write me a love song

Write me a love song, she said, asking, really, more than anything, nicely, certainly not demanding, and he said I’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked, and she nodded, surprised at his matter-of-fact answer for she was just kidding, a bit, and she hid her reaction with a smile, but suddenly felt a lump grow in her throat, and she looked away from the disappointment in his eyes so he wouldn’t see it in hers. What’s it mean, she asked, still hiding herself from him, and he thought for a moment, then for another, then said it just means that the words haven’t come, then added, yet, and she said, but aren’t they supposed to just be there, by now, and he sucked in a deep breath and answered, I think so, yes. She didn’t cry, right then, though she wanted to, but instead just hid what she felt behind another nice smile. It was what she did; it was her way. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit.

a moment

She pulled on her t-shirt, tucked it into her jeans, tossed her head this way and back, fluffing her hair, smiled into the mirror, licked her lips, one more time, then headed downstairs. He was waiting for her, and, God, she was in love. She was in love with him, with her life, with being in love. Her mother’d told her there’d be days like this and she’d nodded and hoped and, later, prayed for one. And, now, here it was – that kind of day. He didn’t see her when she reached the living room and she watched him looking away, far off, toward something that wasn’t visible, and she loved him even more and she said a quick prayer that went something like I-hope-I’m-not-dreaming, and she wasn’t, at all. He turned to her and looked in her eyes and said, “I love you,” and she felt a rush of happiness that she knew would never, again, come, like this, even if they lived for a million years, and even though there was a sadness attached to that, she knew that what he said was true and real and she took his hand, raised it to her lips and kissed it.

i'm a medium

She wore a t-shirt that read “Jesus Patrol,” which begged the questions: Was she looking for Him or with Him? He wore one that read “Stud (picture of a muffin).” Not so much. This was here, but it could’ve been anywhere, given the incredible ubiquity of overtly inane t-shirts. For a time, it was the “Shit Happens” and “I’m With Stupid” shirts that advertised a compete disregard and/or ignorance for and of irony. Now, these. She was short and dumpy. He was taller and dumpy. The medium is the message. Still.

luck of the draw

The kid wore a red bandana and a Lakers jersey. His girl, as she was assumed to be, wore designer jeans, a Saints sweatshirt and had a tiny blue heart tattooed on her left cheek. Both were dead. Shot in the back of the head. Cops found no signs of forced entry and not much else. The report would hit the news in half an hour. Perhaps something would break, then. Or not. Edwin “Maize” Walker was the detective assigned to the case. His turn. Bad draw. And he knew it. This one would take too much time and no one would care, anyway. He was right about the former, but dead wrong about the latter. Literally.

Gait way

She didn’t realize what she’d given away – and what she’d taken -- until later that day, when she saw his wife walking across campus in the gathered evening. Until exactly then, until that very moment, it had all been a blur – exciting, sexy, heady. He’d chosen me, he was having me! And what was funny, or, better, perhaps, odd, was that it was the way she, his wife, the wife, walked that did it. Her gait was hurried, purposeful, as she headed, through the cold, lonely, dripping rain, home, to him, to theirs. It was at that moment that her body revolted on her, revulsed, physically, and she had to run to the bathroom to vomit. The way she walked; the way she walked; the way she walked – and she picked up the phone to call her mother.

gertie mcnurt

Gertie McNurt was a crispy old soul
who always went shopping for friends,
she’d slow up the checkout to divvy the goods
for Clara and old Mrs. Bends.

‘til a voice this one day grumped out loud ‘n’ clear
that his time “was a’wastin’ an’ fast,”
And if ol’ lady Gert chose to shop for a crowd
she might start start out by kissin’ his ass.

To which she replied with a grizzled ol’ stare
“Sonny, boy, that’s an oddly request,
but from looks o’ what sits on th’ top o’ yo’ neck
it might be the choice that’s the best.”

That shut him up quick and silenced him fast,
Then Gertie took more of his time,
by fussing through old age and Medicare cards,
‘fore paying in nickels and dimes.

The moral’ve the story is simple and hard:
Respect for the elderly? No!
It’s: don’t get in line ‘hind Gerty McNurt
and her traveling shop-for-you show.

For Gertie McNurt was a wankish old soul
who shopped out for all of her gals,
then grid-locked the checkout to divvy the goods,
“Jesus Christ,” “m-----------,” et als.

mourning thoughts

She awakes every morning with the same idea -- it’s time to start over, time to move on – and lies, there, until she manages to convince herself that she can make her way through one more day, and then another and another and another until a new week passes into old and she feels the relief, again that she’s not put waste to everything they’d built, or worked at building. He is not a bad man, though probably not as good as she’d convinced herself through the years. In fact, he’s pretty much like she, she’d admit, struggling to make sense of who he is and what he is and where he is. And there is honor and dignity in that, for both of them. But what continues to nag is the idea that there’s something more she’s missing, and maybe, probably, him, too. And life is short is what everyone tells her. So, she decides, as she has before, that tonight will be the night. Tonight she will tell him that she is leaving. Then she will. Or not. Her bags will be packed, but it will depend on the moment. Again. For the umpteenth time. She laughs at herself, sadly, for she does know what she will do.

it is

Might it be possible? he too often thinks,
then decides not to
test himself, tempt himself,
torment himself with the idea and
rather
tries to content himself with the
image of her
smile and her eyes and her
spark and the vulnerability
that
she allows him
to see and keenly feel. It is a treacherous business
this idea of love, this concept of
love, this
possibility of love, this offering and
proffering of love. It is intoxicating and
addictive. It is right and it is not so right. It is
of hope and of desperation. All as exactly it
is
supposed
to be.

sam

The two dogs studied him, carefully, warily. Strays, he was sure. Only two houses still stood on the street, at separate ends, different sides, too, and he was in the middle, amidst all that had been abandoned. One of the dogs moved a bit closer, then stopped. The other growled, low. It had been an odd idea, getting into his car at midnight and driving three hours to the old street, to see what was, to see what it had become. It might’ve been an idea fueled by drink, except that he’d given up drinking four years earlier. The late fall wind pushed against his back and the forward dog retreated to its partner. He backed toward his car, slowly opened the door, got in. Three more dogs poked their heads into the dark. Then another two. He sat in the emptiness for ten minutes, maybe more when one of the dogs, one of the last to appear, moved close to the car and he opened his window. The dog whined, then licked his hand. He opened the back door and the dog climbed in. It was how their partnership began. When he arrived back home, he named the dog Sam, for no particular reason. It just sounded right.

no surprise, here

They called him “Little Armadillo,” which was redundant, “armadillo” meaning “little armored one” in Spanish. They called him that because he always wore a bulletproof vest – always. He wore it at work, at play, and even in school, where no one, not even the former NFL walk-on assistant principle, ordered him to remove it. When anyone asked – and few did, anymore – he said he’d been marked by a rival gang and that it, really, was the only thing keeping him alive. Few believed him, of course, but in this forgotten part of America’s forgotten corner, who could know? Then, he met a girl who said she wouldn’t be seen with him, with him wearing “That thing.” So, he took it off. Two days later, he was dead. Shotgun blast to the chest. He’d been right all along, everyone said, with a shake of a head. The girl’s name was Crystal and she didn’t even like him that much.

mooch

He lived in a ramshackle place near the train tracks, so close, in fact, that the house bounced when the 10:22, 16:45 and 20:25 rushed by. He’d lived there for three years, now, though never planned to stay. He began by squatting, then when no one seemed to care, he started trying to fix up the place, though nothing was easy, and before long, he not only felt invested, but responsible for the place, it beginning to feel like a real home. The final straw was the night Moochie arrived. Mooch was a hound dog mix, with blue spots, a black tongue and a notch that slotted one ear. He could never be sure, but it seemed as though Mooch’d been through a lot, too, so he welcomed him and treated him like family. At night, Mooch slept at the foot of the bed and went with the bounce when the train passed. Him and Mooch lived there, like that, in that place they’d adopted, for 13 years and when he died, Mooch stayed for a bit, long enough, by instinct, it was thought, then pushed his way out through the back door and moved on. He would’ve wanted it that way.

