2 Minutes. Go!

    Jorge never fished using a net. He had never done it, but he had seen it done many times. When he was young, he watched neighbors pull nets full of a variety of fish while his father and grandfather would fish all day with their rods to get enough fish to eat and trade. They were good fishermen, but a net is the best fisherman of all. 

     Jorge had asked his father about it once. His father had chuckled and nodded toward the patriarch. 

    "It is how we were raised. Nets are for cowards. We kill these fish because the alternative is starving, but we do it with honor. We trick the fish, one at a time. We build a relationship. Nets destroy everything they touch. They catch everything. The fish you want, plus plenty of fish and other things you don't want. How can a man kill one hundred fish to eat three and say he has honor?"

    Jorge understood, but sometimes it was hard to be hungry and honorable. 

    "What do you do with the fish that are injured and killed by the net. Yes, a hook can hurt a fish, but you can carefully remove it, and the fish will live. Battered around in a net. Wiped clean of their protective coating...do you throw them back and pretend they will live? Do you feed them to dogs? Do you let the birds eat them?"

    The old man was nodding his head, and Jorge's father had a queer expression on his face. It was like they were waiting for his approval. Jorge could feel how important the moment was. The men he loved and respected above all others were staring at him expectantly. 

    He could see where they were coming from. He was not a stupid boy. He knew that there were hard and easy ways to make money. To get food. Stealing was the easiest, but there was shame in it. Maybe fishing with a net was stealing from the water? Stealing from God! You were not supposed to take more than you needed. You were supposed to avoid wasting life. 

    But hunger meant death. It meant unhappiness at the least.

    It was hard to watch his friends sneak fruit from the fruteria. Of course he would have liked to join them. He never did. He knew that he would feel nothing but guilt and shame. He knew that the fruit would always taste bitter. 

    It was the same with the fish. He was used to the sweet, white meat they ate in tortillas and sopas. Killing fish with carelessness, destroying their homes...he knew this would always result in meat that would turn his stomach. It was better to be a little hungry, tired, and still be able to look at the Padre in the eyes come Easter. 

    He smiled at the old men and nodded.

    "I understand. God loves a fisherman, not a net. Fisherman are...preciso. A net is stealing from God and abusing his creation."

    The old men looked at him with a little shock. Jorge was good with words. He knew how to make other people understand what he was feeling. It was a gift. his abuelito said so.

    It pleased the men that he understood them, and it pleased Jorge that he could make the older men happy. They had gone fishing after, and the afternoon had passed quickly. The fishing was good, and so was life, thought Jorge. Life can be dangerous, but it is manageable as long as you stay out of nets.

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They're coming. I can hear them in the walls. They whisper through the electrical wires. They're smart; they don't keep a consistent schedule. They wait until I am alone. They wait until the small hours when my mind is free to wander. 

The first time I heard them was when I was small. I was thrilled. I told my mother, and she screamed at me. She said I was bad. She said that there was something wrong inside of me. She did not share my enthusiasm. I spent weeks talking to doctors before I wised up.

I never mentioned the voices again. 

What they don't understand is the STRENGTH. The voices make me powerful because I have an understanding that eludes you. That eludes my mother. The doctors. Why should I care about daily stresses when I know that there is a plan?

I am a cog. That is all. The strength is in the whole machine.

It's been years now. Decades. So many nights spent listening. Learning. Planning. When the end comes, people will be surprised, but the voices will laugh in harmony. I may or may not be there to enjoy it in the flesh. 

I might just join the multitude of voices.

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When there is no moon, and the clouds shield the stars, it becomes all about feel. Your finger on the line, the wind against the left side of your face. The mist and the water that is kicked up by the churning of the reel. There is a taste of salt and everything has the essence of fish oil. There is no light unless you light a cigarette, and then you become a glowing beacon for five minutes. 

It is cold. 

You think you know what cold feels like, but you have never felt cold like this. It hurts. It aches. It is a burden. It doesn't even feel "cold" - it feels like your skin is burning. You cover yourself and you try to keep moving, but the cold seeps into your bones. 

It slows you.

When you feel a fish on the line, it is a momentary excitement soon replaced by a sense of obligation. This is not going to be three minutes of bass fight and then a quick release. This will be hours of labor followed by autopsy and butchery. 

When your ten hours are up, you will drink cups of hot, black coffee and instantly go to sleep. You will sleep like the dead. Like the carcasses of all the fish you bested. You will wake feeling like rusted metal, but more coffee will oil your gears. The forced labor will loosen your joints.

