The Long View

Tom Heiffner stood thoughtfully, breathing in the stale, dusty air and staring idly at the rolling hills that were his destiny. The hills were his only friends, as much as he hated them. They brought the rain his crops desperately needed. Sometimes they sent storms that left him standing, smelling ozone, and marveling, yet again, that a man's work - a year's worth of sweat - could be obliterated in one night. One night of frost at the wrong time and it was all for nothing. These thoughts tumbled over each other in Tom's brain. But that was nothing unusual, these circular thoughts were his constant companions. The one thing he could count on. Besides the hills.

The sun was dropping fast as it is wont to do in places where the horizon is a long way off. There were splashes of gold, pink, and a deep red that reached down inside him, twisting, forcing his hand. He turned a plug over in his cheek and spit a long stream toward the hills. Folks called them mountains. Folks were wrong. Tom had seen mountains in Colorado. The years had done little to diminish the impression they'd left him with. Grandeur. He knew that was what the mountains wanted him to see, but he only saw something huge that he couldn't control. There was enough of that at home. Even if the mountains were really just hills.

A man gets to where his stomach is his wristwatch when there isn't anything but work. Tom's stomach was telling him that it was time. His stomach had yet to accept the fact that Myra wouldn't be banging the dinner bell. That he would fill the empty hole with coffee, whiskey and corn pone. Myra. Tom squinted at the hills while he pulled a pouch of tobacco out of his overalls ... he'd been stretching it with chaw, it was about through. He spit out the plug and rolled a smoke without thinking, lit it with a thumbnail match. He pulled the smoke in deep and thought about Myra.

He should have known. Love can only do so much. She'd loved him - he never doubted that. And he'd loved her with everything he had, every bit of his understanding of love, however distorted it was. He chuckled. Damn fool, that's what he was. When he had first seen Myra, she'd been dancing up a storm. He was holed up in the biggest town he had ever seen, and she was the most beautiful woman there. He'd watched her all night. And the next. And the next. Finally, she approached him. Fire in her eyes, dress tight and damp - he wasn't sure if she was going to hit him or ask him to dance. She did neither. She led him upstairs. Days passed. Her expressions grew softer. Her lips more welcoming. And then he'd told her that he intended to marry her and take her back home with him. And she'd smiled like she'd won a beauty pageant - which she had. They were married that Sunday, and they left for the farm the next day, Myra sitting shotgun on the old wagon.

Myra hated the farm as much as Tom loved it and for the same reasons. He thought about that now and felt like a chump. She'd left just about the time he'd started to settle into the thing - he was just figuring out what a husband did when she left. He'd waited for days before he realized that he had made the worst mistake a man can make. Worse than planting early. A damn sight worse than planting late. He'd tried to make a flower grow in the desert. He'd let the lights and the music and the glint off Myra's smile convince him that he could turn her into what he needed - a partner. Hell, she was pretty, though. He'd never seen teeth so white. And she'd had this smell ... a little bit of perfume and womanly magic. He didn't know what it was, but some nights he remembered that smell and the hangover the next day was always worse.

The old dog stirred in the dust. Tom slapped his thigh and the dog sat at his feet. He held the big, rough head in his hands and smiled. The dog would never leave. Myra was gone and the weather was a gamble ... the bank already owned his land, but they would never take his dog. God would do that, and he figured he'd follow pretty close behind, the way the dog had followed him for almost ten years now.

"We're in for it now, Dog. You know that, boy? The worst of it. Ain't nothing left to lose. Ain't nothing to worry about neither. This is the finish line ... well, nearly. We got this land and we'll make it pay somehow. Or we won't. You and me don't got fancy notions, Dog. I should have known. Damn fool."

The dog made a keen heartbreak sound and the old man cuffed him gently.

"I sure didn't mean my whining to catch on, Dog. You and me'll be alright. Near dark, now - get up and move, boy. Let's go get us a drink and something for our bellies."

The dog loped slowly, keeping up with the man's long strides. From a distance, they might have looked downright respectable. Had to be something in a man that walked with such purpose, didn't there? Had to be something in a dog that would watch his man like that. It was like the whole damn place didn't exist, just Tom. The dog rumbled happily, his throaty acceptance. It was just exactly like that. Like the man said.  He'd never liked the way that woman had smelled anyway. And he hadn't liked what he did to their land, their home. It wasn't natural, no matter how you looked at it.

Just Visiting

It's been a while since we hung out, so I thought I'd give you a shout. People talk a lot of shit about you. They do the same to me. Together, we'll get 'em. Join arms and circle the wagons, there's reality about.

You were always there. If I abused that, it was on me. No one made me push so hard. No one made me think anything I didn't want to think already. Anything I didn't know. That's bullshit, but it sounds so sweet.