questionable

It was a bad idea, though not
seemingly so, at the time, he finally said
to
her, about the years that started
with a walk
then turned into a sprint, and led to the
moment
when
she
decided that she wasn’t interested in
finishing the marathon, and she said to
another that it
was one of the nicest things
he’d said to her in a long, long time, which led
him
to
wonder: what could be so nice about admitting
that
maybe 28 years had been, other than somewhat productive, pretty
much
a
mistake?

shy anne

She sat, alone, in her room, the small, spare one she took for the night on the third floor of the boarding house in old downtown Cheyenne and listened to Neil Young sing in that rough, caustic, wilderness voice about affairs of the heart and some of the soul, and she wondered where her whole life had gone in such a quick instant. She was 47 and she had just enough money left for a bus ticket back to Minot, with maybe a sandwich or two along the way. She smiled, softly, sadly, fingered the medal that hung around her neck. She wished, now, tonight, at this very moment, that she might be able to redo so many things. She wanted to hug her children like she hadn’t, before. She wanted to listen to the birds, for once, really listen. She wanted to be home, really home, not just be there. But home was such a long, long way. Home. And everything else. She answered a knock on the door. A man she’d met, earlier, at a local bar. A drifter, like she. Sure, she said, why not. Home could wait. So must tomorrow. She needed to be held, tonight, and he would have to do.

a friday night

He sits on the back porch at the Beach Comber, alone, at a table for two, cooled by the warm breeze that blew in with the sunset. Ice water with a slice of lime. Grilled chicken sandwich. Stars to the left sparkle the black sky; fireworks to the right, out across the boulevard, spackle it. A man at the next table orders in Spanish for all four of the diners. They don’t understand what is “Caesar salad.” He grunts, a bit. The other man, the watcher, feels satisfyingly unencumbered. He begins to wonder if being solitary might not be a good thing. There are tradeoffs, he understands. But at the very least he does not have to explain to his companions what it is they are about to eat. He sups on the sandwich spiced with pineapple and accompanied by homemade potato chips dusted with parmesan cheese. A slender blonde across the way catches his eye. She smiles; he smiles back. She is with her husband. The subtle assignation is a bit enthralling, or at least enough for this night. It is a dark walk to the car, what with the fireworks done, but he doesn’t mind.

eddie

His name was Edward Wrobleusky and he drove a school bus for the middle school in Hampton Falls, Ohio, though he wanted to be a writer of serious fiction or precious poetry, one or the other, because, quite frankly, he couldn’t imagine the luck of succeeding at both. He lived alone on Bessie Street in a mostly empty apartment above his landlady Esther Wampole, whose place reeked of Vicks Vap-O-Rub and singed butter. His favorite possession was a 1959 Topps baseball card of Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Harvey Haddix, who was as famous as the day was long, as Edward would say, without telling you why, because if you didn’t know, you probably didn’t deserve to know. Edward lived to be 68 years old, which he considered a bargain, seeing as how he didn’t really want to live much longer. On his deathbed, which wasn’t at all attended, because he had no siblings and fewer friends, he wrote this: “I bequeeth (sic), to all who come after, the happiness I never met. From here I go into the darkness. When you might think of me, light a candle in a grotto.” Bennie Grodlowe, the rookie cop who found the body when Missus Wampole called in the foul stench emanating from Edward’s apartment and who later would be shot to death by a 43-year-old meth addict, took one read of the note, shoved it into his pocket, and lit a candle for Edward every Friday for the rest of his life at St. Albert’s outdoor shrine, behind the school's softball field. He had no idea why. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

music

He played the harmonica in
the dark. He played quiet and he played
low and he used his heart and soul. No one else knew,
of course,
until one night, when his neighbor, Maddye, couldn’t sleep
and heard and listened all night, until he was finished, and woke the next morning still hearing
the plaintive,
haunting notes, and began to weep, silently, then smile, then
proceed next door, knocking twice and, when
he answered, wiping at her eyes and asking him if
he could teach her to
play, and he said yes, if she had
a soul, and she said
she did. And she
was right.
She
did.
Beautiful music. The way
music
is supposed to be.

PRE-monition

As he drifted up and away from his body, he felt a freedom that he’d only imagined in a life that'd seemed restricted and constricted and full of stops and starts, but no steady rhythm, and as he looked down and saw what was left of him, he felt a bit embarrassed that he looked so tiny and frail and, well, human. Human. He was no more. But what was he, now? He expected some sort of sign, some figment of reality that he was in purgatory, or en route, somewhere, but he felt instead, only a sense of relief, a sense of being part of something larger, finally. He looked for the bright light, but saw none. But he didn’t care. It was light, enough. Then, he saw a brilliance that he would never, ever, be able to describe and he moved toward it. Then he heard a buzzing, dull and monotone, and he reached over and turned off his alarm. He sat up, and knew: He would die, today. He knew it for certain. And he wasn’t afraid. Not at all.

breakfast

A friend says, “There is no
clarity, that’s not what it’s about,” and
he listens, because she seems to know that of which she
speaks, or at least talks a good phrase. “It’s about
understanding the complexity, or at least working
through
it,” she says, continuing, as his brain struggles to keep
from feeling concussed. “Besides, who really wants
clarity? Simpletons? Prosecutors? Divorcees?” she asks and he nods,
perfunctorily, while he checks to make sure
he’s taken his
morning
anti-depressant. “Life would be boring with
clarity,” she says, nodding, as if to try
to convince him, and asks, “Are you ready
to order?”
He says he needs a few more minutes,
and she harrumphs and lights a cigarette and
orders scrambled eggs, whites only, no butter
and
grits. “Just keep it simple,” she says. “It’s
best that way. Everything is best that
way.” And he orders
a bagel. Plain.

out there

There were times, at night, late,
when the ocean stretched an unseeable
distance, black and silent, below a sky
that hung high, speckled with
stars that lit, though just a bit, the darkness,
and it was then that he would stop and look and
listen and try to feel the quiet and understand the
shroud. He remembers it like it was
yesterday, and it was, in a fashion. Today, when life teems
with sound and voices and duties and distraction,
he wishes to be back there,
if only for a moment, in the darkness and
stillness, to be surrounded by it, again, and, this
time,
to appreciate it, being a dot
in
the
universe, feeling small but alive. He would mention it to
a friend or a lover, too,
sometimes, was tempted to, but knew that he
could not do it justice, so
he simply thought it and
recalled his
youth.

The Conun Drum

You look into their eyes,
trying to see
what they see,
which is what you saw, once, before
you saw different colors
and different hues, and shades of
nuance and gray which made
everything
murky, unclear,
obtuse and, yet,
somehow vivid, if you really looked,
which you didn’t,
because you didn’t have time, what with
work, and family and bills and soccer games and
hockey tournaments and
dance classes. You want to tell them
that things will become unclear, then, someday, clear
again, if they remember to
keep looking, and when they ask what they’re
supposed to look for, tell them:
whatever it is
there is to
see.

a voice in ...

“In the end," the speaker, said, “we’re
all responsible for the
oil
catastrophe. We’ve made ourselves
beholden to BP and Haliburton and similar henchmen and
rapists. If the seagulls can’t raise their wings
to fly,
if the pelicans smother to death when washed over
by a
wave of crude, if the fish
and plant life suffocate, and
if
the fishermen commit murder or, alas,
suicide, we’re all
partly, at least, to blame. It is a time,” he said,
“to assume responsibility. It’s late,
but not too late. The tide
cannot be cleansed, but it
can be turned.
We have a sea of troubles, but we can
make things into an
ocean of possibility.” The speaker stopped,
then checked his watch, took
a drink of water, and looked about.
The wilderness was
a
lonely, desolate, desperate
place,
especially
at
night.

dixie moline

Dixie Moline was a dancer of sorts
At clubs where the o’erhead was low,
and the ceilings were leaky and drinks were a buck
and the patrons were usually named Joe.

