I thought that I'd unlocked the rusty gate of love
And hesitantly walked between the pillars
but only found another gate, another wall.

I tried again and once again I tried
wall after wall
gate after gate
lock after lock.

I turned around and there you were,
patiently handing me keys.

I know there is a path
that wanders freely through her mind
stopping at a stream of purple
circling a sea of beauty
sliding down a pipe of steel
passing through a cloud of paint fumes
that smells like
things getting done.

I know there is a path.
I have to walk it

barefoot.

Is that a sweet familiar smoke I smell,
The heady perfume of a long-lost day,
When I could not distinguish hope from Hell
And spent myself in play?

My friends were free and did and said the things
That intimates will often say and do.
But dissipation rarely closeness brings
And now they say,

"Oh, I remember you!"

now we see
the caution in the air
(that yesterday was thick with circling curiosity)
dissipating in the breeze and leaving clear the space
through which we see
each other.

the shape of the past fits inside my healing heart:
the scars,
irregular, 
provide a hiding place for pain 
until it's excised 
by the surgery of love.

I hope
that at the top of tomorrow's schedule
you will scrub and operate.

you see, I have this deepish wound,
patched with concrete and salt,
bandages signed by all my friends -
who always seem to hug me
right on the sore spot.

Duuuuuuck!

My respectful hands
Escort the duck to his fate.
O how delicious!

Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #87

The Cavern

The emptiness is large:
The nothing presses out without relief.
The air itself is ill.
The cavern swells: a gassy bloated corpse
In which a heart is trapped.

The cavern’s tapestries
Are aching, livid strips of flaming flesh,
The floor a pulsing red,
The ceiling, plastered with a bloody mesh
Of amputated hope.

But it’s the walls that give
The torture chamber its delicious edge:
Unkind transparency
Through which the prisoner shackled therein sees
The scenes that could have been.

Haiku - Poison

Rats shared my abode.
I shared my poisoned yogurt;
How sweetly they sleep!




Inspired by prompt #42 "Poison" at Haiku Heights

Haiku - Innocence

The mountain explodes.
Certain this was not my fault,
I laugh with relief.




Inspired by prompt #41 "Innocence" at Haiku Heights

The last time she held me

I can't remember
The day she gave me away.
But I can't forget.

Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #64

Sweetness and Light

To hell with stars and moons and beauty
Gems and fire, hearts and flowers.

Give me no more talk of futures
Bright and hopeful, light and sweet.

You can keep your love and romance
Deep and burning, strong and happy.

Where you see a heart that's bursting,
Overflowing, full of joy,

I see just a fool's delusion
And its foreordained conclusion,
Bruise and fracture and contusion
Leaving me with no confusion:
It's blown up in my face once more.

Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #63

you think the blues belong to old black men

you think the blues belong to old black men with gravel in their throats and calloused cagey fingers making love to their guitars?

that only poverty knows misery, that comfort wraps a baby blanket round your heart, protection from the burn of shame

and dull serrated slice of her goodbye?

is loneliness and sad confusion banished by a belly filled, a head not soaked by rain, a window sealed and double paned?

are wounds that fester and transmute your joy to burning poison easier to bear because some guy will listen to you, nod

and diagnose neurosis, give you pills,

explain your love of mother, lack of integrated ego, plug the holes and send you home, your bill paid up, until next time?

you think your shredded heart could give a damn about the gold and gab? that any shelter's snug enough to seal the pain outside?

go on and think so, til you're stabbed by love.

Love Between the Species

I'd like someone to show me proof - I mean real scientific proof, not wild guesswork - that men and women belong to the same species. Sure there's all that chromosome stuff you hear about, but I'm sure that data is all fake. You'd expect members of the same species to have brains that worked along similar lines, wouldn't you? I mean at least a little, you know? I mean, tell me if I'm wrong. And give me a beer, would ya? Yeah, Bud on tap is fine.

So I meet this girl (woman, whatever) and you know, I'm a little gun-shy and so is she, so we take it slow and all, and I really like her and I think she really likes me. Friends, ya know? Friends. It's great. In my twenties I made a bunch of woman mistakes. I mean a bunch. And I think she did, too. Men mistakes, I mean. But I'm more mature now. I'm almost 37, and I think I know a few things, know what I mean? And one of those things is - take it slow. Because you both bring all kinds of baggage and suspicions to the party, and expectations and assumptions, and a lot of stuff.

So we take it slow. We talk, we walk. We stay real platonic, but it's obvious that we like each other more and more. And she's from a pretty religious Iranian family, but I don't care if she's Moslem. So she's a Moslem. What do I care? Did she fly those planes into the towers? Did she start a war? Screw it! She's a great girl, sweet, strong, smart, sexy. All those great S words. And I like her a lot. I'm not going into love territory yet. I know better. That word is loaded, loaded, loaded. And it means something.

I'm just regular - kind of mixed breed, Father is Catholic, Mom is, I don't know, Presbyterian or Lutheran or one of those things. She almost never talked about it, and I was young when she did, so it didn't stick. There was no religion in our house, except we all worshiped food. We loved to eat and Father loved to cook. Mom was better at it, but Father loved to do it.

Why am I telling you all this? Because her parents were religious Moslems, and she loves them and hates to make them mad or disappointed. And look at me. Not even Christian, really. More like nothing. And I'm what she calls "white." White? Since when did white become bad? And since when is she anything but white? But that's not even my point. She's Moslem, her parents are from the old country, and they're real strong on the "only someone like us" stuff.

We talk more, and I start seeing something in her eyes that tells me that she's feeling it, too. Like I'm feeling it. It's like a magnet, like we're the only people in the world. Not to get mushy, but that's the fact. And then she starts on the "we can't do this" crap. I don't want to disrespect her, so don't take that wrong. She can't marry a guy like me because it would break her mother's heart. And if she's not going to marry me then if we don't stop right now it's wrong, wrong, wrong. So I argue with her a bit, but I think, OK, I really like her and I don't want to maker her unhappy, so I'll be a man about this, you know? I'll be the man.