So, we'll sit and chat awhile. I'll do most of the talking. That was the deal from day one, and it ain't changed now at 'day whatever the fuck it is'.

They don't understand us. But, to be fair, I don't understand a goddamn thing about them. They're a different species or something. People are dying in prisons all over the country. Some of them are guilty. Some are innocent. Some are less guilty than others - some were just trying to get by without hurting anyone. Silly fuckers, don't they know banks are the only ones who can steal? You pay taxes that maintain those prisons. But you can't hear the word "fuck" without changing your underwear. Ain't it just a peach.

Fuck you.

I'm not turning a blind eye to shit. I'm not gonna watch 'America's Top Vapid Fucktard'. I'm not gonna sanitize my speech, the shit I preach, or the way I do it. Shit's like trying to take the fuzz of a peach. I want the pit. Screw it.

So, here's your comfortable American life. You can control the temperature in your house. You have clean water to drink. You are never hungry unless you choose to be hungry. Sure, there are people being tortured and murdered. Sure, we have US military personnel working with admitted child molesters in Afghanistan. Sure, people get raped. Occasionally, we fly a robotic death robot into innocent people trying to live their lives and just fucking BE. But you don't have to think about any of that shit when the snack bowl's full and there's mindless entertainment to be had. I'm so glad.

Ah, brother. See, you can't make sense of them. Because they're hypocrites. And we may be assholes. We may be degenerates. We may be addicted and broken and we may fucking cry too much. Dig. I am a privileged, white, semi-intelligent American. I may be broke, but I don't know what poor is. Actually, that's not quite right. I just haven't lived it. I've never watched my child die of starvation. But I'm not about to sit in my living room talking about the rain instead of the international child sex rings. I'm a coward of a different kind. I'm afraid not to know the truth.

You understand. You always did. That's why we always got along so well. You want to hear something fucked? I got an email a few weeks back from a guy who wanted me dead because I used the word "nigger" in a story. A story about the injustice, racism, and the ignorance of ... da Da DUM! ... "my fellow Americans".

How could I use that word? Oh, the shame. Maybe it's because when I use it, I use it as a magnifying glass to shine light on high-horsing motherfuckers who would never say the word "nigger" ... but also don't have any black friends. And can't talk to black people. What a fucking irony that is. I look at people and their color means jack shit to me. I had a football coach one time. Kid asked him what color pussy was best. He said, "they're all pink inside, son." Maybe ... just maybe the same thing applies to brains. You fucking idiot.

Fag, too. Although the fags seem to get it. Most people seem to get it, frankly. I know you understand. You aren't too packed with bullshit and Doritos to see the truth. And there are many truths, but this is my favorite: I don't care if you're gay. I don't care what color your skin is. I don't care is you like to suck your dog's dick - you live your life, I'll live mine. We'll all live with the personal repercussions. I've said it a thousand times and I'll keep saying it. If you aren't hurting me or anyone else then: I. Don't. Give. A. Fuck. What. YOU. Do. I got enough of my own shit to worry about. I'm worried about REAL shit. Your jerking off to 'barely 18' porn just makes me sad for you. But I don't give a shit, really. I'd rather build some legos with my kids.

Let's stick with the niggers and fags for a second because I truly think it's interesting. I'm not gonna go all Lenny Bruce on this shit 'cause I don't have the chops or the time. But if I write a book and a character calls someone a nigger or a fag or a gook or a cracker, what ... I'm not supposed to use those words? PEOPLE STILL TALK LIKE THAT. Not people I chill with, but there are plenty of people I've MADE UP that I don't want anything to do with. So, you're so pure and loving and full of fucking gnome butterflies that it pales your very soul to think about the terrible, awful, SICK, people that use those words in EARNEST. That's some racist, homophobic BULLSHIT right there.

You want to watch the History Channel and get all concerned and thoughtful when you realize that over half a million Americans died in the Civil War. Fuck you. How do you think they died? You think it was pretty? Were there angels, even? Or did those poor, misled motherfuckers die in muddy trenches, screaming, trying to shove back in what the bayonet freed? But I can't write about it. It's too hard to think about. It makes you sad. Cry me a fucking river while you're pulling your head out of your ass you two-faced fuckers.

See, I really don't get it. And I know you do. Why don't they fucking understand? Why are they afraid of words and ideas that might actually penetrate the pretty layer of frosting they put on their 'I'm a fucking hypocrite' cake?

Man, it's good to see you again. Been too long. I don't have anyone to talk to about this shit. It was always just the two of us. I know, I'm getting all sentimental now. Spilling guts.