She’d dreamed of ballet and of theater, too,
Since her days as a girl of fourteen,
But her mom ran away and her dad was a drunk,
and her hopes just eloped with her dreams.

She asked for no pity, she asked not for help,
just began waiting booths at “Big G’s,”
‘til the day her boobs blossomed, from here out to there,
and thought she, “I’ll just cash in on these.”

And she did just fine, by the way, story goes,
‘til the day Larry Bobby walked in
with a nod and a wink, said, “Howdy, there, ma’am,”
and melted her heart with his grin.

“I’ll make you my princess, I’ll make you my queen,”
he told her if she’d leave the show,
“But I can’t wait forever, don’t make sense to do,
“So, it’s never or now, shall we go?”

That was two years, last April, now Larry’s long gone,
And Dixie’s still pullin’ her shift.
Dancin’ and twirlin’ an’ smilin’ the smile
That’ll earn her a tip or a gift.

She thinks ‘bout him sometimes, talks ‘bout him too,
When late night the girls wish away.
She wonders with wonder ‘bout what might’ve been,
If she’d left instead’ve deciding to stay.

But, Dixie Moline was a dancer of sorts
At clubs where the o’erhead was low,
and the ceilings were leaky and drinks were a buck
the truth was always a guy name o’ Joe.

regenerative

What if there’s nothing next but
nothingness? What if the
brilliant, white light
is a rumor, or, worse, a
lie? What if we don’t meet anyone in
Heaven, because
there
is
none? Some might assail a faith
at the questioning,
but isn’t “faith”
supposed to be
in what’s
right and good and honorable and
just,
and not in
some sort of
reward? And what if “heaven” is
simply
a
splinter of a moment,
maybe even furtive,
a millisecond of awareness,
a knowing that what good
you contributed will
regenerate in other good? Isn’t
that
enough?
(P.S. The correct answer is “Yes!”)

unsaid

What the newspaper story didn’t explain was that Percy James Beauxcoup, though fervently anti-religious, had made a vow, a spiritual vow, no less, the day he committed his life’s savings to the purchase of his shrimp boat, which he later christened “The Emerald Queen,” even though it was, at that point, as sorrowfully downtrodden as he. He didn’t exactly look skyward, just out, out there, across the diamond blue Gulf, and promised that if he were able to make this work, this shrimping business, that he would respect, with all appropriate dignity, and defend, with whatever force necessary, the waters in which he fished. And he meant it. So, it was with that in mind that he listened to the East Coast-educated BP veep, in shirtsleeves and Red Sox cap, offer him and the others from the tiny fishing village 15 miles east of Biloxi $100 an hour to help try clean up BP’s mess. Percy didn’t move a muscle nor bat an eyelash, until the vice-president, one of 16 in the international firm, said it was the company’s way of trying to help the fishermen. “It’s not a handout,” the BP VP said, “it’s honest work,” at which point, Percy stepped forward and shot the sorry motherfucker right between the eyes.

I like airports

I like airports, have always liked airports, and not because
of the airplanes, which
I
liked 2. It’s all the coming
and
going. People on the move,
and I can sit and imagine from whence and
what
they’ve come and to
who or where – or both –
they’re headed. There is
promise in that, mostly, though
I’m sure that
some of each – the comings and goings –
are those of sadness and loss and
maybe both. So, I sit,
here, watching, observing
folks
at
that in-between place before
the
destination finally is
met. I wonder about them. Some
of
them. I can’t fit in all.

peli-can

I would be a pelican,
with ungainly grace and
indigenous dignity, knowing
my place, for the pelican
does not try to be an eagle,
nor aspire to be a hawk. It does
not strut like the egret, nor preen
like the cardinal, nor flit like
the roadrunner nor flutter like
the hummingbird.
It stands, quietly, in wait, then, when
the time comes, when its
time
comes,
it
spreads its brown-blue wings and flaps
and soars, not too high
and not so low, but in its
own
space.
Always.

matriculation

They are fresh-faced and honest, mostly,
honorable, we like to think (though they would
have trouble defining just what that might mean
in real-world terms), and they are about to enter
a universe that is part friend, part enemy, part mystery
and wholly sobering, at some points, at least.
They will leave behind much less than they
will grow to meet, but, as they do, what they’ve
recently left will prove to shape them more than they
can imagine and more than anything they encounter
down the road.

They will smile and weep and toss their hats into
the air, for they have been freed, they think. It is
only later that they will realize that their freedom, a
freedom,
is not presented to them, but, freedom, if it is that
that they choose (and that which they should choose),
is earned, though never really understood, nor ever really
appreciated until later, though in their impatience they
will try to understand it now, right now, and, more,
to celebrate it.

They are to be welcomed, yes, but not dispirited, even
for their naivete, or, better, least for that, for the
value is in the journey, as they say, and not
the destination. And they are, at the very least, willing to embark on
the trip. Wish them well.
Wish them Godspeed.

the kathies

At nine, we all wanted to be priests,
for it seemed like a holy and wholly honorable thing
to do – to care for the needs of others in
a way that seemed hard and virtuous and somewhat
sacrificial.
But at some time, soon thereafter, give or take a year,
we
discovered the Kathies – Lutz and Bisjack.
We didn’t exactly understand the pull of their smiles
or the sheen of their hair,
much less experience the secrets
hidden chastely beneath their school uniforms. (Eventually,
Paul Slapnicker did, it was surmised,
or Tommy
Mulhol.)
But there was a time when we all decided that
the “call” we were told to listen for wasn’t the one
coming from Sister Angelica and Father
Englert.
It was a loss
of innocence, perhaps, that secularization,
because it severed a final tie to an idea
bigger than each one of us. But the pull was too strong.
And, besides,
the Kathies were really, really
cute. Sometimes, now, I wonder
what might’ve happened to them,
and I think
that if our paths crossed, again, I would
thank
them
for my liberation.

predator

It was the smile and how he looked
at them that told them they were special,
somehow, or, at least, different than the others,
at a time when differences were important and
made them feel special, because that’s how they
wanted to feel, away from home and
more than a little bit lost. Others saw it, all of it, but
just washed it away. It wasn’t any of their
business, not then, anyway, though it would
eventually become everyone’s business, because
the predator eventually oversteps his mark and
everyone is sullied, if not branded.
By then, he feels invisible to any scrutiny, of course.
He feels
almost entitled to his prey.
And, then, by then, innocence has died, and everyone wonders
how it happened, even though it happened in front
of everyone, right there, and the next days and weeks
and maybe months are spent recounting, bringing back, all the
hints that everyone saw.
But the innocence can’t be recovered, dusted off,
and returned.
It’s gone, stolen by one, responsible to many.

Freddy's brother

It was Freddy’s brother who had died
and we weren’t even sure of his name
because he wasn’t Catholic and we were.
But we
did attend the funeral in a dark, open,
empty church and sat in the back and
when it came time to kneel or stand,
mother told us to stay seated, to pray
from there, because he wasn’t Catholic
and we were.
And it not only seemed odd,
but it seemed wrong, but I stayed seated,
too, and to this day
I wish I’d not.