Only three more months of this, you think. 

Three months. 

It's what you signed up for. 

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They dress like a cowboy fucked a soldier, and the black masks serve two purposes. One, they are scary. Masks have always been scary. Two, it allows them to move in the dark. Imagine breaking up a family...it would probably be easier with a mask on. 

They say they are precise, but they are casting a wide net. They are bottom trawlers. They sweep up everything and sort it out later. 

They will be found out by their grandchildren. Much in the same way that some poor folks found their grandma's Nazi memorabilia, their grandchildren will find something. The mask. An ICE vest. A hat. Something. 

And they will be filled with shame. 

Democracy was a fever dream, I guess. It was bound to burn out. The statue of liberty will rust away to nothing. No one will travel, even if they do have their "papers."

When true evil takes a human form, all we can do is push back. Hope. Pray that the country will come to its senses. 

When it does, if it does, we're going to have some explaining to do.

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They say you can't go home again, but I don't buy it. The idea of a home, that is. It's a conceit, believing that we belong to someplace. Home is your paranoia manifest. Home is something you created. You can't return to something that never existed in the first place. They also say that half of the world was created from a rib...

You buy that? I don't know. It seems like sorcery. 

Dark magic.

They say that every dog has its day, but, clearly, that's not true. The world is full of abandoned dogs. There are people who torture dogs for fun. When do they get their day? And if we're being metaphorical, well, that's just fucking dumb. You ever open your eyes?

The world is full of misery we created. Children starve. Still.

Stop listening to what they say. Find a quiet, natural place. A place where you can hear the thoughts that are in you already. You need to trust that voice inside of you. That's where your solace lies. That's where you can find epiphany. 

You just gotta shut up for a little while. 

They don't tell you that, and it would behoove you to wonder why.

2 Minutes. Go!

Fight the battle in the skies. The stars will guide you. If you pay attention to the ways they move, you can transmit purity. The universe will hear you, and the sky father will be glad. The earth mother will be jealous, but you can't please everyone.

If you speak to the seasons, they will answer you. They may not provide the answers you want, but they will speak. You need to be able to recognize the signs. The signs are everywhere if you look.

Listen to the soft voices that speak to you when you close your eyes to sleep. Push back against them if you must, but don't tune them out. There is majesty in their whispers. Think of it in the same way you think of vespers at dawn. 

When the eclipse comes, you will open your veins to the earth mother, and hope she forgives you. Your blood will seed the fields, and your children's children will thank you.

It begins now.

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The falling light dances briefly on the water ripples...dusk is coming, and the birds are singing their evening songs. Underneath the sounds that human ears can hear, there is a symphony. The plants give their final praises to the sun. Insects dig and feed. Back in the woods, the owl's head is slowly turning, and he is creating a landscape in his mind.

The moon will be shrouded in clouds tonight. There will be enough of a glow to walk without tripping, but there will be no light for hunting. This is good and bad. It's mostly bad, but it evens the playing field a little. 

Fires are started down in the valley, as the people prepare for the evening meal and singing. There are salmon being smoked by the edge of the camp. Women and children twist hemp fiber into rope. The dogs of the camp slink by in silence hoping for scraps of meat to drop, intentionally or not. They will not let anyone or anything endanger those in the camp.

When the fire dies down to coals, the people will sleep. When the sun and the day animals rise, they will rise also. They will drink from their water sacks and eat some of the soft fruits they have collected. 

This is how the day goes. And goes. And will always go.

Or at least how it was supposed to go.

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I tip my hat to the scrub jay; he's there every morning. Like the squirrels. Like the ravens. The mockingbirds don't want anything to do with me. And she won't give the other birds a moment's rest. The raven, the blue jays, or the squirrel. The mockingbird hates us all. But she makes some damn fine music. And musicians are fickle creatures. Trust me, I know. 

The osprey circles over the brackish water, and sometimes passes my apartment in transition. The white tailed kite loops lovely circles in the sky. I watch it sometimes, and it is easy to see how man made angels. Same way they made mermaids. A little romanticism and a lot of hope.

The Canada geese are loud and they have every right to be. We have ruined them. Like we ruined the pigeon. The geese honk their frustration to the heavens. I shoot a 'V' up with my fingers. A kind of apology. It's stupid, I know. I just want them to know that I know the way things should be. 

There are lizards and bugs and all kinds of skittery things in my backyard. A baby possum used to visit us. We tried to figure out what it liked to eat. It was cute and we loved him. He is old and ugly now. I still wish he would swing by.

