Archive for September, 2011

DRIVER, part 3 of 3

September 23, 2011

Her voluminous hair turned over and she smiled for a cellular second then went back to my blood pressure and quietly muttered without looking into my eyes, “Rosemary. That was quite a scene out there. What exactly…”

I had to interrupt her. “I like that name. I have an Aunt named Roseanne and I always said if I ever have a girl, heaven help me and my wife, but if I did I’d give her some sort of Rose combination. Maybe it would help with my karma giving her such a nice name. So Rosemary, how’s everything looking?”

She adjusted a stethoscope and had turned her pen flash light on and looked back at my face. “We’ll let you know in a minute, can you extend your arms?”

I obliged her request. My right side was a little sore and there were still airbag particles deposited in my face, but overall the pain hadn’t been much and unnoticed like my last cigarette running down the drain.

“Do you have any pain, any headache or feeling internally like you’ve struck something hard? I mean that whole scene out there looked so…”

Besides my sinking heart and soul and desire to be in this world of men…“No, not really. Just more shook up than anything. They really make those airbags efficient.”

“Good. Now just follow this light with your eye. Sure. Good. Alright, yeah, everything seems fine. I mean physically it seems fine, but are you sure you’re okay after seeing all of that?”

Maybe I looked guiltier than I felt, or the reverse. Maybe they already had me read. Maybe there was nothing to read. Maybe she was trying to lend out her heart for a second to a total stranger who had just ended the life of another individual. Maybe I just wanted to get as far away from this scene as hastily as possible.

“Well, the pen light has been a pleasure and all. Thank you for your help Rosemary. And don’t you worry about me, nothing out there is worse than anything going on inside here.” I pointed to my head and chuckled at her without making any eye contact and jumped from the elevated examination table onto the floor of the ambulance.

I nodded and that was all the consent she needed. Pocket pen light returned to her breast compartment and she brought out a pad of legal jargon with an X and a dotted line and informed me what it was to be signing out on my own free will. I might have been in the ambulance for a minute and a half before my John Hancock had splattered her 100% GUARANTEED government sealed documents.

The air in the medical minivan became saturated with unsettling spells of doom and death and I was feeling like an ostracized enemy of the state and the increasing density was making me more uneasy and I was unsure that another cigarette would be a good idea. She probably didn’t understand what I had meant by the hand gesture and the laugh, because I sure as hell didn’t. I might drown.

I walked out with my eyes stretched upwards.

Even the worst criminals are allotted a phone call. I left the ambulance and walked between the lock jawed civil servants over to soccer mom, still jabbering away on the sidelines at hubby like a crack addled assistant coach. My stare caught her for not more than three seconds and she handed the phone back without saying another word, at least that I would ever hear again.

The buttons beeped and the polyurethane felt like my third grade flip up desk with pre arranged color pencil and marker sections, stacked above color coded folders and hand me down parochial grammar school textbooks that taught us about life and death. I had entered my ancestral youth for a moment and smiled infinitesimally just before the voice on the other end.

“Jack. Jack yea it’s Raleigh. Yeah man, no not really, I know I owe you forty bucks for the last Sunday of the season still, yea I know you asshole but things are kind of fucked up right now, like actually fucked up like you need to shut the fuck up and listen fucked up.”

The opposite end of the phone hummed and provided a comfortable static texture for me to set my speech up for my brother. “What do you mean?”

“I mean fucked up.”

“Well fucking talk then. Are you all good, physically and shit? What happened?”

“I’m not so much concerned for my own good health as I am for the fucking headless corpse my car just ran into and the fucking buffet of class A through C substances stuck to my lipid layers and keratin highways and everything else. But what’s making me really not good is the rail of blow I sent down my sinus this morning and the several hits of piff that I ripped away about twenty minutes before Jesus knows who decided to fling themselves off the hood of the Chevy. Fucking flew across Laverne’s windshield and dead on the spot and I ran into a tree at the same time.”

Not to mention 500 or 700 or maybe 1000 mgs of vicodin was wearing off and I was irritated by a lack of TV dinner cardboard wrappers and cold, domestic light beers and burnt out roaches on my kitchen table.