So we say goodbye, and I figure, that's it. OK, fine. Next lesson. But she calls me just to ask a silly question about her car. I'm a diesel mechanic, you know, and she has one of those old Mercedes diesels. Usually it runs fine, but the injectors act up now and then, and I had fixed it for her once. So she calls me and I tell her what to do about the problem, who to take it to, but I just loved hearing her voice again. It warmed me, if you know what I mean. For a moment life really seemed worth living. Birds sang, sun shone brightly, that kind of stuff. And I know she's right, we can't be together, but even so.

But I could hear it in her voice, she felt the same way. And I called her a couple of days later and we talked for about two hours. But she stopped it after that. And it went on like that! She'd call, or I'd call or we'd see each other someplace and talk and talk. I talk to her like I have almost never talked to anyone. And then either I'd call a stop, knowing that if I didn't then she would, or she'd do it first. Yes, no, yes, no, yes, no.

And then, one time, she tells me that she is just crazy about me, and I'm just what she'd always wanted, and if she's not careful she'll fall desperately in love with me, and we know that can never happen, so we must never talk again. This was in email. And I emailed her back with some joke like, I know, I'm Mr Wonderful, this happens to me all the time. Something like that, I don't remember exactly and I've erased all the email because it hurts too much. It was joking, just like we'd always joked, and I even said that it was my gift to her, that I was being obnoxious to help her get over me. And she - what do you think she did?

And this is where the whole women are another species thing comes in. We had always joked like that, right? Always wisecracks, and light talk. But THIS time, she turns on me and reams me a new asshole. How could I take it lightly, this was her heart I was talking about, and stuff like that. Jeeze! What did I do, man, what did I do? I was trying to be light and make it easy and all, and not dramatic, and my own heart was breaking already, anyway. And we ALWAYS joked around like that. Well, maybe not those words, but you know what I mean. We always joked around, both of us, about stuff like that. What was so different?

Would a guy react like that? I think not, baby puppy. A guy would say, "Yeah, Miss Wonderful," (I've changed the sexes around, you know), "you're a gift from the Lord, all right. NOT!" and then joked back and forth, you know, and said goodbye and maybe an I love you or two. And that would be it. We could both go our own ways, sad a bit, but not bitter and having a memory of how we felt about each other. Guys are smarter about these things, for sure. Yeah, I could use another round, thanks. And thanks for listening, man. You must hear this kind of crap all the time.

And I'm over it, it's OK, but it sticks in my throat that what should have been a nice ending, maybe even kind or sweet, suddenly became, I don't know, bad-tasting. And I feel bad, real bad, that I made her feel like I didn't take her seriously. I take, took, her real seriously. She was a good friend, even, and I'm not a guy who just has women friends. I always go for it, if you know what I mean, and with her I didn't. And I want the best for her, and all, and to be honest I feel the same way that she said. I'd leap on it if I had her back, I have to admit. She is just an incredible woman, you know. But life goes on, right? I'm just as well over her, she's too crazy for me. I'm cool now.

Hold it a second, would ya, that's my phone.

Oh, crap. It's her.

Tales of Java: Shrink

Sometimes, when the temperature is right and the glare from the sunlight is not too great, I work out on the patio at Java rather than holed up inside. Java is my favorite coffee shop and is a great office in many ways for a guy like me. I'm not utterly alone, as I would be working at home, and the people around provide a pleasant background. I know many of the other regulars by name, chat briefly about this and that and nothing, and even sometimes lend a sympathetic ear. If I need to work with someone, I have a suitable place to do so. Or I can wrap myself in a solitary cocoon of work and sit unobtrusively doing what I have to do.

There are predictable groups of coffee drinkers. The pairs of teenage girls sharing secrets or watching boys. The larger groups of teenage kids, sometimes studying earnestly, sometimes broadcasting forced laughter. The committee meetings. The lovers or would-be lovers. The small groups of business men and women who find Java to be a convenient and relaxed neutral ground. Pairs of friends enjoying each others' company. Pairs of women usually seem, to the distant eye, to be orbiting around agreement, looking for ways to maintain common ground. Rarely do I hear actual conflict or argument over personal issues. Not that I eavesdrop.

People speak a little differently out on the patio than inside the shop. Conversations seem to be a bit deeper, a bit more personal. Something about the outside, I suppose.

I had found a table in the back corner of the patio, one day when I had a lot of work to get finished. There was a large, noisy, happy group at the other end of the patio, but they were no distraction. A couple of women came outside, looked around, and moved to my end of the patio to avoid the raucous laughter and joking. One of the pair eyed me but must have decided I was safely in another world, pounding away at my computer.

It came to me gradually just what a contrast these two women made. One was an aging and faded beauty with greying black uncontrollable hair pulled into a short ponytail, a long face that at one time must have been striking, and a body that was both bony and paunchy, but at one time must have been athletic. She dressed carelessly, wearing black slacks that might as well have been tailored for a man, and a nondescript blue blouse or shirt. When she spoke, it was not loud but she put too much animation into her voice, constantly adding emphasis that didn't seem necessary. And she talked a lot, and seemed to enjoy making the most of words.

Her friend was much younger, and differed in every way. Her hair was shorter, and of a delicious color somewhere between honey and saffron, styled to make the most of her broad and open face. Her face was whole, complete, satisfied with being itself and magnetically attractive. The real woman was there, proud and content. I stared at the beauty of her eyes. If I hadn't been wearing sunglasses I would surely have been caught. Her body was lush and her voice was soft, warm and soothing. She wore a tan business suit, but it was professional, not severe.

They were similar in this: Each, when her face was in repose, looked serious, even stern. But each had a smile that illuminated her face with beauty, a smile that was real, a smile that meant something.

The younger was drinking some kind of fancy coffee-house drink that had whipped cream on top. The older nursed an espresso cup.

There was something about this pair, some sense that they didn't wear layers of caution with each other. There were invisible threads joining them to each other. I guessed, at first, that they must have been friends for a long time.

