Vicious Cousins (for JT)

The words that live inside our minds are often cruel and sometimes kind.  And sometimes life if rife with ifs and cigarette butts...sometimes we're all just goddamn nuts. That's the deal you make and maybe it's fair. Seems to me that in my years round here, fair never meant a goddamn thing. Whether three ring circus or telephone ring. Three in the morning and without a warning the whole damn table gets turned around and you find yourself lying upside down. Lying left and no one can tell if you're doing it right. But in these brambles we find ourselves in shambles, shaking like leaves of that turnaround table and trying to choose, come Cain cum Abel. It's all a joke but no one knows the punch line. Lost in the thicket of forgotten promises, hits and misses just collide and you just ride cause what else is there to do. You got your socks, but forgot your shoes. If they fit, wear em, if they don't then keep on faking it until it works your way. I'm not proud and I'm not noble, I'm angry at the whole damn mess of hate and self-indulgent stress. And I know someday it will all come back. One more train down that railroad track, but the track marks the rhythm and the track marks fade if you'll just let em. I preach a lot for a malcontent, the irony ain't lost on me. Omnipotent don't mean shit if that shit's not potent, I won't promote it, I'll buy three more hours of feeling human...trade ya six for a bubblegum card. It's not easy and it's not hard, it's a deal you made, it's a marked card. It was all fun and it was games, you met the greats and forgot their names, you take the praise and run with it for all you're worth, cause they think you're worth something...cause they ain't heard the punch line. You've heard it coming, you've heard it going...you knew it all when it weren't worth knowing. I sit behind my gilded cage choking on cheap songs and boy scout rage. The time has finally come when I can't stand the night time for the sun, I can't get up to get it all done. And I grasp and clasp the necklace shut. It's around my neck and it's getting tough. I've given too little and given too much. I try to do right by the people who do right by me and I even get that wrong. It's worth more than a cheap joke and a song, but that's all I got. That's who I am, and in five minutes I won't give a damn, but I wish I would. I wish I could be the reflection I see when I'm feeling sanguine and feeling fine like the first hot sip of summer whine. Shit, nowadays I can't see the line. I write from the heart and no one cares, I throw up a shot, get nothing but air, and the things I value don't get noticed and the things I don't they get important and I shake my head and wonder at the strangeness of it all. I wonder if that's what happens to us all, why Rhymin' Simon dropped the ball. Lost perspective, lost objectivity, trying to write a tribute but it's all about me. And I should feel shamed and I should just chuckle and I should hitch one notch on the old belt buckle cause lately things don't taste right to me and lately I'm chasing apathy. Or it's chasing me. So, this is what I wrote, and I know it's a shitty thank you note, but the sun's hanging on the last night cloud and the day is done and I don't know if I'm allowed to feel good about it. I don't know what I said or did. I know it should have been more and could have been less and in the end it's myself I kid. But if it means something, hell, let it mean something. And if it doesn't it doesn't, cause me and Antrobus know. Hate and love. Drunk or not. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn't. The world's full of vicious cousins.

Slow regret...

The sunshine through the screen smells of slow regret.  Of listless malaise.  It is an acrid smell, like the whiff of garbage through an open window.  She sits with head in hands, thick hair in clenched fists.  Again and again and again.  The air is stale and slow.  Her mind plods on as she reads and reads the same pages she has read a thousand times before.

Time is meaningless.  Laughter ricochets off the walls of the brick buildings that surround her.  Cheers dart like swallows and she swallows the lump in her throat, wondering what they are cheering for.  Trying to remember when she had something to cheer about.

Her arms can still feel the warm touch of flannel.  She can smell the cigarette smoke and sweat.  The smells reach into her and spark the twinge of sadness that marks her days.  She pours a glass of wine and tries to ignore the coming of a new day.  But it is there...in the evening air, taunting.

Channeling Bob Dylan.

