Wrong Songs and Left Turns

Evvie Clayton stood on the side of the road, looking directly into the orange fireball on the horizon. She snickered, contemplating the value of the five-dollar sunglasses she’d stolen from the truck stop outside of Winslow. Even with them on, looking directly into the sun caused the rods and cones in her eyeballs to flash and send little light impulses to jump around in the darkness whenever she blinked, accompanied by the tiny round after-image implanted upon her corneas. Certainly this couldn’t be good for her, but the surreal effect brought a little joy, even if only temporary. Maybe going blind wouldn’t be so bad, and even if it were, she might have some company in this or that publicly supported welfare institution provided for the unfortunates stupid enough to have their vision permanently and irreversibly ruined by staring at the sun. Again, she grinned at nothing in particular.

The hard-packed soil beneath her feet offered scant relief but the asphalt would be twice as hot, making the decision to walk in the dirt a no-brainer. Reaching down, she removed her canvas sneakers and poked her toes into an ant pile, digging her feet into the softness of the mound. Of course, the comfort of the soil would quickly be disrupted by the onslaught of soldiers dispatched to defend the castle. Well, she figured, at least it’ll give them something to do tonight. She didn’t really mind the desert except for the disparity in temperature from day to night. Soon, her polyester tee shirt would offer little by way of warmth as the sun yielded its power to the darkness of the Arizona night. In retrospect, she now wished she’d stolen a jacket as well as the glasses. Come on, fellas… surely there’s one horny trucker going to Ajo tonight.

Walking the barrow pit adjoining the pavement, she allowed her mind to stray back to Daddy and the bitch that called her the oldest baby in the world. Fucking cunt…she ought to know about babies, she had three living with strangers throughout the Midwest. I hope he’s getting his money’s worth. But, things are as they are. Daddy made his choice and she’d made hers. He couldn’t be bothered with her, considering all that new pussy being shoved in his face. Well, she isn’t the only pussy in the whole world and Evvie knew all too well the value her own womanhood held, at least in terms of survival. The more subtle aspects of love and family would have to wait. Now, she needed to get to Mexico by whatever means available, and if it meant using the tools God gave her, so be it. What I never knew, I never will forget. It’s a big old goofy world, and I mean to get me some.

*****

By now, the exercise of peeing outside was no problem, especially when enough light remained to survey the area underneath her before she squatted. Now, with the sun having gone down and no leaves available to facilitate cleanliness, Evvie started to button the fly of her jeans. Better a little moist than snake bit. As she fumbled, she heard the sound of an engine approaching. A glance northward rewarded her with the sight of two headlights speeding toward her. Grabbing the Adidas gym bag that held her belongings, Evvie ran to a spot in the middle of the road, waving her arms and screaming for the truck to stop.

The sound of hydraulic brakes filled the air as a semi with a lighted cross on the hood slowed and stopped in the middle of the road, dwarfing the form of the petite girl now striding towards the cab.

Eternity passed as Evvie looked up at the driver’s window, waiting for a response from inside. The door of the tractor-trailer, immense and imposing, was painted with various numbers and symbols which she supposed to be some sort of code known only to drivers and police officers. Come on, dude, open the window, I won’t bite you.

Finally, the window lowered, offering her the first glimpse of the driver. Outside of the dirty ball cap and scruffy beard, the man’s face offered few clues as to his demeanor. He merely stared at the girl through expressionless eyes.

“You alone, Sweetie?”

Evvie dropped her bag on the pavement and folded her arms in front of her, all the while staring at the dumbest man in the entire world. “Well, I sent my limo driver back to Winslow for some cocktail weenies. I’m sure you’d agree that a martini isn’t much without hors d’oeuvres. I’m expecting him back at any moment and in the hope you might be him, I thought I’d stand out in the middle of the road just so he wouldn’t miss me and drive on by. But since you don’t appear to be a limo driver, I guess I’d have to confirm your suspicions… yes, I’m alone. Any chance whatsoever of hitchin’ a ride?”

”You got kind of a smart mouth, don’t ya’, Missy?” Still no expression, but a puff of smoke revealed his habit.

“It’s Evvie.”

“Oh, its Evvie… is that supposed to impress me?”

Evvie picked the bag up and jumped up on the running board, her arm hooked around the mirror support. “Look, I’m sorry. I just need a ride. If you want, you can just start up and I’ll hold on here. If I fall off, I fall off… its no skin off your nose, either way. I apologize for getting smart. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“You know, I ain’t supposed to pick up hitchhikers…”

“Yea, and I ain’t supposed to be walking across the fucking desert by myself, either, but here we are. Let your conscience be your guide, ‘cause I ain’t gonna beg ya’.”

Now he grinned. “You’re a snotty little fart, ain’t ya’? Do you eat with that mouth?” Motioning with his thumb, he pointed back over his shoulder. “But, I like my women a little ballsy. Get in.”

Evvie climbed up on the passenger’s side and pressed the button to open the door. Even in the near darkness inside the cabin, Evvie’s first glance around left a deep impression. There were so many lights on the dashboard console that she imagined a pull on one of the many levers might reveal a spinning dial stopping on two lemons and a cherry. My luck never changes. Certainly he doesn’t use them all… how hard could it be to drive one of these things? You turn the key, put it in gear and go. Now, stopping it might require a bit more strategy with this big sumbitch, but if this bozo can do it, how difficult could it be?

The seat proved to be soft and luxuriant, the cool leather conforming to her form like a down-filled sleeping bag. Evvie didn’t want to get too comfy, though, God only knows what this guy had in mind for the evening.

“Name’s Handy… Wallace Handy… but everybody calls me Flip.” Extending from his cowboy shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the man’s hand shot out in front of her, his head staring at the driver’s side mirror.

After pulling out onto the road and noticing that she hadn’t responded to his gesture of friendship, he looked at over at her and pulled his arm back. “Okay, if that’s the way it is, so be it. Let’s have a look in that bag of yours, sis.” Before Evvie could move, he’d grabbed the bag and sat it on his lap.