So, let them be offended because I won't lie. Nigger is an ugly ass word. So is fag. So is "special" if you say it with the right eye-roll. It doesn't mean the word doesn't exist. It doesn't mean that BECAUSE YOUR FUCKING GREAT GRANDMA WASN'T A SLAVE, you get to be all pish-toshed and hanky-reaching because, "well, gee, Martha ... I just don't understand why he has to say all those vile things." Cause people fucking say them. And they mean them. And I'm not cool with that. And I'm not quite insane enough to care about my lawn. Even if I had one. Agree or disagree. Hate me or love me. I could give a fuck. I'm gonna go read a book. Don't you have something important TiVo'd. Why would you want to spend your time listening to a washed up 'could have been somebody' speak ugly truths?

I don't even care that much. As long as you know this. Not because I'm a sick fuck. Although it has been said about me. I wrote a story about rape once that was basically a riff off of a personal experience (on the bad side) and lost a shitload of "friends". I don't care if you want to wake up, go to work, have a few drinks, pretend that the word 'genocide' doesn't apply to "countries like America". I don't care as long as you have the fucking decency to at least acknowledge that while you are getting the last crumbs out of the potato chip bag and wishing you had a bigger TV, there are children being killed. In horrible ways that I could describe. And will describe. Because someone has to tell the fucking truth. Shitty things abound. There are women getting raped. There are a thousand atrocities to account for your pleasant Wednesday evening. You turn a blind eye, and that makes you complicit. Think about it. I sure have.

What am I even talking about? This doesn't do shit for anyone except me. I get full up with the lies and I have to get it out, and this is the only way I know of that doesn't involve law enforcement.

Forget you even read this if you made it this far. Make sure you keep it on the hush and hush if you did read it all. You wouldn't want to ruin someone's night when all they wanted to do was watch a movie and relax. It was a hard day!

Step up and be counted. Watchoo want? Hell, reparation and endless hate? Degradation and a police state? How about 'separation of church and state'? In God we trust, you dumb bitches.

You and me? Shit, brother. We'll always be cool. You hurt me and I'll hurt you. We'll go to the dust, entwined, making spastic animal fucking sounds. Actually, I'm pretty sure the train's about to leave the track, but honestly, I don't care. I have told the truth. If that's what does me in - jail, the nuthouse, a swift bullet in the night - then fine. And I'm glad I was right about them. They've gotten away with too much. They've gotten away with everything. And I just heard the timer ding. Ten minutes is all you get 'cause it's all you're worth. Not you. THEM.

Frankly, I'm running out of fucks. I gave them all away a long time ago.

They Lie

The lies start early. They tell you that it isn't going to hurt, but it does. They tell you that you'll have fun once you get there, but you don't. They say if you are nice to people, they'll be nice back. They say if you study and work hard you won't have to go to sleep every night with a lump of panic in your throat.

Try it and see if you like it. Seems reasonable. But allow me this: allow me to assert that there are many things I know I won't like whether I try them or not. Alright?

They tell you that girls find "funny" sexy. That's fucking funny. I don't think think David Beckham has to be funny, dig? So, thanks for that set up. I guess it was funny. For the girls at least.

The American Dream is a lie. Live a life worthy of reward and the reward will be yours...not in my experience. They tell you life's not fair. That's one of the few things they're honest about, but it stands in such stark contrast to the lies that all it does is confuse your insides. Twists 'em up. Makes 'em bleed.

They say that things will get better. Better than what? What the fuck does that even mean? You are drowning in platitudes.

They try to make you think that they've figured things out. They haven't. There is nothing to figure out because everyone figures different and you gotta respect it. That's the other thing. They tell you to respect people. Respectful people don't tell you to do anything.

They want you to love the flag like it's your dick. I don't give a shit. It's been a long time since I've looked at the American flag and thought only good things. Now, I think about drones and the blood that soaks our soil. They tell you to hate the Nazis and get real quiet when you ask about the Trail of Tears. They want you to think that because kids like rap and baggy jeans now that there aren't still ghosts hanging from trees in Mississippi. They want you to like everyone...pretty much everyone. Except the gays. I mean, you can't say you hate fags, but wink, wink. Right? Fuckers.

They say violence is wrong, but they don't believe it. They must think we're fucking stupid. They want you to think your 'elected officials' have your back. In actuality, they have the knife ready for that tired back. The one that works too hard for too little while Madonna drinks the blood of infants to stay young. I'd like to see all of them beaten by gay Indians.

Bucked

There's right and then there's right. They ain't the same thing. And folks don't agree on them. But that's 'cause folks lie. They make excuses to turn their indiscretions convenient. Now, me? I done lots of things that folks don't approve of, but I reckon they never hurt anyone but me. I never went in for the sneak deal, and I wouldn't now. So, there's a whole bunch of people doing wrong, and it hurts everyone, but might makes right and right ain't wrong if you look at it right. Right? Least that's the way it looks. Me? I don't look at it. I'd rather have nice dreams and not get busted trying to buck. Worst thing you can do. Even worse than breaking a horse too hard. You gotta remember what's what and who's got the reins. That's everything.

