins smacked the trunk of the car and it was gone across the mostly-empty lot toward a batch of geese not doing much of anything.
Dean was right about the geese not being that smart. Elk and I stood there as Dean tore through the geese hitting a half-dozen while a few others looked on. They had no mechanism for responding to this. Nature's thousands of years of selection had perhaps programmed responses in the tiny geese brains to oncoming bobcats and coyotes but the flight-codes had nothing prepared for an onrushing '79 Lincoln. The birds seemed more disturbed by the damaged remains of their former gaggle-mates than the instrument of their destruction. I have to say I was, too.
Life in the newsroom unfolded in ways that surprised you. I was still relatively post-collegiate, and didn't have much experience with relating to actual grownups who had something like lives. Dean was probably the first example of palpable, irritatingly obvious failure I had experienced at that point outside of a few dispiriting professors over the years. Late on a Tuesday night not long before the geese incident, I had experienced some catastrophe or another which would lead to hours more at the paper long past midnight. I sent home the paste-up people and went to get a Coke from a machine in a poorly-lit alcove. Dean surprised me, sitting on the steps in the half-dark. He was still except for shaking hands. He shocked me when he asked if I had any siblings. He told me a story about racing his brother on 29 down to Manassas when they were kids, when Virginia's DC suburbs were an untamed countryside. He looked away and made a snuffling sound, his hands still shaking and red-white. I started to recede from the alcove as I realized that he wasn't really telling me the story as much as repeating it to himself.
At this point in my life, I was sneaking smokes. Life was full of promise, and I had made a bunch of promises, to myself and to my girlfriend and my mom and everybody else in my life who didn't smoke. It was time to quit, I was a grownup, there was that time I caught my shirt on fire driving in the mid-summer swelter, blah-de-blah.
I wasn't buying it. I snuck smokes as often as I breathed air. All these people, the targets of my promising behavior, they knew it, but we agreed to keep up the charade, as a team effort, throughout the first couple years after I left college. It wasn't that hard.
I headed into the newspaper on a weekend to dig into some work -- and to slip into the socially welcoming milieu of fellow-smokers. It was a Sunday, when a team of drones sat at a sad batch of Frankenstein-monster Macs and assembled tiny ads in ancient Pagemaker like Buddhist monks. The ad-building folks had ministrations that seemed precise and appealing even though they depressed me. They took a plastic sleeve with the information about the ad, usually dug up an older version from some far-away file-server, altered it slightly, saved and moved on. Their peaceful movements were calming, but it was the endless re-jiggering of the same dozen words and the same dull images in the same tiny box that put me on the edge of weeping. One column by four inches. Two columns by five. Half page. Forever.
I was at one of my desks sniffing through some old files to see if there was any way I could avoid doing reporting that week when I heard a fracas outside. I had come to work to get something done, surely, and to absent-mindedly think about unspooling my current setup over perpetual lies and fear of life getting a proper start sometime in the near future, and to stare at the tiny sliver of alabaster skin above the waistline of an art student who did paste-up on weekends, but I wasn't above an additional distraction.
The newsroom was wedged in a slight grade; on one side you ascended stairs to go out while on the other you walked straight into to the parking lot. I took the stairs two at a time and heard a reporter named Elkins who was a good guy and gave the impression -- false as it turned out -- that he took his job too seriously. He wore cowboy boots before Washington was taken over by Texans. He was yelling at Dean, a gigantic man who drove a Lincoln which made sounds like a dozen empties were rolling in the trunk. There was no way of knowing whether the sounds were anything other than exactly that, because the trunk didn't open anymore.
"...ducks!" Dean was shouting when I arrived.
"They're Canada geese, Dean-man, and they're harmless." Elkins was angular in a country star from the forties way, and had a concave body on which clothes hung like drying laundry. It's possible that he was thin and strong and wiry, but he sometimes conjured the image of a scarecrow with a notebook. I nodded to Elkins and lit a cigarette with an amused grin. He was sitting on a rusty-looking desk chair and I sat on the ground. Dean was next to his car, red-faced and possibly drunk. The decorum which doubtlessly rules most workplaces was absent in this particular bankrupt newsroom, and reporters, especially on weekends, would drink on the job without giving it much thought.
"They're filthy scavengers and they're shitting all over my car." Dean had a point here. The Canada geese who used the nearby man-made pond as some sort of way-station were pretty gross. They walked around eating grass and defecating pretty much wherever they pleased. I hadn't seen anything like this on my car, but I wasn't in the habit of inspecting my vehicle closely. Dean, however, was.
"They're just birds, Dean-man. Give it a break."
"They're too dumb for their own good," Dean continued. He got into his car and said through the open window, "It's time for some natural selection." Elkins momentarily looked at me with wide eyes and then made for the car in a clatter of boots on concrete. Dean had the Lincoln in gear and was moving by the time Elkins reached him. Elkins smacked the trunk of the car and it was gone across the mostly-empty lot toward a batch of geese not doing much of anything.
Dean was right about the geese not being that smart. Elk and I stood there as Dean tore through the geese hitting a half-dozen while a few others looked on. They had no mechanism for responding to this. Nature's thousands of years of selection had perhaps programmed responses in the tiny geese brains to oncoming bobcats and coyotes but the flight-codes had nothing prepared for an onrushing '79 Lincoln. The birds seemed more disturbed by the damaged remains of their former gaggle-mates than the instrument of their destruction. I have to say I was, too.
Life in the newsroom unfolded in ways that surprised you. I was still relatively post-collegiate, and didn't have much experience with relating to actual grownups who had something like lives. Dean was probably the first example of palpable, irritatingly obvious failure I had experienced at that point outside of a few dispiriting professors over the years. Late on a Tuesday night not long before the geese incident, I had experienced some catastrophe or another which would lead to hours more at the paper long past midnight. I sent home the paste-up people and went to get a Coke from a machine in a poorly-lit alcove. Dean surprised me, sitting on the steps in the half-dark. He was still except for shaking hands. He shocked me when he asked if I had any siblings. He told me a story about racing his brother on 29 down to Manassas when they were kids, when Virginia's DC suburbs were an untamed countryside. He looked away and made a snuffling sound, his hands still shaking and red-white. I started to recede from the alcove as I realized that he wasn't really telling me the story as much as repeating it to himself.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
loot apsev
my old lady hates the word body,
i want your body; your body is the most;
let me hear your body talk.
it’s bad.
but it aint as bad as french dressing.
or some waist of skin,
open-faced helmet on his yale head,
riding a vespa,
overzealously obeying traffic laws,
heading to the salon for a manicure and some highlights.
i want your body; your body is the most;
let me hear your body talk.
it’s bad.
but it aint as bad as french dressing.
or some waist of skin,
open-faced helmet on his yale head,
riding a vespa,
overzealously obeying traffic laws,
heading to the salon for a manicure and some highlights.
Monday, January 30, 2006
small happiness
In that country where everything is made,
boys are valued
like ring-pops to second graders.
girls, seen as a small happiness,
are fed to the earth
like seeds. they don’t grow
like yams in melanesia,
ten feet tall and celebrated.
they choke on apathetic soil
and the small bones of other unwanteds.
while above, a strapping son takes a
yoked beast across his father’s field,
shooting gallery duck style.
boys are valued
like ring-pops to second graders.
girls, seen as a small happiness,
are fed to the earth
like seeds. they don’t grow
like yams in melanesia,
ten feet tall and celebrated.
they choke on apathetic soil
and the small bones of other unwanteds.
while above, a strapping son takes a
yoked beast across his father’s field,
shooting gallery duck style.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Part II Setting the Scene
In this office where I worked in the mid-nineties, we were like the folks below-decks on a sinking ship. Until the water rushed down the stairs, we just kept working away, waging little battles, acting like things mattered, engaging in playfully twenty-something destructive behavior, even the forty-somethings.
We put out weekly newspapers, toiling away in a squat low-rent office park in the shadow of a half-dozen trillion-dollar telecom companies that stud the rich side of Tyson's Corner in Virginia like the hairs on the back of your hand. Standing in line at the (now departed) Chik-Fil-a at a nearby upscale mall, my friends and I in cheap flannel shirts and jeans stinking of cigarettes and stained carpet past its prime looked radically out of place among the suits and ties of sales reps and account executives. We didn't care. We worked 40 hours in three days to put out newspapers of extraordinarily low quality. But it seemed really important at the time.
