New Years Resolutions

The only time I don't mean what I say is when I say I don't mean it.

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LETTER TO A FRIEND

We have known each other for a while. From the moment I met you I thought that you were comfortable at being you. I observed you like I was a child watching a carousel. Well, a drunk child. I was sitting in a stroller, sucking on a bottle of whiskey with milk and honey. The lights were shining. The wind was blowing breezily and smiles were on the faces of even those that were losing. The adults were laughing and the children inside the souls that went round and round always rose to the top. Only when the music stopped. This was my first chapter memory of you.

I always knew that you have not been this way forever but I chose not to delve deeper into your psyche. The feeling was good and the teat tasted neat. I sucked and swallowed and got fat on forgetting.

I did this because I did not want to see the disappearance of Superman Moriarty to the kryptonite that Super Sal Paradise’s comeuppance would provide. I didn’t want to see you without the costume of the superhero that you packaged yourself as. I was going through the evolution to the slow learning acceptance of moth to flame to burnt moth and learning to work between worlds that were real and those that were fake. I was going upstream at full tilt and did not want to lose the destruction of fear that you provided me.

That cocoon was warm as a kitten’s litter. I snuggled down deep and came out dirty and stinking but a little bit softer just the same.

My role as an observationalist and as your adviser has taken many turns. None of which I will go into for fear of being perceived as an unprofessional adviser. That, by itself, would be against the oath I silently took to zealously advocate a wayward , fairweather client and friend.

This statement will be anonymous. This blog is. No names will be mentioned. All parties involved will be able to see what they want. They can read and draw the pictures to illustrate the story on the walls of the living rooms of their minds. Over these words songs can play as loud as they want and no one will be forced to clean up these messes. This is a story, my friend. A factual story. Facts can’t be rewritten.

This turn of our friendship will be one that probably involves many right turns that feels like we are coming back to the same place. You probably won’t like it. I urge you to understand that I was not the navigator, but only the observationist. At the end of the bullshit of this tale as I see it I assure you that we are moving forward, but like Sancho watching Quixote, a master or a muse cannot truly see his direction until he sees that there are no more windmills.

I guess the story starts on a dreary day in a bar that has seen so many dreary, shitty days. Our glasses get dirty. Our memories get dirty. Our sleeves get dirty but our thoughts get clean. We hope for the best but our bar tab dies like the rest. We search for past places we have conquered but I end up slumped over taking the A train back to Brooklyn criss-crossing my feet to the music of the last song we left on wishing five years ago could have lasted forever but so glad that it lasted as long as it did.

Cut to a few casual moments later and hell happens. Life is going as good as living a half way lie can be and couples dinner is attached. Thunder rolls. Lightning strikes. You know what happens. If not, your girlfriend might.

Again with the cliché, but there is nothing else as powerful and poignant to describe it as nature itself, the shit came before the storm. It had been along while since I had to deal with a problem that was not my own and seeing as I did not deal with my problems I was caught without the emotional poncho that a man who was watching his Moriarity superhero let his protective plastic fly away in the wind. The cape didn’t flutter but was ripped away violently. Wind whistled through your teeth and I just thought that it would at least serve as shelter if not for a blanket to keep me warm. You bared down on me and asked for the impossible. Like I was a savior. Like I was gonna do something for you. Like I had ever done anything at all except for get you out of a bar tab. I was dumbstruck. Dumfounded. Dumbfucked. I made promises that I knew that I could keep. But you weren’t Super Moriarity anymore. You were appealing to me as a super minority. A philosophical detox of binging on percocets and promises unkept for lotto tickets unscratched that were cashed in. That you were the benefit of. You were grasping at the straws held by those that I hoped you thought would come through in a pinch and I failed to pinch you to tell you that you weren’t dreaming. I’m sorry for this.

You take photos much like I write. You see darkness. But you also see a story. A photo with a lens-cap-covered camera would result in nothing. So you look for light. You traipse back and forth. Adjust and bitch and complain because the subject of the photo gives you nothing to be optimistic about. But when you get it, the broken shard of light that shines down on a glass of triumph and a face of guilt gives hope to me. That one more can get that person from that negative to being back home again.

The only way I know how to do this is the only way you will probably not ever expect, a sports analogy:

“It’s nighttime here in philly, this has been a whirlwind of a series. Two, tough as nails teams that have been struggling to come from behind just to get on top again. Back and forth as the seesaw goes for sure. Here we are, runner on second, final inning. Crowd at a non stop standtill. At bat is the notorious brawler and scrapper Urdowitz. The Polish power, as he is known here in Bronx stadium. Down by one run and after being struck by an alleged errant pitch in the 4th he arrives to the plate with one tooth less than started, folks. After a medical examination he was deemed ready to play after an inning and it is rumored that along with the medical gauze to absorb the blood, he is still chewing tobacco folks! It is said to kill the mouth pain but judging by the looks of his eyes and his slow swagger to the plate he is feeling none. So I guess it is working.

He stops before stepping in the box and gives a look to the umpire and a longer slow look to the catcher. They are both unphased folks. Every single party is steel. The pitcher waits patiently for the triangle of people involved. Urdowitz slaps the bat against each heel and gazes into the outfield…his glance is tightening…tightening…on the right field foul base line!

The jumbotron has picked him up! It is the same Tigers fan that had recently thrown the beer bottle at him while rounding first base! The reason he lost his tooth! How is he still in the stadium, folks?

Urdowitz is raising his bat! Oh my goodness! In the measure of the great Babe Ruth but mimicking the drama of the Natural he is pointing at the…No, he is not folks! He is pointing at the fan! The Taker of the Tooth!

The crowd is going wild! He steps into the box with a foot and reaches down grabbing dirt…he wrestles with something and buries his hands deep in the sand…claps them together…has words with the umpire AND NOW IS HAVING WORDS WITH THE CATCHER!

He brings his other foot into the box and grips the bat accordingly. I don’t know what is happening faster here folks…”

At this time Urdowitz stared at the pitcher. He thought about his right foot that fucking hurt. He thought about that fucking cocksucker in the rightfield that got those seats cause he knew someone. He hoped it was the goddamned catcher. He thought about bowling and how much better that would be then he just thought about fucking leaving.



But then he thought about winning, then fucking leaving.

He made the signal for ready to go, crowded the plate, leaned his right shoulder in, spat at the pitcher and growled.

He backed off the ball as soon as the asshole went into his windup.

He intentionally swung a little late to get a line drive from a fast ball that was meant to clip him and sent it screaming right inside the first baseline against Ramiero’s charging feet. It hit the inside of the bag and shot up in the air and the taunting fan fell backwards to avoid a bullet that he thought was for him. Urdowitz had never had such accuracy but he knew this one was his.
The ball ricocheted and left the right fielder deeper than expected and seeing as Rameiro charged that spot was empty. The ball in all its bouncing glory went into the foot of a ballboy who in trying to keep his job jumped and sent it in yet another direction.

Urdowitz never planned on stopping. He was almost at third when they finally got a handle on it to send to the third baseline for the rundown. The man on second base had scored without even sliding.

The Yankees fans almost did the rest.