2 jewish

The call came early Thanksgiving morning
and her voice sounded desperate and his first
thought was that something had happened
to the baby and she said no, no, no, that the
baby was fine, but his name
was
not.
10 hours east, her parents and those else had decided, as all but her and her
husband gathered for a holiday meal, that the
name
was
too
Jewish.
Abraham.
One of the early names of honor and
leadership was
too
Jewish. As it turned out, they resorted to calling him
“Rusty,” but his father thought “Fuck that,” and
did the only thing he could think of: purchased a “My Name is Abraham”
t-shirt, rather, had it made, for none were currently
available, and
he dressed the boy for
the next visit.
Too Jewish.
Imagine
that.
Abraham.
My name
is.

mother

She carried a secret so tightly
that it slowly choked the life out of
her, breath by breath, which was
ironic, because she thought
the only way to stay alive was
to keep everything hidden away,
inside, deep, deep inside.
It was difficult watching her die
for all those years, decades, really, though sometimes
we weren’t so keenly aware of it, maybe because
we didn’t want to be.
Besides, it wasn’t our job as children
to understand everything, or, before even that,
to unravel what bound up her soul.
She had no last words, none that anyone
could understand. She simply passed from
finally forgetting to release.
At least that’s what we hope.

denny

The call came late, in the quiet, in the
bleak before the break, and her voice was a
whisper that woke something in the back of his
mind, startled it awake, followed by a silence, for
a moment that felt too much longer.
She said: “Denny is lost at sea,” and he wanted
to ask, “How?” but he knew the answer to that,
how friends he knew and those he didn’t got
“lost at sea.” It happened all the time, except
it didn’t, too, and he has lived for 35 years with
the image of a friend desperately trying to live,
in the dark and swirling deep, fighting
against his fate. It’s never a
nightmare, though, for it’s not nightmarish. Indeed,
there is a measure of
peace to it all, it ending, that way, oddly enough.
More than that, it was just
a fact of life that became a figure in the safety log:
“Lt. Dennis O'Malley: lost at sea.”
"We launch tomorrow, at six!"

liza

They climbed onto rockets and launched
themselves into the blue because they were
young and patriotic and because it was heroic,
and because Liza, the waitress everyone lusted after
at the Blue Oyster, the waitress everyone was trying
to save from the Blue Oyster,
thought they were sexy and brilliant, even while she went home,
every night to a UPS driver, who wore brown
shorts and high brown socks and knocked her around a bit, and fucked his brains
out – or so they thought.
And that’s why they did it – for her and for women like
her, and the chickens didn’t really come home
to roost until what was left of Wally that cool,
autumn day in Kansas was shoveled into
a body bag, fire-proof flight suit intact with
his ashes and wedding ring. But even then, a few pops and
everyone was good to go, again, “Shit hot,”
again. That’s the way it was. That’s the way
it always was. And, by the way, Liza wasn't worth
dying for, they figured out. Some,
too
late.

it IS what you say

Have you ever wondered who you’ll call for
when your time to call for comes?
Your mother? Father? A wife? Husband?
Or a friend or … lover. Or a child – and
which one, now?
And
when you say what’s needed to be
said, what will the others think? The
ones you ignored, for that’s what they might
feel, that slighting.
And should you worry about
that?
Is it too soon to think about that whom, because
you never know about the when, though
it certainly is closer than ever, isn’t it, now?
And
can you imprint in your subconscious
who the who should be, ahead of time?
Suddenly the deathbed becomes
a bit more difficult, eh?

deserted

there is a solace to the solitude and
there is an aloneness that makes being alone
good and true,
rather
than
sad and
lonely.
no expectations.
no schedules.
no race to get from there
to here –
and back.
for one thing, it’s too, too hot for all
that hurrying and worrying;
for another, it’s just
the
way
things
are.
in the desert, where life can be seen
inside out,
if you are
willing to stop and look and if
you are willing to stand
the
peace and
quiet. can
you? or do you just think
you
can?

souls searching

In the shadows sits his soul,
quiet, sullen, but not
brooding. It has become
disengaged from him, though not, yet,
angrily so, because he
has
become
disengaged from it, not
estranged. He
is lost, his friends
think, without too, too much
judgment.
He is not alone. Like others, he seeks spirituality,
while, at the same time,
cowering from it. It is a
conundrum he accepts, at least for
the time
being, because he thinks
life is not a life unless it is examined
closely and at every turn, and he is trying
to understand it all. He
never will, of course,
but he knows that, too. Still, he
tries. He is slowly
approaching
equanimity. And for that, at the very least,
he
is
grateful.

he & she

Where he sees confusion, she
sees
possibility. When he
sees
indecision, she sees
choices. What he views as
discombobulation, she
christens
energy. As he wallows in
what never was, she honors what
still
might
be.
He doesn’t deserve her, but
he
does
need
her.

goodbye

Dear Molly, Nancy, Ray:
Tomorrow, when you wake up, I’ll be gone. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I need to move. I wish I could explain why, but I can’t – even to myself. It’s just something I feel. I’m suffocating, here. I can’t explain that, either, but I am. There are days when I struggle to breathe. It’s nothing to do with any of you. It’s me. It’s all me. I need to get someplace to think. Someplace where I can figure out things. Your father will take care of you. He’s a fine, fine man. I couldn’t’ve hoped for anyone better. It’s not him, either. It’s not. It’s me. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, now, and I’ve kept putting it off. But nothing changes. So, it’s time. I’ve asked your father to tell our friends that I’ve headed south to visit family, to take care of one of my sisters. I think that should buy all of us some time with this. I don’t know when I’m coming back. I love all of you more than you can imagine. Please don’t stop loving me. Mom

dance hall girls

“This isn’t going to work, you know?”
“What isn’t? Us?”
“Yes.”
“For some reason, I knew you would say that.”
“This is too peaceful, too quiet, too alone. You couldn’t handle this, long-term.”
“You think you know me that well, already?”
“It’s in your eyes. I saw it, tonight. For the first time, maybe. There’s no mistaking it. There’s a restlessness, there. Sometimes it looks like a twinkle, a sparkle, but that’s only camouflage. It’s an anxiousness. The next place. The next story. The next challenge. The next woman.”
“I’m not used to being such a open book.”
“Some people are better readers than others.”
“Do you read mirrors, too?”
“I do.”
“What do you see there?”
“Someone looking back who is intoxicated by itinerant cowboys, but really wants the owner of the local general store.”
“I think it’s that way for a lot of dance hall girls.”
“Might be. Could be. Is, I guess. But that doesn’t change anything.”

such certainty

“I see the way you look at her, you know.’
“And how’s that?”
“As though you’re trying to see her naked.”
“So, I’m a lecher, now? Is that it?”
“Not that way. You know what I mean.”
“Perhaps, but I think I’d rather not.”
“But you do, and, you see, that’s the key.”
“The key to what?”
“To this. To us. You want to see what she’s thinking. Perhaps if she’s at all thinking of you.”
“You’re not making any of this up?”
“None. I know. I watch. I see.”
“You always did that.”
“You never left me a choice.”
“Which leaves us where?”
“I think that’s a question for you to answer, no? None of this sophomoric masquerading has made me jealous, yet. In fact, I think it’s rather entertaining, in a sad, depressing, embarrassing way.”
“It might be easier if you were incensed.”
“It isn’t supposed to be easy. Least of all for you.”
“Might it be that you’re all wrong – about everything?”
“No.”
“Such certainty you enjoy.”
“Yes. I do.”

here

Big cars. Bigger trucks. South Texas. Space to drive. Oil that drives it. Slow-moving. Not styling. Just no real hurry. “Where’re you going?” "There.” Everything is either close or far. No in-between. San Antonio – 4 hours. Austin – 6. Houston – 7. Dallas – a day. Otherwise: space. Most of it low-lying. Big sky. Not the biggest, but big. Black nights salted with stars. A separate piece of the U.S. A separate peace, here. For now, anyway.

the dollar menu

He stands in the median with a “HOMELESS” sign. He is there every day. A scrutinizing eye sees no obvious signs of filth or decadence. He smiles. A scrutinizing mind wonders: why? Should he not be dirty and sad and depressed, even suicidal? And why is he homeless? A bad turn of personal economy? Tragedy? Mental … issues? And why does his presence elicit such conjecture and wondering? A driver rolls down a window and hands him a dollar, washing away – wishing away? – all the questions, at least for the moment. One conscience sated. At a bargain. A buck. What a deal.

the girls

She fidgets in her seat, playing with the collar of the Kelly green coat she wore for St. Patrick’s Day, even though her parents are Juan and Eva Garcia-Moreno. She is an 8th grader, slim, slight, lithe in her thoughts and movements, though her body is changing too fast for her liking, and every day, she feels, more closely resembling her mother’s thickness and girth. Some of her classmates have noticed the changes in her physique and she shrinks from what she interprets as critical glances. She already has thought about, considered, actually, purging. Some of her friends do it. They have a secret club: The Girls. When she finishes her test, this morning, she will meet up with them, the girls, and hang out. She is curious and she is moving closer. This is all still secreted from her family, so there’s no one to talk sense to her, or even try. Not, perhaps, that she would even listen.