“Alright man, that’s pretty heavy shit, but its just shit and you need to chill out if you can. Did the guy just commit suicide on your fucking car? I don’t get it dude.”

“I don’t know if it was a guy or a girl or what but they ended somewhere off the side of my windshield, yeah. I was turning though and I was fucking distracted and I feel like I might have just shifted and popped the curb and honestly I’m so fucking strung out. It’s Friday and I have no opiates left in my brain and I’ve been working 65 hour weeks and I’m just fucked up dude. Nothing about this should be happening. I need to just book it.”

“No Raleigh, you’re not running anywhere. I’m headed for the door right now. I’ll call in for work tonight. Don’t get too sideways man, I’ll be at breakneck fucking speed.”

“ I just don’t want to have to start answering questions. Didn’t Neil Davis have to get a good ass attorney when he got picked up with that quarter pound? That rich fucking jew bastard. He’s still roaming the streets.” I noticed one of the police officers had inched his county issued uniform within an earshot, behind me, and was suddenly privy to a variety of information that I had not wanted the state to be in tune to.

“It will all be alright. I’ll be there soon and take care of everything. Just stay put and act stupid and hurt and fucking let them do the talking. Don’t make any sudden moves.”

I turned over and knew there was only one way out. “Hey John, I love you brother. Thank you. Wait. Alright this officer wants to talk to you.” I said officer because it would make it seem like the cop was already near the phone.

“Anything man. Alright brother put him on. I’ll be moving and talking. We’ll get through this.”

I handed the police officer the phone and explained my father wanted to talk with him before I gave any kind of statement and I asked for my keys back. He took the flip up and didn’t think twice and I walked forty or fifty paces away from him and towards my car and put the keys in the ignition and destroyed my way off into eternity, like the ones before me.

DRIVER…part 2 of 3

September 22, 2011

The headless, lifeless lump, it lingered. It was not the first dead body I had seen, but it was the first I had caused. I was not proud of my art and I could not keep the scene alive in my mind’s eye for very long. Claustrophobia and sickness and more itching and foot stammering were approaching faster and faster as I kept my eyes locked on this now useless slab of creation that had put me here on this curb.

I was unable to turn my body around or switch back to my fake smiling work badge so I closed my eyes.

Gravity’s pressure was sinking in on my bones and my spirit and my forehead. Minutes passed between any sort of cogent thought or idea or impression came through my sphere of awareness.

“Oh my God, Jesus are you alright?” Soccer mom had sprinted to me gazelle and 8 Minute Abs like and tensed and she stationed over me to check my forehead. “What happened? Oh my God, Jesus are you alright? Did they jump at you? Did you see them? Who was that?” Her voice grew as she brought her hands on my shoulders and lifted my head up with her thumbs. Usually this would be a point of arousal, but I didn’t feel like forcing any conversation, and her’s was on the screechy, dumb whorish side.

Anyways I didn’t know who they were. She did though. “We need to call an ambulance! Do you have a phone? Are you alright? Jesus Christ! I need to call my husband!” I could sense more inquiries on her part and a diminishing willingness to speak on my part, clarity retreating all around me like a sun-struck, land-locked tropical depression, so I handed her my cell phone and put my head back into my lap.

I kept my eyes down and closed and was grateful and glad to have the buds out of my car and the burden of proof off of my shoulders. “Here. Take it.”

The droplets tapped calmly for a moment at the summit of my chakras, a violet thousand petal’d lotus, and traversed down my forehead past my mouth and into the fabric of my once light blue now dark navy button-down shirt. Everything was cascading around me. It was the realest mushroom trip I had ever been on. Weak nuclear forces became supra-amplified with the strong ones and they were all destroying my mental ability to anchor to some hopeful attenuation. At least the dreading over what microwave meal to throw in and when to watch that Ti-Vo’d basketball game and how many beers to get at Worldwide Liquors had also melted past my collar and down into the damp pits and crevices of my body to collect and convolute with the rain and other unknown fears, all to be wrung out in next week’s dry cleaning.

Despite the pleasantries… I’m boiling acerbic and dying inside my throat and I need a shower and a warm towel and a cold beer and a way out of this mess without having to give a statement to the police. I despised talking to five0  with a clear conscience, much less an already guilty and possibly convictable one.