While Urdowitz was cleaning the clock for the fastest time an oldtimer had ever rounded the bases, the fans were giving the heckler the once over. He was drunk as a monkey’s uncle and no one except everyone except for Urdowitz saw him being pushed over the rails for fucking with their man.

At this point our hero was running for his livelihood. I’ll tell you that the previous injury had caused his nose to bleed which was mixing with the sweat from his brow and the snot from his nose and looked as if his own nose-coffee was bubbling. It was quite a sight for any photographer. These are the images in the mind of anyone watching but there were those who weren’t.

There was the asshole behind the plate in expensive seats who spilt his drink down the bosses fake-titted wife’s white shirt when he pointed at the jerkoff in the stands as he fell onto the field.

More importantly, there was the entire third base line watching the asshole collapse when they were supposed to be involved in the fucking game AND the catcher who ended up receiving the lob late cause the third baseman bobbled the throw instead of the bullet available to prepare for Urdowitz’s epically metallic train-crash.

Our anti-hero did as his father told him. The catcher caught it up high, pulled it down with the right glove preparing to embrace and he gave it to him with full fucking force.

There are few people who say they know how to take a punch. Anyone that takes them, doesn’t like it.

You spend your life hoping you never have to be the fucking liar that has to say that.

Urdowitz never did.

He buried his head and threw his right shoulder into the catchers left. Not before he slowly pulled his fists into a ball and struck the catcher's Adam's Apple. Urdowitz violently shifted his left hand open-faced and down stumbling like into the catcher’s left wrist hoping to knock the ball from the glove. As he did, he splayed his left leg out and veered to the right bringing the knee into the groin of the jock-strapped catcher while throwing his body to the left and actually collapsing onto the plate sliding forward while both players and the umpire fell silent.

The catcher rose first with glove tight and the black and white shook himself and stood and grabbed his hand like a victorious boxer as Urdowitz rose from the rumble. Again, blood was dripping from his mouth. The cotton swab had fallen by the wayside and the umpire shook loose nothing from the catcher’s mitt.

The ball was seen first by the wayward titty looking fan next to the fence who created an earthquake rumble that made oppenents fans. This incident again drew the attention of the boss away from the cleavage shot the invited employee most certainly enjoyed and she screamed and jumped making mountainous moments of short term sugar lumps on his single scoop of unemployed ice cream.

Urdowitz heard screams and then headaches and then pounding. His winning teammates bumrushed him without his knowledge. He was still semiconscious. He fell apart with energy and then rolled and stumbled to the Gatorade jug and pulled himself forward. He fell backwards, relieved to be not a failure but more so not to be a vomiter. Then he vomited. Blud.

Then other stuff. The stadium was going mad but then again so was he. He was also missing something.

He trudged back with a vindicated soldiers remittance and kicked teammates and pushed new champion t-shirts till he got to the bottom of things. The camera had focused on him. The game winning homerun of the seventh game of the World Series deserved the homeplate. He had wife and children at home and the end of a career to think of, after all. He was gonna hold that piece of rubber up like it was his. Like the constitution of a fallen country that America finally took back. ‘Cept...

He found what he was looking for while the camera forgot him for something happier as he ambled toward the dugout to finally rest. He was front-toothless and dug-out. But those teeth that he lost in that car crash of a win were fucking poison. They were gone. So was his career. He was missing his teeth but he was clean again. He knew he was right where he needed to be. He was whole again even though he was missing pieces (teeths) when he approached the plate to retrieve the metal in the shape of the cross he left when he was digging in the dirt earlierr at the plate. He told that cock-sucking umpire and the goddamn catcher that he was gonna come back and get it a few minutes come hell or high water.

And goddamned if he didn't. All the while leaving his teeth and the catcher's lying bloody in the sand.

And my man, that is the beginning of our story that gives people a place to begin your timeline. And the end for us to enjoy. Good night. More »

Life Lessons By Mumbles

If you want a happy ending, stop your story before it's over. More »

ILLFORGOTTEN GLANCES AT MEMORIES LET GO

I learned that it was not food, nor love, nor acceptance I hungered for...but something more. I looked again at my words to find it, but everyone seemed afraid of what i would do with it and all the books were removed from my room. Yet me, my hunger and misunderstanding stayed locked behind those walls remembering the sunlight and her smiles and that time we walked together along the train tracks to see a man I would later call God. More »

Bread : Part 2,The Story of Abel

Abel was always a wiry fellow. His hands hung low and brushed the pockets of our older brother Hosea’s hand-me-down jeans so much that when they got to me, I could only use the back pockets to keep my possessions safe from stealing. They were worn like our parents faces.

Abel was born with a hooked left foot that didn’t give him a propensity for sports. But because he wasn’t any good on the farm or the field, it gave him a bunch of free time on his hands that resulted in an education for me. I was closest in age in the younger sense and was more gullible than our big brother, so I was an easy pupil and mark just the same.

We were all ornery as all get out. We threw, ran and squirmed like nobody’s business. All of us were naturals for football and the taller ones great at basketball. If it involved one ball and a single purpose that included physical contact, we were dirty in it smelling like the sweat of summer. We were what they called children reveling in sweat of the brow while others were rich kids bathed in water that was chlorine and pristine.

After Abel's first breath in '68, it was the last time daddy allowed momma to write a name down on a birth certificate or even consciously choose to create one via the state. My brother name was misspelled as Abel, but I was the one that was capable. Our momma had dyslexia and she named me after him or wrote down what she wanted to write down for him in the first place. His future begat his idea of his congenital physical condition. His failure at birth justified his unwillingness to succeed later in life. He wasn’t able. Hooked foot said so. When I was born my father was going to get his brood right where the Bible got it wrong. If Abel was so capable then he could’ve handled Cain. I was named in his version of the spelling and my life started so.

Abel in his boredom took to throwing rocks and breaking shit in the general sense of the work. I remember this one time where we sat out front of this abandoned trailer in a park down the road that was full of trailers that weren’t full and he must of chunked at least 20 through the aluminum siding and windows and even bounced one off the tires that damn near took both our eyes out before someone started shooting us with a bb gun. That hooked foot could really get going when it wanted to.

One day he was kneading this clay he’d stolen from school into all types of inappropriate shapes. Once it was a dick, another times a set of balls and others a vagina and any combination left to be imagined. He got bored easily; so when we went by the Hatcher house and the mutt started yapping his mind started turning. What once made a perfectly good set of clay dick and balls became a totally different avenue of entertainment. Abel became able. It didn’t take long for him to talk me into climbing the horse stalls to land in the back yard of the Hatcher’s passageway. As soon as my feet hit the dirt I was already on the fence again as he laughed and laughed while the dog was on me like the dirt on my elbows. I reached up and caught my breath and Abel handed me the clay. He’d stolen a few firecrackers from the rich folks in the trailer next door and fashioned a makeshift explosive. Most of his ideas didn’t work. He was good with a lawnmower but shitty at this type of thing. He must’ve spent more money than I had ever seen on firecrackers tearing them apart and putting them back together so they would be better than they were. For this reason he’d lost a thumb early on.