On the top floor of the office park, the various executive functions of the newspaper unfolded in mostly secret. The elite sales people cheated on their spouses and possibly did coke up here, while the president and publisher shifted money from one defunct ledger line to another. He drove a Jag while asking the rest of us to take a deferment on our paychecks for a couple weeks a year. By the time I quit, I kept getting paid this deferred salary for three months. Thinking I was a bad-ass (1996, I believe) I kept the office pager required to keep me on a short editorial leash until the arrears were paid in full.
The upstairs was mysterious to me and the other Doc Martens and jeans guys downstairs. The sartorial selections of the older folks who ran things veered from overly serious to jarringly casual. Unfortunately, both made us feel like teenagers because even the casual outfits were old: matching track suits with sweatbands, dark blue jeans with an ironed crease and loafers without socks, pink Brooks Brothers polos with the collars flipped up.
The accounting people -- sassy-talking frumpy black ladies with unattractive hosiery and (as it turned out) no heads for numbers -- similarly disdained the management team, and the strong scent of racial divide was heavy upstairs, another reason for us younger folks to avoid it. We functioned as if we were in constant battle with the short-sighted managers and their failure-prone decisions, but to the black folks in accounting, we were golden-boys just because we were subordinates who looked the execs in the eyes without shame. They didn't know we were too stupid to know otherwise. And those managers were getting twice what they were paying for from the lot of us. We paid them back in insolence, but they were more than happy to accept the terms; insolence didn't cost them a thing.
There wasn't nearly enough corporate functions to fill the upstairs area, and one sign of the various failures of the publications was that there were perilously few elite sales reps to bring up from the cubicle-sea below. Mostly there were rooms stacked haphazardly with lots of out-dated and archaic newspaper-making furniture and equipment. We still assembled the paper with wax and rollers, but most of the individual page creation happened on computers. We just printed these gigantic pieces of paper out and then pasted them up on huge tables on the other side of the floor. The discarded furniture upstairs included previous generations of paste-up tables, disgusting green metal machines clogged with paraffin wax and rubber-topped tables with millions of tiny lines from x-acto knives.
I worked a slightly-longer than normal day on Mondays, probably from 8 to 7, writing and editing stories and then putting together some of the first paper I would send to the printer that week. Tuesday was the longest day, because that paper would be going out first thing Wednesday morning. The first paper was completely electronically assembled, photographs were scaled and developed in the dark room (pre-digital photography, at least for this marginal operation), then the entire thing was waxed to stiff paper for delivery. The day normally began at 8 or so and ended at 2 am. Despite the fact that dozens of person deadlines ending my smoking habit had come and gone, I would routinely smoke most of a pack during this 18 hours of work. The first one would blaze to life before I was two blocks from my apartment, and the last one would light my way as I cut through a bird sanctuary and a darkened crossing over the Potomac river with nothing but cops and boozehounds on the road.
Wednesday morning I would arrive at the building just in time to see last night's deliriously completed newspaper leave the building, ensuring I would have regrets aplenty by five when the papers came back. I would beat back these concerns with two or three bottles of Coca-Cola and another half-pack of cigarettes as I set to work on the second, much larger newspaper of the two I served. This paper had an independent history and had resisted the assimilation that formed the multi-title office where I worked. (The newspaper I had sent to the printer that morning was for a wealthy neighborhood across the Potomac in Montgomery County, Maryland.)
This independent-minded newspaper was unique because they assembled the entire publication to length using pen and ink estimates of how many inches of text each story and photo would be permitted. With the first paper, I worked with (or was, briefly) the managing editor, and we would take a bunch of finished stories and photos and jigger them together in a layout until everything fit. Not exactly rocket science, but it's the way newspapers work.
The second paper had a sheaf of pages like storyboards for the entire week's newspaper. Each showed the photo hole and the news hole, and their writers and editors worked to this script like it was from the Lord himself. They transmitted the stories over to me using (sweat to god) some kind of dial-up-based non-network FTP connection which I never fully understood. They would just appear in a folder after I received a telephone call, and I would start building pages. I worked at a different desk for the second paper, one on the edge of the office, near a window where I could breath in fresh air when I wasn't outside breathing in the exhaust of burning tobacco.
We put out weekly newspapers, toiling away in a squat low-rent office park in the shadow of a half-dozen trillion-dollar telecom companies that stud the rich side of Tyson's Corner in Virginia like the hairs on the back of your hand. Standing in line at the (now departed) Chik-Fil-a at a nearby upscale mall, my friends and I in cheap flannel shirts and jeans stinking of cigarettes and stained carpet past its prime looked radically out of place among the suits and ties of sales reps and account executives. We didn't care. We worked 40 hours in three days to put out newspapers of extraordinarily low quality. But it seemed really important at the time.
On the top floor of the office park, the various executive functions of the newspaper unfolded in mostly secret. The elite sales people cheated on their spouses and possibly did coke up here, while the president and publisher shifted money from one defunct ledger line to another. He drove a Jag while asking the rest of us to take a deferment on our paychecks for a couple weeks a year. By the time I quit, I kept getting paid this deferred salary for three months. Thinking I was a bad-ass (1996, I believe) I kept the office pager required to keep me on a short editorial leash until the arrears were paid in full.
The upstairs was mysterious to me and the other Doc Martens and jeans guys downstairs. The sartorial selections of the older folks who ran things veered from overly serious to jarringly casual. Unfortunately, both made us feel like teenagers because even the casual outfits were old: matching track suits with sweatbands, dark blue jeans with an ironed crease and loafers without socks, pink Brooks Brothers polos with the collars flipped up.
The accounting people -- sassy-talking frumpy black ladies with unattractive hosiery and (as it turned out) no heads for numbers -- similarly disdained the management team, and the strong scent of racial divide was heavy upstairs, another reason for us younger folks to avoid it. We functioned as if we were in constant battle with the short-sighted managers and their failure-prone decisions, but to the black folks in accounting, we were golden-boys just because we were subordinates who looked the execs in the eyes without shame. They didn't know we were too stupid to know otherwise. And those managers were getting twice what they were paying for from the lot of us. We paid them back in insolence, but they were more than happy to accept the terms; insolence didn't cost them a thing.
There wasn't nearly enough corporate functions to fill the upstairs area, and one sign of the various failures of the publications was that there were perilously few elite sales reps to bring up from the cubicle-sea below. Mostly there were rooms stacked haphazardly with lots of out-dated and archaic newspaper-making furniture and equipment. We still assembled the paper with wax and rollers, but most of the individual page creation happened on computers. We just printed these gigantic pieces of paper out and then pasted them up on huge tables on the other side of the floor. The discarded furniture upstairs included previous generations of paste-up tables, disgusting green metal machines clogged with paraffin wax and rubber-topped tables with millions of tiny lines from x-acto knives.
I worked a slightly-longer than normal day on Mondays, probably from 8 to 7, writing and editing stories and then putting together some of the first paper I would send to the printer that week. Tuesday was the longest day, because that paper would be going out first thing Wednesday morning. The first paper was completely electronically assembled, photographs were scaled and developed in the dark room (pre-digital photography, at least for this marginal operation), then the entire thing was waxed to stiff paper for delivery. The day normally began at 8 or so and ended at 2 am. Despite the fact that dozens of person deadlines ending my smoking habit had come and gone, I would routinely smoke most of a pack during this 18 hours of work. The first one would blaze to life before I was two blocks from my apartment, and the last one would light my way as I cut through a bird sanctuary and a darkened crossing over the Potomac river with nothing but cops and boozehounds on the road.
Wednesday morning I would arrive at the building just in time to see last night's deliriously completed newspaper leave the building, ensuring I would have regrets aplenty by five when the papers came back. I would beat back these concerns with two or three bottles of Coca-Cola and another half-pack of cigarettes as I set to work on the second, much larger newspaper of the two I served. This paper had an independent history and had resisted the assimilation that formed the multi-title office where I worked. (The newspaper I had sent to the printer that morning was for a wealthy neighborhood across the Potomac in Montgomery County, Maryland.)
This independent-minded newspaper was unique because they assembled the entire publication to length using pen and ink estimates of how many inches of text each story and photo would be permitted. With the first paper, I worked with (or was, briefly) the managing editor, and we would take a bunch of finished stories and photos and jigger them together in a layout until everything fit. Not exactly rocket science, but it's the way newspapers work.