The cats? Man, I have mixed feelings. I love cats. I love that they are fierce hunters. I just don't want them hunting in my yard. But still, I'm happy to see them. And if they killed a bird, I wouldn't be mad. Just sad. Which would be worse. I wouldn't judge. I too have killed a bird. I judge myself. 

I sit under the branches of the trees that shield my apartment from the sun. I can tell where we are in the moving tide by the smell. Low tide smells awful to some people. To me, it smells wholesome. Natural. It smells alive. My wife cares for succulents. We have a million in our yard. 

At any rate. That's what it's like in my backyard. I pass hours here, and the community means a lot to me. If any of this sounds intriguing, the price of admission is unsalted peanuts, still in the shell. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Papa's got a brand new bag. It's full of misery and self-reproach. It's stuffed with injustices he couldn't let go. The bag looks nice on the outside. On the inside, it is chaos. Not good chaos, either. Papa's bag is a shield, though ineffective. Papa's bag is like a rotten egg; it looks fine on the outside. You don't want any part of what hides beneath the protective shell.

Papa stopped hitting you when you reached his height. Papa spent too many hours at the firm, crunching numbers. Papa needs a few drinks when he gets home so he can settle down. So he can sleep. A few drinks for Papa is at least two bottles of wine. He doesn't drink it for the alcohol, just the sophistication. 

That's Papa's rationalization.

Papa cheated on Mama every chance he got. Like it was a sport. Mama knew, but she pretended she didn't, and she prayed there would be no babies to abort. This created dissonance. That made you stand on your back foot, always. There was always that low, electric hum.

Mama was a dancer. She doesn't dance anymore. She kills time any way she can. None of it helps her. She is treading water and trying to ignore the impending danger just beneath the surface. 

So, you feel things weird. Emotions don't run on tracks for you. They are constantly flying off the rails. You try to be made of something bulletproof, but you are just one large exposed nerve, throbbing. It doesn't make you special. There are papas and mammas like yours everywhere. Every state. Every country. Maybe on other planets.

And maybe, just maybe, you can break the cycle. And maybe that's enough. Or maybe that's just what you say because you're not old enough to buy wine. 

We don't tend to fall far from the trees that give us life. Family trees are always tricky, covered in thorns and blood. Maybe the best you can do is to try not to fall. 

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Quiet please. I need a moment. The air is thin. The light is too bright. There is just too much noise; I can't hear my thoughts. I don't even know if they're there. Just this rambling panic. Just this avuncular misery. I'm just going to keep breathing, keep my eyes open, just breathe until I can't anymore.

My heart is beating too fast. It sure seems like my heart is beating way too fast. Maybe I should go to the hospital - is this how people die? Trying to assure themselves they won't? How dumb would it be if I died trying to convince myself I was overreacting?

No one would know, though. They'd just find dead me. They wouldn't be able to see the panic or the questions. They wouldn't know the toll I paid. Hell, they might think I died peacefully. I can't have that. 

I guess I better not die. 

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Does it matter what I say? Not if you have paraffin in your ears. Not if you're talking too much to listen. Not if you're chewing and you can't concentrate. Maybe you can't walk and chew gum at the same time either. I am not here to judge you. I am here to shout into the wind, spittle-soaked, smiling.

What does it matter, anyway? Any of it. I am a blood stain washed out with vodka. You are a monument, and the shadow you cast provides shade for the small, woodland animals. I am railing against myself, but you are just in the back row of your own auditorium. 

Life is a sandbag. The rope slipping through drunk fingers. Your spine is about to be compacted.

Look motherfucker, I'm not saying I have the answers you need! I'm talking because people get nervous when I play with my feces. A man's got to do something. Pass me the soapbox and that orange traffic cone. I have a song to sing, and I'm gonna sing it all night long. It goes like this:

Fuck you, pay me.

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There's a haze over the city, and no one can see it but me. I see it the same way I see the emotions radiating off the people on the sidewalk. The same way I can see the thoughts of children. The same way I know how and when to stay away from dogs. 

Squinting your eyes can help you see, but, careful, don't close them. Then all you see is nothing. Or, on a sunny day, a reddish pink glow through the faltering lids.

The city is full of spinsters, hipsters, gangsters, and more. The city is an organism all its own. The city is hurt - I know this. No one else seems to notice. I FEEL it. 

I see the city writhing, crying in pain.

