Die Fat, Man (A Bromance) Pt. 1

Santa Claus is a drunk. He also drives a taxi in the off-season. March and April are for Leprechauns and taxes. Leprechauns don’t bother Saint Nick as much as the Elves. Saint Nick’s only concern is gross productivity. And no matter how jolly those Elves try to market themselves as, they are little bastards same as squirrels. And if you ever held a Cheetoh under the nose of an Eastern Grey Squirrel, then you’d know what I mean.

The other thing about Santa Claus is that the guy is a real prick. The biggest. Oh, and I'm not saying this because I never got the silver and blue BMX bike with rear pegs and mushroom grips when I was 10. I did pop Kenny Everly pretty good in the mouth that Thanksgiving for calling my mom a fire crotch. I had an inclination that little misdeed so close to Christmas time would leave me empty handed.

Most nights, lately, Lily and I would argue about who had met him first. Saint Nick turned up at Cardinal Liquors on a Thursday. I remembered because Lily had Thursdays off. Try to tell a woman anything, though.

We used to argue about press-on nails. This is what happens when you send a woman to the Piggly Wiggly for a 6 pack of Bud with your last five bucks and, instead, she comes waltzing in with press-on nails. She keeps her nails red, red. She calls it Candy Cane Red. Lily says the blowhards tip better not when their glasses are full, but when their egos are full. She’s a notorious flirt. My mother thinks that Lily is a whore. Red, red. I call it Hooker Red when I play pick-up ball with the guys at the fire house.

I am a retired firefighter. The thing you should know, not every firefighter is a hero. We aren’t all noble. Some of us are racists. Some of us jack-off to "The Wonder Years". Some of us drink daffodil drinks. Drinks made for queers, Cosmos and such. Some of us think about leaving the dumb bastards in the house, burning. Dumb people are worthless. Cats are worse. Cats are like women. We don’t save cats all that much like some jerks would believe. We will, however, always save a dog.

Anyway, Lily had Thursdays off. On Fridays, she’d work, we’d fuck and then smoke weed. And this is how I know that I was right and Lily was wrong. I remember that I met Saint Nick one night and there was fucking and weed the next night. And it was that night, the same night, when I took a swing at that bastard, old Saint Nick. He returned the air ball swipe by firmly connecting his plump fist to my jaw like an old, angry Irishman and immediately rushed me with all the force of an entire herd of gigantic raccoons (I mean real scary, weird shit). In a blink, I was pinned and gasping against the pool table.

“You should see the other guy,” I lied to the guys at the firehouse.

Lily and I would be covered in moonlight; naked and sweating like mad. Lily inhaled a strong, patient breath. “Well? What’d he say, Jake?” Lily demanded. “Do you know the guy?” She exhaled.

We all knew him. We all had forgotten because our parents are liars.

She was squinting up at the ceiling. Lily did not look at me much. I’m not much to look at as I was 20 years ago. I am broken. I am deeply creviced, old-leathery and gray haired. Christ, I am my bastard father.

My eyes were always attached to her.

I shrug and press my index finger against her bare shoulder, running it down to her elbow, down to her wrist, down to her palm. Her skin is warm pudding. I want to splat her against the wall. I hate her so much.

She moves her arm away. Further. Always further. She put the joint to her lips and inhaled again, “Well??” It was my last joint. I must love her in some way. Or perhaps, I felt guilty, her fucking this old man.

I press my luck and bury my nose into her skin and breathe in. Strong, patient breaths. She smells like bursting apricots. I shrug again. She looks at me.

She looks at me.

She looks at me. Her eyes are smoked Cedar, pupils black ocean.

Lily nudges my ribs hard, “Jake!”

“Shit, Lily!!” I cough. I try to look at her sternly. Her eyes volley mine.

“Jesus Fuckin….Nick. Okay?”

“Nick? Nick, what? From where? And what the hell did he say to make you pop off like that?”

“Nothing. Shit! God damn. Can’t we go to sleep?”

“Nothing?” She was up already, yanking her clothes from piles. “Nothing. Well, the next time someone says nothin’, be damned sure you’re at Eastwood’s and not The fucking Cardinal in front of fucking Pete. I told you about that shit, Jake. He don’t like you around while I’m there to begin with. You can’t just go popping off like that. What are you thinking?”
A million things.

“Lily –” My jaw hinges shut. She waits. Nothing comes out.

“Right.” She says.

She was gone. Like the click of a match. Just like that. When one is 22, it’s what one does. Be just like that.

I picked up the joint and pressed the tip of it, where her lips had been, against my nose and inhaled. Bursting apricots and something richer. Porter Stout. I click the remote and doze off to Sports Center.

I dream of snow. It was shin deep and I was in just my boxers. And the snow, it went on forever, like the sea between continents, the part where these waste producing nations are linking together big island chains of trash. We never talk about this. And we wonder why we are all getting sick. I scream out. But the vocal cords produce nothing. I am nowhere, no how. The snow bleeds velvet red beneath my limbs.

As Soon As the Pins Get Airborne

Today. Today, I feel like running away. Perhaps, Argentina. Perhaps, Zimbabwe. New Zealand. Cote d’Ivoire. Salt of the Earth type stuff. Detach the soul from all I have collected; rice spoons, antique projectors, plastic Pussy Willows, decade old poems about girls (or boys) long forgotten. And that bed. Where, for 8 years, I have carved a static crater of monotony, letting nothing bloom.

So.

In my dreams I caravan over the bumpy African savannas among wild herds and cautious packs and planet-sized tusked giants. I am either doing something useful like distributing water filtration tubes to Villagers on the outskirts or something futile, fabricating rocking chairs out of Quiver Trees or stringing leis of King Protea.

In Africa, I’d be far enough away to erect my brain like a pop tent and unzip the windows, sealed for far too long. Be present in the sound of a breeze drifting along fields of golden daisies, lacing between each petal and grazing each stem like a new lover, attentively.

I can hear the elephants too. They say that African elephants live for around 7 decades, until their molars wear down and they starve to death. Every thing dies some time, some how. I just hope it isn’t painful when I go. Starving to death. Depressing.

So. Something fun.

Maybe I’ll escape to the Santa Monica pier and spend afternoons bending long balloons into Stegosauruses and Christmas tree shaped hats and watch children whack their parents with pink balloony swords made by me. And parents, they started out as happy, adventurous couples in love once didn’t they?

But most couples never make it to breaking up balloon sword fights. We are only ever meant to have it work out with one person in our lives when thinking of forever.

On watching heartbreak. The heart, usually soaring, is weighted with a stone. The wings, to keep from fluttering, snapped off and plucked raw. Make soup out of the carnage. Nice, easy, comfortable, safe soup. Sit around at night in pajamas flicking channels. Vow to never be hurt like that, again.

I digress.

At least on the pier, I could laugh so hard I might choke on pink cotton candy and die with a full belly, cracker jacks and hotdogs with ketchup only.

I could fucking crawl out of my skin some days. And on these days, I yearn to scram just as all of the juggling pins get airborne.

Old Ghosts

Once in a while, the ugly emotions buried long ago are exhumed and disrupt things like waking a zombie.

At the bar, the Rihanna and Jay-Z collaboration “Umbrella” is playing on the monitors. Some are singing and swaying in a new slide. Others look up and shake their heads.

"She's a stupid woman. That's not love. Love doesn't hurt."

The comment resurrects the ghosts. Limbs immediately stiffen.

She says quietly, and she's rarely quiet anymore, "You know, it can’t be simplified like that."

After her first marriage crumbled, she fell in love for a second time. He came into her life like a cyclone, swiftly sweeping her into chaos.

Before the cyclone, she slept off her depression. To hamper the slightest hint of daylight, she nailed a thick blanket over her bedroom windows, barricaded herself deep into darkness and let the black suck her down.

It is no wonder he found her. People like him prey on women in this state. Memories of their life together flash like faces through a revolving door, just moments flickering. The dark moments were overcast midnight. The bright moments, though few, were sunlight against a river’s surface.

The cyclone was trained in martial arts. Unconsciously, she began to build her body like there was something to protect. He’d pick fights when she least expected it or wasn’t in the mood. This is how it started -- slowly.