He tried to hand it to me, clay in palm, sticking his clenched fist through the bars while my hands laid sweat on the rusty poles. I smelled the iron and rust that always made me think of blood. He missed my grasp, maybe on purpose, but I tried again. I picked my hand up above my head while he fished it through and gripped it with similar fingers fitting into the grooves of the indentations that turned it from stolen property to the trailer park grenade.

I wasn’t old enough to buy a lighter yet but Abel always had one. Fires were his friends. He’d lost a thumb but never a singe of hair to a fire. He burned our trash and started our fires. Oftentimes he pissed himself while he did it. He lit the fuse as I tried to get the claytraption into the dogs mouth. The dog didn’t want to take it cause the fuse was smoking. It didn’t take me long to see that it wasn’t going to happen and Abel saw the same cause the asshole started laughing hysterically…again.

I forgot about the dog-menace and flipped over to scale the rusty bars when I started to yell but lost my breath as he was doubled over in fucking fits. I let out a scream in sheer frustration of him being an idiot and another in the heat that was developing in my spine. My shirt was on fire and my hands were heating up and the dog was going fucking crazy.

I fell to the ground as the mutt scratched, pawed and barked. The fire subsided but I was pretty badly burnt. I rolled underneath the bottom rung and ran as fast as I could hoping that I was still on fire and jumped my flames all on top of him. He kept laughing and I kept burning and that was the end of that. I itched and rubbed butter on the burns to make them go away for the rest of the summer. He was throwing rocks and I smelled liked grease.

Because I couldn’t move and he wasn’t worth a shit we had very little to do except clean up around the house while mother slept. There was a girl next door that was a year older than me but one less than Abel. I knew she was up to no good cause she talked too much. Always this and that. I got a herd of bees, she’s got two. We were gonna get to ride the neighbors go-kart, her daddy was gonna buy her one. She was a Mexican anyway.

Hosea had done some stuff with her but Abel was sure he would too. So one day we went over to her house and he turned her water hose on full blast. Before you knew it there was a puddle under her porch bigger than the Grand Canyon. She wouldn’t have even noticed had it not have been for the generator outside charging to work the air compressor for her old man’s tires. He was sleeping like momma but she came bouncing out nonetheless. She traipsed through the screen door letting it slam ever so gently making sure she didn’t wake him. She sucked on the freezer pop like she was so goddamn rich even though they never had any fucking cherry ones even though the flavors were random. We knew her father ate them all but she asked a simple question. Probably the most direct thing I ever remembered as a boy. She said,

“you boys ready to get wet?”

My brother’s feet splashed to turn off the hose to see if he was hearing what he thought he was feeling.

The slosh of water and the twisting of the iron made a weird noise for me seeing as I was only hearing the back and forth of air and tongues and lips on a shitty lollipop. She wouldn’t shut up and after she said that and he cut the water, he wouldn’t stop talking.

He talked about go-karts and moons and better doublewides that his friends knew about and a place where you could just runaway and she just kept on looking. Her toes got skinnier as she removed her shoes and socks and her feet ventured to the water. She kicked it around and giggled and he did as well.

He asked her if she wanted to see that bee’s nest or maybe it was a hornets nest under the trailer and that we had one but she had two of. Seeing as she had more and knew more, she might be able to tell us how to get rid of them.

He told her if she’d come he’d show her that and a bottle of liquor that looked like water. He said if you put a peppermint in it the smell would be like a dirty cigarette and her folks wouldn’t know she’d been drinking. He said, “You might as well come swimming over here if you wanna get wet.”

She obliged and came down.

Now, hand in hand, a naked set of tiptoes went with my brother’s. His feet were mudsoaked and bounced toward the place where the bees were supposed to be.

As soon as we got out of earshot, he showed her what he wanted her to see.

With this he presented a lighter and lingered too long on the flame before he brought out daddy’s cigarette. He was captivated by the maintenance of fire and she was intent on smoking what he had lifted from daddy. When she reached for the cigarette he thought she was going for the flame and he ducked like daddy taught him to and kicked her really hard in the dick. Cept’ she didn’t have no dick.

She fell down and didn’t move.

Abel told me that if we stirred up the bees enough they would bite her and we wouldn’t get in trouble. He said that if he went on top of the porch and held onto the railing and moved his hips back and forth and I pushed Sola toward the wooden 4 X4 it would be easier to make it look like an accident. Shit didn’t work.

We took out a garden hose from the back of her trailer and Abel started spraying the hive. They went nuts. Water and bees and honey don’t mix. She just laid there. I ran all over the place. I had acne scars later and was supremely fucked up. We hid behind a tree to see what would happen. Nothing did.

The bees ran off and we had a can of silver rust-o-leum in hand and were spray-painting her shoes. Abel was pushing down her shorts to make an arrow when her father came out.
Her father beat the shit out him. He had his face in the dirt and there wasn’t anything that hooked left foot could do, I tell you. Both mothers were sleeping but her father was going to town on my brother.

Sola hadn’t moved when my father rolled up covered in El Camino and roofing tar. The first thing he saw was Abel in the dirt and the second thing was a broken handrail on the porch of the trailer.

Last he saw was Sola’s pappy and shit got heavy. I was young, but I wasn’t dumb. They screamed back and forth and got buckwild like mountaingoats. I really think my dad drug his head across every beam on that porch. Both kids laid in the ruins as they duked it out. I watched cause I couldn’t look away. I wandered if I was as fascinated with ass-whoopings as Abel was with fire. I hoped not and then remembered how much I hated getting my ass whooped and thought of it as a done deal.

The police finally showed up but my father had already left. Her dad and my dad had sparred and he won. Mine I mean. We had one lawn mower, she had two. She had a doublewide, we had a single. My dad kicked the shit out of her dad cause she had two mothers and I had none. Her dad got all the moms. I just wanted to ride the fuckin’ motorcycle.

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BREAD

When I was a kid I had some really ratty pants. They scuffed the ground when I walked and I tucked them in my shoes so they wouldn’t make noise. The shuffling of my footsteps was not music to my parent’s ears but only a reminder of the burden that I laid on them.

We were a ragtag group of hoodlums, my brothers. We each had our role. I didn’t fit in so much but I made sure we had bread on our table. That was my role. I was fast as lightning. When I struck Pritchard’s Grocery, they knew I was there to steal bread. They would see me and everyone, woman and child, would run to grab me and sometimes I'd run down the aisle with the boxed goods or head for the can items to mix it up. I strummed my fingers against the shit like a harpist on strings that were old. My intentions were good but the sonic results didn’t match. I wanted the grocery item to land like cannonballs but most landed in soulless oceans. My brothers waited outside to kick the trash can or newspaper cart over in front of the door as Pritchard became good at sweating and old ladies pressed their hands against their heart and made noises that could heal a rainforest. I always jumped the trash can and headed for the field where we would meet.

I always thought sooner or later Pritchard would figure out our operandi. At first I thought he allowed it cause he knew we were poor. There were eight of us for christsakes. I knew my brothers started using the commotion I caused to steal from the registers while he was running after me. They would only get about 30 bucks a pop but Pritchard didn’t say anything. My brothers were probably taking their own share, but I was too. Cause they screwed me, this time, I was going to get a loaf for myself.