cartoons don't cry

“Cut. Stop. Stop! No, no, no – no! You need to look seductive., not slutty. This scene calls for a seductive glance. Something ‘come hither.’ But not slutty. Anyone can look slutty. My grandmother can look slutty. This needs subtlety. It needs a look, with some body language – not teeth and tits. Do you understand? Can you understand? Seduction comes from the eyes, from the soul. I can’t write it or I would – do this, do that. But I can’t. This is where you show your stuff. This is your ‘Academy Award’ moment. Can we get there? Do you think? I don’t want you to make me hard, honey, I want you to light me on fire. There’s a difference, eh? Ok? No, don’t cry. Hold on, she’s crying. She’s fucking crying. Motherfucker! Make-up. Get in here! Jesus Christ! Now, tears. I should be doing cartoons – cartoons! Cartoons don’t cry. Everyone, let’s take 15. I need a drink.”

sight unseen

Maggie was the one who noticed it first: what was missing from his eyes. She’d given him room, even though he’d never really asked for it. He wouldn’t, of course. He didn’t talk about Afghanistan, and she understood that, but it made her lonely, nonetheless. Before he’d gone he shared – they’d shared – everything. It was part of their them. But it was his eyes that scared her. They weren’t scary, but there were times when there was an emptiness in them. And other times it was as though he were missing something and looking for it without letting on to anyone what was gone. She would’ve been able to understand pain. But there was none of that, at least what she might see. He’d gone, left, one man, a man she knew, or was learning to know, and had come home with something so harsh that even if he’d told or tried to verbalize, she could never understand. She knew that and felt even more alone. It was how war claimed everyone who loved or cared, even those who remained home, behind. So she told herself and wondered, to herself, too, how long they could do this, play out two separate lives within a marriage.

disinfected

Cleaning is therapeutic,
he says, to himself, for there’s
no one else
to whom
to say it, and his self reacts a
bit
skeptically, but goes
along with the
sentiment, because it’s been weeks since he’s
cleaned the
bathroom, and, well, any excuse
in
a
storm, as the saying
should
go, and as he finishes, with swipes and
flourishes, he does
feel much
better about
himself, which is always
a
good
thing.

imagine that

He was 18 and barely shaved. Once a week, maybe. Usually less. He’d dropped out of high school, earned his GED and enlisted in the Marines. They’d made a man out of him. Taught him how to shoot his piece, piss in public and only shake in private. Back home, he was “Tubby.” Here, he was Private Tuberville. Back home. It seemed like such a long time ago. It wasn’t. Maybe a year. Less. But it felt that way, way back, in the past. “Let’s go, we’re moving out,” his sergeant said, and he did. They needed to make Kesektan by nightfall. They would. He would. He didn’t know, of course, but it would be his last night as a Marine, his last night on earth. He’d spend it shivering in his sleeping bag, thinking of those days when his friends would say, “C’mon Tubby, let’s move it.” Before he fell off, he said the “Now, I lay me down to sleep” prayer. Imagine that. Imagine that.

i do

“Why are you doing it?”
“I don’t think you can understand, honey.”
“Try me.”
“I don’t think it’s the time or place – and it never may be.”
“I know what divorced families are like. My friends tell me. I see.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“I am.”
“You’re listening to the wrong people. I know that. I hear that. Grandma never liked dad.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“No, it’s impossible to explain.”
“Look at me. Look at me!”
“I think it’s time for you to go to bed. It’s late.”
“Look. At. Me.”
“Please don’t talk to me like that.”
“You’re breaking his heart.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I do. I do.”

a soldier's telling

“His name was Fred Falkner,” the eulogist said. “He was a husband, a father, a good fellow and a friend. I can’t tell you stories about his life with his family. They can do that. I can’t tell you stories about his life’s work. His colleagues can do that. What I can tell you about is who he was when I was with him, next to him, for nine months in Vietnam. We knew the same mud is how we’d say it, back then – and I’m cleaning it up a bit, here, for this ceremony. That part of him I can tell you about and with certainty, because if there’s anything war’s good for it’s for the truth. There’s no place in that hell for lies. No one fakes his way through that. No chance. In this day and age, we overuse the word ‘hero.’ It wasn’t thrown around back then, like that – the word. Fred wouldn’t’ve liked being called a hero. So, I won’t call him that. What he was, was a soldier. I think he would’ve liked being called that because that’s what he was – a soldier. Us old soldiers will miss him. He was one of ours.”

an honest ask

“I need you to do something for me,” she said.
“What?” he asked.
“I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me you love me,” she said.
“You don’t need to ask for that,” he answered.
She nodded, and said, “Yes, I do. And I am.”
He took a moment, then said, “I love you,” looking into her eyes.
She looked back at him, into him, and kept her gaze there for longer than was comfortable. “Not the way I want,” she said, shaking her head, gently.
“You can’t see that, like this,” he said.
“I can,” she answered. “I do.”
He smiled, trying to lighten the moment, and asked, “Can I get a second try?”
She shook her head. Her voice was a whisper. “No. I’m sorry. You can’t.”

lost

“I’m lost,” the son said to his father.
“I know,” the father said.
“I don’t know which way to go,” the son said.
"I know," the father said.
"I need help," the son said.
“Where do you want to go?” the father asked.
“I want to go someplace where I feel things, again,” the son answered.
“Feel what?” the father asked.
“I don’t know,” the son said. “I just want to feel again.”
“I’m not sure where that is,” the father said. “But I can tell you it’s not where you’ve been before.”
“Why not?”
“I just know.”
“So, here I am, still.”
The father smiled. “When it comes to this, when someone comes to this, it’s not where, but what. You’ll find your way. It may take some time, but I have faith in you.”
“I miss you,” the son said.
“I love you, son,” the father answered.

dhanni

Her name is Dhanni Dawson. No, not really. It’s Mary Louise Folkenstorm, and she’s the daughter of a high school math teacher and an elementary school nurse from Abilene, Texas, and she’s just finished her first porn shoot – “Dhanni Dearest” – in the basement of a rented home five miles outside Juarez, Mexico. Her parents have no idea she’s done it. They think she’s waiting tables in Hookstraw, Oklahoma, and living with a female friend of a friend of a friend. Fifteen years later, when asked by a website reporter how she managed herself through the first of her 250-some porn shoots, she’ll say, “I don’t know, exactly. It was as though I were in a cloud.” At that time, she’ll be retired from the business, with a net worth of $40 million. When the reporter asks, “Are you proud of what you’ve done?” she’ll answer: “I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure that out.” When he asks, “What’s your biggest regret?” she’ll answer: “I wanted a life. I ended up with a sentence.” Then she shrugs and smiles, a bit too sadly. Or, a lot.

angella langella

Angella Langella weighed three forty-five
and stood six-foot-six in her socks.
Her husband was Marty, a sprite of a man,
who came to her life in a box.

Angella Langella had wanted a beau
and didn’t much care ‘bout his looks,
So, she went on the Web and ordered him up
and in three weeks she had Martin Fuchs.

The third, it was said, tho he knew not the two
who preceded him here with that name.
“I’m hungry,” said he, as she opened the crate,
“Let’s get married,” said she without shame.

They ate and they wed, then they coupled themselves,
in Angie Langella’s huge bed.
And before off to sleep they pledg'ed their love
and their honor forever, ‘til dead.

Which came all too soon for our distaf'ed Ang,
who spooned with her man o’er the night
‘til earl’ in the morn when she sought out his warmth,
Rolled o’er and snuffed out his life.

hector mcgurdy

Hector McGurdy sat outside his door
on the porch in the ev’ning’s last light.
He knew, only he, no one else, to be sure,
That this’d be his single, last night.

Hector was 90, he’d lived him a life,
with four wives and seventeen kids.
He’d hustled and stole and lied and contrived
With no conscience for those whom he did.