 

Red and blue and psych ward “off white” stars began to flood the stretch of suburban highway and accumulate near the snow angel, lifting the night’s curtain to those with houses near the accident who had filtered outside to cramp their necks and squint their eyes and whisper coldly to one another. The rest of the neighbors prayed rosaries from the corner of kitchen windows holding onto prayer cards, lost Florida screw salesman in the dead of a rusted Nevada desert winter.

Eyelids were still shut but I could sense a great deal of kinetic motion and voices shot in and around me but for most of it my mind was glued into my elbows. The head of the person who had been struck had been reunited, but not re-attached, to his/her body and a coroner’s table cloth had been set down by the first paramedic on the scene to prevent any sort of Senatorial seat auctioning, mistresses’ name dropping, internet buzz sensationalism. I remained on my dirt patch, leaning on the bumper of my car, while a county sheriff took thought it good and well to take inventory of my possessions from my chassis’ interior.

He had approached me with a peculiar hesitation before I handed over my keys, I couldn’t remember what he said…such ultra-sensitive, petty, personal interactions were not of concern. As he came back I unlatched my hands from my face and I took an absolute, air plane glue catatonic glance at my pack of smokes, where all matter of the universe transmorphs like a crescendoing symphony, silent into a smoky ether.

“Listen son. I don’t want to put you through anything else right now. It must have been tough seeing what you just saw. But protocol is protocol, and I need to start producing some case notes so when the lead detective get’s on the scene, my ass doesn’t get chewed out.” I pulled out a square, for this square. “You gotta understand it’s just the way things are, and I would give you some more time to get yourself together, but we need statement pronto. Take your time and catch your breath, smoke one of those cigarettes, and you let me know in the next three minutes when you want to talk.”

He left me with some kind of half high five half thumbs up salute. I was ready to say something, but I imagined his fat little son and his haggard nagging wife and him at a nice family style Italian dinner, forking meatballs and bathing in Parmesan and swilling cups of marinara. A sole comfort for my soul while I lit, smoked, and flicked a fresh butt out into the world. The cigarette rolled along the edge of the road’s curb until it met the infinite gap between the steel beams of a sewage gutter.

I ran my hair through my head and forced another long look at my hands. The paramedics and the cops were all walk-e-talk-e over each other’s shoulders, firing glares towards my position, and the collective energy of the scene rang even more chaotic as soccer mom wept and screamed at her husband on the other end of the receiver, probably seated with some secretary’s mouth clenched around his member, hysterical and unsure what to do.

A string of  “Oh my God Martin, Jesus!”’s.

“Martin, what if the baby saw it! Anastasia could be scarred for life! No sweet princess should be afraid of getting their drivers’ license because of something like this! She’ll hater her sixteenth birthday!”

Somehow the cops were more interested in my movements.

The incessancy continued, amplified by the horns and sirens and honking and crying and the now silent birds who could only watch in terror. “I don’t think I want to go home alone so you have to leave your meeting…I don’t care! Martin this person who ran into the road, they just lost their head, like, like their head! In front of both of our eyes! What will Annie have to deal with now!…You aren’t as concerned as me, you’re just being an asshole. I had better see you at home!”

Irrelevancy. Ad infinitum.

There was one soothing harmony amidst the din…Anastasia cooed in the background, ten years away from her first rehab stint and twelve from her first abortion and sixteen from her second marriage to a methamphetamine chewing sideway dealing Greek restaurant owner, drinking coffee at the corner seat near the window of his joint so he could scout women walking down Lexington Avenue and hike their skirts down and sweat through their thighs in his luminous Mediterranean imagination.

My pupils were overcome by the shaking of my hands. Toxicologists. It’s all my third eye could conjure up. Chemical screens, urine samples, fMRI scans and gas spectrometry, saliva discharges and field sobriety tests and water boarding and back alley Billy club ass whompings IRA style that you only heard about from fringe internet websites. Questions, pauses, shallow stares and stunted posturing. Chest puffing, to be sure. Badge wavering and boasting and low lights and more shallow stares, everything through clouds of smoke and uncertainty with a constant scent of scorched life.