Being knee deep in not giving a shit, my mother usually drank away the day. Her job as a homemaker allowed her to forget her civic responsibilities of darning the socks and relegated her day to half-heartedly washing her dishes that weren’t supposed to smell of vodka. Her efforts tired quickly and she forgot about the shopping as pops forgot about the working and we were soon, all 10 of us, on fucking welfare.

She neglected the sewing kit so I appropriated it.

I sequestered some yarn and while Hosea (the oldest) wasn’t looking I tied it around my ankle before entering Pritchard’s.

I ran in like the lightning I told you about before and hit the bread rack with the immediate sound of thunder. I grabbed one and shoved it in my pants. Metal racks clattered and plastic bags burst. I pictured a cloud of flour in my tracks leaving the wolves behind and stuck my sweaty arm inside of the air-conditioning that was the dairy section.

Plastic jugs scrambled from my passing embrace and scattered on the ground acting like mercury, running every which way but contained. People slipped and slided and cottage cheese covered my hands and shirt sleeves as I ran homeward leaving a modern day chemical experiment in my wake. I ditched and dived like a pig slathered in butter (also in my pants) and gave a nice hip bump to a display of tuna that was shaped like the sarcophagus I deserved after fucking up Hosea’s existence.

Hosea, being the oldest, told us what to do. He always told me to go for the packaged white bread, not the fresh shit. I didn’t know it was because he knew what the baker did to it. I didn’t know it was because it was the best way to distract. I didn’t know a lot of things about Hosea. I didn’t know until this very moment but I just suspected he liked it cause he was used to it. Shit, if I had a choice I probably would have chosen white bread, but I don’t know what got into me that day. If it was just a wild hair up my ass or the overarching adrenaline that I felt as I ran to that fancy rack as soon as I got in…I had never done it before, but whatever it was, I fucked up and I fucked up good. I grabbed the second loaf on the way out and I think Abel kicked over a shopping cart and I leapt over it like a young nine year old should. My feet did tiny dancesteps between cracks on lost mother’s backs as my open palms felt the wind that her face cancelled all steps of dance and I ran to the secret spot.

They went in to pillage the cash registers cause everyone there did as they were told. Old ladies screamed and fell down. The boys shuffled their feet back and forth and up and down like elfin devils, giggling in the aftermath of faked terror. The women clutched their purses instead of their babies and my brothers stole their wallets. The victims didn't see the pictures of our names that may or may not hang in xeroxed sketches in post offices or grocery store check cashing stands but only in the empty photographs in school yearbooks. And just the same, they never saw us at all.

I cradled the loaf of free bread like an NFL fullback that had too many hits to the head. My finger was on the tip but somewhere I stumbled and it went sailing. I picked it up quickly but through the running and all the fucking melee I was leaving a trail of flour from the bread in my leg and the loaf I had in my hands for me until I found our meet-up spot. Nine-year old mistake. Lifetime of punishment.

Our spot wasn’t that far away from the grocery store. We always met there and Hosea divided up the profits but there wasn’t ever much that went my way even though I did most of the running. That’s why I thought of the yarn from Mama’s sewing kit and stuffing that other loaf down my pant’s leg. I could keep that one there and only share the other. They didn’t usually get there til half an hour after me. By that time I could have the butter slathered on and eat like a goddamn prisoner in a fancy jail.

I hit the grass at full tilt. I stopped then stumbled dragging my shoe through the dirt to let them know I was there.

I went under a large branch and stuck my hand in a batch of thorns and fell, dropping the bread. The loaf down there softened the blow. But as I landed, I heard the breaking of plastic and fell about 20 feet deep onto overgrown greenery and hit something sharp and solid bouncing me onto something softer. Corrugated pieces of plastic greenhouse splintered and landed on me like an epidural. I moved back and forth and then gave up to an exhausting paralysis.

I give you my word that the first thing I thought about was getting my ass whooped for losing the bread and instinctively looked for it. I couldn’t find it. It was probably up there. My leg hurt like hell but I rolled off the table that I saw to be steel or aluminum. It was clean but it was overrun by weeds.

I reached in my pocket and fished out what was left of the butter. My cigarettes were ruined. I stuck my hand down deep in my leg that was now a backpack and took out the loaf.
I put the butter in the middle and ate that shit like a goddamn sandwich and loved every bit of it. After I was done I was thirsty as hell and knew Hosea would know so I started sucking saliva and phlegm from the back of my throat to get the dryness down.

Time passed and they didn’t show. I got scared and guilty and still had the butter smeared on my face and Hosea wasn’t there. I didn’t know at the time of the robbery, but Abel had different plans for our eldest and when he left the scene of the crime, Abel kicked the shopping cart into his feet sending him careening into the newspaper stand that we usually left errant. Hosea went face first and a few bills went running. Those dollar bills became airplanes in a second. They congregated in the alley where I hopped the fence.

Abel hit the alley first and grabbed as much as he could before going over the fence and my brothers pursued the green that was chasing his pockets and footsteps. My biggest mistake which I would later learn to be my greatest hope of being found was now destroyed by prying fingers and shuffling hand-me-down shoes. The brother and Abel’s escape covered every track that was dusted with the flour of evidence of my location that would lead the police or even my fucking family to our fucking spot. A white powder was now meshed with dirt. All of this over a loaf of goddamn bread.

Hosea went to jail. Abel disappeared. The others languished.

I sat there in that fuckin’ hole surrounded by what looked like an underground marijuana garden. I was surrounded by greenery that most would consider Eden. It smelled of sweetness. I would have smoked myself to the neverafter but I didn’t have a lighter, only buttery smokes. I was nine.

I died down there eating leaves in hopes of killing pain but just kept vomiting them up. Mr. Pritchard now owns our house but doesn’t even have the grocery store. The room I slept in is now a game room.

Fucked up isn’t it? More »

EQUINEBRIATED

If you were a candy wrapper

that made a bunch of noise

that i could get to open up

by being so sweet

this message

would self destruct

so the new me

could be the old me.

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Legerdemain

New York Post : Taurus (April 21-May 21) Horoscope June 12, 2011

"You won't be able to please certain people this weekend so don't waste your time trying. If anything you should go to the other extreme and make a point of offering them nothing -- then they will realize how much they need you."

Jesus doesn’t believe in handcuffs,
And God doesn’t believe in keys.

But we were trapped in an unsealeable envelope,
That had a suicide note.
Addressed to me.

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ROBBED2

When I was little girl I stepped into a bodega to buy myself a packet of Swedish fish. I was enamored by the lights and temperature of the air conditioned song of the refrigerator that kept the beer o’ so cold. Others were enraptured by the cash register that kept the money from that and the lottery o’ so warm.

As I stood there with hands and face against the window I listened to nothing except the hemming and hawing of the fan blowing behind those cold glassine walls. Skin stuck and quietly popped as I shockingly, secretly, pulled it away.

The woman that came in for a stamp asked for it and as it was delivered she reached in her bag to deliver payment. The robbers pulled out the gun and shot four times. She fell to the ground as I turned around. Even though I was a child I ran into the way of harm. I buried myself into her armpit and begged her to be okay. They hurdled over the counter and left into the daylight that was free of water that my fish would swim in. Next to her body laid a quaking stamp and her American 25 cent piece. The letter deserved its own narrative but would not get it and it poked out of her pocket like a baby kangaroo from a pouch.