“Hey, goddamn it, get your dick-skinners off my stuff!” Evvie’s attempt to pull the bag from him gained her a meaty forearm across the side of her face, not so much a smack as a deterrent. Once again she started to lunge for the bag, but he held up one finger of his right hand, his glare switching from her to the road, back to her again.

“You’re in my truck now. I aim to find out if you’re packin’. You wouldn’t be the first one who took advantage of the kindness of a stranger.”

“Oh, yea, I’m going to pull out a gun and force you over to the side of the road. Then, I’m going to rape you and steal the seventy-five dollars you keep in that secret pouch right next to your nuts before I drive off in a rig I don’t know how to start, leaving you to die in the desert. Does that about sum it up, big fella’?”

Apparently satisfied that she didn’t have any weapons, he tossed the bag back at her. “If you could find it in your heart to keep your mouth shut for five minutes or so, I’d appreciate it. You’re giving me a migraine.”

The push of a button caused John Prine to start strumming the lead-in chords to “In Spite of Ourselves” and four duets had passed before Evvie moved. Reaching over with her left arm, she touched his forearm and uttered a soft “I’m sorry.”

Wallace “Flip” Handy offered a glance and a small grin of his own. “What for? A person has a right to sound off a little if she thinks her honor is being questioned. Hell, I do it most every day at one point or another… sometimes pretty often.” He pointed to a compartment above her head. “If you’re hungry, you might find something up there.”

In one motion approaching the speed of light, Evvie had both knees up on the seat and the lift-up door open. Reaching in the dimly lit compartment, she put her hands on several small boxes and pulled them out. Junior Mints. Putting them back, she pulled out several more. Yet more Junior Mints.

“Is there, like, any chance at all I’m going to find anything besides Junior Mints?”

A pause preceded a snicker in the dark. “Well… I suppose anything is possible. If it was me, though, I wouldn’t be putting any odds on the likelihood of that happening.”

Grabbing a box, Evvie sat back down and tossed one of the morsels in her mouth. “Why do I feel like I’m in a Seinfeld episode? I half-expect to look over at you and see Kramer dropping a Junior Mint into a patient.”

“Does that make you Elaine or the friend who wore her bra on the outside?”

“Leave me out of this, unless I, like, get the royalties.”

Again he glanced her way. “Oh, so you know about royalties. What else do you get paid for?”

Evvie didn’t look at him. “I won’t even dignify that with a response, other than to tell you that if you try to find out, I’ll do everything within my power as a human being to put every last one of those Junior Mints where the sun don’t shine.”

“Easy, Missy… Not only do you jump to conclusions, you have a dirty mind for someone so young. How old are you, anyway?”

Glints of fire flew from her eyes as she stared at him. “Like you really give a shit…”

“Okay… you got me there. So, Evvie, tell me, who are you running from?”

“I’ll be twenty-four in December.”

“Well, assuming you’re telling me the truth, at least now I know I’m not looking at life in the joint for being a pedophile if I get caught with you in the truck. But, that was a two-part question… come on, fess up… who or what brings you out this way?”

“If I tell you, will that make us, like, engaged or something?”

“Possibly… but only if you’re willing to sign a pre-nup.”

“A what?”

“Never mind, our attorneys will work it out. Have you registered us at Bloomingdales yet?”

“Yea… and the invitations are in the mail. I’m expecting, like, four thousand people. Can you afford Junior Mints for that many?”

“Hell, I figured your daddy would be springing for the wedding. Can I count on him for at least half?”

“I’ll get back to you on that… I’ll have to check with his new bit— er, bride.” Despite her every effort devoted to stifling it, a smile emerged on Evvie’s face.

“Ain’t you a little old to be running away from home?”

“Is that a question? It sounded more like a character assassination from where I sit.”

“Question… accusation… you pick. What do you care, Sweetie? I’m just a trucker with a soft heart trying to make conversation.”

“Well, my beloved, since you put it that way… the likelihood of a question being answered far outweighs that of an accusation. A smart fella’ like you should know that.”

“Okay, Lovie, since we’re so deeply in love and all, I’ll give you the right to assume it was a question.”

“I see. Well then, husband-in-training, ask your question again, but this time, make me believe you really care about an answer you might receive, should I choose to bless you with one.”

Yet another pause ended with his expulsion of air through pursed lips. “Snookums, you’re wearing me out, here. Are we going to do this little dance every time I open my mouth?”

Reaching up to softly touch his cheek, she replied, “Only until you find something other than Junior Mints to put in my mouth, Darlin’.” Then, realizing her faux pas, Evvie quickly added, “Don’t bother reaching for that zipper, either… there probably ain’t enough nutrition in there to keep a bird alive.”

The next several miles passed quickly as two giggling strangers laughed out loud and slapped each other on the arm. In the background, John Prine proved the moment.

In spite of ourselves, we’ll end up swinging on a rainbow…
Against all odds, honey, you’re the big door prize.
We’re gonna spite our noses right off of our faces…
There won’t be nothin’ but big ol’ hearts dancin’ in our eyes.
****

A short jaunt I hope you'll take

Those of you who know me understand that I often tend to regress to my time-honored tendency towards excess in all things written and/or oral. Be that as it may, I also take great pleasure in the sharing of information I consider either profound or useful. Below, with the permission of the author, Poetman, I offer information that contains elements of both.

Many of you who visit my site are poets, and, as such, I'm convinced that you'll appreciate a few maxims of wisdom from a poet whose work I must insist that you read. For some time I've linked him, but I highly recommend that you visit his site, if for no other reason, just to read some work that shows a certain virtuosity of voice that I find scintillating. Also, the art work there is spectacular. Without further ado, I give you:

10 things contemporary poets should know about writing poetry

1. Poems are not purely narrative; stories are! If you want to write a story “by god” write a story, but don’t call it a poem. I speculate that most narrative poems are short-short versions of stories written by writers - who don’t have the skill, patience or time to write a whole short story.

2. Free verse does not mean that you should completely ignore rhythms and line breaks. Help your readers – one long ass, run on sentence, without punctuation; that takes up a whole page, is not innovative (it’s already been done). It disrespects your reader’s intelligence, shows the world that you are only merely cleaver, and is pabulum masquerading as a poem.