I was losing control of my thought processes and I couldn’t just give these bastards the reigns and let them take me how they wanted to so it was time to re-center into that IRA fuck you spirit.

I stood up. I rolled my feet over one another and felt myself grow dimmer with each step. I bet that soccer mom hadn’t noticed my contraband go flying into the woods, but I couldn’t trust Big Brother’s street cameras to be so dull. HIS helicopters and roadside blocks and twenty three hour lockdown mental schizoids. I had to walk a few paces and light another cigarette and figure out what I was going to tell these mercenaries of Jesus and Jehova and Yahweh and the Lord. The archangels of the Right vs. Wrong in heaven of white light above the hell of black death.

Insanity.

There wasn’t much to say. “Yeah officer, well apparently an apparition just got up and right then and there decided to jump onto my windshield. Just up and jumped onto it without any warning all. I tried to tell him not to, but he just went on and jumped anyway.” I take a few steps towards the officer and he squints and points to the ambulance along the side of the road and tells me I need medical clearance first and foremost.

Joe Cop had fumbled. He should have put the press on me early. Now I had time to fabricate an alibi in the ambulance and extinguish any thoughts of guilt or doubt or God forbid, murder. I also noticed something important in his half smile…

When death is near, either in physical proximity or by a conversation or a billboard or any consequence, human beings are at their most altruistic, their most sympathetic; pity and pain turns people on when it isn’t their own. They adore the brutal collapse of a close friend like their favorite daytime soap opera stars, but the tragic downfall of a total stranger was still probably tickling enough. Now was the time to put on a gameface of absolute terror and shock and forlornness and sucker these bastards into believing I was the victim…

I began limping towards the edge of the grass and the start of the sidewalk and I rickety rack my way up the aluminum steps of the ambulance. A different cop and one of the medical technicians came to my sides and helped me the last fifteen feet or so. Perfect.

A very female paramedic (legs curve, lips curl, all the juicy amber and sapphire Pavlovian zeitgeists) placed her arm around me at the doorway and I was escorted into the vehicle without much of a fight. Two Hispanic gentlemen sat on either corner nearest the driver’s console and were adjusting instruments and paid me no attention during my stay in their mobile life saving unit.

“All you alright sir? Can you tell me your name?”

“Raleigh Spillane. I’m alright. What’s your name?”

DRIVER- a short story by HD Wilde, part 1 of 3

September 21, 2011

There isn’t much left to say:  I’ve burned out on attempting to dose heavy on downers and stop my brain from breathing. I don’t have a pool or a garage in the apartment complex, and I read electrocution is painful, so I just want to do it the quickest, easiest way. And I’m scared as hell when it comes to heights. I don’t know, I just figured a good running start out into the pavement’s clouds with my eyes closed and the thought of my mother’s beautiful brown eyes blinking…

Rain, more a misty mountain fog than full frontal rainforest deluge, was coming down and the humidity was forcing an itch onto my wrist, which crawled underneath my watch, and after a couple of tomcat scratches I forced my wipers into an acid patterned frenzy of whoosh and swoop. Overkill, but it was enough to clear my lines of sight to the yellow hash marks and pedestrian crosswalks and reflecting Caution: Deaf Children signs ahead. I slid my driving hand across the wheel towards the middle cup holder for a pack of Marlboro Reds. I was an hour and ten minutes into my evening commute, a journey from the farmlands to the edge of the city, too late for the sunsets but just right for lunar risings.

 Fat, fleeting spots, blobs from the sky, ran sideways and highways across my windshield; a mechanical sweat brought on by the dripping moonlight. The road ahead was clean and nubile below but above it had been draped over by an in-between-the-worlds shamanic kind of mist, being revealed and hidden between the sliding steel worn blades. There was not another set of fluorescents in sight. Planted steady in my seat I flipped my hat backwards and cranked clockwise the handle of the passenger side window jack. I lit a cigarette. My eyes stayed elevated as my hand cranked back at the handle, fluid from palm to plastic, and I noticed a delicate faced mother bopping towards me cloaked by an urban chic burning yellow rain poncho. She was excavating the glazed sidewalk with thoughtful digs of her heels and her grace reflected back at me thanks to my frontal illuminators. With her, slightly ahead, rolled a plastic domed space pod she bought from Walmart that had been price marked as a child’s carriage.