Well, I haven't found anyone who will pay me to spend the day ogling women or I would take it up as a profession. I had some deadlines to meet and couldn't cast my eyes and ears over to their table any longer, and so it was heads down again for me, down into my computer.

That effort was doomed when, about ten minutes later, I heard the older one say, "And I've decided I'm still pissed off at you, Sue Ellen."

I so rarely hear candor in these background conversations that, work or no work, I wanted to know what was going on. Am I snoopy? So sue me. I continued to type, but my attention was at the next table. It sounded like the younger one had said her piece and it was rebuttal time.

Sue Ellen said, "I hear you are pissed off...and rightly so!!"

The older one said, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no. You aren't my shrink anymore. You don't get to hide behind that psycho reflect-it-back stuff like whatsisname in that myth holding up his polished bronze shield as a mirror."

Sue Ellen looked confused, "What myth?"

"Never mind. It's not important. What's important is you hear what I'm telling you here. I busted the rusty old chains on my heart and flung it open like a pirate's treasure chest for you, and now you want me to snap it shut again like a cheap change-purse. I opened up to you and leaned against you like I never lean against anyone, and when I do I always have to worry about what I tell them and what their reaction will be, and you pulled away and there I was, leaning against outer space. And something came out, when I opened that old treasure chest, that doesn't want to go back in."

"Miriam, that's so unfair. I told you I had to. I told you I couldn't be professional about it and it wouldn't be fair to you. And I told you I'll put you in touch with someone who is excellent; better than I am. Don't you believe me?"

"Why do you think it's been thirty years since I tried counseling? G-d knows I've needed it. But I don't trust them. You, I trust. So, OK, listen. I've had relationships with women, you haven't. Maybe knowing that opened the door for you a crack so you could feel what you feel. But that has nothing to do with you being my shrink. I can keep a lid on it, I know how to stop, I know how to not start."

"Miriam, I can't. Can't be your counselor."

"OK, fine, but we can be friends. That's how we started, right? The counseling came later. I can be just friends with a woman, even one I'm attracted to. I'm not a lesbian, you know. It's just been sometimes."

"No, I can't be your friend. You're married, I'm attracted to you, you're attracted to me. I can't go there."

"Forget it, Sue Ellen. Forget it. Stopping the professional thing was your choice, fine, but not this. We're friends whether you like it or not. That's not a matter of choice. It just is. Real connections are rare but very strong. They don't break. We have one, I don't know why. We're not going to sleep together, but we are going to be awake together. Not that we would get much sleep."

This dragged a laugh out of the young one. She had the worst kind of erotic laugh - the kind the owner doesn't intend or plan, undiminished by suggestive looks or poses. It was pure. She was unaware of how the sound inflamed the air which the rest of us had to breathe. She breathed out laughter and the rest of the world had to breathe in fire. It made me squirm. I hope she doesn't often unleash that laugh on the innocent and unprepared.

"Besides," Miriam went on, "this marriage of mine isn't going to last much longer, I don't think."

"Miriam, that wouldn't change it. You'll need some time to be on your own. And I want to stick with men. I like men. Friendship with you would be too confusing."

"Bullshit," said the older one. It is truly fortunate that my sunglasses are so dark because I felt one eyebrow shoot up. "Bullshit," she repeated. "You just don't want to get involved with someone who's on the rebound. Well, that's smart. But I'm not talking about marrying you. Just being your friend. Just friend. Though I admit I had a very vivid fantasy about you once, before we started the psych sessions. Maybe more than once."

Sue Ellen's face changed, closed, chilled, "Did you really feel you had to unburden yourself of that confession?"

"I'm sorry, I should shut up. But that's then. I got past it enough to have you as my shrink, didn't I? Surely you, with all your training and objectivity, can do the same. Friends?"

"Oh, fine. You're so damn unfair. One coffee a week. In public." She smiled and took Miriam's hand.

Schiz

Whadya mean, whadya mean? I got nothin’ to hide from you. Get that dog away. Dog? Do I believe in dog?

Hey, Harley, yeah, I’m doing fine, really. Can I sit here? That OK? I just got back from seeing my folks in Indiana. Yeah, yeah. They’re fine, really. They like to have people over when I visit, and we talked a lot. No, I didn’t drink, I know better’n that. Damn that fly! Damn those flies! Jeeze Louise, Harley, what’s with all the damn flies? Fleas? Fleas on the dog? Fleas flying?

No, really, I’m fine. Hey, you know anybody who’s looking for help, ya know? Like any kind of job is fine. Really, Harley? Really? You serious? Sure! Sure I could do that, yeah, for sure! Gimme a broom and I’ll do it. Yeah, but I need the money tonight. Like Vegas. I’ll really clean up. Want me to start now? OK, OK, after. I get it. After closing. That’s fine. You’re a pal, Harley. I owe you big time. E I E I O. A E I O U. I O U. Big time.

Don’t worry, don’t worry. I won’t. I don’t do that stuff anymore. Not never not nohow, like the man says. Hey, here’s my old man, and here’s my dog. I didn’t know they were coming here today. Want to meet them? Shut up, Harley. Just shut up. No, sorry man, don’t worry, don’t worry. Sorry, pal, sorry. I didn’t mean nothing. Yeah, I’ll just sit here in the back until closing time. You’re a pal. E I E I O. Pal. I’ll just sit real quiet.

Can I have a coke, Harley? Please? Just a coke, yeah and take it out of my winnings. Right? You got it, man, take it out of my pay, and you’re a pal. Back here. I’ll just sit. Real quiet. Gimme the broom and I’ll watch it until closing. Hey, broom. Hey, bro.

Hey, get away, ya damn mutt. Leggo my leggo. Shoo, shoo. Outta here! Amscray! Damn! He bit me on the leggo! I’ll show you. Oh, crap. I didn’t wanna break that.