He began to hit her when he wanted out. He figured if she left him, his conscience could be clean, though, his hands would not. But, she took the punishment. He left regardless.

Today, she freezes when confronted with aggression. Certain words trigger her spine to flinch into an exclamation point. Her stomach somersaults when faced with certain ghosts. She is afraid of anger; theirs, yours and hers.

She hasn’t spoken to him in years now. She still considers him to be her greatest love. Caught between wanting to see him and knowing she shouldn’t want such things, she thinks she should be angry. She should hate. She should be afraid. All of these extremes.

Back at the bar, the debate goes on.

"You don't think she's stupid? Come on!" Everyone is adamant.

She looks towards the door. The sense of unease creeps up her neck and burns her ears.

From CNN to CSPAN to Oprah, everyone seems to know what’s best for Rihanna. They ask whether or not she’ll lose her endorsements if she takes Chris Brown back. They pontificate over her image as a strong woman. They question whether or not she will continue to be a good role model. They shame Chris Brown and they tisk-tisk at Rihanna for the possibility of a reunion. They throw up their hands and analyze and resolve it to be a teachable moment for our children.

But, this is personal. It feels like the world is judging her.

Quietly again, "I don’t think anyone should judge her."

And for whatever reason, maybe the look on her face, they don't pursue it. Her body eases from its frozen posture. Unclench the fists. Put those emotions to bed again. Slowly warm back up to the crowd.

It's Blitz! by Yeah Yeah Yeahs

With two other posts in the can, there is so much to write about other than new album releases. But this shit is important.

March 10, 2009 marks the release of Yeah Yeah Yeahs' new studio effort It's Blitz!

The New York based trio opens their third full length album with the urgent single "Zero" followed by "Heads Will Roll". These babies have all the attitude and g-force of a big, 70's muscle car jumping the starting line and running and gunning for miles along steady, straight asphalt.

The album's third cut slows down the tempo with "Soft Shock". The song cracks at the chest and delivers the heart like a yolk onto the sleeve. Brian Chase is deliberately measured with the sticks, Nick Zinner masterfully weaves a low, driving fuzz with whimsical chords and keys, while Karen O sweetly charms us with delicate vocals.

Unknown, talk to unknown
Ever, lasts forever
Well, it’s a shock, shock
To your soft side
Summer moon
Catch your shut eye
In your room, in my room
In your room, in my room

And this is where Yeah Yeah Yeahs get started. Beyond the two openers, the album is chalk full of less relentless tracks which illustrates the band's depth, maturation and vulnerability. Karen O dumps her old bag of dirty punk rock tricks. While she relied heavily on swallowing the mic in a howl, screeching through verses and spitting her way through the band’s first EP and half of Fever to Tell, rather It's Blitz! reveals a Karen O unafraid to soften her rebel edges. Lyrically, she is ever so enigmatically sentimental and wholly unguarded. And pound for pound, they are better for it.

It's the stuff of those 80's underground, new wave masterpieces which left us wanting more. And on "Skeleton", we get more. The band keeps the pace enchantingly unhurried. Other standouts include "Dull Life", an Asian guitar influenced, punk ditty and the haunting "Runaway" which begins with a lonesome piano soon joined by a somber Karen O proclaiming:

I was feeling sad
Can't help looking back
Highways flew by
Run, run away
No sense of time
Want you to stay
Want to keep you inside
Run, run, run away
Lost, lost, lost my mind
Want you to stay
Want you to be my prize

All along, not so strong without these open arms
Hold on tight
All along, not that strong without these open arms
Lie beside
All along, not that strong without these open arms

Not since Interpol's Turn On the Bright Lights have I been so immediately captivated. It's Blitz! grabs hard and kisses breathless like a long lost lover finding her way back home.

I consider myself the ultimate romantic. But, it's been 8 years since I have been in love.

It's really no biggie, you know. But, some think it a tragedy. I wonder if the sleeping giant is merely sleeping, or if I squeezed it and put it to sleep forever.

"I've loved and been loved. And all the rest is background music." Says the woman who lives a life for a purpose greater than herself.

But, some days, you know, what I wouldn't give for a good Headliner.

Certain songs are like certain films. Certain films like certain streets. Certain streets like certain restaurants, or certain bars, or certain beaches. Certain beaches like certain shadows beneath certain statues. Certain statues, and especially their shadows, can remind us of certain loves. All of them, reminders of youth and nerve. Memories alive in little flashes. They become more muted with each new sprout of silver hair hiding among the black. Like anything.

Oh, what it felt like to be in love. It's just a word right? 4 letters.

No, Cynic.

Love. It's like a shot of Valium squeezing warm honey through the arm, the vein, to the heart. Send it fluttering. Seriously dumb and happy and numb all at the same time.

Back to the Valium. Feel nothing. Feel everything. The World is a kaleidoscope. The City. The people. The Sound. Will I ever see it that way again? At 6 in the morning, bleary-eyed, wild haired and hopped up on stale coffee beneath the Space Needle. And in love. Or New York City; the East Village, lost in Chelsea, and finally, our last goodbye, barefoot on 5th Avenue beneath a titanic, electric marquee. My heart was bigger. Blinking brighter. Ticking faster.

But, that's what it's like at 23. What does one know at 23? Except follow love to the ends of the Earth. And what does one know going on 32? Except pensive. Except the other shoe. Or the dream. A dream of falling from a cliff. Never landing. Or jaded. Well, never jaded.

Each dating stint becomes less. Trust a little less. Trust myself a little less. Settle a little less. And I'm still not being honest. I can not possibly write honestly about this. Then, what's the god damned point? Everything comes out broken and fragmented. So, I'll sit here. Bite my nails. Tell myself I was lucky once. Tell myself I can get out of writing about love so directly. I always have.

Love. And all around me, I see the people blooming it or plucking at it’s buds. And I think, I've taken the high road. Played it safe. Because that shit is crushing. And here: I rarely cry at movies anymore. And here: I am no longer a poet. And here: I think too often about what I used to be. What I used to do. What I used to feel. How I used to love.

Somewhere, a song is playing.

"Shit. That's my song! Turn it up!" She squeals.

Gavin Rossdale begins: "Must be your skin, that I'm sinking in, must be for real, because now I feel."

She stares off and mouths the words. We are at the corner store. Behind the counter, Adam looks up from the lotto machine and grins at me. He had just finished facing neat rows of overpriced Maker's and Crown Royal and magazines covered with brown paper.

We're late. When we were young, we were never late. We were always just killing time. We traded the sound of gravel beneath rubber tires along back roads for the boulevards and potholes of the City. We traded windowsill lemonade for tall aluminum cans lined behind cooler doors at the Corner store.

"God. This was Beau's and my song."

"Really?"

"Girllllllll. Yeah."

A song is like a lover. Years later, one realizes the song wasn't about what we thought it was about. Back then, we never heard the hard truths.

"Could have been easier on you, I couldn't change, though I wanted to, could have been easier by three, our old friend fear and you and me. "

Will I ever be in love like I was at 23?

My heart squeezes like an orange.

Sin City

Of all the overstated grandeur in Sin City, there stood The Luxor Hotel. Not to be confused with The Encore. Agree with the Driver, they do sound similar. Tip well anyway. Karma.

The pyramid structure of The Luxor is a carefully calculated behemoth. Her razor wire edges and glassy obsidian face cuts through a crisp blue sky, uncomfortably interrupting the view of gradual, snow-capped mountains on the distant Nevada horizon.

Inside, the Sphinx stands 5 stories high, its towering stone-eyed stare guarding the casino entrance. The Luxor, it’s not a friendly place. It’s dreary and gray. Pupils always watching. Arms always crossed. The god-damned thing is ominous. It isn't the fool and folly of Paris. Far from the green clovered chintz of O'Sheas. And to fall in love, there is no place like the canals at The Venetian.

The girls had gone to their show and I was done with Egypt. I needed air. I needed New York. I needed people pressed to my shoulder, giggling and sloshing and yelping and hooting.