The second paper had a sheaf of pages like storyboards for the entire week's newspaper. Each showed the photo hole and the news hole, and their writers and editors worked to this script like it was from the Lord himself. They transmitted the stories over to me using (sweat to god) some kind of dial-up-based non-network FTP connection which I never fully understood. They would just appear in a folder after I received a telephone call, and I would start building pages. I worked at a different desk for the second paper, one on the edge of the office, near a window where I could breath in fresh air when I wasn't outside breathing in the exhaust of burning tobacco.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
i've had butter thoughts
butter tastes good to me now.
raw.
i lick the knife after
slathering 12 grain fantastic.
nullifying any nutritious value
it may have once had. monosaturated
or poly, I care not.
it carries the flavor like grunts
lugging pinot grapes to and fro.
It used to bother me how timmy
And his clan shaved the stick
Of land ‘o calories-ian
Any which way but methodical:
From the top horizontal, diagonal,
They would even fork it.
Leaving the once perfect
Golden harmonica case,
A molested assemblage of lard parts.
But if he was around now,
I’d tell him eureka.
They just wanted butter;
I applaud your ravenous efforts
To procure the salted sludge.
I begrudge your methods no more.
raw.
i lick the knife after
slathering 12 grain fantastic.
nullifying any nutritious value
it may have once had. monosaturated
or poly, I care not.
it carries the flavor like grunts
lugging pinot grapes to and fro.
It used to bother me how timmy
And his clan shaved the stick
Of land ‘o calories-ian
Any which way but methodical:
From the top horizontal, diagonal,
They would even fork it.
Leaving the once perfect
Golden harmonica case,
A molested assemblage of lard parts.
But if he was around now,
I’d tell him eureka.
They just wanted butter;
I applaud your ravenous efforts
To procure the salted sludge.
I begrudge your methods no more.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
all the same
belly up to some hole in the wall,
obligatory pub o’ the new world potato eater,
dim lamps, flags of erin three inches tall,
stuffed in pints and cylindrical aluminum memorabilia,
on shelves like various plants gregormendelia.
…a stretch,
of mahogany to my left and right, brass rail for steppers,
housewife celebrating newborn reprieve asking for flaming dr. peppers.
it’s been a while, but I’m a piranha smelling blood in the amazon.
i guess I add depth to Hibernian alcoholic pigeonholing,
guinness any day over a night of bridge and bowling.
the first one is sahara oasis water, downed with the tempo
knievel and his son were accustomed.
after the second, I’m defenseless against its bewitching kempo,
i should’ve gone home, ‘cause the third and it’s successors are all the same,
just like white rappers.
obligatory pub o’ the new world potato eater,
dim lamps, flags of erin three inches tall,
stuffed in pints and cylindrical aluminum memorabilia,
on shelves like various plants gregormendelia.
…a stretch,
of mahogany to my left and right, brass rail for steppers,
housewife celebrating newborn reprieve asking for flaming dr. peppers.
it’s been a while, but I’m a piranha smelling blood in the amazon.
i guess I add depth to Hibernian alcoholic pigeonholing,
guinness any day over a night of bridge and bowling.
the first one is sahara oasis water, downed with the tempo
knievel and his son were accustomed.
after the second, I’m defenseless against its bewitching kempo,
i should’ve gone home, ‘cause the third and it’s successors are all the same,
just like white rappers.
Monday, January 23, 2006
swoop down
you couldn’t wait to witness her cross the threshold
of your terrible apartment. kitchen floor
begging for a wrung-out mop to take away
the beer filth underage sin water.
you thought about her all day.
was she going to wear that scent and white eye shadow?,
floating into your gristly viking kegger like some Norse snow
goddess stopping you in your swollen livered tracks.
valhalla valkyrie swoop down,
take you to see odin, thor, and the rest.
put down the beer and stick out your chest.
wanted to ask her for a sober grownup night on the town,
just earlier that day mom care-package delivered snacks,
far from home and uncomfortable like a virgin nose full of blow,
your charm with the ladies of academia developed a tad slow,
but you thought about her all day.
tell her that she’s caught your heart like webster slaughter,
but you won’t ‘cause you know the dragon’s not ready for the slay,
sit and watch him take her out the door,
drunk, wanting to give her a cuneiform poem Gilgamesh told.
of your terrible apartment. kitchen floor
begging for a wrung-out mop to take away
the beer filth underage sin water.
you thought about her all day.
was she going to wear that scent and white eye shadow?,
floating into your gristly viking kegger like some Norse snow
goddess stopping you in your swollen livered tracks.
valhalla valkyrie swoop down,
take you to see odin, thor, and the rest.
put down the beer and stick out your chest.
wanted to ask her for a sober grownup night on the town,
just earlier that day mom care-package delivered snacks,
far from home and uncomfortable like a virgin nose full of blow,
your charm with the ladies of academia developed a tad slow,
but you thought about her all day.
tell her that she’s caught your heart like webster slaughter,
but you won’t ‘cause you know the dragon’s not ready for the slay,
sit and watch him take her out the door,
drunk, wanting to give her a cuneiform poem Gilgamesh told.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Knollder
careful now. watch what you say.
I always happened to look this way.
hump on my shoulder. grassy knoll type situation.
third gunmen cross-triangulation.
I wish I had that magic bolt-action bullet puker
laughing stock of the neighborhood,
similar to bob euker.
but it’s a more sinister, impish sort of chortle,
he at least made the show,
I punch cash register buttons as a deformed mortal.
desperately seeking Sioux san-
citified arrowheads to puncture it, perhaps there’s a portal,
to take me back to the time I was a blastocyst
budding limbs and what were the rudiments of my figure,
I’d stick the sunbeam bread supermarket conveyor grocery divider
between me and that extra pound of…garbled precipice.
no thanks that shit’s not mine, sir,
that’s not gonna be the point at the lady with the hump provider,
of pre-teen scoffs and stiff index finger points;
like I’m kong and nessie’s daughter.
i’m not the missing link to volcanoes and giant lizards.
no, this isn’t a sack of chicken gizzards,
fed through a wood chipper, stuffed under my scapula,
it’s something that accompanied me
through the cervix and all my mother’s other parts,
persistent intrepid barnacle, part tarantula,
soldered to my shoulder, neck, and back you see,
like a side-sleeping beauty pillow placement, hard like quartz.
a geodeifficult cross to bear, you symmetrical stone throwing Judai!
the creative name games about me and you know what,
sometimes make me cry,
woe is my
child who has the mom with the two heads,
her face is red,
when I get on the yellow bus that takes her class to the zoo,
she watches the others’ faces seeing what they are up to,
stuffing their jackets under their shirts,
their normal moms with normal torsos are aghast.
that’s a sin.
the consensus.
I tell her the whisper gawks are always meant for us.
and that’s the way it bees for the most part, I’m guessing,
my mom used to say your shoulder friend’s not a curse,
but a blessing.
I always happened to look this way.
hump on my shoulder. grassy knoll type situation.
third gunmen cross-triangulation.
I wish I had that magic bolt-action bullet puker
laughing stock of the neighborhood,
similar to bob euker.
but it’s a more sinister, impish sort of chortle,
he at least made the show,
I punch cash register buttons as a deformed mortal.
desperately seeking Sioux san-
citified arrowheads to puncture it, perhaps there’s a portal,
to take me back to the time I was a blastocyst
budding limbs and what were the rudiments of my figure,
I’d stick the sunbeam bread supermarket conveyor grocery divider
between me and that extra pound of…garbled precipice.
no thanks that shit’s not mine, sir,
that’s not gonna be the point at the lady with the hump provider,
of pre-teen scoffs and stiff index finger points;
like I’m kong and nessie’s daughter.
i’m not the missing link to volcanoes and giant lizards.
no, this isn’t a sack of chicken gizzards,
fed through a wood chipper, stuffed under my scapula,
it’s something that accompanied me
through the cervix and all my mother’s other parts,
persistent intrepid barnacle, part tarantula,
soldered to my shoulder, neck, and back you see,
like a side-sleeping beauty pillow placement, hard like quartz.
a geodeifficult cross to bear, you symmetrical stone throwing Judai!
the creative name games about me and you know what,
sometimes make me cry,
woe is my
child who has the mom with the two heads,
her face is red,
when I get on the yellow bus that takes her class to the zoo,
she watches the others’ faces seeing what they are up to,
stuffing their jackets under their shirts,
their normal moms with normal torsos are aghast.
that’s a sin.
the consensus.
I tell her the whisper gawks are always meant for us.
and that’s the way it bees for the most part, I’m guessing,
my mom used to say your shoulder friend’s not a curse,
but a blessing.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
The Love Song of S. Alfred Geesfrock
LET us go then, you and I
When the pale moon hangs low in darkened sky
Like a chandelier in an underground brothel;
Let us go through streets uninhabited,
A quick, soft kiss—peter cottontail rabbited.