I took both and marched off.

I kept the stamp, letter and candies in my pocket as I went home. Sirens blared and lovers fought. I saw a car stop to avoid hitting a sparrow but smashed him anyway. The couple in that car fought as well. Love was a precarious thing and whether you knew it intimately or not, you were hard pressed for fucking murdering it, regardless of whether they said you didn’t do it.

My mother had been hell bent on doing the same to herself that she did to me. Essentially, she was intent on murdering us. I’d found her on the Hattiesburg Bridge a number of times, drunk like Elvis, leveraging herself over the causeway and begging for Jesus to take her home. I didn’t read that letter. I posted it and dumped the contents of her bottle of booze from her pocket into the river that led my village to the world. Inside, I put it in a tiny lock box and let it find its place in the sea in hopes that it would find a proper destination. A destination where it would end up that I was sure would be a better place than me now. When the receiver received it, I knew they would appreciate its simple message.

I never read it, but I knew it said something like “If my love was measured in currents then it would be strong enough to take this message to someone who deserves it. And I’m sure you do. So whoever you are I love you and am sure the person who brought you to this does as well.”

Most stories end with “the end” but I’m going to finish this with nothing.

The letter was sealed so I could not open it. I remember the girl as being beautiful but have no newspaper to prove it.

The fact that you found it, where ever you are, is proof enough.

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Cigarettes

I used to know this girl. I'd go to her place to have a beer, the toilet and whatnot. She'd meet me down at the front after the respective phone call with a match. A match so exhausted I could smell her skin singe.

She never, ever, flinched though.

It was routine. I'd puff my cigarette twice and sit alone on the worn out couch. Worn down by pain, love and cigarette sin. I'd puff it twice more and take one long draw off the half filled glass of stale beer and we'd silence and watch the Earth move. No words, no emotion, just listen and watch.

We watched mostly through this picture frame that hung shantily on the living room wall. The futon that faced us relaxed eagerly suggesting the obvious but she and I weren't interested. The smoke filled the room and the picture changed moods letting the voices on the other side dictate the degree of aggression that was illustrated by it.

Cigarettes and empty ashtrays later we would awake from that moment we waited for. That shattering separation from reality that only that picture frame could give us. More »

KETCHUP

On Sunday morning, post Easter, Jesus had been resurrected from the dead. I was non- plussed. Not being a catholic and drinking myself into a coma on a weekly basis, I didn’t think anything of it. Instead, I bathed in the darkness of my bathroom, slowly washing away the cave of pain that surrounded my life. After partially drying myself off with a dirty towel, I dressed in random articles of clothing I found between the bath and the bed. I stumbled down the stairs to hear the vibrancy that was Bed Stuy. Bill Withers blared. Actually, that’s wrong. He can never blare, cause he can never be too loud. He reverberated. He shook the halls and the mailboxes so that bills fell from their respective places and people forgot their debts and over-arching problems. I traipsed on.

Squinting my eyes I avoided the locals and wished I would have bought a pair of shades. They are seasonal in my lifestyle. Like fans, space heaters and ramen noodles, they all come at a typical time of the month or year.

I walked into the restaurant I go to now that I don’t go to the other one and yelled out my order in Spanish and stared at the table. Still wishing I had the glasses. On it were three things. Salt, pepper, and fucking ketchup. I moved in a way that made the table shift and the ketchup bottle fell sideways. It was resting on its top. It was Heinz. The first thing I read was “only the best tomatoes for the best ketchup” and realized that this was how I was going to get her back.

I had lost my confidence years ago through a series of poor choices and accidental mistakes and had an idea. I often did. Unfortunately most were forgotten due to the loss of memory that excessive drinking often causes. I would make sure that the best tomatoes for my best ketchup would be her tomatoes. And, like Heinz, if there is any quality control, my ketchup, and therefore, her tomatoes, would be mine.

In order to do so, it would be a slow process. I’m sure mister Heinz didn’t come up with his commercially viable recipe overnight. It would take time. So in order not to rush things I decided I would think of her as muse and do one simple thing a day. Write one word.

And so i set forth to reconnect with the woman i hoped to be my muse. The sweat that came from the trying follows.

Click thru for the bullshit...

The first would be the word “hope”

Hope sounded like dope. What did that mean. I guess it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t sound like anything either.

It felt like everything, though. It felt like a birthday party. It felt like being washed ashore. It felt like coming clean from lies that kept you washed in filth.

The second word would be “despair”

It sounded like the last grains of the hourglass falling onto the ones before it.
Like the people singing the last words of happy birthday as you entered the room from coming from the bathroom.

The third word was “faith”

It was the place to you would find to spread your ashes so no one had to clean up after you anymore.

The fourth word was “jealousy”

This is the party that I wasn’t invited to where you were invited to and I hoped I could talk to you.

The fifth word is “solitude”

These are the evenings that I spend talking to myself so that I will know what to say to keep you from leaving me next time the morning comes.

The sixth word is “desire”

The emptiness I feel on a daily basis because my hunger strike is not for a noble cause, but one of selfishness. Unlike Tibet, I don’t want freedom, I only want to be chained to you.

The seventh word is “regret”

Because instead of saying I love you, I only said I’m sorry.

The eighth word is “promise”

Because I don’t have to say it if we are together forever.

The ninth word is “love”

Don’t forget that the heart not only pumps blood out, it sucks it in. Without the two actions, death is inevitable.

The tenth word is “alone”

A man that cannot enjoy his own company can’t truly enjoy the company of others. But without the company of others, his enjoyment of his company cannot be shared.

The eleventh word is “broke”

This has to be not having a quarter to call and say I love you.

The twelfth word is “walking”

Because I would do so like hazel motes with glass in my shoes to get to you.

The thirteenth word is “absolution”

All of my hopes and dreams will be washed away when you will be here in my dying days. Choking and coughing, love and my blood, never tasted so sweet.

The fourteenth word is “ran”

Past tense because it happened. Going forward because it was what I need to get to our future.

The fifteenth is “law”

As morally obligating as ‘til death do us part’ might seem, it is still not binding. However, being apart til death kills me every day.

The sixteenth is “fidelity”

Our life has had a series of rainchecks. How many days will it have to rain before I can cash them all?

The seventeenth is “child”

If I am lucky it will be a girl and it will be as beautiful as you. If I am not, it will be a boy and not be as smart as me.

The eighteenth word is "explosion"

It gets larger as the day that gets longer still only gets longer.

The nineteenth word is "TEXAS"

Cause the meaning of YES in Texas is worth more than the meaning of NO anywhere else.

The twentieth word is "replace"

Because 6 figures will never replace the 7 letters that I will miss every day.

the twentieth word is naked

because when i am seemly i am covered in ashes and hope to be surrounded by the molten lava that is you.

More to come.

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Garden-Hose

I was in a Volvo leaving something that I should have stayed for. I had a guitar and a set of knives that served as forks with sharp edges. They were called knorks. You could cut ravioli and tomatoes but they were advertised as something that could cut meat.