3. Don’t put two contrasting metaphors in one verse or sentence – it just won’t hold together for your readers. Here is an example: “I was hearing a picture of you standing in a well of feeling looking for water”. That’s a line that truly crashes, as the mind of your reader tries to make sense of the way your use of “metaphors” and “predicates” collides and shatters into each other.

4. If you write a poetry blog as a daily confession about how “no one listens to you” and then choose fonts and contrasting background colors that make it difficult for your viewers to read your pearls of wisdom - then guess what – not only will you not have people listening to you , you won’t have people able to read you either.

5. Consider that applying terms like “Postmodernism” and “Post-Postmodernism” to your poetry is you engaging in an intellectual mind fuck. Good poetry first lands in the heart long before it wends its way to the head (this will always be true, except for those poets and readers who are members of the “I am smarter than you” cabal - hell bent on living their lives in the mind, rather than remembering that just below their noses is this incredible thing called “the body”).

6. If your poem does not shout from the page then no amount of voice or invective will carry it to a listener’s ear when you shout it from a stage.

7. Dear Slam Poet: Isn’t nice that you have found a way to get along with big brother – that you have found a way to be like a corporate cohort smothering the competition - that you have found a way to weed out the weak poets amongst you and in a Darwinian manner leave them bleeding on the stage. Well done O’ ye gladiators of truth justice and the “I am hipper then you way”.

8. Please consider editing. I know that an angel or a devil personally whispered an opus in your ear – and that all of your words are holy, and that you once read Ginsberg stating that the first time is the best time – but that just does not stand up to the test of reading. It’s true that your first draft is a large part of why you write (your reporting the words of a muse, etc.) but remember, writing is a craft, and as craft, your poems should go through several iterations before finding themselves on your blog or printed on a page. And by the way you will be doing all of us a big favor in the process.

9. Read the masters, if for no other reason then to critique them. Study the evolution of poetry in a non-academic manner – who were these poets writing for, how were they received in their own times, what do you love about their poems, and what do you hate about them?

10. Poetry is about resonance; it’s the use of language in a manner consistent with and contemporaneous with its time. Remember the vernacular of the sub-culture of you audience – appeal to them by glorifying their understandings about “place”, “time”, and “dignity”

Once upon a time, while listening to Jimi Hendrix' rendition of All Along The Watchtower, an erstwhile writer/balladeer/ ϋbersensationalist started a story with Once upon a time because he’d heard others utter it ad infinitum but never actually seen it in text. So, being the sort of devil-may-care, I'll-try-anything-once chap predisposed to just that sort of tomfoolery, he decided that just this once he might take on the role of devil’s advocate and give it a go. Throwing caution to the wind, he gritted his teeth and typed the words. Then, after seeing it, reasoned that while it lent a modicum of ex post facto perspective, it lacked the sort of verve he required his leading sentences to contain, so he apologized profusely to his readers and vowed never to do it again.

There are many here among us, who feel that life is but a joke.

The End

Dead Red

Is Hell the Blazing Saddles of eternity? Wouldn’t it just serve us right if we spent our entire life in search of an utterly inconceivable plane of existence, continually prostrating ourselves before the altar of Missed Opportunities and Roads Not Taken For Fear of Eternal Damnation, only to be deemed unfit for inclusion in the celestial realm of the Saints (no, Bubba, not the New Orleans Saints, pay attention for Christ’s sake), regardless of the fact that we selflessly (well, selflessly within reason, of course, why lie?) gave up the illicit pleasures of the flesh in recognition of an age-old (though arguable, by some) principle?

Then, when Dante (or alternately, some lower-echelon demon if Dante happens to be either indisposed or taking a break) greets us at the Precipice of Hades, what if we find out that he’s really quite cordial and nice? Suppose he puts his arm around our shoulder (not too tight, you understand, he isn’t coming onto us or anything like that; he’s not gay, he’s just friendly) and asks the general stuff… how was your trip, was the family sorry to see you go, did you allow anyone you don’t know to touch your baggage… yada yada yada… Then, very dramatically, he opens this massive door and tells us to prepare to meet The Master for our housing and work assignments.

So, we’re laying there, all scared-like and everything, when we hear, “So who are these schmucks? Certainly not “leading man” material… no, no, these will never do. Stand up, Sonny, let me get a better look at you!” Of course, at this point, we're feeling a little cheated and not a little annoyed. After all, haven't we spent an unprincipled lifetime preparing for this day? Oh, please... we didn't come all the way down here to be told that we don't measure up. We're bad, I tell you...

Slowly, we look up, expecting to see the Personification of Evil… the Grand Poohbah of Bad, the Main Man of Mellifluence… and when we can finally force ourselves to open our squinty eyes a crack, who is standing there? This puny little potato-faced man wearing a Gestapo uniform and a phony Hitler moustache. It couldn’t be… could it? Mel Brooks?

“What are you staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a self-loathing Jew before?” By now, he’s turned and walking away toward a desk sitting under a huge Swastika, ranting and muttering instructions to a tall, benign-looking man who looks exactly like Harvey Korman! I half-expected Cleavon Little and Gene Wilder to suddenly appear from stage left, tap-dancing to an ill-conceived, badly-sung duet version of If I Were A Rich Man. That, my friend, would be my concept of Hell!

Well, I can die happy now, at least. This eternity thing was really starting to bug me. Now that I’ve got it solved, I think I’ll go see if I can do something about the next twenty years or so. Maybe I can buy myself some extra time in purgatory, or in lieu of that, perhaps make a deal landing me in Heck. It’ll also give me some time to find a way to stop eating anchovies right before bedtime.