Unbeknownst to all, save the magnolia trees,
I write poems about your knees.
How sweet they are: the kind connectors.
They bend in rhythm with mine. They click.
Alleycat glances. Noise spotted like that of flecked spurs.
Step after aimless step I think of what’s come to pass,
How we did handstands on small patches of grass.
A rollerskating man playing the viola which led you to ask:
“what the hell was that?”
feelings flammable can’t be contained in a barrel of hazmats.
In the street the cars come and go
Nothing like Michelangelo.
The yellow pollen that’s making my eyes gush,
The yellow pollen cushioning our walked hush
Sneaked its way into nostrils trying to stay open,
To steal whiffs of helix locks giving me feelings of eloping
Allergen blankets on car hoods
On everything that stood
Irritants all around, tiny in size but potent
Doesn’t nullify feelings I couldn’t give up even for lent.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow fertilizer that itches the throat
Lounging on cars like cabana boys when the boss is asleep
There will be time, there will be time
To get a dress and contemplate the moon over a boat
There will be time to save money and be cheap
Time to masticate and time to imbibe
Enough time for the work that hardens the hands
And time for you to wear white as my bride
Time for you and time for me.
Take out your contacts, kiss your eye that’s blurry
The Eagles are on at four we can make it if we hurry,
You’ll make pasta and meatballs, then we’ll take tea.
In the street the fads come and go
Nothing like Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time, and there will be blah, blah, blah.
Not to undermine T.S., but let’s go to Madagascah.
We’ll track a yet undiscovered species of primate.
He’ll hang from his prehensile tail while we stay up late
And let the campfire’s flames lick the dark around us
Flame freckles in our eyes mirror our midnight African swoons
Heard by beasts aerial and subterranean, shattering the moon.
We’ll grow old…We’ll grow old…
We shall recount each others’ unfulfilled goals.
While sea nymphs serenade us on the peninsula of Sinai
Floating without effort, tasting wine and pie.
I see them cloaked with kelp, hair sparkling with phytoplankton
Such a lovely song, we’ll stand up and clap so as to thank them.
They’ll wave by flapping their mighty fins and go down
Disappearing below the swells, in love, we’ll drown.
When the pale moon hangs low in darkened sky
Like a chandelier in an underground brothel;
Let us go through streets uninhabited,
A quick, soft kiss—peter cottontail rabbited.
Unbeknownst to all, save the magnolia trees,
I write poems about your knees.
How sweet they are: the kind connectors.
They bend in rhythm with mine. They click.
Alleycat glances. Noise spotted like that of flecked spurs.
Step after aimless step I think of what’s come to pass,
How we did handstands on small patches of grass.
A rollerskating man playing the viola which led you to ask:
“what the hell was that?”
feelings flammable can’t be contained in a barrel of hazmats.
In the street the cars come and go
Nothing like Michelangelo.
The yellow pollen that’s making my eyes gush,
The yellow pollen cushioning our walked hush
Sneaked its way into nostrils trying to stay open,
To steal whiffs of helix locks giving me feelings of eloping
Allergen blankets on car hoods
On everything that stood
Irritants all around, tiny in size but potent
Doesn’t nullify feelings I couldn’t give up even for lent.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow fertilizer that itches the throat
Lounging on cars like cabana boys when the boss is asleep
There will be time, there will be time
To get a dress and contemplate the moon over a boat
There will be time to save money and be cheap
Time to masticate and time to imbibe
Enough time for the work that hardens the hands
And time for you to wear white as my bride
Time for you and time for me.
Take out your contacts, kiss your eye that’s blurry
The Eagles are on at four we can make it if we hurry,
You’ll make pasta and meatballs, then we’ll take tea.
In the street the fads come and go
Nothing like Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time, and there will be blah, blah, blah.
Not to undermine T.S., but let’s go to Madagascah.
We’ll track a yet undiscovered species of primate.
He’ll hang from his prehensile tail while we stay up late
And let the campfire’s flames lick the dark around us
Flame freckles in our eyes mirror our midnight African swoons
Heard by beasts aerial and subterranean, shattering the moon.
We’ll grow old…We’ll grow old…
We shall recount each others’ unfulfilled goals.
While sea nymphs serenade us on the peninsula of Sinai
Floating without effort, tasting wine and pie.
I see them cloaked with kelp, hair sparkling with phytoplankton
Such a lovely song, we’ll stand up and clap so as to thank them.
They’ll wave by flapping their mighty fins and go down
Disappearing below the swells, in love, we’ll drown.
Monday, January 16, 2006
New Story: Smoke Screen
I think Jim Jarmusch waxes nostalgic about the kinship of those of us who find ourselves out on a stoop, porch or office park entryway smoking a cigarette. It's in one of his movies. I kind of think it's bullshit. I pick my friends based on a lot more than what bad habits we share. If not, I'd be hanging out with obsessive gum chewers and overtalkers.
The newspaper business probably did the most to advance my smoking, and more importantly for our purposes here, my co-smoking. Journalism was closely linked to smoking and rebellion in general from an early age from me. It was, I suppose, the stress that I conveniently blamed for the oral fixation I satisfied with Camel Lights. However, my one-time best friend and by-then rival had already staked a claim among our friends as the newspaper person, so I ended up advancing my writing and smoking habits in tandem on the staff of the annual and a literary magazine I and some other people stated, probably as an excuse to smoke more.
By college, my smoking habit had become unmoored, relying exclusively less on the stress of succeeding in school than on paying for classes (on time or eventually), and of course, on the sweet, exquisite, slow-motion death of my long distance relationship. Like most freshmen, my drinking doubled weekly and I managed to spend a thousand saved high school dollars in one semester, on gloriously cheap cigarettes (the fabled sub-$2 pack!) and compact disks (my freshman year coincided with the rise of grunge), as well as lots of booze.
Then I discovered coffee and cigarettes had new meaning.
Through college I tested theories of pairing extreme amounts of coffee with cigarettes in as many ways as possible. I would smoke a cigarette at five in the morning walking to my coffee-shop job, and savor the ashy aftertaste as I warmed up the espresso bar. When all four taps were pulling perfect shots, I would wash away the spoiling cigarette flavor with a lukewarm mixture of four-times-two shots of espresso and an equal amount of milk. I was horrible.
I paired this extremely bad habit with working at the school newspaper, and glamorously reeking of cigarette smoke and unwashed flannel while storming around like some kind of newsman. It was, I'm assured, all very unattractive. Except to me, who couldn't believe how awesome it was to be typing and ordering people around and making decisions and smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee all at the same time.
By the time I was working at the newspaper after school, the glamour was completely gone. In the odious, crippling world of weekly community newspapers, the smokers were people like me, and they were 48 year old cut-and-paste artists who lived with their parents, and they were moth-ball smelling hags in horrible pantyhose from accounting. We had nothing in common, nothing to share, and nothing to even tenuously connect us, except a glowing ember on the tip of a cigarette.
The newspaper business probably did the most to advance my smoking, and more importantly for our purposes here, my co-smoking. Journalism was closely linked to smoking and rebellion in general from an early age from me. It was, I suppose, the stress that I conveniently blamed for the oral fixation I satisfied with Camel Lights. However, my one-time best friend and by-then rival had already staked a claim among our friends as the newspaper person, so I ended up advancing my writing and smoking habits in tandem on the staff of the annual and a literary magazine I and some other people stated, probably as an excuse to smoke more.
By college, my smoking habit had become unmoored, relying exclusively less on the stress of succeeding in school than on paying for classes (on time or eventually), and of course, on the sweet, exquisite, slow-motion death of my long distance relationship. Like most freshmen, my drinking doubled weekly and I managed to spend a thousand saved high school dollars in one semester, on gloriously cheap cigarettes (the fabled sub-$2 pack!) and compact disks (my freshman year coincided with the rise of grunge), as well as lots of booze.
Then I discovered coffee and cigarettes had new meaning.
Through college I tested theories of pairing extreme amounts of coffee with cigarettes in as many ways as possible. I would smoke a cigarette at five in the morning walking to my coffee-shop job, and savor the ashy aftertaste as I warmed up the espresso bar. When all four taps were pulling perfect shots, I would wash away the spoiling cigarette flavor with a lukewarm mixture of four-times-two shots of espresso and an equal amount of milk. I was horrible.
I paired this extremely bad habit with working at the school newspaper, and glamorously reeking of cigarette smoke and unwashed flannel while storming around like some kind of newsman. It was, I'm assured, all very unattractive. Except to me, who couldn't believe how awesome it was to be typing and ordering people around and making decisions and smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee all at the same time.