A killer for hire, a hitman was he,
His holster was notched here to there,
a’counting the victims he’d sent off this land
with a bullet behind neat an ear.

The car would come by at quarter to nine,
from out of the east it would roar,
and the final assignment, the hit would be made
just as Hector had planned them before.

So, what’s to be said ‘about a shooter like he,
when the day’s final reck’ning’s allot?
Just this, if you can, with a smile, if you must,
Hector even did call the last shot.

felt

the goal, she thinks, is to feel. not
just feel, but
feel, yes, in italics. like that. so that whatever it is
to be felt
resonates. she knows this is against all the
published laws of life. life is best left unfelt,
because if she is willing to feel, if she succumbs to feeling, she is open to
all different types of
feelings, not just the good ones. the danger
is not only imperious, it is
daunting. it is so much easier to move in
a controlled manner, to stay moving, to keep
everything at a low drone. there is little danger
in that, of course,
until the final hour, when the look back must be honored,
at least for that moment when life flashes
across the eyes. she will be tempted, through the years, to renounce feeling.
her decision, when it is
time to decide,
will
resolve a life
or: a life
well
lived.

thinking, while walking

there is a dislocation
to the
location, which is only, temporary – the location, that is.
still, while dislocated, there is a clock that
ticks, and a worry that says:
how much time is left to do
what
needs to be done. (period; no question
mark.) this clock always
has sounded its alarm, but now
it feels
different. while before there was an impatience,
now there tocks
an
urgency. just today, he told himself that he will
live to be 100,
as did his grandfather, as a way to
blunt the passage of time. he walked along the
beach, then, in that moment, in the misty, breezy, morning
air, alone with his thoughts and his
aloneness.
still, it was a comforting idea. be patient. have
patience. what will be
shall
be.

a cold night

It was a cold night, made colder by the wind, which stormed out of the northwest and took out the electricity with one, healthy gust, forcing them to pull a mattress into the kitchen, where the wood-burning stove burned wood almost all night long as they lay in one another’s arms. It was icy in the morning, for they’d slept through the 4 a.m. stoking, but it didn’t seem difficult or impossible or sad. They warmed themselves in a hot shower and dried one another in the steam of the bathroom. They left that morning for each other’s separate worlds, leaving behind a bit of themselves and carrying with each other a bit of the night. In that way, everything had been perfect.

the house on the hill

the house on the hill
is now just a memory of
solitude and peace and
healing.
the rhythm of the stream; the
cackles of the wild turkeys; the
hummingbirds; the porcupine, the
moose, outside the door; the deer at
the door. the leaves and the snow and the
rain pattering against
the kitchen windows. and the voice
of
the November winds, blustering. even on the
coldest days, there
was a warmth. it was special
and it was a bit magical
and it was a gift from someone otherwordly who
knew the
pain and heartache that needed
buffering and
solace. it was a special place;
it was a gentle place; it was an
honest
place. it was loved and
it
loved
back.
I think I shall never be again so
thankful for
a
shelter.

10th grader

“We are victims, casualties, some, of our births,” he wrote in his journal. He continued: “Who we are and what we become is affected most directly, impacted most effectively by that over which we have no control – whom are our parents. This is the one thing that everyone equally shares, this totally arbitrary beginning.” He paused to think, then began, again. “For some, birth is a head start; for others it is, ironically, and sadly, a death sentence.” He paused, again, then wrote: “If you could choose, whom would you pick for your parents? It is an interesting question. It goes to the heart of family and parenting, not to mention genetic engineering. Would a black child choose white? Would a white child choose other? Would a baby birthed in a refugee camp make the expected decision?” He put down his pen. Enough, for today. He had to finish his geometry homework, then read two chapters in “Catcher in the Rye.” Quiz, tomorrow.

angel baby

He lives in his parents’ basement and his girlfriend visits him, there. Her name is Angel Baby, an appellation she bestowed upon herself (feeling she’d outgrown Margaret), but that which caused some redundancy when he might say, “Come to your baby, Angel Baby, baby,” which wasn’t often, but, still, in this case, frequent enough. Angel Baby would sneak in through the back window. It was a tighter fit, recently, what with Angel Baby starting to sprout a genuine set of breasts. His parents, Stu and Laurie, knew all about the assignations, but figured it was better for her to come there than the two of them suffer their consummations in the back seat of the family car on some deserted stretch of Almond Avenue. (Car sex was so uncomfortable.) So, he and she banged away in the basement of the blue-shingled house on Catamount Lane. But never during “Desperate Housewives.” And that was his decision.

sex talk

“I want to have sex with you,” he said.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” she said.
“It’s easy,” he said. “You have two options.”
“It may be that easy for you,” she said. “It’s not.”
“Yes or no,” he said.
“A little bit both,” she replied.
“You’re just playing it safe,” he charged.
“For me and for you,” she said.
“Explain that.”
“If we have sex, there’ll be expectations,” she said.
“That sounds like a threat,” he said.
“It isn’t,” she said. “It’s the way things are.”
“I can handle it,” he said, confidently.
“You only think you can,” she said.
And, of course, she was right.

talking it out

“I need more emotional support,” she said.
“I try,” he said.
“I need more than effort,” she answered.
“Tell me what you need,” he suggested.
“I can’t tell you, exactly,” she said.
“What?”
“Yes, that -- what or when.”
“So am I supposed to be a mind reader?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I don’t think I can,” he said.
“Have you even tried?” she asked. “Ever?”
“I have not,” he answered.
“Perhaps you need to try,” she said.
“Can you give me a hint?” he said. “A signal?”
“I need a drink,” she said.

that moment

There is a time, she knows, during the act when she and he seem to become one. It happens sometimes, and sometimes not. It often surprises her, when it does occur, and brings with it such an intense emotional wash that she begins to cry, weep, actually. She turns away, then, because she’s either embarrassed or she doesn’t want him to see how deeply he’s touched her, how deeply she’s felt him, how connected they are, for that instant. She does, later, struggle to decide which it is, embarrassment or her vulnerability, then, instead, simply moves on because it’s not that important why and maybe some things are best just left alone. Besides, if she really contemplated it, investigated it, owned it, it might tell her something about herself she really doesn’t want to know.

a spirit of giving

At what point, he wonders, do you
pass the baton, and say, “I’m fine
with watching, from here on
out?” Is that resigning, or is
it
being realistic? It is a question
that not only
confounds, but challenges, too, for
if one
gives in and gives over, then who’s to
say one hasn’t
simply
given up? Perhaps, it’s a matter
of
interpretation. Perhaps, it’s a matter
of
rationalization. Perhaps, it’s
a matter of time, because
after all,
isn’t
just about everything?

author, author!

His father lifts him high on his shoulders, raising him into the night so he can see the colorful, flashing wonders of the festival parade. It seems a small gesture, a little thing to Enrique Gomez, the kind of thing a father does for a young son, even after spending a long, arduous day on the docks. A chance to see. Only that. What Enrique couldn’t see, wouldn’t even imagine is that his son Raul’s view from there -- the color, the sparkle, the beauty -- was somehow burned into his memory and changed his life. In 25 years, Raul Enrique Gomez will become the most celebrated, critically acclaimed and popular Mexican-American author in history. His stories and tales will entrance millions, touch millions, change millions of lives and he will trace everything back to the magic his four-year-old eyes saw that night when his father lifted him into the blackness. “It created in me a sense of wonder,” the author will say. And while others will try to analyze and decipher the how and why of Raul Enrique Gomez, disbelieving such a simple explanation, he knows. And he is thankful.

how, now?

his mistake, as
it were, if
it was, was defining home
as where
the family was, because
he forgot
to consider or never considered
considering
the absence of family.
the
picture he saw always
included
a family,
his
family. any other
picture
made no sense, was no picture,
at all,
but, instead,
something abstract and
undefinable, which is where he
finds himself,
now,
someplace abstract and
non-definable.
here,
but
not
home.