Oh, yeah, crap, hi Harley, crap. No, I didn’t mean to break it, but that dog, he bit me on the leg and I just, ya know, just like pushed him with the broom a bit. No, I didn’t hit him, just kinda pushed.  No, I didn’t hit. No I didn’t mean to break it, it musta been the dog broke it. I’ll pay for it, you know, outta my winnings. The dog, the dog, the one just ran outta here. No, the dog. Didn’t you see the dog? Don’t you believe in the dog? It flew outta here like a flea. Don’t you believe in dog?

No, Harley, please, no, please. I gotta get a few bucks. I gotta sweep. I’ll sweep. No, Harley, come on, pal, please.

Fistfight

Lying here now, curled up in a ball, aching with every move, I have time to think back over it.

I parked at the convenience store and unlocked my car door. It started to open, but after one push it stuck. I banged it and pulled, but I couldn't open the damn door and I couldn't close it. I thought about crawling out the window, but then how would I shut the window? I don't have time for this, I thought. I just needed to get to the store, I thought. Why did this have to happen to me, I thought. Crap, I thought. I'll go out the passenger door, I thought.

Spilled all over the passenger seat was the armload of library books I had just picked up and dumped in the car. I guess I should bring a bag or something to the library, but I never think of it in time. Anyway, the seat was covered with books. And the shift lever was in my way. I flung books into the back and crawled over the shift lever and found myself jammed against the dashboard. The last passenger had been my cousin Eileen, who has to stretch to call herself five feet, and her sculpture of "Head Of Woman Tormented By The Injustices Of The World" which we had barely squeezed behind her onto the rear seat. So the passenger seat was as far forward as it could get. I reached under the seat for the lever and pushed the seat back. Then I yanked on the door handle. Nothing happened and I pounded the dashboard over and over and over. Then I remembered to unlock the door. I punched the lock button and yanked again on the door handle and banged the door open, hard.

I banged it open, hard, right into the side of a very old woman, knocking her off balance. She recovered without falling, but as I jumped out to help her I collided with a very large young man. I realized later that he must be her son, but at the time all I knew was that he was an angry man with big hands.

I never really saw the first couple of punches, and even after I understood what was happening I always seemed to be a little late, seeing it in instant replay. First he hit me, hard, in the chest. Twice. Then he shoved me against the car. The door was still open, and the corner of it caused my shoulder some considerable agony. He hit me again, yelling something, his mother was yelling something else at both of us. He hit me yet again, on the side of my head. If he had done all of this hitting with a real fist it would have been a lot worse for me, but his punches were more like hard slaps with a half-closed hand. But it was bad enough. I punched wildly, hit him harmlessly on the hip, and I felt like I was in real trouble.

Then a punch I aimed at his chest accidentally hit his chin, dumb luck, and his head snapped back and hit the wall of the convenience store and he slid down and landed on his butt, not unconscious but dazed. I stumbled around a bit, thinking only of getting back in my car and getting out of there. I crawled into the passenger door and was clambering back over the shift lever when I felt mama's purse hit me in the rear. At least I remembered to pull the door shut and lock it.

The drive home exercised my inner autopilot. I got back here, parked in the back of the building, locked the car, walked in the building, climbed the steps like a four-year-old, left foot up, right foot up to the same step. Left foot up, right foot up to the same step. Four flights of agony. I shuffled down the hall like Mr. Rottengen in 2C, and stared at my door, not knowing for a moment what I was supposed to do. Reached into one pocket. No key. Reached into another pocket. No key.

I rested my forehead against the door. Eyes closed. Three deep breaths. I had locked. The keys. In the car.

Out of Gas

Water has an insidious genius for finding and filling cracks. In the course of seasons, of freezing and thawing, of expanding and contracting, water makes small cracks large and turns large cracks into dangerous crevasses. And so for years had the Vietnam War been finding and filling the cracks in America and expanding those cracks into internecine trenches. To the Vietnamese the conflict is known as the American War. One might find two meanings in that name.

I spent this period of my life largely in a daze, moving from one place to another, one observation to another, one class to another, in disconnected thought and vague action. The future had little reality, as I had not entirely shaken the childhood conviction that at any minute I would be subjected to nuclear incineration along with the rest of the world. I lived, I worked, I sometimes studied, I ate. I was not a protester, not an counter-protester, not political, especially by the standards of the time.

Soon after the mining of Hanoi harbor, student protesters in Cambridge took action against the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, objecting to that school’s participation in what a great general had once referred to as the Military-Industrial Complex. The protesters met for their final coordination in the middle of the Mass Ave bridge, which crosses the Charles River and connects Boston with Cambridge. They met there on the theory that it was neutral territory where they were safe from spying by both Boston and Cambridge police. I never knew how successfully this theory translated into reality.

I do know that among the actions of the protesters was the piling and burning of railroad ties on the spur line leading to MIT's Draper Labs. This act annoyed the school mightily, and was likely the reason that the police became involved.

In the MIT student center there had been preparation for protest. There were booths and posters, petitions and exhortation, and vehement Talmudic argumentation on matters of Communist doctrine between the Maoists and the Trotsky-ites and the Marxists. On one thing they all agreed: America was in the wrong, and MIT, as an arm of America, was behaving badly.

The events at the student center that day return to me in fragments and flashes. I was walking away from the student center when I saw a crowd of people running down the street towards me. I ducked between two parked cars, letting the river of students flow around me.

And then I smelled the teargas. It was a powerful motivator. I saw the advancing police shooting gas grenades at the running crowd of protesters. Another powerful motivator. No longer entirely an outsider, I ran with the crowd away from the police. We ran towards the patio in front of the inverted pyramid of the MIT student center.

Fragments and flashes of that day:

Fragment: Someone told me that we should pick up gas grenades and throw them back at the police.

Flash: I saw and tossed a grenade back, though I don’t know how effective my aim and throwing arm were.

Fragment: Someone told me that it was important to get wet paper towels to ease the pain of people who had gotten teargas int their eyes.