By the time I was working at the newspaper after school, the glamour was completely gone. In the odious, crippling world of weekly community newspapers, the smokers were people like me, and they were 48 year old cut-and-paste artists who lived with their parents, and they were moth-ball smelling hags in horrible pantyhose from accounting. We had nothing in common, nothing to share, and nothing to even tenuously connect us, except a glowing ember on the tip of a cigarette.
doldrum II
I
life’s monotony
diminishes hope; we sit
procrastinating
II
celebrities shine
prancing on unfurled red mat
plebeians adore
III
days spent surviving
debt repayment and dreaming
happiness forsook
IV
stagnant forgotten
grandma doilies stretched out,
the besmirched masses
life’s monotony
diminishes hope; we sit
procrastinating
II
celebrities shine
prancing on unfurled red mat
plebeians adore
III
days spent surviving
debt repayment and dreaming
happiness forsook
IV
stagnant forgotten
grandma doilies stretched out,
the besmirched masses
Thursday, January 12, 2006
charmed
---------------------------------- i
------------------------------ used to
----------------------------always do this
--------------------------when i was a starry
--------------------- eyed kid who had bangs
------------------- my mom created with blue
----------------- handled scissors that were easy
-------------- to keep shut like a crocodile’s acrid
----------------- wildebeest wounding mouth. i
------------------- ate the frosted rhombi along
-----------------------with mallows roygbiv.
------------------------saved lone vitamin d
----------------------------- doused azul
------------------------------- diamant
------------------------------------ e.
------------------------------ used to
----------------------------always do this
--------------------------when i was a starry
--------------------- eyed kid who had bangs
------------------- my mom created with blue
----------------- handled scissors that were easy
-------------- to keep shut like a crocodile’s acrid
----------------- wildebeest wounding mouth. i
------------------- ate the frosted rhombi along
-----------------------with mallows roygbiv.
------------------------saved lone vitamin d
----------------------------- doused azul
------------------------------- diamant
------------------------------------ e.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
stormless
wedged betwixt the majestic moments
involving penn 8 and schoolyard.
there were stormless interludes when the woman
who played host to my parasite
gave me, whether crisp, or thin and wrinkled,
a dollar that smelled like cigaretted hair
and brown paper bags chock pregnant with peanut
shells and unwashed denim knuckles.
a charter to venture off to westy’s to get her a skor bar.
i would buy a cherry cola slice in the glass
bottle that had the styrofoam label
that was so much fun to take off.
the walk back, a simmered saunter.
nobody was around except for that Indian kid
with the dog statues in his front windows.
involving penn 8 and schoolyard.
there were stormless interludes when the woman
who played host to my parasite
gave me, whether crisp, or thin and wrinkled,
a dollar that smelled like cigaretted hair
and brown paper bags chock pregnant with peanut
shells and unwashed denim knuckles.
a charter to venture off to westy’s to get her a skor bar.
i would buy a cherry cola slice in the glass
bottle that had the styrofoam label
that was so much fun to take off.
the walk back, a simmered saunter.
nobody was around except for that Indian kid
with the dog statues in his front windows.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
that space
when my brother smiles
you’d expect a cuckoo bird
to pop out of that space.
tell you what
time it is. Running away
from tom, jerry goes
into that obligatory hole
of safety and rodent-brained chicanery.
on cloudless days with lips
divorced, the sun’s oomph
finds it way into and on his
mouth muscle warming it
up so that it’s limber
enough to follow his brain’s
whistle instructions
to be performed through
that un-hung piece of drywall
that stolen piano key
that busted chiclet
that missing picket.
his shrill alarm makes me
foot-stab the horizontal pedal. It ends the
reversing. I throw his truck
in park. I watch him
through the rearview mirror.
he opens the tailgate because he’s helping
me. Again. there’s a few things
he'd like to tell me but he just smiles
and laughs with that trademark
incomplete grin
my dad’s fist made famous.
you’d expect a cuckoo bird
to pop out of that space.
tell you what
time it is. Running away
from tom, jerry goes
into that obligatory hole
of safety and rodent-brained chicanery.
on cloudless days with lips
divorced, the sun’s oomph
finds it way into and on his
mouth muscle warming it
up so that it’s limber
enough to follow his brain’s
whistle instructions
to be performed through
that un-hung piece of drywall
that stolen piano key
that busted chiclet
that missing picket.
his shrill alarm makes me
foot-stab the horizontal pedal. It ends the
reversing. I throw his truck
in park. I watch him
through the rearview mirror.
he opens the tailgate because he’s helping
me. Again. there’s a few things
he'd like to tell me but he just smiles
and laughs with that trademark
incomplete grin
my dad’s fist made famous.
Monday, January 09, 2006
friction
it wasn’t enough
that he put down the drink
ceased to behave like a nova monkey
and began to take the necessary steps.
bought you a house
that he could sleep in while he wasn’t
working both jobs that couldn’t work
as a team because of how different they were.
the jobs.
not enough. he
got a second overpriced piece
of paper with some school‘s
name on it while you bore
children up his ass
superdad
tee shirts to class on his frame
alien to all
that chanced him. Became tireless
self don king-er because niche
required filling.
just enough
sand has filled lower half of hour
glass for you to tell him
about sins extramarital maybe
you should go
to your mom’s house for a while
I’ll stay here with the kids.
enough onlookers
could’ve told him it was imminent
it was a newborn growing
teeth it was enamel losing
it’s luster tarnished from the start
like Valdezed sea life it was
bogged down and stuck
never to rise
unlike pungency of intruder’s
friction that singed his cilia
and burned down the progress
he hoped flame retardant.
that he put down the drink
ceased to behave like a nova monkey
and began to take the necessary steps.
bought you a house
that he could sleep in while he wasn’t
working both jobs that couldn’t work
as a team because of how different they were.
the jobs.
not enough. he
got a second overpriced piece
of paper with some school‘s
name on it while you bore
children up his ass
superdad
tee shirts to class on his frame
alien to all
that chanced him. Became tireless
self don king-er because niche
required filling.
just enough
sand has filled lower half of hour
glass for you to tell him
about sins extramarital maybe
you should go
to your mom’s house for a while
I’ll stay here with the kids.
enough onlookers
could’ve told him it was imminent
it was a newborn growing
teeth it was enamel losing
it’s luster tarnished from the start
like Valdezed sea life it was
bogged down and stuck
never to rise
unlike pungency of intruder’s
friction that singed his cilia
and burned down the progress
he hoped flame retardant.
Friday, January 06, 2006
sorry that you dropped
forsaken insulin brought things to a head
I would’ve made nice if I knew you’d be dead
burned and urned.
by the Almighty, four kids feel spurned
shocked now, but wait for the birthdays
the first days of spring, oldest might want to play first base
thirsty daughter won’t have dad taking her to get
chocolate water ice or whatever she likes that’s wet
to quench her thirst, ‘cause your heart burst
middle two scared white like chief race in Benson Hurst
when they found you in the bathroom
you felt sick they said, unaware of soon doom
left from their sight a broken boomerang
failed to return from the head, didn’t hear the clang
pots and pans, bottlerockets’ annual boist’rousness
your number was up. God’s choice must rest.
but man, I’m sorry I was an asshole and never did quit
I postured while drunk too much. I’m sorry. That’s it.
I would’ve made nice if I knew you’d be dead
burned and urned.
by the Almighty, four kids feel spurned
shocked now, but wait for the birthdays
the first days of spring, oldest might want to play first base
thirsty daughter won’t have dad taking her to get
chocolate water ice or whatever she likes that’s wet
to quench her thirst, ‘cause your heart burst
middle two scared white like chief race in Benson Hurst
when they found you in the bathroom
you felt sick they said, unaware of soon doom
left from their sight a broken boomerang
failed to return from the head, didn’t hear the clang
pots and pans, bottlerockets’ annual boist’rousness
your number was up. God’s choice must rest.
but man, I’m sorry I was an asshole and never did quit
I postured while drunk too much. I’m sorry. That’s it.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Resolution
What I was thinking about, when he was talking about being a ghost, was how I could change everything if I could keep this moment together and somehow get the mohawk-man to the police. Visions of sitcom crime-fighters and neighborhood heroism, complete with a key to the city and the gratitude of a shaken but now reassured public. I could take that moment, and turn it all around. (Surely, this was the result of the surge of endorphins or whatever it was that surged around when you had a high-tension situation like chasing a home invader through the streets of your hometown.)
Then everything went black, owing to a surprisingly fast moving IBM Selectric II typewriter hitting me from my quarry's general direction.