mandy

Amanda Cutler brushes her hair, looks, once more, into the mirror, drops the brush, grabs her coat, and heads downstairs, where she will meet the man who will murder her in 17 years. The murder will occur the day after New Year’s. Her body will go missing for three months, before a neighbor’s dog will stumble her remains in a patch of undergrowth near a deserted cabin in the furthest reaches of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Now, though, Amanda’s only concerned about the blind date she’s about to meet. She’s had her fix and fill of blind dates, so what’s another one? Well, there is this: she’s decided that if he’s anything close to acceptable she’s going to try to make it work. She’s tired of being alone. She wants to start a family. She’s 30, after all, and all her friends seem settled. And, indeed, as she is about to find out, he is more than acceptable. He’s actually a good catch, or so he will seem, for about 16 years or so. His name is Roger. He and Amanda will have three children, Faye, Angie and Eric, all of whom will struggle, for the rest of their lives, with the fact that their father killed their mom. And, quite brutally, it is reported.

it's about time

The teacher doesn’t
like boys, the kids say. Girls can do
no wrong;
boys have no wiggle room, and a hue and cry
develops and cries: unfair!
and so it must be, for education
should be as clean as possible of
biases. but another voice, a shy one, a
tiny one, says: “well,
it’s about time,” though not at all
in defense of the
teacher, who, quite frankly, is a
witch, but in
the stead of the girls.
good for her;
good for them.
it is about time.

good sox!

A new pair of socks.
Is all.
So, why the thrill?
3 pair for 12 dollars.
blue with argyles.
green with diamonds.
grey with dots.
or marks.
do socks make the man?
or the outfit?
or has it just come
to this?
socks?
what next? euphoria over underwear?
he once received a gift from a friend:
two dogs pulling on a leg dressing with
the caption:
good sox!
a play on words.
indeed.
perhaps.
yes.

perky

His name is Percy Alwyn Hertzog Simmons III. He has a dog named Garfield and a cat named Snoopy. He wears size 17 EEEE shoes, sneakers, mostly, white, predominantly, Velcro-ed, always. He is very slender for his height, which is 6-foot-2; he weighs 135. His goal in life was to drive a Yellow Cab. He doesn’t. He’s a toll-taker at Exit 34B on the Ohio Turnpike. It’s a rather boring job, he doesn’t mind admitting to himself, nor telling others, but he makes do by playing Sudoku. He’s become very good. He’s never been married, though he came close: in January of 2003 he proposed through the toll-booth window to Mary Sue Finklestein Winslow as she headed to work at the turnpike Sbarro between Exits 34A and 34B. She said yes, then no, then maybe, which didn’t surprise him, though her indecision did send him into a rather steep bout of depression for three weeks. He hasn’t allowed his heart to wander since. Today, “Perky,” as he’s called by friends, will become a national hero, when he unknowingly foils the kidnapping of a six-year-old, Malamute, Indiana, girl. He will be shot in the head and die in the process. Two years later, the nearby rest stop will be named in his honor and Mary Sue forever will rue not saying yes.

tom

She wonders more and more about exactly what and how much of it she is supposed to give up? When does someone’s willingness to go without, one’s sacrifice cross the line into “bad marriage?” She takes stock, a lot. She makes lists, a lot. In the end, what keeps her here is one word: family. She knows what divorce does to a family and she’s convinced there’s no way around any of the repercussions and ramifications. But what about her, herself, her being? When does her satisfaction, her growth, if there is such a thing (and she thinks there is), become selfish. When does self-less become dangerous? Because the bomb does have a timer and she does hear the ticking. She talks to her friend, Betty, about all of this. Betty simply listens. She’s either too smart or too cowardly to get involved. So, it goes and so it is, she tells herself. The worst thing is that Tom is a good man. No, what’s even worse than that is that she knows it.

pan handled

He stands in the median, in the 89-degree heat, in a faded, green Army jacket and a backpack, holding a sign that reads, ”Homeless; I need a hand.” No one stops to give him one, of course. Most are afraid that he will do something crazy. He might, certainly, for the look in his eyes is more dangerous than bedraggled. Perhaps it’s the beard -- long, unruly, angry. Perhaps it’s the Army jacket – who even wears those, anymore? The boots? Old, Velcro Nikes would be less threatening. Louisa Alyssa Hornet drives by and notices all of this, for she is quite perceptive. She doesn’t stop to help him, for she is not certifiably insane, as she might put it. No, she heads home to do what anyone would, these days – brainstorm a website, this one for hoboes, obviously: The Panhandlers Guide to Survival. After all, she considers herself a humanitarian.

therein lies the truth

There lies a silence
in the room that is
disquieting.
It is there, even though the
two do speak and they do
hear it
even as they talk, trying, if nothing
else,
to
drown
it
out. It is not a new
silence. It has been
there
and has grown, until it has
almost
taken
shape. Some might call
it palpable,
but it is even more than
that. It is domineering, dominating all that is
said and,
certainly, all that is
heard. “Funny,” he says to no one, for she is gone, now,
“I need to find someplace quiet to think.”

whether the storm

thunder storms.
snow flurries.
rain showers.
it all seems so simple,
and,
yet,
confusion rains.
or is it (?):
confusion reigns.

jeannie

He wonders a lot about Jeannie, recently. Why, he’s not exactly sure. If someone asked him flat out, he’d probably say he’s just being melancholy. But that would be a lie. It’s because he wonders, still, if she wasn’t the one. He knows all about the grass being greener. He understands that. But this feels different, somehow. There was a time when he thought he couldn’t live without her. Then there was a time when he told himself that he had to. Now, he’s not so sure the latter was the best, correct, right. He’s married, now. Been for 17 years. But in all that time he’s kept that tiny spot for her in his heart. He’s decided that he will call her, tomorrow, just to hear her voice. If it goes no further than that he still knows that he will have cheated on his wife. But he has no choice. He’s still in love with Jeannie. Never stopped, actually, being in love with her. Just stopped, for a time, acknowledging it, that, her.

she wonders

She struggles with the feeling
that
everything has
passed her by, or, as she might say:
bypassed her. Or bypast her, as if
everything
good had already
happened. She wonders how many
people
feel this way and if it has
anything to
do with her
age, which isn’t so aged, yet not
so new, either. She tells herself that
the journey is still
young, but she knows she’s not
being so truthful, or at least as
honest as she could be with
herself. It’s a wrestling match she
faces often, a grappling that
leaves her
emotionally and sometimes
spiritually spent. And sometimes she does
wonder
if it might just be better off
ended – quietly,
peaceably,
peace-fully. She
does wonder that.
Did.
Has.
Does.

valentine's day

The kids are selling roses for
Valentine’s Day for
$3
and they want
him to buy one for someone, but he
cannot decide for whom, or, rather,
he
has no one who’s a whom, then he
thinks and he thinks, and re-thinks,
because he does
want to buy
a rose for
someone, and he finally settles on
Sister Helga, who’s a whom only
for God, he figures, but still might
feel
left out when the all of Whoms down in
Whomville get theirs, figuring that
He won’t make a red
rose appear,
so he puts down three ones, and
signs the card, “God,”
and feels better, feels good.
He hopes
she
smiles.

a zephyr

There is magic in the breeze.
It caresses and warms and cools, and all
at
the same time, and the wonder is:
why is that possible – or even is it?
Perhaps it’s not but it’s just
imagined because someone
needs to imagine it. Does that mean
the “timbered” tree makes no sound in the
deserted forest? And what is so wrong
with imagination? Einstein thought it
invaluable, likening it almost, it seems,
to a spiritualism, and maybe it is.
So, imagine away. No one will
punish you for it. In fact, they probably
will envy you.
And well they should, for imagination is
another name for dreaming, is it not?
Imagine that.
Yes.
Imagine
that.
Please do.