The strip, for the walker, is strategically shaped more like the inside of 4 credit pinball machine. Steady slopes and swooping hollows, tiresome inclines and impulsive drops, roundabouts and conveyors. All of these tricks to unavoidably ensnare a silvery ball into a certain destination, or from a walker’s perspective, force us through the grand lobbies or guide us to the mouth of every casino. Let the lions coax us in. Spend. Spend. Spend.

On the sidewalk, a cavalcade of workers stretched their arms out at the crowd, their fingers flicking at aggressively sleazy palm cards selling women. The cards littered the sidewalks too. Moms and dads pretended not to notice trampling on naked breasts and spread eagle poses.

Up on one of the half dozen elevated walkways, a homeless man stopped rattling his cup. A bookish looking college-aged girl with camera in hand squats and sits cross-legged facing him. She strikes up a conversation just long enough to get her shot. He smokes, runs his nails along the scalp and never looks into her eyes. She is smiling. She clicks the shutter and asks a question. I watch the back and forth and remember what the girls had told me.

“Don’t go out there alone.”

I smiled. “Why?” I shook my head and squinted. Tried to figure it out.

“It’s just not safe.”

“But, I’ve always done this.”

“You shouldn’t have been.”

Hadn’t anyone ever told me? Hadn’t they? Hadn’t they? Why hadn’t they? There I was, wondering beneath the barber polls of the Orient, along the cobblestones of Europe, in the back corners of bars in the West Village, through the crowd of hooligans in Fillmore, too tired to stay awake in Wrigleyville. Alone. Like this girl. Like I was now. Though, I wasn’t supposed to. Where were her friends? Maybe at the show too.

At The New York, New York, the crowd was sweltering. A crooked line of horny guys, 50 deep, were shifting on their feet anticipating entrance into Coyote Ugly. Inside, the girls were doing their thing. Smart marketing had speaker decibels up loud enough to make it seem like the line was part of the party and I could hear the girls too.

“Yeah, boys! That’s right! Get on that shit!” and “Wow! Look at this stud, ladies! That’s right, work that shit, honey!” and all of that. The guys outside, shifted more. Presumably, the girls were dancing on the bar in chaps and cowboy boots. Like the movie.

It was a quick trip through New York. Back on the elevated walk, the bookish girl was gone. The homeless guy was standing, surrounded by two officers.

“Sir, do you have any weapons?”

“Yes.”

“What do you have?”

“A knife.”

Back at The Luxor, I stand under the shower and start thinking too much, as usual. Sometimes, I just stand there. Hand against the shower wall. Eyes closed. Thinking. I’m always like this. Constantly. Turn the water hotter than I can stand. Almost burn myself. Nothing quiets the thinking.

Nothing. Never. No How.

It's a story with no end.

Lil' Q had eyes like a fighter's fist, heavy and punishing. His heart was built exactly the same way. Knuckly and pounding in damning explosions. He strolled too smoothly for what he was about. His arms slung neatly below his waist, hands tucked into his waistband. He stopped in his tracks at the door of the Dunkin' Donuts. Watched the crowd rush by.

Took out a smoke and lit up.

"Hey, man, got a dime?" and "Hey, man, got 15 cents?"

Nobody gave him anything.

The sun was elbowing the silvery moon westward, bleeding Creamsicle yellow, orange across dark indigo blue. He had no use for sunrises, though, in the same way he had no use for rainbows. What'd a rainbow ever do for anyone anyway?

"Hey, man, nice shoes. Gotta dollar?"

They gave him nothing.

Lil' Q wasn't so little. And by that, it's to say he was built like the sky. Like the kind of sky before a thunderstorm. Massive, heavy hanging and grumbling and swelling with a strike. He never knew how the name Lil' Q came about. Some people called him Eddie. The Q might have stood for Quentin. And not Quentin, a man's name like that Director who made that kick ass movie where some guy in a suit gets his ear sliced off; but like San Quentin. His ma had told him stories of how his dad had been locked up at SQ for something he didn't do. He became a real mean son of a bitch in there, to survive, you know. So, he did some stuff there he had to do, stuff that put him away forever. No matter what he didn't do, they got him anyway. And that's how they get you. Pigs.

"Say, nice lady. How about a buck?"

"Not today."

“Tomorrow?” He laughed so hard, it ran a razor down his throat. He choked on his Marlborough Red.

He clenched his jaw and waved her off. Reached down into his waistband and yanked out a brew. Snapped the tab back between his teeth and sucked the foam between his lips. It was can cold and popping on his tongue. Nothing like a beer in the morning, aside from a cool beer beneath a steaming hot shower. Burning liquid running down the sides of his face, and chilly hops bubbling down the tongue, spilling into his chest cavity and down to a sleeping warm belly.

Lil' Q had 6 sisters too. But, they were scattered to the wind.

"Hey, sister, got $2.00? No? Scared of me? What? Fuck, sister." and, "Hey, guy. Hey, guy, how about $5.00 for a sandwich?"

"Get a job, man."

"Thank you, sir, have a blessed day."

They never gave him nothing.

Then a woman, her hands full. Lil' Q pulled the door open. "No. Uh. Thanks. I don't have any..thing."

"Shit. Chivalry ain't dead, bitch."

Nothing. Never. No how.

More Questions

Spring is here. Damned the cynics and a chubby groundhog named Phil.

Here is Chicago, slowly sloughing her stiff ice winter cloak in a bone cracking moan. Everywhere; from 95th west to Little Village east to the south loop and northward up the diaganol spine of Clark Street to Howard, winter coats are being shoved into dark corners of closets. Hats. Gloves. All of the miserable reminders.

"It was hot chick day on the Brown Line." This was Ms. Swag. It was an official proclamation, as she is always proclaiming.

"People tend to look much hotter when, you know, their faces aren't covered with scarfs." The retort.

Over the weekend, the population grew by 2 million people. It's a proclamation. Traffic, gridlocked. The line at Einstein's, forever. Parking, ha! But, we don't care enough yet to start bitching. Mother Nature exacted a cruel revenge this winter. We all knew it. We all knew better and were hush-hush about any small inconveniences.

Soon the flowers will be in bloom and she'll be wishing she had known more about calla lillies and fertilizers.

The first weekend of February invoked a desire to clean house. Literally, she smack dabbed herself head first into a mammoth closet reorganization effort.

Metaphorically, it was high time to start thinking about her head. Her thoughts had become like the City; buzzing, blinking, alarming, screeching. Just a relentless cavalcade of noise and chatter. It had been 6 months of physically deliberating and testing and hibernating and adjusting.

Broadway. Uptown. She found herself at the limestone steps of St. Ita's, a 109 year old parish founded in the name of an Irish nun who is said to have been a close friend of St. Patrick. Inside, skillfully handcrafted oak buttressed stained glass windows; The Immaculate Conception, The Annunciation, The Nativity, The Presentation in the Temple, The Crucifixion, The Resurrection. Polished oak pews for 1,000 people. A massive 4,500 piped organ in the choir loft at the rear of the church, pipes stretching their vocal chords upward toward the 95 foot vaulted ceiling, finished in gold fleck and french tile mosaic. Statues of Paul, Matthew, Peter, Andrew, John.

Stage right of the lectern, Mary's alter. She lit a candle and settled onto her knees. There were 6 people to pray for today. 6 turned to 8. 8 turned to 15. 15 turned to 21. It never ended. All of the people she cared for. Some of the prayers were a thanks for them in the world. Others were more serious and immediate matters, asking for strength. Some were for those who just passed. Some for those who were long gone.

The gospel was about anxiety and giving back. She could never much concentrate on the words. It was more about the feeling and meditation. She wondered why no one ever sang true, they barely opened their mouths, let alone their lungs. Why everyone was so subdued. Why the Apostles Creed was merely rattled off, something to get through. All the thoughts and wonder. They kept coming. Relentless. It's always like this. She could sit for hours, staring at a wall, thinking. She hated that about herself. She wanted to be so many things, including more present.

9:00. The bells rang. At the back of the church, heavy, century old doors heaved open. The real world tried to rush in with the sunlight and dank city air. Outside, the sun is bright and making the ice and snow pay.