Smoke singed around my bushy eyelashes and I exhaled and squinted and she was cute enough so I wanted her to see me ripping a very cowboy-ish drag in hopes of molding my third eye’s projection of myself seem daring and foreign and worth leaving her husband over. I kept the window down just enough, and then I realized the situation, one of those subconscious come conscious sort of decisions where you are handcuffed in the silliness of what you are doing once you come to and begin psychoanalyzing the act, but all while the act is in effect. A sort of limbo twisted sexually driven weirdness of embarrassment. The kind of stuff everyone feels in high school, all the time.

The interior of the car cabin was beginning to boil and sweat and resemble the elements colliding outside so I kept cranking the driver’s window down. I yawned and itched at my wrist.

Illinois 45 dips like a half crescent moon onto Illinois 21 and the turn southbound is silky and hugs the wheels like a teenage tweener bra, terse and tight yet comfortable enough to lull any driver into a quiet, self assured confidence. The centrifugal force awakens flashbacks of fetal womb movements and Tiny Tot swimming lessons and the days when people rose you in the morning and put you to sleep at night with “I Love You’s.”

 I was taking a drag off the Red, tired, while I re-enacted an exchange in my rearview window that had taken place earlier in the workday, a back and forth outside Conference Room T31-101 between himself and some pasty skinned and beady eyed product line supervisor. There was an important blunder I had uncovered in his argument over why I needed to submit my Service Error Reports (SERs) in an email even though it already got logged into the Service Monitoring Systems (SMSs)…you’re sensing the frivolity of it all, but at the time I was enraptured and excited to get back into the bloody fray for a second go.

An invisible opponent is sometimes a more meaningful one and I was winning this argument. It’s incredible how easy the upper hand is found after a couple moments in an isolated and enclosed analysis, self stewing and recreating the wrinkles in one’s face . Man truly is the master of the four door universe. But here comes the ad nauseam psychoanalysis again so back to the organic virtue of it all…

I flicked the Number 6 preset on FM2 so I could catch the tail end of 97.1’s The Mid Night Drive’s Live Night Time Ride; my free hand scurried through the pre-sets and my other clenched the steering wheel as The Who’s My Generation came pouring through my makeshift dashboard radio. I had to rig it after my prior model was pinched. I was whiskey drunk at a Southside street fest, taco stains on my shirt and pissing down a back alley with my car unlocked out front on a crowded and corrupt Blue Island Ave. It was and will forever be my last Southside street fest, ever.

I navigated my hand away from the nipple hair sensitive dial and back to the wheel. After eleven or twelve pats of my thumb on the faded leather cover, right as I began to lose Moony on the snare, my peripherals identified a specter’s trail hurling onto the street and past the safety of the curb, jaunting from behind a car or tree or both, some mass. I remember it streaming like a drunken wasp or a shooting star and blending into the whipping steam clouds of cooling asphalt that buoyed around the vehicle’s path. Vapor and sweat and carcinogenic tars abound and a strange amorphous mass crossing into my path; I had turned down a street that would change a thousand lives forever and there was a musk like you’d find in the coke room of a Kentucky whorehouse.

Everything was universal and allegorical and alive and all the music had stopped.

I turned my head towards the passenger side window, blinking, my amygdala gripping hold of the system’s motor cortex controls, all before the worst kind of –Honey, the wedding china’s been smashed by the Carpathian shepherds- sonic boom filled my once road-tested-sound-proofed cabin. My vision periscope’d back just as the deafening skull thud whomped but it was a short glance and I was unable to catch sight of the figure’s face before it blackened out across the windshield. Before I closed my eyes for good and turned to the door and slammed on the breaks.

Its head ricocheted off its body shortly after meeting the vehicle’s industrial strength hood and then windshield of tapered glass. Rain coat running mother couldn’t have missed the hairy dome bounding and clicking like a horse hoof out into the middle of the street, and she probably lost her breath just as the mantelpiece moseyed under the front left tire of a Jeep sputtering, but not soon enough, to a halt in the westbound lane. Mommy’s scream pierced my ears and was a singular sensory compass as my wheels bounced over the curb and tore through the city grass and through the side of a willow sapling that had been planted as part of a local highway rejuvenation project the previous spring.