re-consideration

She thinks she can live without men. She really does. She’s had a husband. She’s had a few lovers, after the divorce, of course. But she wonders whether it’s worth all the trouble, anymore. After all, she has learned to care for herself, in more ways than the one. She has a job. She has friends. She has ways to make certain that frustration doesn’t become unmanageable (as long as the batteries remain charged). So, why go through it – the lobbying; the posturing; the angling; toilet seat up, the belching, the farting, the ESPN, for God’s sake? Life is too short to navigate through all that, again. Been there; done that. Then, again, the new guy in receivables has a nice smile and a nice ass, and she has caught herself thinking: let’s go over this, one more time, just to be sure.

the day

An empty house.
An empty bed.
Begin to seem as though the life to
be
lived. Watching alone; listening
the same. Forgotten is how
things look and seem when
shared.
There is a difference – yes?
Or was it a mirage?
Mirrors report what moves is
he. They also
report he moves alone. But
they report in silence,
of course, because they do not
speak, but only reflect
what is to be reflected:
a life, at odd times, in which:
Melancholy lists into despair,
or thereabouts, then rights itself,
lights itself, from black
to
a sodden gray. The morning
may bring sunshine, or not, but:
The stillness stays.
Solitary remains.
Alone is always there.

the clown

The “Balloon Clown” sits on the couch near the register at the iHop, curling balloons into curious shapes for $1, each, scaring most kids – and maybe a few adults. Most of his creations look pretty much the same except for the markings he adds with a marking pen, which sort of seems like cheating, doesn’t it? He has a smile painted on his face, for, after all, he is a clown. It is apparent, too, that most folks give him no more than a perfunctory glance and that his only real connections with human beings are the smiles he coaxes from the children, which is either laudatory or creepy, depending on how you consider a single, 42-year-old adult who plies a trade to four-year-olds while wearing oversized shoes. During the week, the clown is a janitor at the bus stop, downtown, sans smile, mostly. Weekends he gets to be creative. He once dreamed of being a Broadway actor. He still does, sometimes.

i can't get no ...

How do you write a song?
Does it sing itself to you?
Does it whisper itself into existence?
And, really, what does come first:
Music? Or words?
Or do they come together,
like morning’s first light with
the freshness of the new day?
And why can she write
a
song?
And him not?
Has a god somehow consecrated one and not
the other?
It is said that Keith Richards birthed the hook
to “Satisfaction” while on a flight
from somewhere to somewhere else.
God’s messenger.
Interesting choice.

the combat zone

She waits for him to
come back to bed,
but she knows it
won’t be
soon, because he knows what she wants
and she knows he knows and
it’s, well, become that way, all
the
time, now. Sex, for them, always has
been a matter of control, survival of
the
quickest to sense the
other’s
vulnerability and refuse to
salve it. He will wait as long as
he can, hold out
as long as he must,
to make certain that he has
the upper hand, if only for
this night. It is that and that only, for them, now: a contest, a battle of
wits, a struggle of wills. And
they
are
not
alone. Not even close.

ay-dee-dee

Every time a body is
pulled, breathing, from the
rubble, hopes soar and
people, entranced by their own
lives and struggles and challenges, stop
and pray and, if nothing more,
keep a thought of hope alive. But they’ve
finished pulling live bodies
from
the
wreckage, which means that soon many,
if not most, will turn their heads back to their
own lives, not to be disturbed,
again,
until the next catastrophe breaks into
this season’s American Idol. 9/11: now,
mostly forgotten. Katrina: left to those who
are working
there
with their hands. Afghanistan: Huh? Iraq: What?
This shooting.
That one.
The human heart is a fickle thing, now,
if not having always been. Our
attention span is from
wreckage to wreckage, a nation
of
ADDers. Think about
that for, well, at least a minute,
during the commercial
breaks.

just because

She smiles bravely and
reads the old letters, the
old
notes. They make her feel
wanted, loved,
needed, even though he
may not need her, anymore. She
doesn’t dwell too long on that,
because,
well,
just because. She thinks instead
about the first
times she read
what he wrote and
she warms herself with
that idea, of him writing, which is so soft
and
gentle
that she can feel the words almost
as he
writes them. They do come alive
for moments, seconds,
times too fleeting
to
settle her soul, to comfort her heart. But
she is willing to suffer them
in that way, like that, because,
well,
just
because.

tuff times

She is confused by
this
idea of
happiness. What if she
ever
isn’t? Has she
failed? Did she? Is she unworthy? Or
has she somehow made a choice
she doesn’t
know
she’d ever made, because she would
never choose
to be
unhappy. Would she? She wonders
about that,
too: maybe she
would, might
could. And why? She doesn’t
think about this
a
lot. Maybe
just once
a
day. Some people say
that happiness
is
a
choice, but she thinks
that’s just
one of those
correct things to say, like
“when the going gets tough,
the
tough
get going.” She knew plenty
of tough people who never went when things
started getting
difficult. Sometimes,
they were
just
too
tired.

whys guy

He is not sure that things
happen for
a reason. He wishes he
did, because it might help
him understand everything. He would
like to think that life has
a rhythm, a mind of its
own, and he thinks he
does. So, he wonders if
things do happen according to some plan
or if the mind
bends ideas and thoughts and rationales
so that
sense can be made
of the
senseless. After all, isn’t that life’s
biggest, toughest
challenge, understanding why?He used
to tell his students that the most
important question they could ever
ask
was:
WHY? He still tells
them that, when
he remembers to. The
problem comes when
no one can
answer, which is
a good bit
of
the
time. Why?
(Shrug.)
Is this where
faith is supposed
to come
in?

our father

He is surrounded by
people who believe in
a life
after and he must admit, at
least to
himself, that they do seem
mostly so
very happy and he does wonder, too,
if
they
are
just fooling themselves because
it feels good knowing that
there is more than
just this. He even wants to
believe, himself, sometimes, but
he’s
not
sure
what to
believe. And, for that matter,
what
not, and he figures there
is a dignity and honor
in wondering,
in being open
to just about anything. This idea
of mortality
is something new and came upon
suddenly. He is
curious about it and that and
about
faith. It intrigues him.
It does
do
that.

he tithed

He was five when his mother, the village whore, dressed him in girl’s clothes and kept him so garbed when her “friends” came to visit. The humiliation would be complete when she’d refuse to allow him to use the bathroom and he would wet his pants. He left her at 13, traveled to Ellis Island and the New World by himself. He told no one about any of that which he left, and why would he? But he would never forget it and simmered in him a harshness and violence that no one understood, because they only knew what they saw. He lived to be 101 years old, outlasting his wife and four children, two of whom he assaulted, sexually. On his deathbed he asked for his Savior’s forgiveness and the priest awarded it with a loving smile, never knowing the depth and breadth of his evil, not that it would have made a difference. After all, he tithed. His epitaph read, “In loving memory …”

same, same ...

The wall mirror in the guestroom was the first thing he shattered. He didn’t care about the “bad luck” superstition; he was too elated to care. He’d stared at the glass for more than an hour and, finally – splash! Glass flew everywhere, but none touched him. It was as though he were in some sort of protective bubble. He moved on to the mirror in the bedroom. Same. The wine crystal in the dining room – same, same, same, same, same.

the coke machine

The Coke machine refuses to give up
its cans and no
one seems
able
to fix it. The contraption lights
the room
and hums a hummy sound, but
refuses to
capitulate. Repairmen
come and go and come and go
and come and go,
again – sometimes the
same one. All admit her
fixed, or at least ready
to dispense and
disperse. But neither
occur. It’s as though she has a mind
of her
own. Yes,
her own.

what's seen

The light of the night illuminates the plight
of the lovers who can’t make it right.
It casts the shadows that darkens, it seems,
the two who want to make a life of their dream.

a spot

He stands at the edge of the rise, near the top, looking down at the river. The wind gusts, brittle, like a whipsaw, but he is oblivious to its edge. Fifteen feet below the water bubbles from a blue to a frothy black as it tumbles, at first, then cascades through and down the rapids. This always was one of his favorite spots. He’d heard, once, that this spot was haunted by an Indian who’d jumped to his death after losing his wife and child in a cavalry raid. He never bothered to investigate the story, mostly because he liked it so much. There was a chivalry and a loneliness to it and for some reason the combination captivated him.