Qvc could not help this. This was my product. I tried to sell it and failed.

I pulled the car into a slow town in Louisiana in hopes of finding an easy take on the knorks. I found nothing but rain and a church. I found solitude with a water spout that was surrounded by a garden hose. I missed my family very much. It had been days since I had bathed in cleanliness and hope. I stopped there and stepped out and washed myself naked in the rain in hopes of being whole again. I was. The parking lot was empty in the back of the church, however, the gutters were full with free water. I was clean and resting in the backseat of the car that was full of beer cans, beef jerky packages and stolen hotel shampoo bottles. These, I used under the gutter to wash myself to sleep. It was like my own shower. I went back in the car after the nature bath. I fell asleep like coma patients waking up. Click through for more, it's worth it.



The sun came and started shining in my mirror. My radio had died and light was in my eyes. I stumbled across the street to a diner I had never been to with a handful of door to door items I hoped to trade for breakfast to no avail. I had them in my pocket. I ordered pancakes and solitude and left the waitress alone. This didn’t work because when the food came I was lost. I had seen this person before next to a swimming pool at a motel in Arizona. I was sure of it. She told me quick and clean that I was getting a ticket and towed. This was strange cause I had never been here before in my goddamn fucking life. It didn’t stop then.

My wallet and my clothes and my gun was in that in that car. I needed everything. She gave me access to nothing. I knew that what was happening was not an accident. The thing that I had been escaping from had finally caught up to me here in New Orleans. There were no more Mardi Gras or churches or green garden hoses or weather reports that could save me. I was good.

I traipsed back to that church and Volvo and thanked the rain. If I tipped my head back I would drown like poultry. I didn’t. I went into the back of the car and looked for an umbrella in order to maintain my dignity.

I broke a hole in the church window and went inside. I went into the bathroom and found the toilet paper and wrapped it around the handle. 3 or 5 times. Strung it to the door. Pissed all over it and closed the door and brought it to the top of the broken window.

Then ran like hell.

I ran down the street through an alley over an overpass through a bathroom to another window that I climbed in hoping I would get away. But again, I found myself back to that car in the church parking lot,later. It had my gun, my clothes and it was the place where it rained when I arrived. It was where all the answers were reconciled during a later date.

The roof of the church was nice. The garden hose could be a rope (or a noose). The church served as a venue. I fell into the past but stepped into the future. Delusion wasn't a nightmare but a dream of the same sort:

I went to the back and climbed up the set of steps with Eve's green shackles wrapped around my neck. And as I did, I stepped gingerly up the iron necklaces that kept me bound to the excuses that were you.

I knew that I wasn’t going to make it in that town. I knew I was going to fail. I had too many things in my pockets to sell to so many people that did not want to buy them. I gave up and…

I fell down those steps before I charged up them. I ran before I lost it. When I did, I swam up those steps and life to make sure that I went forward. Face forward. Into a pool without water. Into a pool without hope. Into a parking lot with a garden hose, drowned by the greenness of the rain that came from Jesus himself. I hung myself faster than I started to tie the knot.
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Envelopes of Warmth

I've spent

five days wasting

In the moment between heat

And all the hope

that will keep us warm...
____
I have died inside

When everything that's strong inside

is warm...
________

but I give you an envelope

that is absolutely full of hope

and soft and warm.
_________

you're--life

bleak ... and soft to me

will be ... the storm ....

_______

but I give you an envelope

that is always full of hope

and soft and warm

________

you are the best thing

that I have ever seen,

circles and their crosses have came to you

but I have given you Jesus and his hope for me.
____

I wait for you.

i wait for you.

i will,

forever,

wait for you.

i love you. my love. forever. More »

Drinking Like Sunday Morning

The rain fell on me like yesterdays breakfast. I was hoping for an early flight but only found an easy reason for mourning. I drank as much as they would give me but was back in New York and barely knew I had felt like I was under anesthesia. I put my bags at a friend’s house and quickly sat myself at the old local bar. It took him 20 minutes to leave and lock me out for ever. I moved in to an old bartender's house who later usurped herself as my lover and went on my quest to be a flown in employee for a future I would not expect. I showed up in poor shoes and horrible clothes only to be sent back in shame. Shame was something I was good at however because it was the only thing that fit me well and I did not have to adjust it to my frame. I went to work and toiled back and forth trying to find my rhythm until it found me. In the supply closet, not looking for supplies, she came upon me in tight pants with a light smile and I coalesced. The first date was a night in a dingy bar that had couches that were made for dingy sessions. Days led to evenings. Her obsession became my demise. I slowly moved in with her and into her. But it took enormous feats like scaling walls and jumping ropes to make it last. At the end, we were naked on rooftops and killing ants. This was the beginning of the best days of my life. More »

Angel

I sat down and left her for nothing as long as something came true. Her breath was warm and kept me whole. A step in the right path of unended horses fell to the trail that cowboys did. She was a woman that galloped in the right step of a show horse. She led a beautiful loser to a short sell that led the long hall to the hope that only existed in the oasis of blood that is bleeding. It is yours that will be signed in a red wonderment that will turn you in. That red will be your signature as long as your heart still pumps. More »

The Ballerina

Years ago before the woman that is the focus of our story became the surface of a newspaper headline she grew up in a town of central Ohio. One with hopes and dreams of being a professional ballerina. She wore pink when she went to bed and pink when she went to school. Oftentimes, the widget wouldn't allow the parents to supplement her clothing with the colors that she wished and she wore red and orange and yellow and imagined them to be those simple shades of red and white to create a hue of ballerinaism that she so desired. She danced in her bedroom and in her bathroom to sounds of excess and chainsaws and pop stars hoping for a better life. One of stages and bright lights but found none. She grew old and tired and aged and restless, wrinkled and rounded; her face and whiskers framed by her lips. She was ugly, no woman liked her, and no boy would talk to her. She was what they called an outcast, she was a Clyde when she only wanted to be a Bonnie. So she practiced her moves and pranced about her bedroom in the recesses of her night, Without phone, without journal and most definitely, without makeup. As those tiny little slippers that were given to her became to thin for her to wear outside of her room she started to feel the bristles of the carpet and as she did she started to feel the sound, no the feeling of dancing. She buried herself in all of the greats of the time, the Britney Spears, the Christina Aguilera, the simple Mexican pop stars that were relegated to oap operas that noone would ever see or hear from again and she never replaced the shoes.
To read more click here.


She cut holes in the toes to allow her feet to breathe, to sing the songs of of anathemic bliss that her heart felt every day but her motions were not able to express. And little by little her grace became something elegant. She walked different. She talked different. Well that was because she was wearing braces. But still, she talked different. Her grades began to slacken but her parents said nothing because she was a different person. Not locked in her room reading strange books about dinosaurs at the tender age of 13 but reading books about reptiles and studying them with a fervor that few could understand, including the author of this story. And her parents. And everyone else. But she danced and danced.