Flash: I went into the basement of the student center where I knew there were bathrooms. In the men’s room I grabbed a handful of paper towels and soaked them in the sink. I was not the only one down there on the same mission, but in my memory of the next minutes I was quite alone. I started back up the broad stairs of the center, armed for first aid. I saw a cloud of teargas, which had been shot into the student center, rolling down the stairs toward me. The deep breath that I took before I made the dash up the stairs did not quite last me to the moment when I ran out of the gas, out of the glass doors, into the air.

That burning breath which I took just seconds too early is one of the memorable breaths of my life. And the scene outside is one of the memorable scenes. A haze of gas hung over the depressed area outside the student center. A girl who had cut her foot badly kicking and breaking a glass door was being helped away. One policeman saw me coming out and yelled to another, “There’s one of them.” Perhaps he had witnessed my throw of the grenade. I don’t know how I talked my way out of that one but, unlike many others, I was not arrested.

The scene gradually quieted down, the crowd and haze and gas and police gradually dissipated. The war flowed on.

Sled

I leave the sled hanging in the garage, to remind me who's at fault.

She left twenty seven years ago, and that’s when Robbie was nine. Thanks to Her Bitchness, I’m alone most of the time, but I like that. Her Bitchness is married again, to some jerk in Pittsburgh or Wisconsin or Podunk or some such asinine place. Serves her right. I like it right here, and I know she wishes she was here, too.

You know, it was fine the first couple of years, when we lived in that apartment in town. Lots of sex, not many arguments, enough money because we didn’t have many expenses. She got pregnant and that all changed, like now that she was going to have a kid what did she need me for? I was a sperm donor, like those jerks who don’t have any money and go jack off into a test tube and get a few bucks for it. I tried with her, you know. Don't think I didn't. I made jokes about it to lighten it up, called her Hippo when she was real far along. Just to lighten it up, you know. But she kept pushing me away, like just because she's pregnant means I don’t get any. I got mad but she deserved it. And the crying jags! I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t take it.

And then the stuff she had to buy. She had to decorate for the baby, buy furniture for the baby, clothes for the baby. All this crap! And then Robbie was born and it was OK for a while. He was really cute and she was really loving to him and to me, after she healed up. I could understand she had to heal up; it must be hell having a baby. Geez! So I left her alone for a couple of weeks, but man it was hard. But she was real sweet after that, for a while.

And then .. she started talking about getting a house. A house! I had to get a house and a mortgage and neighbors in the burbs? Well, I said OK, but it has to be a bit out in the country, not in the burbs. So I found this old place on a hill, a ways out of town, long, long driveway down to the main road. She complained about the driveway being slippery in the winter, and complained about the long drive to the grocery store, and to her job, and said it was hard getting a sitter to come out here, so she had to take Robbie to a place near her work, but hell, she wanted a house, didn’t she? Don’t I get a say in anything?

So I got a mortgage, and this was when Robbie was about 4. And I dumped all my savings into it, so the mortgage wasn’t too bad, but a couple of years later she wanted to add on a porch so she could sit outside in the summer, so I had to take a second mortgage and mortgage all that money I had put into the house, so I ended up up to my eyelids in mortgages. But she got her porch, didn’t she? Every summer night that she didn’t sit out there, I’d remind her about the porch and the mortgage, so she sat out there a lot. I even bought her a chair for out there.

That was summers, but I’m talking about winter. So that winter when Robbie was nine he loved to be pulled on the sled. She wanted him never to sled down the hill, because she said she was scared he’d hurt himself. I got him that sled when he was seven, for Christmas, and used to pull him around outside the house and over to the woods.

But he was nine, and he wanted to sled down the hill. Geez, I loved that kid. Well, I told him, go ahead, just don’t tell his mother. So he headed down the hill, a long hill that was all grass in the summer, right next to the driveway, just a couple of trees on the hill. Well, he started at the house, and he’s going faster and faster, and he yelled help, so I yelled, just dump it, just tip sideways and you’ll stop. So he did, but when he tipped he turned, and instead of going over and stopping, he steered right into a tree. Bam.

Well, his arm was broken, and we took him into town and had it set, but it was a long, silent drive to town. She didn’t say a word.

I never even saw him when his arm healed. Her Bitchness got in the car the next day and drove away. I think she stayed with her mother or something. I got divorce papers in the mail from some rat lawyer she hired, and I’ve got pride, I didn’t whine or fight it or anything. She didn’t want anything, told me to keep the house.

Damn sled.

Tick

So why? My car gonna turn into a pumpkin?

Don't make fun of me, Bruce. I just have to get home, that's all. Just please take me home. Please.

Darlene, look. Are you tired?

No.

Well, lets just have a little more fun, OK? Let's go down to the beach.

Bruce, no. I have to go home. Really.

Aw, c'mon, Darlene. It's early. I know, let's go to the Big Top and get some barbeque. They're open real late Saturday nights, right?

Bruce, we're three blocks from my house. Please, Bruce.

Just a kiss, Darlene? Then I'll take you right home.

Well, she loved to kiss, and it made her foolish, sometimes. So they pulled into the park at the end of her street and he parked way in the back and he kissed her - he was a really good kisser and she kissed him back. She lost track of time a bit.

And the town hall clock struck midnight and her ears grew long and her eyes grew yellow and she bared her fangs and ripped out his throat.


Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #41

I, The Master

Step back, thou chickens, step back!
I approach. I, the master of all I see.
I, the favored of the two-legged giants,
I, the husband of three hundred wives,
I, the father of ten thousand eggs,
I, the winner of the Great Fight.

Come to me, my chickens, and hearken to my song!
Behold my might. I take leave of you now.
Fall on your beaks, my chickens! Regret me not.
Watch in amazement as the two-legged giants
Scoop me up to join them in their holy sanctuary!
I go to worship with them at their mighty altar.

Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #39

The Soul That Came To Dinner

I feel it penetrate my skin

And take up residence within.

A stranger's soul, a foreign mind,

It peers around, is pleased to find

My body has been kept up well

(Much more amenable than Hell).