Mulberry Paragraphics

**I'll be out of town on business for the rest of the week, so I'll see you this coming weekend...

Mulberry Paragraphics

One of the wonders of advancing age is the ability to recall specific events fifty years past, as they happened, down to the most infinitesimal details of surroundings, while not being able to remember whether or not you shut the garage door five minutes ago. From time to time, my olfactory senses reward me with a certain combination of indescribable odors that immediately carry me to a particular long-since-considered scene from my boyhood and set me gracefully in the presence of loved ones who’ve passed from this earth. The sweet aroma wafting off a co-worker’s apple cobbler fresh from the microwave oven becomes a magic portal to a cookie and a kiss on the forehead from Mother along with the admonishment, of course, not to be late for supper. I feel her fingers rub the back of my head as she squeezes me lovingly to her bodice, causing me to squirm and resist as though I were being dipped in hot lye. Oh, Mom, stop, my friends are watching! I’m ten, you know—not seven! But I never left without a smile, even if she didn’t get to see it as I stuffed my face with that cookie and ran out the back door, slamming the screen behind me and waiting for the inevitable scream forcing me back to open and shut the door correctly. I didn’t mind… it gave me the opportunity to finish my cookie before reaching my pals. When I reached the alley, licking the chocolate off my fingers, they’d be there to remind me what a butthook I was for not sharing. Then, when I reached into my shirt pocket and retrieved a chocolate-chip masterpiece for each of them, God came down from heaven and all was right with the world. For a second time, fifty years later, three little boys would once again share neighborhood small talk while lounging in the shade of Mrs. Nuttall’s mulberry bush, all because I walked into the break room to rinse out my coffee cup.

Snippets to start the new year

Yea? Well, you, too, pal!

Maidenform's new line of hairbras for men

"Yea, I know... but you still need ID if you want to come in."

Dog-Butt Jesus... it's later than you think.

World's Surest Cure For Smoking

The Seduction

So miniscule was their value, the huge glass windows separating tarmac from rows of molded plastic chairs in the Departing Passengers security area may just as well have been made of adobe and painted with gang graffiti. Snow and ice covered nearly every available exterior surface, mounding in the corners and preventing all but the most vague of images from penetrating the glass to supply the travelers a glimpse of activities transpiring in arenas beyond their control. Not that many of the stranded throng of would-be fliers would really care very much at present. Bodies lay strewn across both floor and banks of seats, grotesquely situated as though they’d just washed up on shore, detritus from a raging storm, semi-conscious but unable to move more than the occasional stretch or slumbering readjustment. Even the once-attractive uniformed Customer Service Representative stationed behind the tall Southeast Airways counter sprawled inelegantly in a chair, disheveled and fighting impending slumber, invisible to her customers below the bank of monitors; computer displays of arriving and departing flight times brandished a redundant list stating ‘delayed’ next to every flight number.

Amidst the jumbled array of cheap human shoes displayed on a shelf, trying not to offend the mismatched pump or slipper placed next to him, sat a balding businessman clutching a laptop computer across his breast, protecting it from any attacks that might arise. Twenty-five years north of any last vestiges of attractiveness, he nevertheless graced the assemblage in his refusal to inflict the other zombies with unnecessary chatter. On occasion he craned his neck and stretched as much as possible without disturbing the woman sitting to his immediate right, avoiding contact at all costs.

He’d not eaten in over twelve hours, but still he felt the need to fart. Intestinal gas created from last evening’s ill-advised consumption of chalupas purchased at Kansas City International’s representative of culinary excellence, Taco Bell, now tested both his fortitude and his sphincter’s integrity. Perhaps if he moved his pelvis only slightly it’d come out slow and silent. Sure, the smell would be capable of stopping a stampeding rhinoceros dead in his tracks, but no one would be able to prove him the emitter. Yea, maybe, but why should he feel compelled to exercise such caution?

Segrid (Sig) Grimshaw claimed knowledge of no one in the room, after all. Hadn’t he been treated to malodorous sonnets with varying degrees of intensity throughout the night? Nearly forty years of experience guided his next move. Balling his hands into fists, he stood up and placed both arms over his head before lifting one leg slightly and began pumping his arms. With every thrust came an increasing expression of his contempt for their situation, his ass barking like a cur with colic. Then, apparently satisfied with his revolutionary display, he waved his hand to clear the air and returned to his seat, once again retreating into turtle mode.

“Nice one…” The feminine voice came from Sig’s right, although the eyes remained closed; a cast-off remark with singularity evidently intended to float independently throughout the room until becoming shipwrecked in some invisible recess known only to it.

“Thank you?” Sig watched as the eyes opened a crack, revealing bloodshot whites and darkish corneas.

A deep yawn escaped from the woman’s now-gaping pie-hole, forcing her to squint and cover her maw with a creamy, recently salon-crafted hand, the fingertips sporting a luxurious shade of cerulean blue. “Pardon me…” she offered, her eyes widening as they focused on Sig.

“I wake you up with a poisonous gas barrage and you yawn, offering me a ‘Nice one’ and ‘Pardon me’…? That’s the best you can come up with? Either you’re some combination of tired, lame and boring, or I’m losing my touch.”

Once again closing her eyes, Melanie Landrieu smirked in spite of her intentions to remain complacent. “Well, I forgot my evening gown, so I didn’t feel it appropriate to present you with an Oscar dressed like this. Honestly, whatever you have by way of ‘touch’ is, in all likelihood, spent on yourself. I’m guessing that you lost it years and years ago.”

“Well then… that’s a little better.” Sig said, feigning annoyance. “I accept your apology. Not all of us are blessed with an innate, blatant disregard for others. Don’t be concerned, you can’t help it…” Now Sig yawned, completing his performance and reinforcing his stage presence.

“Yea, I’ve been taking classes for years, trying to un-learn decades of manners and civility. I even enrolled in a Biker Mama seminar offered by the Oakland Chapter of the Hell’s Angels. I didn’t get too much out of it, honestly, although I am now capable of suck-starting a Harley-Davidson. Now, however, Lester (Crank Animal) Banks never fails to say ‘Excuse me’ if he farts, belches or pukes in the presence of a lady. I consider it a push.” Again, the smirk…

Sig, still expressionless, tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Is it just me or did it suddenly get hot in here?” Taking a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, he began to dab his brow, causing Melanie Landrieu to throw her head back and start laughing uninhibitedly.

After a few seconds, she smiled at Sig and replied, “My, my… you are easily impressed. I normally have to remove something or lift my dress up above my knees to invoke such a response.”