Fentanyl mornings in the Tenderloin. Meth-ed out evenings in the Mission. Drunks stumbling around North Beach. They are characters in the play, and I have so much love for them. I want to take them all home with me. I won't even enforce my puritan values. 

I will provide clean needles and alcohol wipes. 

The sun will break through the haze again. I have faith in this. My faith is misplaced, but it is all I have, and I will cling to it. It's a mid-week afternoon. People will die today. Today, people will be born. People will rot in jail and in cells of their own making. All this is natural. All this is fine. This is life, and life is not clean or easy. Especially not in the city.

Park your Tesla and take a walk. You have your freedom. Not everyone does. Take advantage of it. Revel in it. Smoke some crack or volunteer at a food bank. Get involved! The city will thank you someday. Or it won't. You won't be around to find out.

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It's sometimes pretty hard to see the forest for the trees. Or to feel proud and worthwhile when you can't get off your knees. It's tempting to throw it all into a big pile, scatter kerosene...wait for the inevitable explosion. It's harder to realize that the forest is strong and resilient, even if some of the trees are sick, weakened by avarice, and trafficking in greed. 

Metaphorical trees and forests can be a real bitch. 

It's easy to sit and complain. It's even easier to give up. There are a million ways to do it, and there are dozens of chemicals that can kick your 'give-up' right in the ass. You can make it seem like you are just doing what needs to be done, but not if you never think. Not if you never use your brain. Don't take the easy way out. Don't make those excuses for yourself.

Bitch, you need to look at the forest AND the trees. You need to take your blinders OFF. Think critically. Break out the old sniff test and see if shit checks. Like, if one of the trees tells you that it will fix the economy by crippling working people and enriching the wealthy... 

It's so damn tempting to look away. Don't do it. That's what they're counting on.

Look at the forest and the trees. Look at the flowers and bees. Hug the ones who love you and hold their feelings gently in your hands - that is everything. Lead with love. The world is a massive place filled with good, bad, and indifferent. Try to be one of the good trees. 

Your forest will appreciate it. And remember, forests are good places, even with the few, inevitable shitty trees. They are outnumbered by those who still grow.

2 Minutes. Go!

    It starts with a handshake, subtle, on the down-low. A quick pressing of hands, flesh to flesh, and then it is over. If you aren't paying attention, you will miss the whole thing. If you are paying attention, there are tells. For instance, most people are too dumb to know they shouldn't look around suspiciously before they do something suspicious. They might as well have a bullhorn.

    There's an extra bit of slide to the shake. We're not jive-ass- turkeys in some long lost Harlem yesteryear. No one says slap me some skin anymore. We're all about fancy handshakes and firm handshakes. Fist bumps. That slide speaks volumes.

    How many people do you know who shake hands and then immediately shove the shaken hand into a pocket? That's what I'm talking about. You need to look for the things that are off. The things other humans don't do. That is, if you want to see what really happens on the streetcorners in your neighborhood.

    If you've never done it, maybe you don't look for it - that sliding shake. But don't go thinking you're too slick. Don't think you're fooling everyone. You may fool most people, but there are a bunch of us who know exactly what you're doing.

    We just don't care.

2 Minutes. Go!

Hear the bells? They're tolling. Feel the drums? They're rolling. You can smell dissention in the air.

It smells like 'about goddamn time.'

Fuck a Republican. Fuck a Democrat. Fuck both sides of the coin you're supposed to swallow. I won't wear their colors...

The revolution will not be televised, we will attack in Red and Black.

I got way more than 7 seconds, and I think for myself. 

When did politicians become rockstars? Politicians are supposed to be boring assholes we mostly ignore. 

They aren't supposed to be your hero.

You can feel revolution in the air. People are going to die. People are going to step up. The world is going to change. So it goes. 

Crises birth progress. It's going to be interesting to see how it all ends. 

We might not have long to wait. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The signs went up in the dead of night. No one saw who posted them. They were just there, and word spread fast. 

There's another sign! 

It was whispered fiercely between hedgerows. The community already felt loss, and now there was another sign. 

No one would tell anyone what it said, just that it was there.

New sign in the center. You gotta read it. Have you read it?

I had to finish my chores, but then I ran as fast as I could. There was already a large mourning group. Mothers were tearing their hair out. I had lived these past weeks, and I thought I knew what terror was. You could have never prepared me for what was on that sign, though. 

I made it home just as the curfew horn blew.