It is a place a soul might dwell.

It moves some thoughts, though I object,

For I think it shows disrespect

To alter your host's domicile.

I think it wants to stay awhile.

It hangs some curtains, just to hide

Those favored things I keep inside -

Perhaps I shouldn't have such pride.

I notice (with a faint dismay)

A moving-in is underway.

Its crates of memories spill out

And fill me with a growing doubt:

Perhaps I should be moving on

For I'm a guest in this salon.

It bids me go. And I am gone.

Marketing letter

Dear <Name of Client>,

Welcome to the Image Elevation Consultants family!

You have made a wise choice. Our campaigns over the years have been extraordinarily successful. You may know, for example, that it is as a result of IEC efforts that policy correction engineers are no longer referred to as "terrorists."

That is one of our proudest achievements, but there are others:

At one time atmospheric diversity was called "air pollution." A nasty term, I'm sure you will agree, and our work has improved the outlook immensely for the many struggling manufacturing enterprises which joined forces to employ our linguistic services.

We have performed very successfully for certain governmental agencies. Most of these efforts are classified Top Secret, and I regret that I am prevented from describing them, but the results are widely seen.

I can tell you, however, that we are responsible for elevating the image of "evil," on behalf of a client whose identity you can surely guess. This was primarily a conceptual, rather than a linguistic, campaign, but I assure you it required our considerable expertise and experience to replace the antique and rigid concept of "evil" with the the vastly more appealing and fluid idea of "stuff that some fussy, old-fashioned spoilsports think you shouldn't do." One interesting linguistic aspect of this campaign was the replacement of the obsolete term "eternal damnation" with the word "fun."

Such campaigns go far beyond the initial efforts at discovering a suitable replacement for a needlessly unpleasant term or idea. Vast resources must be arrayed to make the universal replacement, and to correct (it used to be called "destroy") the reputations of those who would oppose our improvement. But the results are always well worth the cost.

Naturally, we must occasionally set limits on our work. When several members of the international military community requested that we elevate the image of "war," we demurred. It is well known, of course, that war can sometimes be a mixed blessing, but one wouldn't want to disrupt the salubrious balance of economic benefit and political vibrancy which this very tension entails.

Our only failure, or should I say performance enhancement opportunity, was in our ambitious attempt to replace the word "murder" with "alternate existence facilitation," and of course the client syndicate received a full refund. It has become an inside joke at our firm that the move of the members of the unsuccessful IEC team to an alternate existence has been, with the aid of the clients, facilitated.

So as you can see, we are well equipped (and highly motivated) to fulfill your Image Elevation needs. I cannot at this time tell you what term we will use to replace <Nasty Term> but you and your organization can rest assured that the required image elevation will begin immediately and will continue to grow.

Looking forward to working with you,
Sincerely,

B Palavra
Chief Elevation Officer

Stone

[ I'm sorry, dear reader. I'm not insensitive, but the difficult challenge of making a lighthearted piece based on this picture was irresistible. If you want a piece that is more appropriate to the feel of this image, here's a link to another Magpie #38 ]

It certainly wasn't Lrkthoth's fault that he spilled his frelap all over my snrt when we crashed, but I was so annoyed that I gave him one right in the ... well, you know. My snrt was now full of frelap and I really had to get cleaned up before I could meet any aliens. That first contact is so important, don't you think?

But more pressing matters held our attention for those first minutes. The crash had broken our gzarzg in two. Most of us, fortunately, were in the part that had the xidox generator. Those in the other part (and those in the compartments that were ruptured in the crash) were reduced instantly by the force of the crash to their constituent zinits. We knew that we'd have to go over and sweep the zinits up and put them into screw-top jars for the trip home - assuming we could go home.

Those of us who had survived had a lot of work to do. My job was to figure out where we were and what the external condition of our gzarzg was, and what our situation. Were we in danger? And, most importantly to our future, was there a nearby source of diz?

We knew which planet we had crashed on, and we knew the ambient conditions. It was unbelievably cold - we had not thought that life could exist at such temperatures. It was so frigid that much of the surface of the planet was actually coated with a thick, dense layer of liquified steam! The atmosphere contained everything we would have needed to survive, though in proportions that necessitated that we don double ribbles before venturing out, even if the temperature had been survivable. The gravity, thank V, was only slightly weak. We had seen extensive cities on our circuit of the planet, so we knew it was populated. There were patterns of radiation that could only mean a technological civilization of some sort. But we had no clue, yet, to the nature of the occupants. We were in for some shocks, I can tell you.

We got the basics sorted out, determined who was intact and who ready for a screw-top jar, and then I got ready. I vaporized off most of the frelap (in case I should chance to meet and greet any aliens) and got dressed for exploration. Strapping on a dordfirp to aid in my rescue - should that be needed - I stepped out onto the surface of the strangest planet we, or any nudnads, have ever visited.

For a moment I thought we had, by some miracle, crashed in the middle of a gzarzg launching arena. I was surrounded by what I at first took to be gzarzgs, all in the upright storage position. Each had force markings, just like ours, except that in most cases the markings - though in familiar symbols - were gibberish. What sense can one make of SHALL RISE AGAIN or BELOVED FATHER or HERE LIES BURIED? You can see that the symbols are there, but the order is meaningless. As if an infant had been given a set of hizziks and had arranged them at random. There was a MEMORY but that seemed a random accident: there was a IN to the left of the MEMORY and a OF to the right. The resultant forces would have pulled the gzarzg apart instantly upon launch!

Not only that, but there were no diz conversion facilities or crews to be seen. It would be like having a gathering of hundreds of krkls without a single boozhed! It made no sense. It made even less sense when I reached one of the apparent gzarzgs and touched it expecting, naturally, to encounter spongy resilience. But it was hard. Quite unyielding. No pressure could make the slightest indentation in this material. Although it looked exactly like obfrag, it felt like mbfrag. Unnerving, to say the least. So obviously there was no poldrkr, and therefore no way to enter any of these ersatz gzarazgs. This was a mystery we were utterly unable to solve.