Sig smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t even notice that you have knees until just now. I guess I assumed they must be there somewhere, but, honestly, their placement in juxtaposition to the rest of the package wouldn’t be my most immediate point of focus, unless I thought I could convince them to rest in a position as far from each other as humanly possible without a change of zip codes. But even then I think my mind might be centered a foot or so away.”

“Like at the guy sitting next to me, perhaps?” After pausing for effect, she rested her chin on her fist, provocatively and continued, “Well, aren’t we the kinky one? Personally, I wouldn’t have guessed that you were gay— not that there’s anything wrong with that.” Another coy smile found its way to the surface, poking its head out of the water, satisfied that the dive had been successful. “Want me to ask him if he’s interested?”

Deadpan… totally expressionless. If you smile, you lose. “Um… no, that probably won’t be necessary, but thanks for offering. Isn’t it strange and wonderful what messages a good fart analysis can reveal? Here I am, queer as a three-dollar bill, going through life convinced that I’m an avowed heterosexual, never once having had the pleasure of caressing another man’s Johnson. Would you mind holding my hand? I think all this coming out of the closet has made me want to weep a little.” Turning his head away, Sig started to sob and stretch his hand towards her.

A sniff or two later, she’d heard enough. Slapping his hand hard enough to make him jerk it back, she whispered, “Stop your sniveling, Brucie, before I’m forced to take you somewhere and give you an object lesson in manhood.”

Slowly, Sig wrapped his arm around her shoulders and moved his lips close to her ear. “There’s a Holiday Inn Express less than a mile from here. Care to chance the elements?”

“Will you pay for the room?” she teased.

“No, but I’ll flip you for it, best two out of three for the room and the cab ride.”

“Promise not to fart?”

“No, but I’ll try to warn you first.”

Taking his hand, she paused. “Let’s get out of here before I feel compelled to ask you your name.”

“Oooooh… now who’s the kinky one?” Sig asked while standing. Offering his hands, he helped her to her feet. Without another word, the pair walked out of Kansas City International Airport in search of a cab driver. Sometimes the karmic pieces align and things just work.

The Truth, The Whole Truth and... ummm...

The stranger appeared in the doorway… Well, not a stranger exactly, his name was Andy. We’d met on a few other occasions, for instance when he walked me down the aisle. And it really wasn’t a doorway as much as it was a window. He used it as a doorway sometimes, though, if one of his drunken friends had fallen asleep outside our actual doorway or if he just wanted a quick surge of adrenalin upon leaving our loft.

Also, he didn’t appear, really. Andy actually broke out one of the windowpanes with his elbow and reached inside for the door latch. Details became less important after I shot him… that is, until the moment I first met with the police and my attorney. Then he mysteriously became the stranger who appeared in the doorway.

I’d like to continue but I’m far too grief-stricken. Maybe, if I hadn’t been so terrified, waiting up until all hours night after night for my beloved to come home, I would have been able to discern that it wasn’t really a stranger crawling through the window dressed in Andy’s favorite Notre Dame jacket (the hideous blue and gold one he wore every night when he went out). Perhaps not, who knows what the mind is capable of during periods of great emotional upheaval. One thing is certain, however. The Fighting Irish now have one less fan and I have control of the remote on Saturday afternoons during the fall. I could learn to watch golf, I think.

Shameless Plug #5417 (Subset B-1)

The January issue of Word Catalyst magazine is up and it's great. I highly recommend you go see it immediately before a major power glitch hits the U.S. and we're instantaneously thrust back into the Bronze Age. The graphics are stunning, the photography is amazing, the poetry is magnificent and I've got a short story in this issue. Please check it out, a lot of enterprising people have invested a lot of work in it... did I mention that I have a story, too? As free entertainment goes, it's as good as you have any right to expect... and I have a story in there, too. Just click on the blue "Word Catalyst magazine" above and I'm led to believe it will open up the magazine for you. Isn't magic wonderful?

Oh, yea, almost forgot... check out the graphic on the masthead... I can attest to the fact that it looks great on a t-shirt. Ask me, and I'll show you how to get one. You'd look great in it, too... while you're sitting at your computer reading my story in this month's edition of Word Catalyst Magazine.

Adagio

I don't know why I'm trying this, but like the tag-along little brother, I thought I'd give it a try. It's called a Parallelismus Membrorum (?) (yea, me, too), and that's all I know about it-- until yesterday, I didn't even know that! Live and learn, right? Does this thing come with instructions? Anyway, here's another example of why I don't write much poetry:

Adagio

A Parallelismus Membrorum (I think...)

The sun has set upon me,
And my moon came out;
I am cyclone’s plunder
Under gentle breeze;
Though you would forget them,
memories linger on;
Make-believe gifts to open

Where real ones once lay.

Sayonara, 007...

Well, it would appear that most of us are going to make it through 2007 unscathed, or, at least, relatively so. Few among us can claim a pristine countenance devoid of scars and warts (except Donald Trump, of course), and it is my concerted opinion that we are all the better for it.

I did a little boxing as a young man, and there are more reasons than I can list why I didn’t pursue it on a professional basis, but suffice to say that on more than one occasion, I left the squared circle battered, beaten and humbled. But as I sat alone in the locker room with eyes nearly swollen shut and tried to figure out what went wrong, I recalled my trainer’s words… “Son, the sun don’t shine on the same dog’s ass all the time. It just wasn’t your fight to win tonight.”

Life’s like that, I think. We keep putting one foot in front of the other, maybe running for a little while, or just taking a stroll while we rest up and listen to the birds in anticipation of yet another sprint. So we might as well enjoy the scenery along the way. I’d like to thank all of you for helping me train. I realize I can’t possibly win my last big fight, none of us can, but with your help, I’ll keep punching.

As Robert Burns said:

"Shid ald akwentans bee firgot, an nivir brocht ti mynd? Shid ald akwentans bee firgot,an ald lang syn?"

At times like this, I wish I spoke Scottish! No matter... Happy New Year, everyone!