Hits

The girl in the black fishnets is crying. She is swatting her hands around her body as if she has been caught in a swarm of bees, not a swarm of mind. You try not to look at her. Her eyes...it was just a second, but they saw. You know she knows. You know you can't help her.

The guy with the glow-sticks is such a canker-sore of a fucking cliche, you want to hit him. But you are too busy watching the glow. You wish you had something that looked so pretty.

You close your eyes tight and realize that the world inside is even more terrifying. Blood drips off sodden statues, monuments to the moments you repressed, saving them for just the right moment. I guess this is the right moment.

You rub your jaw and your skin feels slick and cold. You can't tell where the sensation leaves your face and transfers to your fingers. In a second, you become aware that you are in a roomful of people and they all look like fucking lunatics. They are in clusters giggling, staring stupefied into the lights, clutching something tight to their chests. They hate you, but you can't figure out why. You wrack your brain to find something. It has to be. They know. Somehow, in this warehouse, the truth was plucked without your knowing.

A girl grabs your hand and you snatch it away from her like she is fire. She smiles at you gently. She passes you the joint she's smoking and says something, grinning. You can't fucking hear and you don't trust the girl, but she grabs your arm and resistance proves too confusing.

Outside, the black sky morning is falling over the dreams of the civilian masses. Outside, the strobe light can't hurt you. Outside, you can hear the girl, and she has a lovely voice that speaks in emotion, words lost to the drone of reassurance. You lean your head on her shoulder and let the voice wash over you.

The cigarette is your connection to everything. You can't explain it, you just know. It is an anchor, a talisman, it is your life's breath painted white for your amusement. In a few hours, your lower back will ache. You will try to remember where you got the little locket in your pocket. You open it and there is a small square of paper inside. There is a picture of a flower on the paper. Alice never questioned it and you don't either.

Safety

John held the small, yellow flower in his hand, clutching it for all he was worth. The rest of the gang sat around him, speaking in low voices, offering cigarettes that he took, lit, forgot about. John's world was full of color and bemused confusion. He was close to the edge. He knew it. He wished everyone would stop talking to him like he was holding a grenade. If his mind blew, there would be little collateral damage. The flower. The flower was everything.

The flower had been given to John hours before. A lovely girl with black hair had handed it to him, and a maelstrom of chaos had erupted inside him. Who was she? She was pretty. Then she was gone. But he had the flower. His need for the flower had nothing to do with the girl, who seemed more like an apparition in hindsight - no, the flower was an anchor. Safety.

The girl had given John the flower because he looked scared. He always looked scared. He wasn't scared, but you couldn't convince some people. John ran his fingers lightly over the bark of the tree holding him up. The tree held John up. John would hold the flower.

The mushrooms were the cause of it all, of course. All the day-glo wonderment and uncertainty. Sky bulging and leaves dripping off trees. Hilarity that blossomed into gasping laughter. Soft voices. Cold beer.

Sen took the flower because that was his trip. It was fucking hilarious. John's face crumpled like an old love letter. The flower hurtled through the air. John couldn't process it. If the flower was gone, then everything was gone. Without it, he was nothing.

The others were angry.

"Why'd you do that, man?"

"That was fucked."

"What? It's just a stupid flower?"

John hugged his knees and rocked slowly. He shut his eyes and plasma blasts of neon exploded behind his eyelids. He was thinking about the time he'd lost the big game. Ten years ago, but he could still remember it. The bat in his hand. The knowledge that he would fail. The grumbling from the bleachers. They'd had the same kind of flowers in that field. John picked one once and the coach called him a faggot. The other boys laughed. John didn't know what it meant.

He could hear the laughter around him, but John was going to a very small place inside his mind. A cool, dark place. The place he used when his Dad was drunk. In the blackness, everything was nothing. John stretched his mind to fill the blackness and barely noticed when the stub of a cigarette burned his hand.

Friends

It wasn't what he expected, just soft and juicy. An odd taste, mostly dirt. He was used to it by now. Every day at recess Jack ate a worm, and every day his friends would laugh.

The worm was gross, but it was well worth the laughter. It was worth having friends. This was a new town and a fresh start, and he was going to do it right this time. Jack was seven, and he had never been to a birthday party. He had never had one of his own. His parents ignored him for the most part. He had never had friends before.

It was a bright day. Blue sky. The kids were gathered round, cheering, when they heard a whistle and the mob parted, Jack dangling the long nightcrawler above his mouth. The teacher shouted and knocked the worm to the ground. The principal explained that it was against the rules. He tried to tell him that the kids weren't his friends. But Jack knew the truth, and he hated the man for lying. If worms were out, he would find something else. He needed the laughter. And he knew they couldn't stop him.