Back in the real world, we are all just getting by sometimes. The man begs for money, tears in his eyes. She gives him what she has. He says it isn't enough. It will do. Another man, lifts up his shirt. His skin stretched around boney ribs. He says he is sick. Can't she help. She is on empty already. Somehow, the faith seems less realistic. 3 minutes from St. Ita's, The Cynic settles back into her bones. And more thoughts. And more questions.

Rise

For those of you wondering, I've scrubbed most of my political posts from my Blog for the time being. This left entries for 2008 at zilch. After 9 months work for the campaign, I've decided to detox from national politics temporarily. Thanks to the wonderful Eden for encouraging me to start writing again. This Blog has always served as a creative outlet of imperfection, of ugly, of onyx, of fluff, of cheese, of cliche, of originality, of et al and so on and etc. So, back to it and perhaps, once again, resurrecting "Stories of a Wanna-Be Bionic Chick" will stimulate my brain to mix and shuffle letters around on a screen to construct a few pretty/punchy/cutting/entertaining lines.

For starters, let's ease into this together. Baby toe, come on in -- the water is warm:

Summer's end is a proper season for Haikus. Here are some that just celebrated their 1 year old birthday. Happy Birthday little Haikus.

Haiku 1:
Her hands, big levers,
Sliding in gear, till I'm heaped
and spent beneath her.

Haiku 2:
I climb, her body
like a Redwood, lips linger
at each nook, each limb.

Haiku 3:
Little fireworks,
Crack / Bang! throughout my body.
Surely, she's the match.

Haiku 4:
Mere thoughts to touch her
Pins teeny wings to my heart;
starts all the flutter.

Inside Out

Inside, bronze-skinned men crouch above a waist high stack of Oriental rugs. This is the set-up: Two workers on each side and the Manager at the helm, a respectable length away from an old money, Chicago couple sleeked out in names like Armani, Rolex, Cartier, and Vuitton.

The Manager was trying to keep up. He is a fat man shined-up nicely in vested tweed. His eyes disappear behind last year’s Gucci specs. He spent his holiday bonus on them. He had gotten hell from his live-in girlfriend; but the Manager explained the glasses were an investment. He had to keep up to get respect and had to have respect to make the sale.

The misses was clucking her tongue in disapproval over the rug.

“Now, Richard, it rings a trifle overdone. What a bore. The agate buttressing the burgundy. What will the Reisendorf’s think of this?” She arched her brow in a check mark and sighed heftily, “We can’t possibly, dear boy.”

“Whatever, darling.” The gentleman, his arms crossed, nodded his head at the nodding Manager, whose arms were crossed. The Manager waved at the workers. They hoisted rug after rug, folding over each other. Price tags flashed: $ 18,000.00, $ 17,250.00, $ 19,200.00.

Outside, dead winter. The kind of stuff that kills folks. The mother and her son retract bare, stiff hands into the sleeves of their coats. The son is playfully kicking at the pigeons and smiling. He didn’t smile much. The mother’s mouth opens as shoppers pass. Words don’t seem to come out. Only the air from her lungs, steaming against the cold. She is still alive.

Inside, a woman is sipping on a $5.00 espresso and watching the mother and son on the other side of the storefront glass. Interrupting the afternoon, the rugs flipping in a subtle, rhythmically mammoth “Whap! Whap! Whap!” Then a voice of disapproval. This was the background song coming from Macy’s rug department.

It is 2 below 0 with the wind chill today.

The woman orders a venti hot chocolate. The barista takes too long. The mother begins to walk away. The barista is still taking too long. The mother is gone.

The woman grabs the hot chocolate and darts down Wabash Street after spotting the pair through the crowd two blocks down.

The mother, her face full of tears, her voice cracks against the cold when the woman hands her the chocolate and money.

“I thought you might be cold. I thought this would help.” The woman says.

The mother begins to cry, “This is Brandon, my oldest son.” The woman shakes Brandon’s hand. “We lost everything in a fire. I have four kids and we don’t know what to do.”

The woman can’t construct the right combination of words. She asks Brandon how he is. Brandon smiles and says he is fine. She tells him it will be okay. She doesn’t know if it will be okay. But, she tells him it will be. Who are we without hope.

The mother cries and holds the woman’s hand, “Pray for us. Thank you.”

“I will pray for you,” She says.

And inside, the couple buys the $ 18,000.00 oriental rug. Azure and gold.

At the Old Book Store

Outside of the old bookstore, Chicago was happening.

“Drink poetry! Read beer!” The wild haired man screeched as he snubbed out a slim cigar against the patina door frame and shifted on his tip-toes towards me. He had oddly perfect posture hidden like a secret beneath a soiled, previously tan trench coat and matching pants, both 2 sizes too big.

“Got any change? 17 cents? Come on! 17 cents?”

“Nah, man. Sorry. I don’t.” It was a lie. I’ve been thinking up ways to respond to the beggars without formulating a lie. From watching the tourists and lawyers on Michigan Avenue, I surmised that ignoring was an effective tactic; but I just can’t seem to bring myself to not respond to another human being who is speaking to me.

And tonight, someone would ask me, what is something most people don't know about you? Only one of the answers will be divulged hereto. I like my body size mostly because when I am feeling punchy (ok, scared; don't let my mad dog face fool you), I feel just as massive as most of the shadowy men passing through my turf on a eerily still night. For instance, tonight, a man, crouched under the neon at the corner store with his buddy, says, "Man! She wouldn't even charge you a brick for that mouth." I puff myself up, wide as I can be and try to look huge.

But, back to yesterday. And yesterday the city clicked open like a switch blade.

She emerged from the hyptnotic tenticles of the old bookstore with a small handful of paperbacks. We thumbed through our books and decided on pizza and ice cream. Overhead, the Blue Angels ripped a hole into the horizon.

“I hate those things. All I can think is, ‘that is the last thing people hear before we drop our b*mbs.’”

My body wouldn't protect me from one of those. It would be demolished. The president would save me, surely. Won't he? Won't he? Won't he?

Who will save them?

On Dumping Hearts at the Slam

“Now, that’s a stupid man!”

I’m sure it didn’t help her. She knew he was stupid. Dee, the journalist and my new friend, was a catch. She had a condo downtown. She had traveled the world. She had worked for several newspapers. She was organizing a Southern Cuisine tour for her girlfriends. She had thought that Tennessee was far lovelier than most folks would believe. She was an outgoing, shining, booming woman.

She had occupied her Sunday afternoon by preparing a home cooked meal for the man. At the last minute, he called to cancel. He wanted to watch the second playoff game and hang with the boys.

The green glow inside of the old bar attached to the lines of her I-Know-Better grin. She plucked a salt and vinegar chip from a snack-sized bag and smacked her jaw down, “Baked chicken and macaroni casserole……in the shape of a heart. And that’s why, I’m here.”

“Ouch! Well, what better place to be than at a poetry slam when you get ditched for the game?”

To my left was The Lover. Before Dee came along, The Lover had stooled up next to me at the bar and asked me to buy him a drink. Absolutely not. Then he tried to buy mine. I refused. He was nice enough though and he had pockets stuffed with pick-up lines to fill the space. I like the tic tac toeness of flirting, so why not?

That’s when The Lover moved in, “Heart shaped macaroni. Why don’t you give me a chance?”

“I dumped it all in the disposal and I’m outta chances.”

Smart girl. Leave The Lover to the girls who would have put on the pajamas and placed the macaroni in the fridge for leftovers.

These Warriors Know

“Hit ‘em again! He’s not dead yet!”

“Hit ‘em again! He’s not dead yet!”

This is Chicago Gold Glove Boxing. One misstep here and a person’s skull is shuttlecocked into the rafters. Even the women have balls here. Big ones.

“Show him where you’re from Luao! Show, him!” Pack-Pack-POW!

“Yeah! That’s it, baby!”

Folding chairs groan as they get kicked back in all the riff-raff, the muscle flexing excitement. It’s pandemonium. Whooping fists raise the ceiling, vocal chords strain, faces contort and twist, high-fives and knuckles thrash in the air.