At a distance, though at what distance was hard to determine - the proportions of the things were so unbelievable that I could not judge distances - were moving objects which I had to believe were living creatures. Vast, brak-stoppingly vast, lumbering about on two vertical struts that descended from an enormous ovoid lump, itself surmounted by a smaller (but not small!), stalk-mounted ovoid, and sprouting side-appendages which resembled nothing so much as the drepgos on a stylfan. Weird! Bizarre! And I, who have seen the beings on a hundred worlds.

Any one of these ... things ... could have accidentally stepped on our entire crew and destroyed it without even noticing our existence. We had to escape. We had to. I was, frankly, terrified, and near panic.

Of course, my personal clean-up had been in vain. There was no possibility of meeting the aliens, or communicating with them. And I had no desire to try.

But I had to complete my reconnaissance, and I steeled myself to do it.

Keeping a wary eye on the distant monsters, I turned on the diz sensor, and was astonished to find that the indicator immediately read 371. 371! I have never seen a diz concentration greater than 4. The place was, in that way at least, a paradise. With a diz concentration so high, we would likely be able to restore enough integrity to our craft, and produce enough replacement hfar, to get us away from this place.

But the gzarzg was broken across the middle, and we would have to restore at least our WILSON if we were to have a hope of interplanetary travel, much less return home. Fortunately, most of the WILSON was intact and the intact section was in the part of the gzarzg which contained the xidox generator. If reconstructed, that part would take us home. We would leave the rest behind. The O was nearly functional, and only the N would need extensive reconstruction. The DIED was irreparable, but it is well-known that a gzarzg can travel great distances without a DIED, though at the cost of several times normal hfar consumption. We, however, were in a lush richness of diz, and could leave with a stock of more hfar than we would need for several hundred thousand segments!

I called out the diz miners, warning them to be on the lookout for vast lumbering creatures, and telling them of the riches they would find. They didn't believe me, of course, and brought out only a normal complement of the regular sized esmos. I can tell you that they returned for all of the large esmos pretty quickly, though. They stocked up, aglow with the astonishing ease of their task, and it was not long at all before their job was done, and every esmo was full.

Diz processing began and repair materials produced, as well as an incredible amount of hfar. Hfar, you know, is much simpler to store and transport than diz. The integrity-control crew repaired the WILSON with ease, and erased the partial DIED in preparation for our elevation maneuver. A partial DIED is likely to reduce stability, and is usually worse than no DIED at all.

Cleaners went to the ruined section, and swept up the zinits. Screw-top jars were filled and stashed, and destructors were applied to the discarded section of our craft. No need to leave any evidence behind, after all. No need for the monsters ever to suspect that there were such easy victims as us in the universe.

So we boarded, stacked ourselves for the next leg of the journey, and we were soon far, far away from a place which I can assure you that I, and my neddpars, and their neddpars, will avoid like the totrunet.

Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #38

Infinity

"I didn't know the heart could hurt this grievously, Eldon."

"Yes, my dearest. But we shall ensure that, though no one had time to know her, no one will forget her."

"That quenches the grief as a teacup of water quenches a housefire."

"I'm sorry. There is so little we can do, but we can do this."

"And the stone will let people know that she was alive, however briefly."

"Yes."

"And that we loved her, however briefly."

"Yes."

"This little beacon of stone, carved as deep as our love, will stand and glow with our love, forever."

"Forever."

Here's ANOTHER Magpie #38

Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #38

 

Haiku 3

One faithful old shoe

Circles in the roadside pool,

Seeking its lost mate.

Haiku 2

She stands in the door,

Leaving to start her new life.

How cold the air is!

Haiku 1

The river is cold:

You let me lift you across.

You are my true friend.

In the shadow

Enjoy the sight of your reclining head,
your subtle smile,
your half-closed eyes,
your flawless skin,
your moistened lips,
your carefully revealing lingerie,
and unlined throat,
and hair cascading
over bare, smooth shoulder.

Reach for the beauty on the rumpled pillow,
beauty joining beauty,
the ideal coupling:
yourself with self,
softness with softness,
grace with grace,
perfection with perfection.

Breathe as you breathe,
entice yourself,
admire yourself,
arouse yourself,
drink in yourself.

But on occasion please recall that I am lying there
behind the mirror.

Here's ANOTHER Magpie #37

Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #37

 

Left

I lean against a wall that isn't there,
Drink from an empty cup to slake my thirst,
Listen to the voice of vacant silence,
Play a game of solitary chess,
Kiss your vanished lips. Your vanished lips.

Half open

It's OPEN! She left it OPEN! The Moron left it OPEN! 

I can get away!

Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!

Rats.

Juuump!

Humph. Not so easy.

Jump!

run run run run run run run run run skitter run JUMP!

Bonk.

RATS!

ouch.

I can do this.

What kind of a STUPID door is this, anyway?

OK, climb.

Skitter, scrabble, claw, scrabble, claw, skreeek. Clunk.

Rats.

I HAVE IT! Climb the curtain and swing out.

Clamber, scratch, scratch, climb. SWIIIIIIING. Clunk.

Rats.

Screw it. What's for lunch?





Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #36

 

Final Vision

Above my face

A blinding sky imprints the floating leaves

                        Upon my drowning retinas.

Inspired by Magpie Tales: Mag #35

The Blank Page

    The full horror of the blank page struck him. What had happened to the words? The mantle clock showed that two hours had passed. Had he spent it reading what did not exist? He felt his grip on reality slipping. Where was the story? The adventure, the romance, the suspense?

    Had he imagined it all?