You

I don't need you to tell me shit. I already know what you're going to say and then what you'll follow with, I can see it all in silver, shimmering silkworm strings. Your opinion means little to me and so much means little to you except you. You mean everything.

With that fucking look again. I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to laugh, cry, or call a doctor. Maybe all three. I'll watch your eyeballs roll down me until they're plop on the floor. Then, you can look up to me.

I am eschewing all human contact. Scuttle back to your holes. I want none of it. Your weak-kneed excuses and mental travails. It all makes me tired. The kind of tired that you want to fall into because the blackness is so deep.

Shit and grasshoppers, son. That's no way to tie a fishing line. Who the hell taught you to do that?

I've been hanging with the wrong crowd, and I got the stink on me. That's what you say. That's what you look like. Save the broken artifice for someone who needs a cause. I already got one.

Play your cards, son. Play your cards. I don't care if it's UNO, you play 'em and you hope just like the rest of us. Heart attacks don't give a fuck about your bank account. Your kids aren't gonna thank you. You'll feel good about the whole thing, though. Stigmata.

So, ramble on Billy boy, and fuck the folks behind you. We're going on a rabble rouse and you're not invited. You're old news and no one wants to hear your shit. It pours from your mouth like sickness. You are sick. That is why you are tolerated. You are the old dog that no one has the heart to shoot.

Stare at the sun and let it burn you. Why should you be any different? What makes you so goddamn special? Pick up a shovel, like the rest of us, and start digging. You're gonna need somewhere to sleep.

The New Kid

"Hey faggot!"

Head down, looking at your shoes... goddamn, if only she knew what $10 more on shoes would have meant. Don't think that way. Fuck them. Fuck the stupid shoes.

"Yo! Deaf faggot!"

Keep walking. One foot in front of the other. That's what Dad said. Like a whisper flash, your right hand slips into your pocket and wraps itself around the thick, four inch bolt. No broken fingers this time. You need to play guitar. You can't break any more fingers.

A big clod of dirt hits your backpack and explodes. You are enveloped in the dust, breathing it, feeling the sting in your eyes. You try to convince yourself the tears are from the dirt. You know what is about to happen because it has happened again and again and...

"What's your name, faggot?"

They've surrounded you now. They are about your size, but there are six of them. You squeeze the bolt and start thinking about who you should hit first. The big one looks soft. It's the little mean one. The one who keeps talking. He's the one.

"You got one more second to answer me, you piece of shit faggot..."

You look up at the sky and sigh. Why? Why does it have to be like this? You think briefly of the motley crew of friends you had in Virginia. Fuck! You're so angry you're shaking and you know what's coming...it always does.

"Dude...you made the faggot cry...what's the matter faggot?"

"Leave me alone."

You're on the ground. There is a ringing sound in your ears. Now you realize that there were seven of them.

"Get up, faggot."

You think to yourself how stupid it is, but it is always exactly fucking like this. Get up so we can knock you down again. You wipe your eyes on your forearms and stand, slowly, time-lapsed motion.

"Now, what's your name faggot?"

Enough. Fucking shit. Enough already. You don't even care if they hurt you, you just want to get home where you can be alone with your books and records.

"I don't have a name."

"Good, we'll just call you faggot."

It's OK. You're used to the name. You used to wonder if it was true. You think about it. Does everyone question it? You wish you had someone to ask.

Someone pushes you down again and rips open your backpack. You lay on the warm grass and close your eyes. A kick to the stomach curls you into a tight ball. Your mind short circuits. If you had a machine gun. If you were braver. If you didn't have to fucking move all the time. If you weren't sized up on the first day of school. Wrong clothes, shoes, accent. You fucking hate it here and it has only been a week. And the week was spent waiting for the first day of school. You open your eyes and the boys are walking away, shouting.

"See you tomorrow, faggot."

The walk home is over far too quickly. You don't care that there is a beach here. You don't care that people come from all over the world to vacation here. You open the front door and try to make it to your room, but she intercepts you. She is smiling...too wide. A grand canyon of false cheer. You know it is hard on everyone, but you also know that it is hardest for you. You know that you have at least six years to go until you can just fucking leave...go somewhere and stay. She is holding a plate of cookies and a glass of milk and you want to knock the shit out of her hands. And Jerry Mathers as...the Beaver. It echos in your skull. A place inside of you turns dark and black and cold. You walk into your room and she stays where she is. You start to close the door. You cannot make eye contact.

"OK, not hungry. How was school, sweetie? Did you get any compliments on your new shoes?"

"Mom..."

There are two choices, but you don't feel like opening the floodgates. It took most of the walk home to get it tamped down. The doorknob is loose. Of course. The door clicks shut and you can feel the pain from the hallway, but it pales in comparison to the demon song in your ears.