“That’s it, baby! Hit ‘em again! He’s not dead yet!”

How would it feel to destroy a man? I wondered if the women with their Louis Vuitton clutches and “Baby Girl” belts could tell me. I wonder if the red-faced farm girl, donning her Title shorts and jump rope could tell me. How do you work so hard at destroying something? Why?

A squatty, swollen man unconsciously flattening a burger between his thumbs scurried past my perch. His eyes glazed, affixed to the ring. “Hooo, Boy! Fuck him up, Luaooooooo!” He stumbles over a humming, pigtailed girl and keeps shuffling.

“Sweating in the gym is better than blood on the streets.” His shirt reads.

The bell shakes me out of my stare.

The two bloody warriors, sweaty and worn, embrace. They pat each other on the head. The winner whispers into his opponent’s ear. The loser nods as best he can with a heavy head and weighted shoulders. One braces the ropes wide to help the other through. The other returns the favor.

They know why they do it; these sweating, bleeding, toothless, bruised, limping men and women. That’s the only important thing. It’s something I could never fathom. I’ve never worked that hard in my life.

Things I'm Aggravated About Today

The Clark 22 bus. An angular man squeezes between a woman and me. The bus is stuffed to the windows with rush hour commuters. On his lap, a medium Little Ceasar's Pizza box. He opens the lid, crams a piece into his mouth and shuts the lid. Opens the lid, crams a piece into his mouth and shuts the lid. Opens the lid, crams a piece into his mouth and shuts the lid. He is aiming his limbs at us, jutting out and pinning into us. Knee into her knee. Shoulder into my shoulder. Elbows into my elbow.

Creep.

The word won't cease. Tickering before me in pumping splashes of yellow.

Creep.

Creep.

Creep.

The familiarity of his face has my brain zipping. City blocks crawl toward us too slowly. A million people cram off and on. Off and on. He continues chewing, cheeks bulging ready to explode. And digging into us. Probably getting a feel. She is pretending to be asleep. Oblivious. I am getting pissed at this perverted scoundrel.

Creep!

And his greasy hand is getting too close to me. And I want to smash the pizza box against the rear doors.

Berwyn. Shit, get off the god-damned bus. Stupid god-damned bus.

A Long Drive for Someone With Nothing to....

Like Ziggy Was

(REPOST - Sorry People - Life is so Busy)

The air was broken. 101 degrees. Her brain was baking, cheeks puffy, eyes like paper, sweat beading on her elbows. A flashcard memory before her, an archive black & white photo of the famed Biograph Theater marquee “COOLED! By Refrigeration!”

The city had become unfamiliar to her. Everything changing. The new must-have-photograph tourist shot had become an annoying flashy newsroom ticker board neighboring the Gene Siskel Film Center.

Upstairs the line had snaked around the lobby beyond the ticket counter, passed the bathrooms and reversed back to the top of the steps. It wasn’t her line. She was there to see Ziggy Stardust. Bowie ruled the earth and outer space.

She would exit the theater later, still orbitting Mars in a little tin can, and practically knock into William H. Macy.

But now, her stomach was nagging. The clock told her that there was 15 minutes to space. The sandwich shop. A poet was behind the counter.

“Aren’t you a poet?”

“Depends on who’s askin’….” He didn’t look at her. He popped open the hefty drawer. The change clanged.

She grinned, “ ‘My mind is drawing blanks. drawing little paper bullets…’, Isn’t that you?”

The poet stopped his work, looked her in the eye, “I can’t believe you just quoted myself to me.”

“The Trace, right? Weren’t you going somewhere far from here?”

“I did. I’m back now. That’s what you remember of me? That’s the period you heard me in?”

“Yeah, man. I love it.”

No matter how unfamiliar the city might seem, some things are constant. The ticker! Damn that ticker! But, maybe she was the ticker. Sometimes she was her shades. Sometimes she was her hair pulled back. Sometimes she was her bra hooked wrong, peeking out from her tank top. Sometimes she was the punk rock shoes tied too tightly. Sometimes she was at the onramp yield sign, a traffic jam a mile long where sometimes she was the ambulance squeezing through and other times the u-turn over the grass shoulder. Sometimes the pen, sometimes the ear. Sometimes she was love. Sometimes she was like Ziggy Stardu - - - -

“Love? PFFFTTTTFFffffffffttttttt….. Who needs it?” Jessie asked. He was standing outside of the old folks home. Jessie, the receiving clerk. Born before the Depression. COOLED! By Refrigeration!

“Didn’t you ever marry, Jessie?” She asked. Work clothes wrinkling beneath the heat of the sun. She never knew what to do with her hands. Put them on her hips. Nope, too nagging looking. Put them in her pockets. Nope, too secretive looking. Clasped. Nope, too uptight looking. Shifting between the three, too indecisive.

“Darlin’, no. Who needs a wife when you got a pack of smokes and beer?” He hacked a laugh then. It was forced. He had been in love. His heart was broken. She said goodbye then.

“Don’t get drunk!” He called after her.

“It’s not good for a lady, Jessie!” She hollered back. She would be getting drunk maybe.

And Ziggy. Ziggy. Ziggy. She loved him so. And the poet. And William H. Macy. They call him "Bill". And Jessie, she loved Jessie.

Such sweet occurances in this city.

Lust on the 92 Bus

Hey, punk rock boy. I like you.

Your beautiful head bopped rapidly causing a red, six sided die earring to glint in my peripheral. Hair in vintage, Greaser blonde flopping, like feet dangling from a summer dock, over electric baby blues. Lips pursed. You look like Billy Idol.

I don’t write about boys. But, I caught my heart staring. I watched you. I watched you, an urban chameleon sinking into the city. I watched you feigning punk rock cool and young ignorance. But it was you, when the bodies were elbow tight on the 92 bus in the choke of Chicago rush hour, and not the business man sighing at his Rolex Presidential, who let a wobbly woman sit.

And that, makes you dreamy.

Oh, punk rock boy. I want to feel the crunch of your Motorhead, leather jacket against my cheek. Leave my skin red and stinging. And I’m not even into that. I’ll polish your spikes with Egyptian cotton and hopefully, you’ll leave me before the morning to catch 7 Seconds at the Metro. Leave me in tears, though I know I never loved you.

You're a loner. I want to be a loner too. I want to chain smoke with you and have nothing to say. I want to be late for work and not care. I want the dishes to pile up. I want to play guitar until my fingers burn. I want mosh pit bruises, perhaps a bloodied nose. I want week old dirty hair. I want to get used to the itch.

Why didn’t you sit next to me?

I wonder what music you are listening to. Will you be my mix tape?

Had Me Thinking

The glove, pummeled by the city, was frozen in a half waving droop. Someone had salvaged the thing from the street or sidewalk and propped it on the stabbing end of an iron fence. Maybe the anonymous savior had thought the previous owner would walk by, see it and take it home and tend to its wounds from days abandoned in the city.

But, the glove was one half of those ninety-nine cent gloves, the stretch to fit kind one buys at Walgreen’s when their legitimate winter gloves have been forgotten on the mantle at home. No one cares about the ninety-nine cent glove. Actually, it would be a forty-nine and a half cent glove, wouldn’t it? And in this case, most likely, no one would be back for it, especially on a warm June day. The glove, pummeled by the city, was saved and frozen in an almost beautiful, half waving droop high above the gum tacked sidewalks, lost parking tickets and smashed milk cartons.

There were better things to worry about today, like lost sunglasses.

The milk cartons were most likely left by the Boys and Girls Club kids who stood guard at the corner smacking each other on the bicep while making sly grins at women in teeny skirts and stilettos clicking by. Milk, always a good idea; but that damned expiration date can be tricky. I can never balance the milk in my fridge with the number of cereal boxes in my cupboard. Either the damned expiration date creeps up then passes and I waste ¾ of a gallon or I pour a bowl of cereal on a Sunday morning only to remember the milk was used up yesterday. Cry over spilt milk, no. But over spoiled milk? Perhaps.

“Cows?! WHY would they wash cows?” she laughed.

“Well, I don’t know. Before milking? Germs, you know?”