My eyes were shut and the bulk of my neurochemical resources had mobilized down the fight or flight pathways. Left for dead were the ‘stop and calmly attempt to make some sense out of this shit’ molecules.

A tree collided, or I ran into a tree and the halt of motion and I struck me solid and the next noise I heard was the driver’s side airbag pistol whipping across my brow, talcum powdered and quicker than any undersized and over-ego’d Puerto Rican fist lurking in East Harlem. Then black went to blank. Time had fuzzed into space and situation and the running sink of cause and effect wasn’t clear like it was supposed to be. Sunspots of blood stained the windshield. Mommy was still wailing. I immediately checked my forehead. I felt no red on my fingertips and concluded the molasses was on the outside of the spider web cracking glass so I pushed the deflating canvas chute out of my way and flung open the door.

Birds were running their mouths in the distance and I panicked and visualized my stash of pot and wrestled it from the center console and flung it into the Forest Preserve woods across the street, shifty eyed and I’m really sweating and I had to do it before any sort of mob scene could erupt or police evidence could be procured. I inhaled, for the first time in a while, and brought my focus to this lifeless hump of a being, decapitated and snow angeling indelible red stains all over an asphalt, still salty from winter’s blizzards and weekend long ice sleets.

Like I said it wasn’t raining enough to really be rain, let alone a rain strong enough to wash the blood off this porous and phosphate cracked suburban thoroughfare. Everything pooled and collected and I had difficult discerning solid from liquid from gas.

Gazing towards the tongues of my weathered brown stained loafers and I slouched down on a strip of sod stripped grass that had been unearthed by the burning tires. The cool ground came up and moistened my bottom chakra, the coiled serpent, and I grabbed at an ID badge hanging from a belt loop on my hip. The man in the picture was smiling, and for a brief tick, with my head in my elbows, I smiled back at him and was glad I had discarded the paraphernalia and incriminating evidence.

But then came tock and I began to think about the last occasion I had insufflated any sort of speed analogues. Vehicular homicide meant a drug test and this now controllable scene could easily transform into a crippled dynamite fisherman’s gin soaked last stand. I scratched at my head and lost my smile and guessed it had been at least a month since any of those sort of particles had vacuum accelerated up my nasal cavities and spray-painted themselves onto my frontal cortices.

My smile did not return so I decided to return my fuzziness to the body in the street for a second take.

Bitter Football Reportings…

September 20, 2011

You always feel quixotic on your birthday, like a fucking rooster that just runs shit around the barn and will never get killed like the chickens or fucked like the hens and the farmer flips you his leftover shrimp and grits in the morning. So I did and I hit the lines hard. Random, hurried, drunkenly hazed on a Sunday morning and without any real research into the first set of games, my season began.

There were good vibes leftover in the culmination of last season. I rode the rotten dirty alleged super bowl winners and had ended the season on a couple good streaks *its not always a bad thing to make dough off your enemies* and was feeling good about the packers being a little overhyped this year, thus seeing their victory over NO a good shot for the bears to build off their big week 1 slaughter of Atlanta. fools luck. never emotive bet the first one out of the gate. never, fucking, ever. always stick to a guaranteed winner to start the first set of games and fuck the early parlay…dirty things happen in the drunken noontime hours of snow and blood and desert heat between the skull…and thus i failed my own advice again. my winners were locks…only 2 of 4 hit, and the bears, in my glorious moneyline read, got their faces whalloped and wives raped at the mast of the Vikings party boat.

Then it was the next set of games, the 1 yard Cowboys push that killed my soul, fuckin failed spreads by Kyle blow at life Orton ruined my NE and Pitt wrap up, of which i only banked on Pit, but still hunting late night tequilla with another busted parlay, and my big money game, Phili over Atl at -2, I knew Mike Vick was bringin his attack dog squad down to the dirty south, and he was, until his own player banged his bacon back thigh smack into the County Orange hero’s head…and so that game disintegrated and nothing was left of my body or mind or libido after 10 o clock on sunday. there was no chance of taking eli fuck me sideways on monday night games last year manning. i was standing to make all my dough back with an eagles W, but i head into week 3…wallet lighter, mind fuller, eyes bloodthirsy.