Half-light

She moves in half-light.  Spins in the swirl of noise and strobe.  The laughter seems tarnished.  The smiles, a sticky camouflage.  She beams around the confusion.

She moves in rapid glances.  In missed caresses.  In the feeling that remains when a loved one leaves, planning never to come back. 

What tangible nothing?  What deception?  What?  Is it love?  Hogwash.  Or is it merely forgiveness?  Equally absurd.

Does it come in a bottle?

She lives a half-day...like me, but what would Sartre have done?  When simple self-loathing fails.  When self-punishment is not enough.  When self-destruction only gets you halfway there...

Happiness lives in the shadows, but I can see it sometimes from my apartment.  She is elusive.  Lost in tall groves and backwood thickets. 

She becomes lost in the cross-light.  My memory implodes for the third time.  My mind is frightening to me.

Licking lips, feeling strong.  It’s all just the same old con.  Selling something you don’t have.  She sells dreams and sadness.  She sells everything but what we really need.  Is this a mother?  Is this a friend?  No more or less than anyone else.

Forced to face the frontier.  Bright lights to armageddon.  Dim lights to self-delusion.  Gas makes my car run.  Whiskey makes me run.  But what makes the whiskey run?  Who breathes the life into every rye and corn flow desecration?

Quick, look confused.  Is it the guy in the hat?  With the dirty t-shirt?  Is he hurting?  Is he lonely?  Aren’t we all?

She slinks through half-death.  I live in hell already.

Who will sing the songs of my childhood when I have forgotten the words?  When time has suffocated the sentiment.  When will these words fail me?  It’s just a matter of time.  A matter of brain cell assassination.  When the bottle is dry.  When the books are gone.

She swings by with a sideways glance.  Selling the private dance.  She says, “so, are you smart and poor?”  I tell her I’m poorer than I am smart.

What greater selfish rush than the written word?  I live as king and queen.  I bleed for myself while Christ begs for bandages.  Do we all despise me as much as I do?  Listen to how silent it is in here.  Listen, maybe, to the implied deception.

She dances in the contempt I hold for myself.

Among men, I sicken me.  I choke and gag on self-awareness.

Can I speak to you?  Or overpower you with the smell of cheap perfume?  A scent that takes you back to all those pre-pubescent Playboys.  If even I disgust myself, and pity the others?

Tap into the realm of repression.  Love yourself through the hatred others feel for you. Find a place. Or a shady spot to turn to death.

Money talks more profanity.  I prove myself to quantify a cash reduction.

She hides her beauty in obscurity.  She sluts away the easy fix.  One would hope that this means salvation.  The game is over but for the blind optimism that tempts a mortal to call the goddess down.

You are impressed by these shiny recollections.  You like to watch me drink.  To see me choke the bourbon past sobriety.  You love the weakness, but fear the beast.  We all become prostitutes or repressed.  We try to let life fill in the blanks.  But the blanks are emotion.  The loss is communion.  The love is ultraviolet.

Can you buy my love?  Can I sell it to you?  Let’s take guy #7.  Wants a woman who will reach for love and settle for the status quo.  I’m sad, but I don’t know how to tell anyone. Maybe if I pour enough whiskey down my throat they will think to ask.

Is there a damsel in distress?  A Madame lost among the dunes of hapless wandering.  Over the hill and fuck the dale.  Do you love me, or will I love the way you ignore me?

Do you want me?  Do you pretend to care?  Do you love beyond your means?  Or will you force caring to be redemption?  Wishing you could love anything, or anyone, or anywhere more than me, here and now.

Spinning in the shallows of half-remembrance.  Hunting the crayfish of horror.  Inside yourself are you uglier than outside?

Is it better to be free, while the rich drive past in gleaming German cars?  Crying for an orphanistic rabble rouse.  It’s lonely in the noose, with the conveniences that are prerequisites.

We crave the freedom, all of us, to be the round peg that fits into the round hole.  We are waiting for the scale-tipper.  Driven mad by the bet-hedgers.

She moves in halfway-there.  Dizzy from the spin.  Brain fried after all.  Ketchup covering disillusion.  I would love revenge on the stupid monkey.  I can grab a stick and bash skulls.  While you oggle and give life to disrepair.

Once upon a nightmare, bleeding.  Left to casual hatred.  Right to heaven.  Do I want to die?  Or will I hunt God down and force him to ante-up.  Don’t forget to not remember any of this.  Once upon a hogwash.

The light refracted makes less sense.  The loss of feeling, body set to purge.  Yank the rug out from my heels.  Fake left to increase the sprawl.

Put all your eggs in one basket.  Give the basket to a child.  And watch him spin toward yoked oblivion.  Paint the colors of lying.  Shade and glitter deception.  Salt my wounds and cauterize.

If there is dialogue and prophesy...  Even between a man and his notebook.

