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.