“Uh, yeah, dude. Right!” She was shaking her head at me.

Well, why not wash the cows, I thought. We were whizzing by pastures dotted with cows. Their coats glistening against the sun; white spots blinding and black spots shining and smooth. The barn was open and the concrete milking stations looked freshly wet. I assumed the cows had just been bathed; which, I thought, was fairly conscientious of the Farmer. But, maybe she was right. Why would they wash cows?

The Farmer. There is no rest for the Farmer, working the fields on days reserved for most folks’ barbeques. I want to be a Farmer; but I can’t manage to keep alive four flowers on my back porch. I can’t manage to keep much alive. Over water. Under water. Let nature run its course. It will rain and the rain will know what to feed the flowers. Well, fuck it. Two of them are dead. One is dieing. I don’t know if a resurrection will occur. Four lousy flowers and I manage to muck it up.

All this has me thinking that I hadn't looked close enough and I could, quite possibly, be the careless owner of that glove.

Untitled -5

The day I met you, I crushed my lungs into flour and sprinkled them, in handfuls, against the jabbing waves of Lake Michigan at Belmont Harbor. I was in no shape to be meeting you. So, imagine, I fucked up.

"So, what's wrong with you?" Asks my friend.

Me? I grimaced, "Fuck. Dunno. Is there? Something wrong with me?"

"Dunno." Says my friend.

"Why don't you tell me? Don't you know?" We are zipping by buses and bikers and cranky Cabbies along Broadway. I wish we were on Lake Shore Drive. The shimmer in the lake helps conjur peace, if not clarity.

"Did she hurt you so badly that you keep on at the ones you won't have?" Asks my friend.

She haunts me. She didn't hurt me. But, for once, this isn't about her.

My brain bobbled my friend's words like a half committed jester. Since, I have fumbled a few more relationships. Punted one. A safety would have been considerable horseshoes. To no avail, not even a fucking safety. But, that's fuckin' tomboy sports symbolism. Fug gin' boring. In real human English, I got nothing.

And then, "How's the love life, Bionic?"

The question, innocent enough. Some say when we don't know what to say, don't say anything. In some parts, they might say, don't say nothing. I kinda adore double negatives. I want to cuddle up with them, and sing them into a fuzzy sleep.

It is inevitable. I think about the day I met you. And how, now, I'm always at a loss for words only around you. How my eyes blab everything to you, even behind tight shades pulled over my face. Oh, you can't see. Do you? Do you? Do you?

And today, you ask, "How are you?" after some minor chit-chat. I'm cursing the empty space where my lungs used to be. The space, now filled with alarms going off, alarms vibrating through my blood and setting off little earthquakes in my knee caps. And my eyes are watering. Probably the pollen. And the chambers of my heart seem to be clubbing each other, fist to jaw. Must be the heat. You say, "Hey. How. are you?"

Today, I can't, like, lie. I squint. "I gotta go." My feet shuffle me away.

The day you asked, could I love you, all I could do was talk about Nimbus clouds and fairy dust. The truth is, I was a lungless bastard lapping at my wounds.

Fourth and inches. Hike. Loss of 11.

Today, I wish for a vice. I wished that I liked to drink tequila when I'm dry. I wished I could fall from the wagon in some fantastical binge. But all I have are the stage curtains, cut away the peripheral. Draw them down, just narrow enough to see the things in front of me directly.

"How's the love life, Bionic?"

I'll crack my shell against the frying pan, drizzle until the yolk drops heavy against a torturous heat. That's me.

Easy As a Shrug

My eyes, at first half-hovering over the Chicago Reader, notice the kid. He wears his early 20’s like a run down Honda, slinking along in a low buzz and slumping into corner store parking lots.

The kid was pondering his next move and coughing up some bug he’d most likely caught from the handrails of the Blue Line. Wearing exhausted black jeans, his jagged limbs cross and uncross and recross; legs yowling at each other over which one ached more, which one should take the weight.

Rolled out, an army of plastic, stoic chess pieces. The kid’s opponent was a graying, buzzed-cut cyclist whose chin seemed most at home cradled in his palm. They had acquired a mirrored sunglassed, over the shoulder know-it-all. Later, I overhear Know-It-All is a chess champ.

“Interpose the Rook!” Know-It-All urged.

“What?”

“Interpose the Rook!” He urged again.

“Then he’ll take my Bishop.”

“Then you’ll take his Queen.” Know-It-All, sure and sitting his straining body back against the coffee shop couch, smirked and cracked at a cube of ice with his molars, “Then, it will get interesting. There is nothing interesting right now.”

The cyclist, perking from his chin homey perch, “Well, sure it is. I’m downright, lovin’ it.”

Know-It-All shrugged.

It’s easy there, from the outside. Easy to dismantle, and attack, and be on the defensive, to interpose all to make things interesting. It’s as easy as a shrug.

Hinged on Faith

Chloe bounded out of the front door, down the front steps, landing in a stomp onto the driveway. She smacked together her 6 year old hands with a shrill and floated into his chest, an ornament dangling from his thick Tennesse boy neck.

Today was make or break, hinged on faith that she could make it.

"Can I help, daddy? Please? Oh, PLEASEEEE!?"

His eyes went twinkle for twinkle with Chloe's. "You see that wrench over there?" He pointed. His hands were massive; the ridges on his fingertips and lines of his palms were black with grease from the mechanic's shop he had worked at since he was 18. He could never scrub them clean. It made it hard for him to want to hold her. He would always be a Mechanic.

Chloe unclasped from his neck, landing in a thud next to her overturned BMX. She impatiently pirouetted, scanning a few tools on the pavement. She shrugged.

"Now. Chloe, remember what a wrench is? When would we have used a wrench?" He crouched down to eye level.

"Uhmm...." she smoothed her wild blonde mane in thought. "My desk?"

He smiled.

She nodded and surveyed again.

"GOT IT!" She bent down and picked up her father's wrench with two hands.

"Well, you, miss lady, are okay. Now, let's get these suckers off."

She smiled.

In Chloe's cul-de-sac, removing the training wheels would make her queen. She knew what was at stake. She was the only girl within 4 and 1/2 blocks. And none of the boys her age had dared, yet. Pretty soon, she'd be one of two, picking kids off the garage wall for a game of kickball.

They worked the nuts and bolts of the wheels. Greased the chain. Hosed down the red frame. Shined the spokes. Her father flipped the dirt bike upright with one hand. The tires bounced against the pavement.

He grinned at her, eyes wide saucers. "Well, whatcha waiting for, tiger?"

She was hesitant. He waited, holding the seat. She slung one tennie over the frame and sat down carefully, adjusting like a bull rider in the pen. She nodded.

"Okay, now stand up on those pedals, get a good push and just look ahead. Easy like..."

Chloe did as he directed. He trotted behind her. The seat left his fingertips and she sailed. "You got it! Now go get 'em!" He yelled after her. She screamed and giggled. Her feet peddling in little, quick circles. His smile widened and then narrowed again as he watched her form get smaller.

Today, he let something go that he loved very much. Today, he hinged it all on faith that she would do it. And hoped and prayed that what he loved, would always return.

He Could Have

"So, what do you think?" He asks.

"It's a fantastic question. One that can only be answered by oneself. What do you feel?" She replies. Her chocolate eyes, half guarded by tortoise shelled specs, reminded him of Natasha. It hadn't occured to him until this moment. He wanted to crawl back into his swagger and feign control. Natasha never liked him like this, failing. Natasha always tasted of pineapple-guava jelly. They could never get enough of each other. Until one day, she had enough of him.

The corners of her lips curled into a treble clef. She was awaiting an answer.

"Ah. Fuck her." He said boomed confidently. "World's smallest heartbreak!"

The treble clef flattened into two parallel, latitude lines. And he knew she never liked him like this, cocky. He wanted the treble clef back and tried to grin it back. She held his eyes and turned to Bob, a real loser, he thought. "Need another one, hon?"