And what I remember next is this: When I was a kid, I fell off a rope swing during a snowstorm in the dazzling, dizzying days between school's end and Christmas itself. I was pretty young, though I don't remember my exact age. My parents had separated -- or maybe divorced -- relatively recently, and goofing around on the rope swing in the snow felt lighter than air. It felt like the easiest, most wonderful thing I had done in forever. Everything else had been so hard lately. Christmas was going to be hard. Going to Catholic school with divorced parents was hard. Pretty much anything life could gin up at that point left me exhausted.
I was in the backyard of a kid who wasn't really a friend anymore. The snow and the general breakdown of the rules of neighborhood play -- the normal groupings, the rivalries, the mean blow-offs that defined the carefully nuanced world of pre-teen boys -- put a bunch of us together who were old friends by proximity, but who really meant nothing to each other at the moment. That these boys weren't really friends probably contributed to my lightness; I felt I had nothing to lose.
Twilight was quickly turning to night, my hands were cold, and I have no doubt that the bones in my hand were certain they were gripping the old rope swing as tightly as they could. Once I hit the ground, I recall figuring that it was probably better -- definitely easier -- to just remain where I fell, listening to the sound of these half-stranger former friends run to get their parents, experiencing the exquisite pain of a greenstick fracture of my wrist, lying on my back in a foot of snow, and feeling more land on my face and neck.
Then everything went black, owing to a surprisingly fast moving IBM Selectric II typewriter hitting me from my quarry's general direction.
And what I remember next is this: When I was a kid, I fell off a rope swing during a snowstorm in the dazzling, dizzying days between school's end and Christmas itself. I was pretty young, though I don't remember my exact age. My parents had separated -- or maybe divorced -- relatively recently, and goofing around on the rope swing in the snow felt lighter than air. It felt like the easiest, most wonderful thing I had done in forever. Everything else had been so hard lately. Christmas was going to be hard. Going to Catholic school with divorced parents was hard. Pretty much anything life could gin up at that point left me exhausted.
I was in the backyard of a kid who wasn't really a friend anymore. The snow and the general breakdown of the rules of neighborhood play -- the normal groupings, the rivalries, the mean blow-offs that defined the carefully nuanced world of pre-teen boys -- put a bunch of us together who were old friends by proximity, but who really meant nothing to each other at the moment. That these boys weren't really friends probably contributed to my lightness; I felt I had nothing to lose.
Twilight was quickly turning to night, my hands were cold, and I have no doubt that the bones in my hand were certain they were gripping the old rope swing as tightly as they could. Once I hit the ground, I recall figuring that it was probably better -- definitely easier -- to just remain where I fell, listening to the sound of these half-stranger former friends run to get their parents, experiencing the exquisite pain of a greenstick fracture of my wrist, lying on my back in a foot of snow, and feeling more land on my face and neck.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
The Product of Inspiration
Something did occur when I put the pince-nez on my nose.
And no, it wasn't an infection, though my wife was quick to suggest that outcome when she first set eyes on the victorian spectacles.
I had begun to write, like I knew what I was doing. I spun a tale I thought magnificent. After the half-assed computer I had been using sort of had a melt-down (technology isn't my specialty), I pulled out an IBM Selectric II I had brought from my mom's house after she moved in with my sister. I had reams of slightly yellowed paper from a short-lived experiment with contract work I had done for an office supply company. The pince-nez, the typewriter, the weathered sheets of too-thick paper like mounds of foolscap, they all conspired in my favor. I was writing.
I was maybe even a writer.
The garage and I still stank. I was afraid to stop working because the spell would be broken, the magnificent little muse who had settled in among the squalor would be chased off by deodorants and soap, not to mention the leaf-blowing my wife was agitating for.
I wrote thirty pages one day. The story revolved around the possibility that Stevie Ray Vaughan had faked his death in a helicopter accident, and was now living a suburban life outside of Los Angeles. The intriguing bit was that unlike with Elvis or whoever, nobody had ever entertained the possibility that SRV wasn't dead; it was such an unlikely scenario that a bunch of people in the entertainment business knew it was a hoax and nobody wanted to bother Stevie anyhow.
The story was really moving along.
One completely insane fan had pursued the theory after a chance encounter with SRV at gas station in Alameda, and had set in motion a complicated plot involving cultists, real estate investors and the mob. Things were building to a climax I couldn't quite completely envision but I figured my muse would deliver.
I was completely mistaken.
It all came crashing to a halt on a Thursday afternoon. It was misting outside and I had a thorough aversion to the rain. Still, I believed I could slip into the trance and bang out a few more pages before heading in for some soup. But the seat I had sat in for weeks had somehow grown hard and uncomfortable overnight. The shed's cozy humidity had become a bone-chilling miasma, and I could barely function in the room.
I knew right away it was all gone, that I was finished, that the entire thing had been a fluke. I put out onto the street, wandering aimlessly. I was adrift.
Our street wound around to a little sort of loop of houses isolated from the things around them. The loop probably existed before the confluence of two highways boxed it off and made it seem like a city planning snafu. It was here I ended up, counting perfectly-spaced gaps in the sidewalk, and noticing old cars and blight that I thought might be worthy of a photograph someday.
Then I saw the man with the mohawk.
It wasn't a mohawk like a punk-rocker might have wore. It was a mohawk like the last of the Mohicans would sport. It was nearly as wide as his whole head, and beneath it were two narrow bands of scruffly shaved skin and two ears sticking out.
Our neighborhood and others in the region had been terrorized, using the word that the local newspaper used, by a person who was breaking into unoccupied houses, eating food and taking a few light, moderately expensive items. In one house, he ate half a cake, cutting it neatly and placing it on a plate, apparently while watching television, based on where the crumbs were found. In another house, he had taken a Bose wave radio and eight of fifty-seven cds. He appeared to enjoy Broadway musicals.
All of his crimes were ones of opportunity. The houses were empty and usually a back door or large window was left unlocked. The size and nature of the missing objects pointed to an individual working alone and possibly on foot, since he hadn't taken television sets, desktop computers, KitchenAid mixers or other heavy high-value items. One police detective noted that nothing was taken twice, meaning he only stole one computer (a laptop) and then one stereo (the Bose) and then a sampling of music selections, and then a cheap hand-mixer. "It's like he doesn't know where the Target is," the detective joked.
Nobody had spotted the man in the act, but a handful of shutins and swing-shift types had mentioned seeing an otherwise unmemorable man with an unusual haircut. One said it was an immense pompadour, long on top and very short on the sides. Another said it looked like a mohawk.
I had reached the back of the loop of houses. The constant windy sound of cars on the interstate behind the sound-absorbing wall was almost like the ocean. I was looking down and began to turn around when I thought I saw something dropping out of the corner of my eye. When I looked back, nothing seemed strange. I was looking at the space between two houses, and could see a shed behind one of the two. I must have imagined movement, or spotted a cat or a squirrel on its daily patrol.
Then, as I looked, a man leaned out of the window of one house. He didn't look my way, concerning himself with looking below the window, about a five foot drop. His head ducked back inside the window and then his feet came out, and his torso, and I heard a thumping sound over the car-surf whooshing noise, and the man fell from view. He had a mohawk.
Looking back, I guess it was pretty clear throughout this period in my life that I was depressed and maybe a little manic. I had never really analyzed the situation before, but I had the mood swings, the periods of soaring emotional highs (like the writing spasm that had just crashed to a close), and the moments of deep despair. People say that these can be controlled with medication, of course, but that other factors, such as adrenal surges and personal tragedies could also affect the emotional status. I had read an article about an athlete who fell into a depression whenever he wasn't in the height of his competitive season, apparently because the adrenaline surge served as a medical check on his natural up and down shift.
I stood on the sidewalk for maybe ten seconds after spotting the man leave the window. What I had seen before, I concluded, was his latest acquisition. He dropped or lowered it out and then jumped after it. There was no-one else around, and destiny, I thought in the final seconds of my reverie, had placed me here on this curb to witness his crime.
I dropped into a crouch. Everything was moving slowly and I felt like Spider-Man. Staying low and keeping an eye on where he fell, I moved along the grass just off the sidewalk to make less sound. I got to the house nearest his latest target and pushed my back against the front wall, lower than the windowline, edging toward the gap between the two homes.
I reached the corner and stole a peek at the mohawk-man. He was lying on the ground but wasn't unconscience or anything. He had hurt himself, maybe bumped his head coming through the window. He was blinking his eyes and then touched his forehead tenderly.