On knee, shortened--pre-shortened in slavery and servitude.  Money falls to the bottom, where we will fight and scrape and bite and betray.  Kill your fellow man.  Drink deep while the weak are falling.  Don’t pity unless you pity yourself for looking backward.

Out of all the monkeys, why us?  Why settle for the large brain?  Why pervert God’s harvest?

Why antelope?  Why tiger?  Why rapt attention and hidden resurrection?  Why pretense?  Why music?  Why beat?

Why death not insurrection?  Why life, this bland confection?  Sugary escape.  And why always disappearing into withdrawal and hangover?

Am I still hiding from a school marm that never existed?  Someone’s got to write the bad songs.

The colored lights swirl like nausea.  Left behind, awkward girl.  Always running, awkward girl.  Do I smell your corpse burning?

We all fear our desires.  And I fear life.  Wanting instead...what?  Despair and suicide?  No, to sleep forever. Or to live like God, in fiction, as water flows through trembling hands.

7-11

Kyle was friends with the raver dipshit. Actually, he was a pretty nice guy, but he hung out with some real annoying K-hole A-holes. He sold K and acid and he'd give us the thin strips off the acid sheets he cut. Can't sell em, but they still work. We'd get him into shows and put him on our guest lists and shit. We were probably a nice break from the sacks of stupidity he was forced to deal with. We like to talk about books and music and...well, we like to talk.

So, we're at dude's house and all the rave-kids are looking at us funny. We pretty much associate with them because they have the best drugs. Sad, but true. In my rock and roll angst, they stand for pretty much everything I am against. I want to play my guitar loud and talk about important shit. They want to wear plush animal backpacks and use pacifiers. But they get good drugs.

So, Kyle, Jim, Mario and I are chewing strips like there is no tomorrow because, quite frankly, that is a very real possibility on any given day and the shit is FREE. Kyle disappears and we're trying to calculate how many strips equals one hit and we're overly conservative in our estimations which makes the calculations really fucking hard because we're tripping face. We figure Mario and Kyle and I are at about 7 or 8. Jim was hesitant then. Before coke and heroin and speed blew any hesitation he had out of the water.

We're talking about some shit and feeling out of place. We're in the backyard smoking, but the ravers are all inside watching The Shining now. Like that's what I want to see on acid. Weird kids. The ketamine kids are the weirdest. I want to be aware I am fucked up. They want to fall backwards into a velvet nothingness where the world can be safely viewed through a tiny hole of distortion. Whatever.

Finally, Kyle shows back up and we're fucked and we just want to leave. Kyle looks weird, and he is always pulling shady shit, so I take him aside. He just did some GHB. That's all. Smiles at me. Goofy. Fuck. GHB has been killing kids all over the county. See, it works by blocking your body's drug defenses so your 'natural' drugs can fuck you up. But if you take it with speed or a downer...well, you can't fight back and the heart doesn't like that. None of us have ever done it before. We've pretty much crossed everything else off the list, though.

But man. We're fucked up. Everything is bright and cartoony and I can't keep a thought in my head for more than three seconds. I keep lighting cigarettes.

"Alright, fuck, Kyle...we need to get some food in you. When's the last time you ate?"

We were a scrawny lot that lived on chemicals and alcohol, so it had probably been a few days.

Jim, of course, is freaking out. True colors.

"Man, fuck you guys. I'm leaving. Fuck this."

His pupils are like fucking planets and I momentarily consider breaking his face...he's pulled this shit before. Too often. Selfish fucker.

"Bullshit dude...you have the car...you are taking us to get food so Kyle doesn't fucking die, asshole!"

Kyle stops smiling.

"I'm not gonna die..."

"No, you're not gonna die, but you need to eat."

The car ride is a fucking nightmare.


I would have done just about anything rather than walk into that 7-11, but it had to be done. God, it was menacing. Everyone knew. I could feel all the eyes on us. And inside, I knew it would be a dayglo nightmare. But, fuck it. We pound in through the double doors.

We head over to the pre-made shit we can afford. I've known one  person who can even look at food on acid. It's not Kyle. I grab this big slab of week old turkey sandwich.

"I'm not eating that, dude."

"Fuck, Kyle, just eat some of it. Why did you take the GHB anyway?"

Dumb question. Kyle takes whatever is handed to him. Mario is quietly concerned. Jim is stalking around pissed off that he's inconvenienced. No one's surprised. So, it's me and Kyle. He's this charismatic dark-skinned kid and strong looking. He's never scared. That's part of his thing. But I can tell he's a little close to the edge.

"Dude, I'm not going to die."

"No. No way. Think about it, man. GHB kills you if it amplifies the effects of something else on your heart. Acid doesn't do shit to your heart. You might trip extra hard, but you're not dying."

"Cool, then put the fucking sandwich back."