She joined the high school pep squad and soon became a phenomenon. She was known as far and as wide as all pep squad girls were. Her poster was plastered all the places that posters of the entire pep squad was plastered. The cafeteria, the theatre, the pep squad practice room! She was the third from the left on the second to the last row. And there was her name! She had finally achieved the recognition she deserved. She could be apart of the Ohio players had there not have already been an Ohio players! But she was a part of the Shanawsee Saints and she was proud. Football games and football games she danced in line with other women of her shape and stature and wore those holy slippers underneath her dancing shoes as socks and took the crowd by storm. She knew the saints were not a winning team, but only, only if she could only dance more than at half time she could inspire them, make them feel what she could feel…

The saints failed again that year, to go to the playoffs, or win a game for that matter. The district that they were in had a clause that only those teams that had playoff teams were allowed to compete in the Ohio Pep Wonder Playoffs. A competition of thousands, well, 20 or so that would compete for an award that was so large that only two or three could place their hands on before it was covered in palms and everyone else just touched the hands that touched it. But that year light shone on her. And gave her a chance to remove those holy shoes that made her the dancer she was and replace them with those of greatness.

The competition was one that was sponsored by the local radio station called, "This is What we Call hip-Hop" and she took that as a sign for her. One that gave her presence and opportunity to show that she not only stood for the saints or Shawnasee or dancing but herself.

The contest required a 20 second audition veto that needed a 5 second intro as to why you should be considered but also a 15 second dance routine as to why you should also be a qualified dancing contestant. She listened to the radio every night to hear those that called in and said they would be the next ABBA Dancing Queen.

There was a girl that she had known since childhood that was so pretty that when boys saw her in the passageways of the school they stopped and yelled things at her like she was a star, things she didn't understand, but knew they were important. She knew about lips and licking and icecream but she wished she was that to them on the dance floor. She would be one day.

She practiced her routine. Hard. As fast and as rigorous as she could. She sweated and slept in her workout clothes. She fell asleep to her music, her secret song that she told noone about, not even her most trusted companion, her mental journal! She knew how it worked, if you wrote it down, love would betray you and your secrets would be gone. Dance was this and nothing would betray her from him…or her. Or it. Nothing.

As the competition deadline got closer she had to find a video editrix. Someone that could embody her style of her work. Make it personal but also flamboyant at the same time. But she had no friends and no where to go so she started to think.

But then she realized she had no friends, so she was out of ideas again.

So she went to the only place she knew

She went to the drama department and asked the first person she saw. A boy Nam Nam McCready that was tall and dreamy like a luscious little rainbow popscicle that you bought with the last pennies you found in your parents couch and when you opened it you wanted to eat it but it was so luscious and dreamy that you just let it melt on your hands and told everyone that you did. Eat it I mean. He said yes, of course with conditions, those being that she eat him; like he was luscious and dreamy like a popsicle and not to let any of it spill on her hand like in her imagination but to make sure that all went into her mouth and she said yes and got that over with and Sean went about constructing a set out of the leftover material from a previous one act. But give me a fuckin' toss. I'm shooting for something here. Listen to me.

It was soft and frilly. It was big and fluffy. And the music, was well, less than expected. It came from a boom box in a corner and sounded like it. Sean suggested she act like she sing along with it against her own better judgments and she did a run through that she wasn't proud of but she soldiered on, after all, that's what dance was about, sacrifice. But then he wasn't happy and she wasn't happy and he started talking about the rainbow popsicle again and she remembered…that was how they met?

So she said, lets do it again this time without the nudity and the close-ups and "all that" and just the music and the dance, oohhh…the dance she loved so much. He acquiesced, she did it and they stopped. She looked at it and knew it was a keeper. She made him put it on a tape, did the popsicle thing a few more time than she wanted, and waited for the radio station to call.

The days creeped like extra pounds on a scale that she had tried so hard to get rid of before a contest. And as the sunshine came and fell at dawn so did her hope that they would ring her in the respect that her at her discarded dawn in her shoes deserved.

She fell that day. Down the stairs of her parents stairs marked with photos of her as a dancing queen at the age of five in front of so many at the Shawnasee music hall, when she did a rendition of 80's Tiffany that left people stunned and speechless hoping for more but got nothing else. The picture of her at the high school dance lesson where they took photos through a window that they told them was one way but wasn't and all the people including her parents saw her trip and fall into that pirouette of Billy Jean. She fell like bricks. Bricks dropped on a sack of potatoes. And crushed by a flaming bag of shit. That was set on fire and rubbed in her face to make her know that she wasn't worth it it.

The contest deadline came and the phone call came and she knew she was a lost cause and nursed her wounds and hoped that…they called.

They did, they said they liked her tape and wanted her to come in for the live radio audition. Her spirits filled. Her leg welled. As th blood rushed to her brain so did the passion for dancing to her heart.







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Love in the first degree

Sometimes life gives you a hand full of nothing. Then, sometimes it gives you a hand full of shit. You can neither discern between nothing, or shit. I discerned for everything. I waited and I wanted. I got neither. I stared at goats and got everything. Fighting for something does not equal losing everything. Getting your shit together will get it all back home again. June is the new Easter. See you soon. Sorry to be so cryptic. Love you baby. Here is the first time i have given a fake photo of us. Watch Randy Owen, he's not really playing the guitar.

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Life Lessons By Mumbles

Things worth Mumbling.

I'm the guy that's drunk in your dreams.

I am a professional amateur.

I leave an interesting first impression, it's the one you remember when I leave that sucks.

Immortals are dying not to sleep. Mortals are dying to sleep forever.

I need a lifecoach, cause my team is fucking losing.

Accidents are faster than on purpose is.

Click through for many more after the jump.



Your innocence danced like a ballerina between the curls of your hair. hope didnt move, i stayed Still and watched the beauty that was you.

She was a lost cause waiting in hopeless romance.

Solitude is a special emotional place. It’s one of the only times where we can feel both happy and sad at exactly the same time.

The difference between world terror and and world triumph is "Why am I here" vs. "Why are we here."

far side...

After losing future wife and therefore, the possibility of fatherhood, the man developed a strange fascination for the consumation of eggs.

I felt like an adult invited to a McDonald's birthday party. Everyone was happy and laughing and all I could think of was, "Where's the booze?"

Why do we need words when we communicate so well without them?

Superman acid.

Heart breaks are made for those that have souls made of stone in the first place.

Free whiskey makes you fall in love in a different way.

Hope doesn't wait for faith, the soldiers lie within.

Bread is a napkin you can eat.

I waited so long to die this early.

Life is not a wine glass, when it breaks, the blood is lost forever.

A woman is a handful of whiskey with a tumbler of regret.

The best doctor said, the only thing I want to heal is a broken heart.

I made short work of a fascinating life.

I don't need to leave the house; cause when I'm sleeping, I'm all over the place.

I was so fucked up when I arrived in New York, I thought I was at the dentist office.

Heaven isn't Harvard.

I danced in the living rooms of your mind.(Chuso)

Would it bother you if you didn't give me your number but I still called you?

If you don't know whats going to happen; don't be surprised when it does.

Killing each other casually, we walked forward into the the year that would leave me looking backwards.

I can listen and drop things at the same time.

The mainstream only throws us down the river.

Excuses are answering machines for other people problems.

My love is the kind of shit they make bombs out of.

I am the ill advantages of the softer side of hell.