I jumped him.
It doesn't make any sense. This person is a criminal, obviously, and prepared for something like this to happen eventually. Maybe I thought his compromised position gave me an edge. I was obviously not thinking straight myself. We struggled for a few second and he reached for the small duffle bag next to him. I tried to kick his arm as he reached and ended up overextending myself and losing my balance, coming up short. He reached the bag and swung it toward me landing a blow in the general area of my shoulder, neck and head.
I fell over and he took off. I felt stupid, but at the same time figured I had started this so I might as well keep going. I was still feeling a rush, and he wasn't running that fast. But he was running toward my house.
For some reason, I shouted as I ran after him. What I said sounded strange to my ears even as I ran. I said "Now hold on a minute" and "Hey hold up now" and other random, Andy Griffin-like things. I don't know why. The mohawk man didn't say anything.
But he was definitely running right toward my house. Then he ran around the far side along the drive way and I thought that I might have him. I took the deceptively quicker route to the back yard and thought I heard the shed door slam. I grabbed a snow shovel, which is not a good weapon, if you're interested. I kicked the door open and the mohawk man was standing there in the middle of my shed. He looked tired. I am certain I did, too.
He looked around and lunged for the spool I previously had been sitting on, nearly knocking over the IBM Selectric II. I shouted to watch the typewriter and he tossed the spool at me. I swatted at it with the snow shovel and hit him in the process (swinging a snow shovel inside a shed leaves little untouched). He went down and sprawled across the typewriter, the pile of typed pages and the mound of blank paper. I jumped on his back and tried to put him in some kind of a headlock. I was basically completely insane at this point, protecting my masterpiece like a mother hen.
Then he said, "Is this your house?"
"What?"
He stopped struggling. "Is this your house?"
I thought for a second about what the impact of telling him the truth would be. Probably erroneously, I concluded that it would be okay. "Yeah, this is my house."
"You writing the book about Stevie Ray Vaughan?"
"Wait a second. You read my book?"
"I break into houses."
"But you broke into my shed and read my book?"
He had apparently snuck into the shed one night while I was inside the house watching tv. He thought the book was going well, and wanted to know how I would end it. I was still sitting on his back at this point.
I didn't know what to do. Nobody had been permitted to read the book (not as if there was some huge interest from anyone in my house), because I probably didn't want to know what anybody thought. I got off his back and tried to sound gruff. "Get up."
"I think it's a good start. I thought about writing crime fiction, and even considered writing about my work. Being a non-violent offender, seeing the lives of these people in your neighborhood from the inside for a couple hours a day, I've become more thoughtful about my career choice." He stood up and I meaningfully brandished the snow shovel in a way I thought menacing.
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. Afterwards, I would note that he had confessed to me.
"More than half the time, I don't even take anything. It's like when you're in someone's house, and you use the bathroom. You don't even know why, but you wonder what's in their medicine cabinet, or what shampoo they use, or if they have migraines, or hair loss, or whatever. That impulse is there, even if you don't realize it. What I'm doing isn't much more than that."
"You're breaking into people's houses," I said, thinking this maybe needed to get mentioned.
"It's hardly breaking in if the door or window is open. Besides, I was tired of that same live I was living. I was worked in a loading dock, dividing up and passing time box by box. Nobody cares about the guy in the loading dock. I realized I didn't care about me either. One day I was walking around my neighborhood and noticed a sliding glass door open. In I went, and I ate an apple, and left. Nobody noticed, and I started to feel like a ghost, like I was half invisible. I never went back to the loading dock, and I don't even think anybody thought to ask where I was."
Maybe this was designed just to elicit sympathy from me. It wasn't really that sad of a story, unless you happened to have a loading dock -- or local outlet of a gigantic coffee conglomerate -- of your own. Whichever. What it made me start thinking about was that I could change it all, right now, if I took the steps to get a few things back into synch. This wasn't any way to live, and I probably had enough excuses to keep trying like this for years, but it wasn't going to make any difference. If it wasn't the coffeeshop, or this idiotic backyard writer's workshop bullshit it would be something else. Who is convinced by this?
Then he hit me with the typewriter.
And no, it wasn't an infection, though my wife was quick to suggest that outcome when she first set eyes on the victorian spectacles.
I had begun to write, like I knew what I was doing. I spun a tale I thought magnificent. After the half-assed computer I had been using sort of had a melt-down (technology isn't my specialty), I pulled out an IBM Selectric II I had brought from my mom's house after she moved in with my sister. I had reams of slightly yellowed paper from a short-lived experiment with contract work I had done for an office supply company. The pince-nez, the typewriter, the weathered sheets of too-thick paper like mounds of foolscap, they all conspired in my favor. I was writing.
I was maybe even a writer.
The garage and I still stank. I was afraid to stop working because the spell would be broken, the magnificent little muse who had settled in among the squalor would be chased off by deodorants and soap, not to mention the leaf-blowing my wife was agitating for.
I wrote thirty pages one day. The story revolved around the possibility that Stevie Ray Vaughan had faked his death in a helicopter accident, and was now living a suburban life outside of Los Angeles. The intriguing bit was that unlike with Elvis or whoever, nobody had ever entertained the possibility that SRV wasn't dead; it was such an unlikely scenario that a bunch of people in the entertainment business knew it was a hoax and nobody wanted to bother Stevie anyhow.
The story was really moving along.
One completely insane fan had pursued the theory after a chance encounter with SRV at gas station in Alameda, and had set in motion a complicated plot involving cultists, real estate investors and the mob. Things were building to a climax I couldn't quite completely envision but I figured my muse would deliver.
I was completely mistaken.
It all came crashing to a halt on a Thursday afternoon. It was misting outside and I had a thorough aversion to the rain. Still, I believed I could slip into the trance and bang out a few more pages before heading in for some soup. But the seat I had sat in for weeks had somehow grown hard and uncomfortable overnight. The shed's cozy humidity had become a bone-chilling miasma, and I could barely function in the room.
I knew right away it was all gone, that I was finished, that the entire thing had been a fluke. I put out onto the street, wandering aimlessly. I was adrift.
Our street wound around to a little sort of loop of houses isolated from the things around them. The loop probably existed before the confluence of two highways boxed it off and made it seem like a city planning snafu. It was here I ended up, counting perfectly-spaced gaps in the sidewalk, and noticing old cars and blight that I thought might be worthy of a photograph someday.
Then I saw the man with the mohawk.
It wasn't a mohawk like a punk-rocker might have wore. It was a mohawk like the last of the Mohicans would sport. It was nearly as wide as his whole head, and beneath it were two narrow bands of scruffly shaved skin and two ears sticking out.
Our neighborhood and others in the region had been terrorized, using the word that the local newspaper used, by a person who was breaking into unoccupied houses, eating food and taking a few light, moderately expensive items. In one house, he ate half a cake, cutting it neatly and placing it on a plate, apparently while watching television, based on where the crumbs were found. In another house, he had taken a Bose wave radio and eight of fifty-seven cds. He appeared to enjoy Broadway musicals.
All of his crimes were ones of opportunity. The houses were empty and usually a back door or large window was left unlocked. The size and nature of the missing objects pointed to an individual working alone and possibly on foot, since he hadn't taken television sets, desktop computers, KitchenAid mixers or other heavy high-value items. One police detective noted that nothing was taken twice, meaning he only stole one computer (a laptop) and then one stereo (the Bose) and then a sampling of music selections, and then a cheap hand-mixer. "It's like he doesn't know where the Target is," the detective joked.
Nobody had spotted the man in the act, but a handful of shutins and swing-shift types had mentioned seeing an otherwise unmemorable man with an unusual haircut. One said it was an immense pompadour, long on top and very short on the sides. Another said it looked like a mohawk.
I had reached the back of the loop of houses. The constant windy sound of cars on the interstate behind the sound-absorbing wall was almost like the ocean. I was looking down and began to turn around when I thought I saw something dropping out of the corner of my eye. When I looked back, nothing seemed strange. I was looking at the space between two houses, and could see a shed behind one of the two. I must have imagined movement, or spotted a cat or a squirrel on its daily patrol.
Then, as I looked, a man leaned out of the window of one house. He didn't look my way, concerning himself with looking below the window, about a five foot drop. His head ducked back inside the window and then his feet came out, and his torso, and I heard a thumping sound over the car-surf whooshing noise, and the man fell from view. He had a mohawk.