I realize I'm holding the sandwich like it's a dead raccoon covered in shit.

"Kyle, please man. I know you don't want to do it and I don't think you're gonna die, but you haven't eaten in a while. It can't hurt, right?"

I really, really want Kyle to eat the sandwich.

"I'm not gonna die."

He's convincing himself. Trying to.

"I 100% agree with you. You will not die, dude. People don't die from acid and GHB. They just don't."

We look at each other and try to pretend we both believe what we're saying while the snack cakes throb and the walls breathe and the lights are so fucking bright. It's at this point that I pzaaaaaaaap snap back out of our world and back into the real one. Just for a second. Just long enough to realize that there are seven other people in the store, we're talking really loud and really fast, and Jim is stalking around with a cigarette like a crazed tweaker hornet. And it's a small store. Kyle sees me looking and then he sees it, too. You can tell he's calculating how many illegal things he has on him just like I am.

"Shit."

So, it's your standard 7-11 crowd, they're all the same. Paramedics and construction workers and I'm hoping to god no cops and that the guy behind the counter doesn't aspire to hero-dom. They are all literally backed against the walls, staring at us in complete horror. I look in the circular mirror thing and I see us. Punk rock and dirty. Two scrawny white kids, a quiet, soft eyed mexican kid, and this scared looking Samoan kid who looks like he could fucking do anything at any moment. And he could. For some reason I'm always the fucking PR guy. And what I say next makes perfect sense to me in the moment, while the cigarette packs are turning into doves.

"Alright folks. Sorry about that. We're gonna leave. Everything is cool. We were just fucking around. My friend's not gonna die. Sorry. Have a good day."

And we do leave. With a quickness.

I drop the sandwich on the counter and we leave. Jim bails. Mario and I stick with Kyle and give him cigarettes, and we spend the next six hours talking about how he's not going to die. He doesn't die. So we eat some of the strips he pocketed and run into Jim later. He's pissed we didn't share. The stars are tiny daggers of flame.

That little crack in the wall.

I see you. I see you and see the roads behind you and what is ahead of us. I see flashes of nightmare color, blood, I see the sparks on the guardrail. I am a coward. I deceive myself and that is a damn shame. I give myself too much credit. But I have high standards. I will admit that I am operating on a different plane than many of the slack jawed simpletons that populate this earth. And CHRIST, give me the simpletons. Rather than the calculated users and autodidacts who learned it wrong. I will create a maze for myself to investigate. I will go to sleep late and wake up guilty. I will always pull for the little guy because I have known too many big guys. And I'm a big guy, but size isn't what I'm on about. Four years old, I lived in England.  Sang 'God Save The Queen' every morning. Exercise in our underwear. Football with a wiffle ball. Climbing giant apple trees and tossing them down to my father, happy as I can imagine being. We lived next to beekeepers. I will take an English robin over his American counterpart any day. I get emails from my UK friends and I feel the yearning so strongly sometimes...why do we take ourselves so seriously? The USA. A country founded by criminals, infidels, and religious zealots. We wag our finger at the Holocaust and ignore the fact that we eradicated an entire way of life. Our hands are soaked in blood. But we put on a happy face, pretend. We are a nation of charlatans, but I won't participate. If I want to hate myself, I have that right. If I want to see the cracks, I fucking will. I'm not saying we don't have our redeeming qualities, but we also have niggers hanging from trees not too damn long ago. We have people afraid to admit their sexuality. We hide the abuse that gets cast upon the young. We live in a TV world where books are a joke to most. Literally, a joke. Reading is shameful. I met a young man once who thought that all fags should die. I asked him why and he couldn't come up with an answer.  Kill the redskins, hang the niggers, beat the fags...and we have the nerve to pretend that America is a land of hope. If you are white and well off and you go to church...maybe. Those of us who think? I live in a country where sometimes a woman can't get an abortion if she is raped. By a family member. Thankfully, some states have seen the light. The right to the pursuit of happiness. What a joke. I could go to jail for numerous things that make me happy and harm no one. The American Dream? What a lauded fable that one is. Families are starving and scared. The distribution of wealth is shameful. I clench my jaw and try to stretch my neck, but goddamn it we fucked things up. My great grandfather was a sharecropper. My great grandfather on the other side worked and died in a coal mine. I have it good. But it could be so much better if people would stop being such blind assholes and take the time to think about how we should operate as rational fucking people. I have a feeling I will live my life poor and die poor and leave my children little, but I will show them that passion trumps assets. That honesty is more important than a job promotion. That honesty is everything. There are cracks in the walls and the roaches are coming in. I am waiting for the white man to be the minority. I am cheering for the immigrants. I am waiting for the revolution that I know is on its way. I hope I will have the courage to try...to be there. I hope that I will have the tenacity to call it as I see it.