"Ah, you know I do Trish." Bob had $1,000 riding on the game. What a loser. The loser was losing. Down by 27 points. Extra point. Now down by 28. Bob, the underdog lover, growls. Bob blew all his money on football, scratch tickets and booze. He looked respectable enough, his hair styled and slicked back in an old-timey Hollywood do. Slacks dry cleaned. Matching belt and shoes.

"Son, you're a fool to let that one get away." Bob, the loser, chirps in. He never looks at him. He scratches his ticket, glances at the game, scratches the ticket, rubs the debris away, glances at the game.

"What do you know about it, Bob-O? Old timer wasting all your life in a crummy old bar with your scratch tickets." He is feeling defensive.

"You'll learn." Bob replies and scratches, "Perhaps you won't."

He watches Trish, she is leaning over the bar chatting up the military boys who just strolled in. The treble clef is back. He is jealous.

"You have something to say about Natasha?"

"Nope. That one there." He points to Trish. Trish. Trish. "But every weekend, I watch you fucking it up in here."

Trish. Trish. Trish. Trish would make him be an honest man. And that shit's hard. Besides, who wants to compete with military guys every weekend. It's easier to fuck girls like Natasha. And after, he could have his bar. He could have his Trish.

The Outskirts (Re-Post)

We become what we fear.

11:22. It was the second brush with the law of the night. There would be no ease. The pavement still throbbing though the clamor is hushed by their temporary presence. The Pigs! And for now, the scrappers, their tiger eyes low in the lurking grass for the coast to clear. Wait for it to pass; then rap the tin can against the garden apartment security bars. Doors creek open. Sneakers mix it up with abandoned Twinkie wrappers and soda cans. Kids, scoreless, waiting for the next deal, propped against unused trash cans and bus stop signs under the watchful hover of a junk store’s fluorescents.

The irritable rasp of the El grumbling into the final stop, “Everyone off. This train is out of service.” And this is where they get dumped. To the outskirts with them! The outcasts! The unfortunate! The self-determined loners! The expats! Did they ever have a chance?

Some, from the mother’s womb, wrapped snug in a blanket infected with labels and judgments. And some, just did, they become what they fear. For those, the gravitas of blunt, faux indifference tamp their spirits. Did they have a chance? Did they break his heart first? Did they break her heart first? Did they try to pin it on the pimps and drunkards of their neighborhoods? Will they learn their lesson? Or will they excuse themselves; tie themselves up by an all too brainless, punch line label?

Learn to play dead, kid. Learn to play dead.

And once, maybe, they were incredibly booming and why fuss with integrity, right?

The world is full of suckers, kiddo. As you know. And we all, the suckers, take the fall. And them, snug as a bug, criss cross applesauced, under their blankets.

Less About Free Speech and More About Choice

“Perhaps someone can tell me why ‘nappy-headed hos’ is racist?” One says.

“I mean, come on. Right? You have Sharpton, a black sheep to his own people. A liar. And there is Jackson, a showboat."

"Yeah. And isn't there is more to worry about than calling someone a nappy-headed ho.” Their words pat each other on the back.

So goes the way of the men whom surround me Monday through Friday. I am ashamed of them. These are generally decent guys. Good guys. Hard working guys. If racism and bigotry can exist in such human beings, it is not hard to imagine the extent of its claws in our American society.

Racism is alive and flexing its muscles.

“I mean, they call themselves nappy-headed hos. No one is getting on them for their music.”

Who are ‘they’ and ‘them’? They can not answer me. This battle has been fought before. And fuck, though, I stand tall on the right side of this line, it is quite embarrassing to know people with such beliefs.

On the 39th Anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King’s death, Don Imus, one of the nation’s premier morning radio show hosts, nonchalantly labeled the women of Rutgers Basketball ‘nappy headed hos’. Don Imus can say what he wants. It is the country in which we live. And being American means that we do not need to so easily swallow such statements along with our morning coffee.

Sharpton and Jackson have nothing to do with it personally. And perhaps, they should not have meddled in the affair. Perhaps, for guys like the guys I work for, they are seen as hypocritical ringmasters, an easy distraction and target for racist guys who do not think they are racist . But who else will speak for African Americans? There aren’t many African Americans whom are given the microphone by the white dominated media. Those who have a microphone, took it. Oprah. Obama. Tavis. A handful of accomplished African American actors. But, who wants to take actors seriously?

Don Imus has made a living out of taking pot shots at politicians, journalists, musicians and actors. These people place themselves in the spot light. But these young women just wanted to go to play basketball at a good school. The young women of the Scarlet Knights basketball team and their coach Ms. Vivian Stringer were innocent victims in this mess.

The time of “I made a tasteless joke” perhaps just does not cut it anymore. We live in a time when a full generation of women have been able to flex their muscles under Title IX. A time when the democratic presidential front runners are a woman and an African American. A time when the Speaker of the House is a woman. A time when the Secretary of State is an African American female.

One Rutgers player said, “I don’t want you to think that I question myself because of what you said. I’m a classy woman at a great university.” And this is what sport does. It breeds generations of strong people. And folks like Don Imus can continue to not get it.

We live in a country where Imus is allowed to belittle such accomplishments in a 3 second sound bite. And in that same country, where money matters, the advertisers have a choice to yank their purse strings and put a stranglehold on a station that supports such a man. Once in a while, the gears of capitalism work for the better of the people.

Don Imus made his choice. The people and the advertisers made theirs.

Your Monday Morning Daft Punk

While my DJ, super ex-gf, Jen Woolfe, might not be pleased to hear this: I am by no means a techno-head. I know nothing about it, save for my private collection of Jen Woolfe mix CDs and an occassional St. Germain spin.

My apologies if they are not "officially" techno; but a little Daft Punk can make me happy as hell. The pay off on "Technologic" is at 0:47. The perfect date happens beneath a 1:30 a.m. moon with my stereo headphones.

Murder at The Pub

Time: An indeterminable number of minutes after midnight

The hatchet man, described as possessing dangerously female and radiantly blue eyes (small pupils) and a smile as wide as the planet, eclipsed all other beauty in the...et cetera, et cetera and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.


“I’m not sure if I'm dateable. Am I?”

Do we ever just say no?

So, here I am, beneath rock band, blue neon and bobbing heads, getting killed at the pub.

The room comes back to life. Gum-dotted bowling alley carpet. Wood walls painted with cartoonish stones. I had remembered the space being more pine-knotty, country chic. But when one is busy getting killed, anything sniffs of smuttily cheesy.

“Well, not quite dead,” said Kylie Royal, 36 years old. The Uptown native and her boyfriend were witness to the maiming. “But sputtering and burbling like some sort of beautiful war movie wound. To be determined.” Her boyfriend nods. She fingers her heavy framed specs. A nervous habit.

Not quite dead. Faired pretty well for an ex-hatchet man myself. And tonight, at the pub, it was my night to be mutilated. But not quite dead.

All Gluttons - Seasons & Cycles

The sweating summer afternoons are coming. coming. coming. upon the City. We are all gluttons; with our outdoor cafes and lakefront volleys. Almost. Almost. Almost. Like all the almost things I have accomplished lately. My heart, clanging against the rib cage. Crack them bones into powder and break through. She'll take a new view of the city, high above the towers, Miss.

The muscles are out of practice. This morning, they are yelping at me; kicking and screaming and throwing a tantrum at being yanked from hibernation. I gave ‘em a good pounding this weekend. That was the plan. Done.

Mobilize. Put the muscles in motion. Diversify.

Slug some balls. Get the hitter’s smirk, keep the hands back, shoulder to shoulder and explode. Hang it on a frozen line.

Drive some balls. Pivot, keep the head in there, make the stroke less noisy. Shoot it into the clouds.

Draft off the strolling moms, zip around the Belmont punks, ignore the bust at Dunkin’ Donuts, and focus. Undersides of the feet hitting sidewalk in double bass, death metal fury.

Get to pumping. Get the feeling back, test the limits, quarantine the fuzzies to their precinct, tap the chambers and check the soundness. Tame the locomotive. Keep the hands steady and swinging in swooping loops. Wait for it. Release. Lassoe-tie the Engine car and let the biceps work. Grip the rope firm and sure. Dig the heals in.