What’s that feeling when midnight’s reeling and you’re stuck to the bedpost staring at the ceiling? It’s time, it’s time, just time you’re stealing but that ain’t worth but a rusty nickel in the bottom of a coffee pot. Grounds ain’t ceilings but for my last meal I might take, might take that deal, cause what good’s mealing when you know you got but one more hand and you ain’t done dealing. And that ace up your sleeve won’t make you believe and you can’t leave cause you’re in too deep and you can’t sleep cause the covers weep and the walls creep and crawl with every thing you scratched on every bathroom stall…the words come back but you can’t read em all, so you stall…you wait, you wait and pray, but it’s too late and your hair’s gone grey and there’s bills to pay and the man with the tie won’t buy your lie even if it is the truth. And who gets truth anyway, you can hear truth if you listen, hear it every day or you can hear a freight train bray, but it ain’t honest and it ain’t the same as sitting under a tree at sunset. That tree’ll shade ya and the ground that made ya, hell it will be there til the sky falls down. It was there when you were gone, nowhere around, nowhere to be found, lost in the light and strobe and sound. Stumbling, shuffling, subway bound. Underneath the streets you listen to the trains run by and the rocktime beats and you try to feel original. But original is just a word and it’s a word that everybody’s heard. And Woody heard it before I did, and I knew it all when you were still a kid. Still tossing a ball against the wall where fifteen years later your body falls and you can’t get up. They’ve beat you down and you’re sure that you’re the clown and the world’s the circus and just when you think you got it all figured out, you realize you ain’t figured out nothing but another cut out snowflake xylophone fake…and it makes ya nervous. But shit, son, don’t you know, ain’t you listening, did you really think God was at that christening? Did you really think it meant anything at all, those hymnals, those words on the bathroom stall. So close your eyes and let it be, there ain’t enough room for you and me…and time, that’s the only thing you see, cause when you’re knee high you got it all laid out and in a snap you’re laid up and outta luck and nobody really gives a fuck. You might as well quit, you might as well die, but you don’t cause you’ve got shit to buy…America’s got you boy, but good, and don’t try to play misunderstood cause it’s time you’re buying with that new car and it’s time you’re buying, but it won’t go far cause it’s all a sham, it’s all a joke, its all the lies and cigarette smoke, and it don’t make a difference anyhow – the train’ll be leaving any second now and whether you go or whether you stay we’ll still end up in the exact same way, same place, same face, same dreams you had that didn’t matter then, but you got your paper and you got your pen and if you don’t quit, maybe they’ll listen. Deep down you know they probably won’t, but hang to it, cling to it, play your guitar alone and sing to it. It may be all you got, but it’s a lot, son, it’s a lot.

Partners...

Darlin', I hope this finds you well. Funny, that we circle around this thing. Can't seem to look it straight on. I always think it will be different but it never is. We built the cages. There is no one to blame but ourselves. We skirted the sun with flimsy wings, surprised when the wax melted. We fell into the soft revery of summer after summer. Sure, it rained. It got cold. I refer to the summer of the soul. That light, soft place inside both of us.

Marked as sinners, honey, you may be right. I never did figure out how to wrap my mind around the word. Let alone the sin. Doing the natural thing, you'd think we'd be forgiven. It chafes at my soul if I dwell on it. Like burlap. Like pine bark through an old faded t-shirt.

Either the rest of the world is crazy or I am. Hell, maybe it's both. And maybe this is a letter and maybe it's an epitaph. God knows. And I shouldn't even use that expression because I know God don't know, just like a statue can't see itself for what it is. But we all stare at it. We all glare at it. We all huddle under the shade of its outstretched arms.

I guess I should be grateful. We. We should be grateful. For a warm place to sleep and love and peace.  Grateful that we haven't been strong enough to push everyone away, as much as we gave it our best shot. Goddamn. We sure tried.

I watch the sparrows taking their dust bath...little puffs of bird making a big old cloud of it float into the still afternoon. Maybe we're like those little birds. Maybe we're like the dust. Maybe we ain't like none of it...I sure wouldn't be surprised.

I love you so much it makes me hate you. You, my reflection. You, introspection. You, darlin'...it was always headed towards this. Standing on the train tracks while the train barrels down on you, pint bottle swinging lightly in your hand, smile on your face. Thinking about how they taught you about perspective in art class. About those pictures you drew. Ruled out. You were so proud of them. Like only a dumb-ass kid can be. Now you've ruled it all out. You have lost perspective.

Honey, you are weak and I am weak and the weeks pass by like hummingbird wings. Just one more week, you think, and then its been years. And the train don't stop and you can't get off and you scratch that itch because there ain't nothing but to scratch it. Scratch it til it bleeds and laugh it off like you ain't embarrassed by the whole thing.