Your Sunday Comeuppance

For reasons that shall remain undivulged (he said, realizing full well that undivulged isn’t really a word, but exhibiting absolutely no remorse in its use), I’m feeling semi-stuporous. I have a bad case of the whiffles, a malurine malady capable of bringing on hopperburn if not immediately treated with a dapple of scopolamine in the ol’ sealskin bedsock. That ought to keep the wrigglers ventose until they dry up enough to excise. With any luck at all, I won’t be required to consider corybantiasm. It’s a last resort, I assure you.

So what, pray tell, does any of this have to do with anything? Nothing, perhaps; I only mention it as a lead-in to my real reason for writing. You see, ladies and gentlemen, this morning I witnessed a non-event worthy of comment (that I firmly believe, but cannot prove beyond a scientific doubt, brought on the accursed whiffles mentioned earlier).

An older woman, who was late for services at St. Bubba the Least Catholic Church, encountered a homeless man sitting on a bench as she bustled up the steps. Hearing church bells start to chime, she inquired of him, "Oh my God, is Mass out?"

"No", he replied, a grin escaping from his lips, "but your hat's a little cocked to one side."

(Insert rimshot here)

And that, ladies and germs, concludes the entertainment portion of the program. Please make sure your seats are upright and don’t forget to remove any carry-on luggage from the overhead storage bins. Thank you for coming and I hope to see you all again real soon!

Hemingway and Foxes

I’m sitting here this morning, bemoaning my dual shortfalls of inspiration and industry. Actually, I’m not even sure why I feel it necessary to include the time of day as a necessary pronouncement; it matters little, all things considered. It could just as easily be midday, evening’s prime time or perhaps those heavy, dark hours of late night, those erstwhile wellsprings of all things creative, those portals through which enter the monsters and fairies, the demons and the angels, and all the greater and lesser tools of innovation once offered by a mind troubled with humankind’s vagaries and nature’s duality of cruelty and majesty.

Similarly, it’s immaterial that I’m sitting. The fact that I reference my body position at all exemplifies the egocentricity and futility of my efforts. Were I suspended upside down in a tank of sea water at a depth of 50 fathoms, with a great white shark lurking in the shadows, the words would be no more or no less important. Regardless of the importance some would place upon their endeavors, writing is not a spectator sport. Even if, in retrospect, we found out that Hemingway wrote A Sun Also Rises in blood, with a cactus quill, in twenty minutes, while gorked on wine and heroine, we wouldn’t place one whit of interest whether he was sitting, standing or simultaneously engaged in acts of banality with a syphilitic Spanish cabana boy. It’s all about the words.

And the words don’t come. All the while, the clock ticks and the world turns and others make love to each other, kill each other, make love then kill each other, and somewhere a kit fox watches the snow fall from inside her den, never once considering the ramifications of any actions other than those immediately surrounding her. But you won’t hear about it from me, much as I may desire to tell you about loving, killing or foxes.

Exfoliation? We don't need no stinkin' exfoliation!

It is not my normal M.O. to discuss ‘taste’… for reasons that, by now, should be obvious. I read and hear on-going assessments and pontifications about others’ taste (or lack thereof) and I’ve come to the conclusion that anything varying more than about 2 degrees from our own personal moral compass setting is distasteful.

Take the photo I posted above as Exhibit One. There can be little doubt that some of you will find it distasteful. No? Oh, come on… I see you wrinkling up your nose, lady. But think of it this way: Who’s hurt by it? Certainly not the tattoo artist who painstakingly applied his/her myriad talents in its application… and not the subject’s buddies who snickered and laughed the entire time it was being inked, although I suppose it could be argued that ponying up the money might have been distasteful…

No, the only person who should have any problems with this whatsoever is the canvas himself. Look, he has to sober up soon… and then there will be decisions to be made. Will I tire of signing autographs when I go shirtless at the beach? Do I keep it and blindfold my wife every time I desire a little oral gratification? Is it cheaper to have it removed or hire a good divorce attorney?

So, let’s forget all the ‘tasteless’ talk, shall we? Unless you’re talking about smearing strawberry jam all over his navel and diving in, I don’t think you’re qualified.

Who is this man and why is he... ummm... ummm

Woo-hoo! I made it through another Christmas! The house is still standing, most of my relatives (with notable exceptions) are still speaking to me and Life Flight crews in this part of the state are breathing a little easier, having been spared 'the Church Experience', although a few of the less experienced among them expressed annoyance that they didn't get any hazardous duty training. No shootings, only one stabbing (and we think that may have been unintentional, the result of an unfortunate and ill-advised wager about who could skin a catfish the quickest), and other than a couple of minor skirmishes among various warring factions on my wife's side of the family, the day was a non-disaster for the most part, and by Church standards, that is about as good as can be reasonably expected.

There were a few expressions of joy that might have been considered inappropriate, but Uncle Jamie always gets a little frisky after his first quart of Wild Turkey. Honestly, Jolene has to share a little of the blame, too. It's nice that she's finally found a job she likes, but her exhibition of pole-dancing skills was a bit much. We probably could have survived quite well without the second hour or the lap dances, even if Jolene did say the dollar
bills would all be donated to charity. Somehow, I'm not convinced that the Salvation Army would approve.

I'm also happy to report that the damage to the garage isn't as extensive as we first thought, either. Parents, let me pass along a little hint that apparently got past my brother-in-law: A grenade-launcher isn't age-appropriate for ten-year-olds, I don't care if they have been subscribing to Soldier Of Fortune for the past two years.

Lots of babies to kiss and kids running around, the sounds of laughter and pure joy filling the rooms... not a terrible way to spend a few hours, all in all. As I looked around the room, I couldn't help but wonder who I might be talking to for the last time. There is comfort in not knowing, I think.

Oh, and whoever fed my dog the chocolate pie? You better hope that God takes you before I find out who you are.

Dissonant Resolutions

I learned a valuable life lesson yesterday when a homeless street urchin burst out from between two parked cars, grabbed my jacket lapels and informed me (and about two dozen other shoppers milling about their vehicles) that when joining two independent clauses, I should “be goddamned sure to use a comma followed by a conjunction, a semicolon alone, or a semicolon followed by a freakin’ sentence modifier!”