I'm not the child satisfaction killed.

The closest she’ll get, is close to me.

dead flowers are wisdom's sorrows.

But the things that are torturous will. Just ask Sarte, Jews and my new favorite hero! The Earl of Rochester.

IF YOU LIKE THIS GO TO OTHER ORIGINALS HERE.

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The Waterfall

There was a day, a sundrenched day, where the wind whistled and birds sang. This served as an internal alarm clock for a man who never counted time. He was a person that died when he slept but was alive when he was awake and for this reason this was significant. This alarm clock kept him alive. He fell in love with a young poetry that kept him stronger. For this he was as strong as Hercules but weak as Achilles and as the heel ached, so did his heart.


I stepped into the woods and walked in a direction that did not know where I was going. I stumbled and dodged branches and fell down and cleaned leaves from my hands all the while, listening for the sound of the water. A tiny trickling brook that would be larger than the sounds I had heard any time before in my life. I walked and sweat as a man that was walking to a place that had water where he did not have water; I walked for minutes, maybe thirty, maybe an hour and collapsed to a ground that smelled like earth and incidentally like a funeral. The only grave that was dug was my own. I did this amidst leaves and made something of a "leaf angel" and laid myself on the cold, hard ground.

I rose and opened my knapsack and took from a pocket my aluminum foil sandwiches. I situated myself on the log and waited to eat like a man. As I consumed them, the ants climbed the rotted log and up my pants as I ate like the simple hungry fool I was, but as soon as I noticed the stings from their needles of discomfort, I started to move. I dropped the sandwiches as they started consuming them and started to push and pull at my pockets and my underwear. Killing and stabbing, I left the sandwiches and picked up the knapsack to take it with me to the closest space of the sound of the water. I noticed moss growing and the sound getting larger and walked towards the taste of fresh water. The leaves started to separate from the lack of the earth to support them and I fell forward at an awkward pace hoping for the sweet taste of forgiveness that water at this point would give me. The sweet taste of whiskey beforehand. The
nights spent in female desperation only to have it satisfied by my Rebecca. Months of hunger from the unemployment that rice and bell peppers satisfied. Any of these things would have satisfied me, but today I had won more. I fell atop the river and drank like dogs. Lapping and slurping and washing at the same time. My hands and tongue served as chop sticks and were futile and my thirst could only be quenched by burying, drowning my head and shoulders in the water and drinking all I could breathe. I drank too much and my stomach hurt and I laid in the river bank taking it all in and watching the sun move directionally from my left to my right. I waited until I could I move a little and searched my sack for something but only found a knife and went to work.

The knife and the sun served as a proper playing field for a man about a mission. I immediately scoped the landscape and found the youngest most virgin trees that I could saw from their womb. I collected a large amount of these, and not being a woodsman, used the twine that I had brought from home, I fashioned a worthwhile raft. I put these together and put it on the water to test its floatability and was satisfied, drew it back, built a fire and took out my notes.

I had made plans for this. I waited for a date, June 3rd to be exact; that was covered. I had researched the bus and train schedules for the trip and found the cheapest one. I left my rent in the mailbox addressed to the Hassid landlord and a note to my father postmarked that would be sent later for sure. This was a decision I would have to make and I knew if I did not make it covered, I would not make it all. At that moment I pulled the map of the river from my wallet that I kept all along with no money to return and be reviewed. It was topographical and I thought i was more or less in the right place.

Next, of course, was my deep and desperate desire for whiskey, for this journey could only be made at night and me, with the courage of the coward, could only do it with this.

I drank. Like fishes do. Me close to water I absorbed the oxygen necessary for my lungs through liquid. I read and reread my notes hoping to find solace in the things that I had wrote but found none. I decided to do it just the same. I gathered my things and put my letters in a plastic bag. I placed my knapsack in an open area next to a the fire that was not extinguished but far from anything flammable and pushed the makeshift raft in the water and climbed on, lighting a cigarette as soon as it was stable.

The cool breeze bit the warmth of the evening moon. The freshness of the water calmed me. With disregard to beautiful environment that surrounded me I threw my remaining butts in the water. I floated for 20 or 30 minutes, but of course, as one always walks to their imagined execution it seems like hours until that sound of death I sought got louder.

The cross-pollination between nature and humanity that only the ocean and besought humans created did not make me balk. I laid still and let the splashes of the water extinguish my cigarettes as fast as I lit them.

I had almost more than a half an hour and would need no more. The rocks began to bounce against my back as I rolled over them, getting larger and larger as I went down the river. At the beginning, I felt pleasure in my ability to see it through, but later starting to cause pain and panic and lunacy, I wanted to see it to the end. Pieces of wood started to fall away. As I said I had no formal experience, military or whatnot. I was shocked at the shear severity of the cold of the water on a summer night and I panicked and dropped the cigarettes in the water and held to the sides as they bobbed and jolted against my head. But from the depths of the dips of the craters from below I laid on my stomach trying to balance myself but soon noticed that all this allowed me was a front row seat to the catastrophe that laid behind me. There was one in front, too.

At that moment, I faltered. I began to move from the front to see the impending disaster to turn to my stomach to avoid it. That sound of forest and nature all of a sudden turned into one that was most terrifying: the connection of god or whatever and humanity and a you can't fuck with me sound that the waves of the ocean had always given me. I was drowning, or about to and had chosen to do so, but in a river, not the endless cataclysm of waves that would take me to a different place of an ocean and I was scared shitless.

Every time I moved, the twine loosened and I clung more desperately. Pieces of rotten wood fell away and I cried. My eyes mixed with splashes of water that would take me to my death. I cursed myself but still did not stop myself from kicking. As I did, toenails caught on rocks and ripped apart. Fingers scraped the ground and were left with much less skin than the beginning. And my breath, my breath, my most important thing, was spent screaming into a darkness as I was carried down a river to a topographical error I did not know existed.

My map was birds eye view. A river was a river. This one led to a waterfall.

After seconds I was holding on to a stick that I kept trying to push in front of me to hit a boulder to force me on to the side of the riverbed. All it did was continue to force the branch into my eyes, lips and nose. It only took seconds before I could no longer breathe or see and quickly let it go. God and Nature won in the first round and I listened to it happen.

With breaths of fresh air I fell deeper, thinking of her lips wrapped around mine giving me her love to keep me alive. Yet I still went deeper hoping that the kisses would continue. They did, but I did not rise. I sank. To the bottom. In an open emptiness that accepted me, my dirty clothes and fingernails scraped the sand that covered my riverbed, pulling rocks from the bottom and sand to the top of my lungs. I raised my head looking for air but there was none to be found.

Her kisses enveloped me and I gave way, waiting for the fall to come slowly. My body and my head turned. Teeth bounced on the bottom, separating from my mouth and leaving them helpless on the floor. My jaws filled with sand and I started to chew. This was my last meal and to me it tasted like love. She, to me, one grain at a time until I ingested blissful sunlight and the great goodbye. I slowly rose to the top, floating down the river in a peaceful calm before the waterfall came. A passerby would have thought I was a log or a large turtle depending on the moment but She would always remember me as someone that always rose to the top or missed her too much.

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