You got your shell and I got mine. We're partners, see? But the shells are paper thin. We are moments from shattering. And you smile and I smile. Mile after mile down this road with no end. Hand in hand, we follow ghosts and promises and pretend that everything is going to be OK.

You and me, darlin'. I reckon we're about stuck now. Like hot tar on a midsummer morning. I tried to scrape you off. I tried to find the exit...when all the lights were too bright. When the heat of desperation was like a door slammed in my face.

Fuck it. That's your answer. I know it is. It's all over you, written in scars and burns and my stomach turns...I'm sick just thinking about it. You. Me. Partnership. Brotherhood. These words we misuse, the feelings we abuse. I ain't but one whip short of a gallop, but I don't have the strength.

Stop fighting. Together we can stop it. Alone, hell.  You brought us here just like I did. I imagine myself standing on the top of a tall mountain. I got three choices. I can stay up here. I can climb down, but it will take forever. I can jump and roll and tumble, collecting scrapes and tearing through the bramble bushes. I think I'll stay up here for now. I'll wait for you like you promised you'd wait for me. And the weight of my obligation will obliterate the failure of my longing.

I ain't proud one bit. Pride went out the window a long time ago. Sometimes I wonder if it floated away or just went splat on the ground...I wish to God I'd paid attention.

You'll die soon and I'll die soon. In the mean time, we'll keep circling. Don't have much of a choice the way I got it figured. We made our bed and someone's got to lie in it. And lying has become second nature to me now. I don't think I'd recognize truth if it slapped me in the face.

As salutations go, this one ain't great. I understand that. I'm a one way street. I'm warm tap water. I'm so sick of myself I could die. But we're in this thing together. Birds of a feather. And they'll put us in the ground side by side. Me and my vanishing pride.

The Fisherman.

Standing, stork still with rod in hand, he waits.  A foolish shadow grinning through the afternoon glare.  He hears trains in the distance, the call of gulls, children building families of pebbles, twigs and sea smoothed rocks.  His is a foolish pursuit.  As any hope is foolish, for the universe smiles as it devours the optimistic.

In a small apartment hundreds of miles away an old friend pushes a needle into his arm and smiles at the irony of it.  It is not a smiling matter.  This does not occur to him as the drug forces its way into his veins.  He has given up on hope.

In the mind of a three year old every second is infinity.  Every laugh is an explosion that sends vines of happiness creeping on soft skin.  Every injustice is the world defeated.  Every sadness, forever.  Every smile a blessing.  It has not occurred to her to question the validity of hope.

The writer and the fisherman are one in the same, broken but standing thanks to bits of tape and glue.  The page holds them together.  The blank canvas is hope, be it an empty screen or the orange sheen of an egret's sunset.

Ellie.

This story was recently recognized in a contest...I was one of the ten overall winners of the 2011 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest.

            She checked all the windows and doors, white paint cracking into spider veins.  She made sure that the heavy, lace curtains were drawn tight.  No lights.  She couldn’t chance it.  She knew they were after her, and that this was the only safe place.  She floated through the dim living room, careful not to make any noise – feet soft on the spotted carpet. 

            They had been thorough, she’d give them that.  They’d erased it all.  Aside from the occasional splash of color, or a blurry face, or a snapshot that exploded and faded like a firecracker, there was nothing but the vague sense that there should be something.  Some kind of memory…not just this grey, clutching anxiety.

She looked at herself in the broken mirror which hung on an unhinged closet door.  Thin, white hair.  She wore an old faded, floral dress and a grey sweater.  She seemed small, almost non-existent.  They had taken it all from her, and she’d done the only thing she could – closed herself away in this hidden place so they couldn’t take any more. 

            What was her name?  She couldn’t remember.  She could hear the echoes of it…distant shouts, but she couldn’t make them out.  The same was true for everything.  Friends?  Lovers?  Jobs?  Enemies?  Places she had been?  She could sense the outlines of all these things, but couldn’t fill in the blank spaces.   She let her head sink to her chest and began to cry.

            The house?  She didn’t recognize any of the furnishings.  She was frightened by it.  Taken aback by old, skirted lamps.  Startled by books left open…convinced they hadn’t been there moments before.  It made no sense.  There was nothing to be afraid of.  It was a ghost house, barren, but comforting.