 

64 Pieces

September 18, 2011

you can’t always let the devils

take over/ the moon’s frosted low

forces a deep smile on my face/

a setting beach sun/ rising with

a distant summer dream/ tonight…

tonight we wil eat our Lord’s pie

and drink/ sweet dark promises of

America/ sons and daughters

1 2 3 Special fucker

September 18, 2011

someitmes on a special
navy moon glowing night, I sit
and I am driving along lakeside
highways, happy and still drunk

Vonnegut letters stacked tall, real high
the fires burn hard and they eat,
spare our songs, but feed the kids…
no one knows where they are

and back to my cigarette…
their fate is not mine, I am not theirs
or yours or ours nor mine or us
We all face it all, apart!

until I need you, and she he
We all face it together!
offering directions
and accepting grace for this, our lives

philisophical utterances on a Sunday with the synth on

September 11, 2011

the death of marriage is the death of the modern system. it uproots the hold of ancient religious doctrine on our modern secular society. we have to never marry and make collectives of altruistic light beams and not hold jealousies over the body or men or woman. the death of the modern system means the death of capitalism which means the end of the dollar power and the beginning of the spiritual currencies which will pay for mankind’s further conscious evolution. it is a hard thing to think about, to break down the family structure so ingrained into our DNA and RNA and cerebral cortices by nurture, but more than two people must raise a child and more effort needs to be offered in the raising of fresh packages of human energy. it is hard to think this because i love some one very much, but the concession to the systems must end. we must unite and create our own atmosphere of existence, and make it conductive to the universe’s best gamma waves. a great change on our part will precipitate raindance love songs and oceans full of magic tides.

Do you have the patience to escape to Nirvana?

September 10, 2011

Knuckle fly, hairy, you fly to
my left hand first,
middle finger fascinated
like everyone else and their sex fearing mother in law and
you land, sedated and starved for rock
      (or cow’s shit and rusted bodies)
and surface and God and a place
to rest your head and heart.

I urge, drunk, high school like and
aggravated by a lack of ass and cogent thought,
forearms tense eyes sharpened at you, but
I remember in all lessons,
      (Jesuit or otherwise)
observing nature’s course bears a fruit of
glorious young breasts, galloping
dead center past eternity’s rearview.

I stop and sit at the light, stuck in the atmosphere
and the radio clicks for a second,
and I can’t wait forever, really
so I clap and kill you to the ground
      (piled bones and communion wine)
back to where you always belonged
where I and he and she and we
will hunt with the flies who hunt the dead,
rear-windowless without a pedestrian in sight.

Lonely Friday drinks force toothy Saturday smiles

September 10, 2011

The cigarettes I flip don’t always make the top

shelf of the neighbor’s roof, and

the girl I love, sometimes its quick

And she’s quiet for a long while after.

There are nights when the keys are dead

anatomy class frog heart ghost pulses,

on my digital punchpad of doom.

Most mornings I rush to the car and forget to brush my

teeth, hair, grab my belt, my hat,

And when I catch that two o clock reflection off

the meeting room window, I scowl and

force a puss balloon off my face.

Things get messy, and I whine bitch moan

shit talk foot stamp hyena stare and

jekyll claw and hate and stand for nothing or

anybody.

 

Then a butterfly rips across a rearview mirror

silhouetting a dawn sky sunspot or an old man

lights a cigarette outside a library,

And in the turn of a rusted rail line switch, my tunnel

vision caves in on my breath, for the first time in

A week

A month

A year

A lifetime

In and out and despite the thorns

I hold the rose as one.

Naked of time and talk,

the petals fall around me.

 

I smile and am

grateful for the morning rush

And the smell of nicotine in the summer, and

my fingers, though swollen, like my love and my girl’s ankles,

alone on the electric trains and carbon crusted buses,

I am comforted by their queer consistency.

Who am I to take this work and spit on the pages

that write my life?

I’d much rather ball them up

and start fresh in the morning.