    He tried to reconstruct it in his mind. The perplexing and brutal murder of International Resources, Inc. Chairman-for-Life Thadeus Kangtor; the rumors of financial malfeasance which threatened the very foundations of International Resources and thence all of Europe and Asia; the sudden, dangerous takeover bid by Comprehensive Substances, Ltd.;  the treacherous seduction of Thadeus' handsome but weak-willed son Bob by Marilee, the podiatrist's beautiful blonde assistant; the theft of three laptop computers which contained all of Bennie the Bookie's records, as well as the encrypted second and secret set of International Resources books; the double life of evil Lord Wilhelm, posing as the feeble-minded janitor; the ex-nun’s long, quiet accumulation of vast power, she who still called herself Sister Rose; the disturbing reports by scientists that the comet named Portnoy-Hemingway was going to pass very close to the Earth; the terror when Alfredo Pastafazoola, the escaped lunatic, kidnapped the pre-school of twenty children of Senators, demanding that his World Manifesto be read on the floor of Congress; the luxury hotel full of gorgeous female astrophysicists attending the annual Society of Gorgeous Female Astrophysicists convention; the meteoric rise and dramatic, tragic collapse of Sophia, the guitar-and-bongo-playing redheaded torch singer who turned out to be Sally Kangtor, the daughter long believed dead, and who appeared unannounced at the reading of the will to contest Bob's inheritance.

    He must have read it. Could he possibly, even in a dream, have made up such tripe?

Book proposal

Sandwich Therapy

Chapter 1: What's my kind of sandwich?

Chapter 2: Shopping for my sandwich: keep the fridge stocked

Chapter 3: Building my sandwich: use the ingredients at hand

Chapter 4: Sharing my sandwich: would you like a bite?

Chapter 5: Enjoying my sandwich: eat the sandwich that's there

Chapter 6: Improving my sandwich: find new stuff to enjoy

Chapter 7: Sandwich peace: eat and let eat

Chapter 8: Sandwich pride: this is a mighty fine sandwich

Chapter 9: Sandwich humility: your sandwich is pretty good, too

Christianity Comes to Crwlu

"I'll be back before mealtime, dear. I'm going up to the Great Stone to sacrifice that lamb with the lame foreleg."

"Now, Lóegaire. You know what Father Milwift said. We're Christians now, and we aren't to go messing up the Great Stone any more. We don't have to, you know. That poor sweet laddie across the sea went and sacrificed himself so we don't have to sacrifice lambs. And it'll save so much good meat. Please don't be so old-fashioned. Do you know that the Mocreeds have even gone and redecorated their greeting hall with great big crosses made of ironwood? I so wish we could afford to redecorate like that. I'm embarrassed to have Fáelán and Stinna visit."

"I'm going to the sacrifice, Boudicca. My father went to the sacrifice, his father went to the sacrifice and his great-great-grand went to the sacrifice. We've always gone to the sacrifice, and I'm damn well going to go to the sacrifice now."

"Oh, Lóegaire, the neighbors."

"Butcher the neighbors! And who is this laddie across the sea, anyway? I never met him. And he sounds like a perfect fool. And when did that nitwit Milwift become my father? I had a father and he was a perfectly good father, and I have the scars to prove it. Old Pa's mouldered under his cairn for seven years now. Pa would have had a thing to say about stopping the sacrifice on account of some foreign fool. That he would."

"Oh, Lóegaire."

But Lóegaire had turned toward the animal pen. He gently picked up the small, crippled lamb and carried it through the crisp early morning spring air up the ancient rocky path to the Great Stone.

*********************

The sun was high by the time Lóegaire's bloody, sacred task was accomplished and he returned down the path, his great-great-great-grand's iron knife (crude, stained, worn, cherished) stuck into the rope that served as belt around the coarse brown coat that flapped against his ankles. The hindquarters of the lamb were in a burlap bag over his shoulder, but the rest was in the small cave near the Great Stone, where he had it left for the gods as he had always done - and always would do, by Cwthnor!

He trudged into the kitchen to have his meal before his noon rest. It would be a hard afternoon in the fields and he was already tired. He dropped the lamb legs onto the cutting table and dropped himself onto his stool.

Lumnus was sitting quietly at the table, hands folded in his lap. Lóegaire looked at him curiously. He had never seen his son sit quietly before.

Boudicca, filling the bowls with food, said, "Up now, husband, and wash your hands."

Lóegaire was astonished. "Wash my hands? Is it the water festival already?"

"No, husband. Now go and do it, just like Father Milwift told us. And then say a blessing to God."

"To god? Which god?"

"Don't be exasperating. You know Father Milwift told us there's only one god, and he had only one son."

"And what, I beg you, does Father Milwift say happened to the other gods? Did they row over to the land of the blue savages?"

"Wash."

He grimaced, but he washed. In the kitchen she was queen.

"May I say the blessing, Father?" simpered Lumnus.

Who was this small stranger? Lumnus was always irritating, but this was even worse than his usual childish practical jokes and inane questionings. But if Lumnus wanted to say some fool blessing then the pressure was off of himself.

"Sure, boy. Be my guest." And then began the regrets. For Lumnus started in on a litany of humility and gratitude that took longer than had the birthing and slaughtering of the lamb. After Lumnus' fifth "we humbly thank thee" Lóegaire pounded the table and shouted, "Enough!" The looks which he got from his wife and son in the echoing moment after that gratifying thump were enough, indeed, to kill all the joy. No fear in them, just sad pity.

"But, Father dear," quoth the annoying lad, "Father Milwift says we must show much humility and gratitude to the Lord."

Had the boy actually said, "Father dear?" Was his son ill? He would take him to the cave of Ctfurba at dawn. Maybe if he brought some fresh meat Ctfurba would be inclined to cure the boy. Ctfurba was old and unpredictable but sometimes she did good work.

"Don't give me 'Father dear,' you squirt."

"But Father dear, I'm only obeying the Fifth Commandment and honoring my father, just as Father Milwift has taught me."

It was too much. This Milwift had invaded his sacrifice and now his table and what was next? Would Boudicca be passing on Milwift's platitudes in bed?

Lóegaire stood up from the table and stomped out. At the door, he turned and shouted, "Don't you honor me until I tell you to honor me, you verminous little dogbreath, or I'll do for you."

And he pounded his old boots out the door to the free air.