Should I get the opportunity to re-visit high school, I think I'll endeavor to pay a little closer attention in English class.

A Christmas Quarrel

“Alms for the poor! Alms for the poor…”

A fingertip poked out of his threadbare green glove as his pronated palm violated my personal space. I stopped, wondering if the other hand held a pistol or club inside the pocket of his filthy trench coat. His face, however, glowed in the half-scowl, half-grin that homeless men characterize when begging.

“Alms for the poor? Who the hell do I look like, Charles Dickens? We’re in Denver, dude, not London, and I hate to be the one to break it to you, but this damn sure isn’t the Eighteenth Century. I’m sorry, but if you expect me to give you some money, you’re going to have to be a little more original than that.”

The look on his face surprised me. I’d had many confrontations with beggars on my way to my office on 16th and Welton, but when first rebuffed, most would offer up a new ‘shtick’; something unique and usually accompanied by a streetwise mea culpa grin. Not this guy, he merely turned and started to walk away. This amazed me and left me feeling a little cheated. During the last ten years, I’d come to expect a little more from my morning walk to work.

“That’s right…” I taunted, “Walk away like the pussy you are. No wonder you couldn’t make it in the straight world. You give beggars a bad name! You’ll never be King of Wel—”

The force of his head hitting me in the solar plexus knocked me down and took my breath away. As I lay writhing on the sidewalk trying to remember how to breathe, he bent over me and I felt his fingers extracting my wallet from my pants pocket.

With his head very close to mine, he showed me a twenty-dollar bill and said, “I’m only taking this one, and you can be sure that while you’re up in your cozy little cubicle coming up with new ways to legally rob people, I’m doing it the old-fashioned way. Just remember that we’re the same, you and me, you just can’t admit it.”

Standing up straight, he threw my wallet back down on my chest and smiled. “Here, Mr. Scrooge…” he added, a proper British accent now flowing from somewhere deep within, “I’m off for a spot o’ tea and a proper scone, I am. It wouldn’t hurt you to appreciate the Classics a bit, now would it? Give my regards to the Missus.”

And he disappeared. I suppose there’s a little Dickens in all of us, especially around Christmas time.



Bob Church©12/6/06

Ray Charles Leon Russell Willie Nelson - A Song For You

Lest We Forget... To all of you who have lost someone, three masters are 'Singing A Song For You'. Merry Christmas, everyone.

Stevie Ray Vaughan - Life Without You

Lest We Forget...

Altared States

“O my Jesus, have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell. Take all souls to heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy. Amen.”

I didn’t arrive in time to say The Rosary, but I assuaged my guilt by mouthing the words silently along with the parishioners kneeling in the pews in front of me. The Holy Water fonts were as I remembered them, full and cool; delicately, I touched my fingers to the water’s surface and felt the tingle. “Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope.” Placed first on my forehead, then my heart and my left and right shoulders, my fingers retraced the paths of my youth; memories streamed into my mind, a kaleidoscopic frenzy. “To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears.” The carpet appeared new. I don’t know why this surprised me; things change over the course of the thirty-five years that elapsed since I’d last come here. However, luxury wasn’t a quality that immediately came to mind as I recalled the St. Bartholomew’s of my boyhood. The Dominicans who looked after the parish saw to it that frugality became the virtue by which we were judged. I hadn’t stepped inside the vestibule since—well, since Tommy’s funeral.

Today, I would sit somewhere other than the front tier of pews, somewhere in the back and on the outside aisle. Momma could no longer decide where I might choose to rest. “Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” Genuflecting in obedience and respect to the Altar, again I made The Sign of The Cross and sat down near the end of the bench. Earlier than the majority of the worshipers yet to arrive, I pulled the kneeler down and winced as my knees yipped at the sudden weight. Recollections of VA physical therapists danced through my mind, images of faceless white tunics forcing my knee to bend. Well, one thing hasn’t changed... the kneelers are still as hard as ever.

“O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary. Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. Amen.” I folded my hands over the pew in front of me, elbows resting on top. The cantor left the dais and pews throughout the church creaked as worshipers sat down on the wooden seats. Mothers scolded noisy children and families slowly filled the rows. Muted conversations confused my efforts at prayer. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto…then what? It’s no good, I don’t remember my Latin any more… Glory Be to the Father, and… how’s it go? Damn… forgive us our sins as we forgive our… no, that’s not right, either.

The organ softly played a background hymn that I remembered from my childhood, although none of the words would come. An unexplainable chill passed through me; suddenly I envisioned Tom Pryor’s casket. Tom was my best friend in high school/door-gunner in HMS-163, killed in a firefight while loading body bags in Quang Tri Province, RVN. We’d enlisted together; ‘The Buddy System’ they called it. Yea… the buddy system… sign up now and we’ll do everything humanly possible to see that you and your buddy get a free pine box, courtesy of the U.S. government. The organ music alone caused the funeral scenes to replay every time I heard it, so I quit going to church shortly thereafter. All the mumbo-jumbo and hocus-pocus in the world couldn't bring Tommy back to life, or me back to church. Yet here I sit. Why am I here, God? This is a mistake, I shouldn't have come. I don't know a soul here. You’ve let me wander for thirty-five years, why am I here now?

Silently, I moved my weight a little to accommodate my now howling left knee, the one with the plastic kneecap. Come on, let’s get this show on the road. A young mother sat down in the pew in front of me, dressed elegantly in a blue two-piece skirt and jacket combination with a white silk blouse underneath. Her daughter toddled along beside her, a cute little blonde girl whom I assessed to be about three years old. The kid stared contemptuously at me as she sat down. Precocious. The intimacy of kneeling behind another person’s seat left little room for establishing a buffer zone. Relax, sweetie, I won’t hurt you. Mom sat down, smiling at me as she sat the bundle of blankets she’d been carrying on the seat next to her and found her own kneeler. Sweetie continued to stare unrepentantly at me, her expression now a wary, unblinking mask.