2 Minutes. Go!

There's frost on the memory. It flashes cold, but bright. It finds a way to get inside of you. You take the memory out and inspect it every once in a while...see how the years have been treating it. See if you can still make it bounce off the wall. 

Memories can be smooth or they can have sharp edges. They can be a worry stone, or they can cut you to the bone. Memory is something you shouldn't fuck with. Memory is your lifeline. Your shield against the world. 

We try to categorize memories into good and bad, but they can switch categories. Memory is fickle. Memory has seasons. 

The sun will warm you. The sun will melt the cold. The sun won't erase the memory, but it is a momentary solace. 

So, bask in it.

2 Minutes. Go!

The whistling sound you hear is the other shoe dropping...it just takes a while. Something about wind resistance or inertia. Some seventh grade science thing. Point is, you know it's coming, and you can almost feel it. The slap of sneaker tread against your face.

Shoe aerodynamics aside, this is not altogether a crazy occurence...shoes are falling all the time. Sometimes they're little and don't make much of an impact. Sometimes they're combat boots, and the steel toes can kill you.

Still, you can't go around dodging shoes that might drop. You'd drive yourself crazy. You'd crimp your back up. It would be bad for your spine and posture. Your friends will find you odd.

Maybe I'll just walk on my hands. Catch those shoes on my feet where they belong. Or maybe the euthanasia shoe is coming, and I should just smile and wait. 

You never know. Maybe this time it will land on the other foot, and I'll get to watch.

2 Minutes. Go!

The witches switch it up sometimes...they come in the daylight. They come in pairs and alone and in small groups. They are silent in their power, but the children don't fear them. They are not evil witches. They are the ones that protect people from evil. 

There are old timers in the village who lick slick lips and yearn for blood. They are predatory. The children know all about them, which is why they love the witches.

I am not a witch, but I know them. I see them. I see what they do. 

Someday, I will reward them. Someday, the witches will be celebrated. 

Someday...

2 Minutes. Go!

It's the expectations that are killing you. You expect the world to be something it is not, and then you are disappointed. How could you not be? Your feel good moments don't matter, but you think they do, and you are shocked that things always work out the way you think they shouldn't.

Who are you to ask the world to not be cruel? Look around you. Life IS cruelty. You want to think you can rise above it because you have a bigger brain than a deer has. But it's the same shit. Same game, different arena. In ours, it is easier to convince yourself that things should be good, that the world should make you smile.

Look at the hyenas. They don't expect shit from life, and they are doing great. Lower your standards. Subvert your expectations. Expect the ugliness that is sure to come. Then, you won't be surprised - you won't be thrown off. Expect the worst and you're never wrong. You can manifest anything.

That's the animal in man.

2 Minutes. Go!

I didn't see the sun go down. Didn't feel the cold wind as it scuttled the dry corn scattered across the floor. I didn't hear the hoot owl when it hooted. And maybe it hooted twice which is a voodoo that I don't fuck around with.

I didn't love her at first, but I quickly grew to tolerate her. She was a force. She whipped the tops of the trees when she left the house. And she was never comfortable inside. I would find her, late at night, curled up under the moon, making puppy noises in her sleep.

When the fire started, I couldn't find her. I could sense that she was gone. I stood in the damp grass and watched that old wooden house burn to the ground.

She came back a few weeks later, but it was never the same. She was haunted in a new way. She trusted no one. 

Not even me.

2 Minutes. Go!

You put your hand through the glass and the skin parts and the blood comes...it's like a magic trick. Through the thickness in your eyes, you stare at it, amazed. The cause and effect are so swift and narrow. There is solace there. No unexpected consequences. If only the rest of your life would behave in the same way. 

The blood, the thinness of the blood, disturbs the feeling. It is too pink, and it runs too fast. It's like your blood is missing some crucial component. Some life force. Like you're running on unleaded gas. 

In the morning, none of it will make any sense. You'll judge yourself and your lack of restraint. You'll accuse yourself of grand delusions. You will feel thin and sickly like your blood. You might even still taste it, along with the stale smoke and the recriminations....the frantic search for recollection. 

You'll do it again. That's the stupidest part of the whole thing. You can't wait to do it again. You have to because the alternative is even worse. 

But dog hair always tastes awful.

2 Minutes. Go!

I wrote this because I felt the words inside me. 

A burning sensation. It called for a reckoning; a bloodletting. 

A murder of black, night crows…you are shivering in the moonlight, insoluble, protected. 

When the sun rises, the truth rises, too. anyhow. 

anywho.