Looking back, I guess it was pretty clear throughout this period in my life that I was depressed and maybe a little manic. I had never really analyzed the situation before, but I had the mood swings, the periods of soaring emotional highs (like the writing spasm that had just crashed to a close), and the moments of deep despair. People say that these can be controlled with medication, of course, but that other factors, such as adrenal surges and personal tragedies could also affect the emotional status. I had read an article about an athlete who fell into a depression whenever he wasn't in the height of his competitive season, apparently because the adrenaline surge served as a medical check on his natural up and down shift.
I stood on the sidewalk for maybe ten seconds after spotting the man leave the window. What I had seen before, I concluded, was his latest acquisition. He dropped or lowered it out and then jumped after it. There was no-one else around, and destiny, I thought in the final seconds of my reverie, had placed me here on this curb to witness his crime.
I dropped into a crouch. Everything was moving slowly and I felt like Spider-Man. Staying low and keeping an eye on where he fell, I moved along the grass just off the sidewalk to make less sound. I got to the house nearest his latest target and pushed my back against the front wall, lower than the windowline, edging toward the gap between the two homes.
I reached the corner and stole a peek at the mohawk-man. He was lying on the ground but wasn't unconscience or anything. He had hurt himself, maybe bumped his head coming through the window. He was blinking his eyes and then touched his forehead tenderly.
I jumped him.
It doesn't make any sense. This person is a criminal, obviously, and prepared for something like this to happen eventually. Maybe I thought his compromised position gave me an edge. I was obviously not thinking straight myself. We struggled for a few second and he reached for the small duffle bag next to him. I tried to kick his arm as he reached and ended up overextending myself and losing my balance, coming up short. He reached the bag and swung it toward me landing a blow in the general area of my shoulder, neck and head.
I fell over and he took off. I felt stupid, but at the same time figured I had started this so I might as well keep going. I was still feeling a rush, and he wasn't running that fast. But he was running toward my house.
For some reason, I shouted as I ran after him. What I said sounded strange to my ears even as I ran. I said "Now hold on a minute" and "Hey hold up now" and other random, Andy Griffin-like things. I don't know why. The mohawk man didn't say anything.
But he was definitely running right toward my house. Then he ran around the far side along the drive way and I thought that I might have him. I took the deceptively quicker route to the back yard and thought I heard the shed door slam. I grabbed a snow shovel, which is not a good weapon, if you're interested. I kicked the door open and the mohawk man was standing there in the middle of my shed. He looked tired. I am certain I did, too.
He looked around and lunged for the spool I previously had been sitting on, nearly knocking over the IBM Selectric II. I shouted to watch the typewriter and he tossed the spool at me. I swatted at it with the snow shovel and hit him in the process (swinging a snow shovel inside a shed leaves little untouched). He went down and sprawled across the typewriter, the pile of typed pages and the mound of blank paper. I jumped on his back and tried to put him in some kind of a headlock. I was basically completely insane at this point, protecting my masterpiece like a mother hen.
Then he said, "Is this your house?"
"What?"
He stopped struggling. "Is this your house?"
I thought for a second about what the impact of telling him the truth would be. Probably erroneously, I concluded that it would be okay. "Yeah, this is my house."
"You writing the book about Stevie Ray Vaughan?"
"Wait a second. You read my book?"
"I break into houses."
"But you broke into my shed and read my book?"
He had apparently snuck into the shed one night while I was inside the house watching tv. He thought the book was going well, and wanted to know how I would end it. I was still sitting on his back at this point.
I didn't know what to do. Nobody had been permitted to read the book (not as if there was some huge interest from anyone in my house), because I probably didn't want to know what anybody thought. I got off his back and tried to sound gruff. "Get up."
"I think it's a good start. I thought about writing crime fiction, and even considered writing about my work. Being a non-violent offender, seeing the lives of these people in your neighborhood from the inside for a couple hours a day, I've become more thoughtful about my career choice." He stood up and I meaningfully brandished the snow shovel in a way I thought menacing.
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. Afterwards, I would note that he had confessed to me.
"More than half the time, I don't even take anything. It's like when you're in someone's house, and you use the bathroom. You don't even know why, but you wonder what's in their medicine cabinet, or what shampoo they use, or if they have migraines, or hair loss, or whatever. That impulse is there, even if you don't realize it. What I'm doing isn't much more than that."
"You're breaking into people's houses," I said, thinking this maybe needed to get mentioned.
"It's hardly breaking in if the door or window is open. Besides, I was tired of that same live I was living. I was worked in a loading dock, dividing up and passing time box by box. Nobody cares about the guy in the loading dock. I realized I didn't care about me either. One day I was walking around my neighborhood and noticed a sliding glass door open. In I went, and I ate an apple, and left. Nobody noticed, and I started to feel like a ghost, like I was half invisible. I never went back to the loading dock, and I don't even think anybody thought to ask where I was."
Maybe this was designed just to elicit sympathy from me. It wasn't really that sad of a story, unless you happened to have a loading dock -- or local outlet of a gigantic coffee conglomerate -- of your own. Whichever. What it made me start thinking about was that I could change it all, right now, if I took the steps to get a few things back into synch. This wasn't any way to live, and I probably had enough excuses to keep trying like this for years, but it wasn't going to make any difference. If it wasn't the coffeeshop, or this idiotic backyard writer's workshop bullshit it would be something else. Who is convinced by this?
Then he hit me with the typewriter.
doldrum haiku
I
joyous holidays
annual beacon of joy
fleeting and migrant
II
striped turf in Philly
peppered with mistakes and hurt
tear salt saturates
III
midnight green now blue
high expectations cut down
eagles nurse deep wounds
IV
friend lost a brother
hard to accept raven’s news
he mourns like before
V
circuitous wheel
continues with birth of girl
Maryland daughter
VI
tea kettle whistles
reminds me to be grateful
rain blitzkriegs windows
VII
February late
the purple promise of spring
crocus I adore
joyous holidays
annual beacon of joy
fleeting and migrant
II
striped turf in Philly
peppered with mistakes and hurt
tear salt saturates
III
midnight green now blue
high expectations cut down
eagles nurse deep wounds
IV
friend lost a brother
hard to accept raven’s news
he mourns like before
V
circuitous wheel
continues with birth of girl
Maryland daughter
VI
tea kettle whistles
reminds me to be grateful
rain blitzkriegs windows
VII
February late
the purple promise of spring
crocus I adore
Monday, January 02, 2006
Strum and Strut
I got plumage, man.
Just how life can spawn
from a hot trashcan I manage to wake
After beers and jeers
New year’s
feathers never been better
come down and peruse
there’s a reason
I love a parade!
Still gets blurted
Furtive glances don’t get
Glanced.
Any chance you’ll come
Down?
You frown
with hangover malaise
phase one of the reconstruct
of your life begins today.
I know. At least one day
of procrastination
carried over from that bastard
2005.
Exhaust it with me and my downy mates.
Your house is warm,
but we strum and strut
with a radiance that only
Apollo can bestow.
You know
it’s been a while
since your senses
have been barraged with
a melodious one-two.
Three or four spots
have just opened up
on the sidewalk,
there’s plenty of__________space.
As we grace
Broad with tonal fury
appeasing the Petrified Penn
on asphalt grids
of his design.
Divine on his throne--
The Hall of the City
giving thanks to Thee
Quaker and Maker Of All
that you see.
Free of charge
we laud the new face
of Janus and the city
that thrives in your heart
apart from all others.
Brothers share your
flasked malt
and revel in the shadow
of the Clothespin.
It’s not cold.
You got your whiskey
and I got plumage, man.
Just how life can spawn
from a hot trashcan I manage to wake
After beers and jeers
New year’s
feathers never been better
come down and peruse
there’s a reason
I love a parade!
Still gets blurted
Furtive glances don’t get
Glanced.
Any chance you’ll come
Down?
You frown
with hangover malaise
phase one of the reconstruct
of your life begins today.
I know. At least one day
of procrastination
carried over from that bastard
2005.
Exhaust it with me and my downy mates.
Your house is warm,
but we strum and strut
with a radiance that only
Apollo can bestow.
You know
it’s been a while
since your senses
have been barraged with
a melodious one-two.
Three or four spots
have just opened up
on the sidewalk,
there’s plenty of__________space.
As we grace
Broad with tonal fury
appeasing the Petrified Penn
on asphalt grids
of his design.
Divine on his throne--
The Hall of the City
giving thanks to Thee
Quaker and Maker Of All
that you see.
Free of charge
we laud the new face
of Janus and the city
that thrives in your heart
apart from all others.
Brothers share your
flasked malt
and revel in the shadow
of the Clothespin.
It’s not cold.
You got your whiskey
and I got plumage, man.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)