Without thinking, I hooked my thumbs in the corners of my mouth, pulling outward to open my mouth as wide as humanly possible and wiggled my tongue grotesquely as I crossed my eyes. Instantly, the child screamed and crawled onto her mother’s lap, hiding her head and pointing directly at me. When Mom shot a nasty glance towards me, I raised both my hands in my best mea culpa surrender. No offense, ma’am, I love kids, I really do… especially, medium rare with a nice Merlot or Chianti. Just kiddin’, honey, relax… we’re in church, for God’s sake. I won't steal her, I don’t even like the kid! Turn around and stare at the Missal or something, dear, I’ve got some serious praying to do. I folded my hands in front of my face and closed my eyes. Well, there's one less candidate for The Sign of Peace… Note to Bob: Check into that cult of Madeline Murray O’Hare-followers downtown—find out if they allow children at their meetings.

The procession of altar boys and deacons filed down the aisles, followed by the priest and servers who would assist at Mass. I didn’t immediately recognize the hymn being sung, but it didn’t matter because singing simply wasn't an option. Early on, I learned God had blessed me with a voice capable only of enticing wandering dogs to my side. At the tender age of nine, I gained the distinction of becoming the only boy ever removed from the choir for singing. People sitting close to me were known to cover their ears while staring incredulously. ‘Good God, Henrietta, is that him screeching? I didn’t realize a human could produce sounds like that.’ No, singing wasn’t for me, although occasionally I did chant the responses along with the cantor, if they included no more than three notes, sounded even marginally monastic and were situated in a part of the octave scale that would accommodate my limited range.

Once again, I tried to pray and to recall exactly why I’d come today, but the reasons suddenly melded into the pomp and ceremony. Ritual… pure ritual. The priest, a huge black man, elegant in his brocaded robe, marched solemnly by, his white collar contrasting starkly with his skin. As he progressed through the Introductory Rites, I noticed that even though the man’s English was obviously a second language, his words were clear and resonant and he worked without the aid of a microphone. I’ve heard we had a priest shortage, but I didn’t realize we were recruiting in Africa… Which part of the Belgian Congo is the current hotbed for Catholic seminarians, that village over on the east side of the river that ate Albert Schweitzer or the colony of reformed elephant poachers trying to find a way to keep from starving to death since Greenpeace went militant? One thing is sure… this guy is definitely not a Pygmy!

Eloquence flowed over the Mass today. The Penitential Rite gave way to the Gloria and The Liturgy of The Word; and the man-mountain performed without a glitch, stutter or cough. He shared with us a story from his youth, a parable of sorts, accounting for his own lack of faith in times without strife and his propensity to call upon God only when being chased by a wild beast or searching for food when it was scarce. Then, he patiently asked each of us to examine our conscience and bring our faith to test, to rely upon it when charting our course and determining our worldly goals. Even the jackals and hyena understood their purpose. His homily was short (a redeeming quality in my estimation, since he spoke broken English), and the service seemed to progress ahead of schedule.

“May the Lord accept this sacrifice at your hands, for the praise and glory of His name, for our good and the good of all His Church.” Sacrifice? What do we know of sacrifice? Just because you dump a few bucks into a basket, it doesn’t necessarily make it sacrifice. How many of these people are late on their BMW payment because of this ‘sacrifice’? When was the last time that any of us missed a meal because of our devotion to God? Please… give me a break, here. We know little if anything of sacrifice. But, go on with what you’re doing. Two thousand years of tradition can’t be broken simply because the faithful don’t get it…

The sound of parishioners dropping to their knees flooded the otherwise silent church. “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.” Man, you’ve got that right! Finally, something I can take with me! On the Christ-Worthiness Scale, my rating would probably fall somewhere between Judas Iscariot and the Culbertson’s, my neighbors down the street who sent their pedophile son to seminary hoping it would make him see the error of his ways... it didn’t. If this were the Olympics, I wouldn’t get past the Preliminaries in Mankind's Worthiness Decathlon; not a snowball’s chance in Hell to medal. Actually, upon second thought, maybe the snowball is appropriate. Long ago, my heart had turned cold to all but the basest of needs. Who could trust a God who’d take the deserving and spare me? Worthy I am not.

The line formed to receive Communion. I knew it was inappropriate for me to take Communion because I wasn’t in a state of grace, carrying the knowledge of un-atoned personal sin. I hadn’t bothered to go to attend Reconciliation, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I showed a contrite heart. Honestly, I got up because I didn’t want to inconvenience the other people who would have to step around me. Plus, my arrogance wouldn’t allow me to stay seated, feeling the eyes upon me, wondering why I wasn’t joining them. I grudgingly took my place, suddenly aware of the absence of pushing and shoving. Not a single person in front of me craned his neck to see why the line was moving so slowly. Was this some sort of trick? Americans just don’t allow themselves the luxury of patience.

The bas-relief Stations of the Cross lining the outside walls took on new meaning today. Why is Mary Magdalene staring at me? And why was the ‘tingle’ starting to run through me again as I neared the Altar rail? A faint breeze wandered across my face as I stepped up to the waiting priest.

“The Body of Christ…” It had been so long since I’d been inside a church, I didn’t realize that most people no longer accepted The Eucharist by mouth. The priest held the wafer out to me. How can a man’s eyes be dark as coal yet warm as a tropical breeze? What's happening to me? After pausing momentarily in acknowledgement of my fear, I looked into the eyes of Jesus. Although he’d never met me, he knew everything about me. Don’t be afraid, his eyes implored me. This special man, so unlike any other I'd encountered, with four short words offered me such sustenance and forgiveness that my inadequacies no longer seemed important. His eyes compelled me to open my mouth and my heart, and for a few seconds, nothing else existed.

“Amen”, I whispered softly as the wafer touched my tongue. Now, the eyes smiled. A rush of emotion unlike any before engulfed and transformed me; promising me riches I’d never hoped for, joy not yet realized and purpose previously unidentified. Charismatic images of this priest walking with Tommy flooded my mind. After thirty-five years of burden I couldn't comprehend, I released Tommy's casket and embarked upon my own journey of faith, blessed with freedom and understanding. Still not knowing whether I was lion, hyena or jackal, at least I knew I was again free to roam the savannahs. Thank you, Jesus.

Bob Church©2004