             

            The knock at the door was like a gunshot.  One single, sharp rap.  She froze in place.  She closed her eyes tightly and saw fireworks in the darkness.  The knock was familiar, but she didn’t know why.

            “Eloise, you open up now, hear?  I done brought some things for you.”

            Eloise?  Her hands began to tremble.  She had known that name, but it wasn’t hers.

            “Eloise, it’s cold out here, hon, I’m gonna let myself in, okay?”

            She stood quickly and crossed the arid room.  She felt terror rising in her.  She didn’t know what to do.  She squeezed into the space between two bookcases and tried to slow her breathing.  She heard the jangling of keys and then the creeping rasp of metal on metal as she watched the deadbolt turn.

            The door opened and brought with it a shaft of deafening sunshine.  She could see the outline of a woman, and she covered her eyes.  The voice was soft, kind.  It added to the panic.

            “Now, Eloise…you got nothing to be afraid of.  It’s just me, Norma.  Norma Betts.  I’ve lived next door for forty years.”

            She opened her eyes and saw a woman her age, but plump, squeezed into a navy blue dress, white belt, ankles unfolding over her white pumps.

            “Oh, my.  Eloise, honey.  Don’t be afraid.  You have to listen to me and believe me.  My name is Norma.  You and I have been friends for a long, long time.  We raised our kids together.  We…”

The woman choked on her words and a tear drifted slowly out of one eye. Then she righted herself, shaking herself courageous, like a bird drying its wings.

            “Ellie…”

            The name was like a slap to the face.  There was a moment of recognition.  Gone..

            “Ellie, sit down, hon…just sit a spell…that’s right.  I know you don’t remember, but my name is Norma Betts and we have been friends a long time.  We’ve been visitin’ every day for as long as I can remember.  I was here yesterday.  I brought you some pound cake.  You ate the whole thing in one bite.”

            The plump woman chuckled.  

            “No, you’re right.  I reckon it’s not funny.  Sometimes you laugh so as not to cry, hon.  Look what I found.”

            The woman opened her bag and pulled out an old wooden picture frame.  She handed it over gently.  It held a news clipping with a picture of a young man in uniform.  He was smiling a mischievous grin and leaning casually on the wing of an old airplane, cigarette hanging from his lip. 

            “Ellie, that’s Allen…do you see?”

She ran her fingers over the glass and looked into the handsome face.  She felt uncomfortable, like she was suddenly nude.  She knew that she should know this man.  She looked into the wet eyes of the other woman, who was crying steadily now.

            “Ellie, that’s okay, hon.  That is just OKAY.  You just don’t worry a bit.  You sit here and relax, and I’ll make us some tea.”

            She heard water running.  Then she heard the stove ignite.  Then the clunk of the phone as it was lifted off the cradle. 

            “Dr. Johnson, please.  He is?  You just tell him that this is Norma Betts, and he told me to call when I had to, and I do believe it’s time.  Tell him as soon as you can.”

            The phone made the same sound as it was set back; this time she couldn’t help but think that it sounded like a cell door clanging shut.  She began to shake.  She dropped the frame and the glass shattered.  She froze.

            “Ellie, dear, you just don’t fret about nothing.  We’ll just sit and rest a spell.”

            She felt a hand on her shoulder…warm.  She looked up into the plump face, streaked with mascara.  She knew.

            “Nor…Norma.  I’d be lying if I said I remembered you.  And I sure am sorry I don’t.  But I think I do understand.  Yes, I believe I understand.  I think I owe you quite a bit of thanks.”

            The two women sat silently and drank their tea until it was cold; then there was another knock at the door, but neither moved to answer it.

John's Rage

My impressions blend and bend 
Like wind-storm branches
Pencil sketches against an agate sky
John is breaking furniture
Screaming, growling profane
Animal sounds
It, the sound, reaches out 
Across the bay, across oceans
Expanding and contracting
Stretching light into
Star tendrils of rain soaked
Neon taxi windows
My conscience is a widow
Dark, and bleak and preaching
But I stay hidden
Beneath the animal growling crash
And beneath the glow of 
The night…the dark…
The empty expanse of ambient fear