What a ride.

2 years ago. 1 year ago. Today. It seems, I am perhaps the least likely fan of winter time hibernation. It's the same cycle. These things. Summer. Skin new. Eyes new. Intrigue new. Everyone can be seen for what they are, the light cutting through all that bullshit. Mid-April, practically, but there are flakes skatting every which way. They missed the RSVP. No bother. I feel heat. Heat. Heat. Heat. Coming out of hibernation, I can touch this hand or that hand, reintroduce myself to the world, and put my blood on a racetrack.

I can not leave it alone.

Here is the Dance

Here is the dance. We twirl our words on their tippy toes until the room's gossiping swirls into a monotone drone around our conversation. My eyes, only at yours, doing that careful nudge for clues. Will I be rejected? The point being, I'm not supposed to care.

Why is this shit so hard?

Thousand of people everyday, searching for a "Second Chance" in the missed connections of a City's free rag. I wonder, did they ever give themselves a good shot to begin with?

"You just have to go out in that mindset once in a while. Find someone and have fun for one night."

How do you turn a pine into an oak? Is soon-to-be ole Bionic ready to be so lighthearted? This sappy romantic? Shit. All right. Experiment time.

So, here I am, doing the dance. My drink was drained an hour ago, and for once, I didn't care. Time flies on 737 wings before I realize that the outside of your leg is warm and buzzing against the inside of mine. I'm unsure how or when we got into such friendly posturing. But, you didn't remove it and that is the point.

And here I am, trying to be lighthearted and fun and unsentimental and less cut out of those hard convictions. Think out of the box. Think out of the box. Think out of the box.

And it is from this place by which I arrived here. But, just as quickly, the little voice goes: "Wow. This person is no one-nighter." But then, I don't even know you.

So, back to where I started. A Pine Tree. I'll have to scrap this. I must try to be an Oak.

Shift

A man goes off to war. He is changed forever. His wife, at home, awaits his return. He will return to a woman who misses him. Who will be relieved at the familiarity of his lips. And he thinks, who is the man that she loves? He has manuevered through months of dust and blood and urgency and tears and bureaucracy and brotherhood. Is this his last day? Last hour? Last minute? Would words serve his experience justice? Who is this man she loves? He shifts. We all shift. But, the war-time soldier shifts in a thrust, seemingly a rapid about-face. At least, it is expected and easily explainable.

Is my own introspection insignificant? I am an ordinary woman. I have no skin in the game. I lock my doors at night. I have a full belly. I have money in my account. I spent the evening in good company. My parents are both alive, my sister too. My health is fine, just a bothersome tooth.

My shift is more gradual; therefore, perhaps, more puzzling. This weirdness has surrounded me in a delicate fog. From where did it come? When will I see through it clearly? If. If. If.

It makes me wonder things like:

Did it ever exist?

Will we ever be?

What about her, was there more I could have done?

Why am I so happy with nothing?

Why am I so alone with everything?

Why do some people waste so much time?

Is that one worth it?

Am I really being honest with me?

Do we all go through this?

And I've prayed. They have always worked before. And this time, it seems like it didn't. Why? Why now? Perhaps, it did work; but the answer wasn't what I expected. I expected what I felt in my bones to turn inside out and send butterflies into the world. Did it ever exist? Did we fool ourselves? Of course. Yes. Maybe. Perhaps. We can doubt anything if we think about it long enough. And I've had some time to think.

The change is unsettlingly gradual. Where did it come from? I find myself surrounded by people I know, who love me; but who is it that they love? The world puts itself to our shoulder, and we are all bending slowly around it. Without notice. Until one day, the same old places seem unfamiliar.

Isn't that sort of great? It should be. Whether it be an about face, or as slow as the world spinning. How'd it get so late? Is the sun already dropping behind the horizon? In sunrise and sunset, most of us feel it. And, isn't that sort of great? It should be.

And What Ship Are You (Repost)

And what ship are you? The low crawling trawler? The strong-necked yacht? The tug boat chugging? The sneaking sub? The careful bottled ship?

And what ship are you?

She is the ship sinking. Once she's wrecked, it won’t matter. Not even the fish will care.

Oh, Captain! My Captain! You don’t have to go down with ‘er!

But she insists.

She thinks it makes her esteemed.

But, loyalty snapped the deckboards.

She thinks it's living hard.

She lives too hard.

It’s not the only choice. It’s not even admirable.

And what ship are you? There! The speed boat frolicking? The snogging gondola? The row boat flexing? The dignified sail boat?

Her? Her ship is sinking. And here we are, on the shore. Arms flailing. Life preservers dispatched. Hollering until our throats bleed. Maybe she wants someone to save her, to die hard for her. And maybe we want that too. But no one wants to board a sinking ship.

This Like Thing

The afternoon was lingering and lazy. I stroll along neat rows of calla lilies and moonbeam violets. A handful of weekend gardeners murmur and squeeze between the aisles with mammoth-sized, flat-topped garden carts overfilled with varying foliage.I was searching for perfection. Something for her. A bloom seemingly sculpted by Apollo's own hand. A bloom to vacuum the air from her lungs, bending her into a gasp. Her eyes, all shining and electric.This "like" thing.

My brain built a cloud conveyor of visual flashes. Upon the fluffy top of each Cumulus: the breaking wave curl of her various smiles (to date, I have counted 26 varieties), two chocolate balloon pupils inflating with playfulness and deflating in seriousness, the smallness of her hand stretched against mine, her head hinged back in a laugh.

I was a novice at this. All prior observations and participation in this, this "like" thing, had been shaped in such a way: it takes a hold of the brain. People become consumed in themselves. Solitary. Singular. If one isn't careful, the planet disappears into an obsidian abyss. Once this happens, anxiety kicks a reckless hoof at the ventricles and gouges the lungs.

This "like" thing, it's something like this sometimes.

I usually drive this thing into a ditch. A big Fat Cat Cadillac, top down, streaking along a lengthy spine of desert highway. Punch the gas, yank hard on the wheel and crank the emergency brake. Break the handle off. Crack my limbs sideways against its steel shell. And hurt me. And hurt me. And hurt me.

And hurt me.The short of this racket, this “like” thing had pulled my organs into freakish, thick knots on a few occasions. A gurney, the ER, six hours of poking, 36 questions, two hits of Valium and one prescription of Steroids to free up my lungs.

"Has your regular Doctor discussed anxiety with you?" The Doc was thudding a dense, metallic pen against my chart. It was all there. I knew what was in their charts, the bastards. But I listened and shrugged with wide eyes like all of this was new to me.

The cloud conveyors:

"You weren't bad. You were good." She said, in a half question.

"Well, yeah. I was good. It didn't make sense to rebel. I tried." It was true. I tried to be a drunk. I hated the burn. I tried to smoke. The cigarettes had no effect. I tried to sell drugs. But the market was flooded. And there were other vices too, vices which catch my words on a meat-hook before they could leap from my tongue. "In the end, if I fucked up, it was all me. I was raising me. So, it didn't really make sense.”

She took a drag. "We have to get you to do something bad. You need it."

"I do?"

"Yeah."

"Hmmm."

We sipped wine.I slinked from my skin, peeling my soul from its stalking, and peered down at myself. In that room, with her. My choices lying behind me, fractured rails jointed with makeshift ties. How I arrived at that moment of calm, at the tail end of a bumpy, jangled ride clanging and banging for thousands of miles, I am unsure. I watched myself, watching her.Am I bad enough? Good enough? Strong enough? Humble enough? Brave enough?

I do not know her. She keeps reminding me. How do we know ourselves so much? Me, always shape shifting. What I do know is that in her laugh, there is safety. In a woman I do not know, whom I might never know fully, I find calm. And here is someone, someone who does not need a thing from me. That kind of being is not to squander. What I know is my lungs have not crippled. This "like" thing somehow got incredibly easy.

Capping the aisle of moonbeam violets and calla lilies, I wander upon a three tiered display of orchids. The hand written sign reads: Orchids are fragile! Please ask for assistance.

I know nothing about fertilizers or watering frequencies. I do not realize the intricacies of perennial versus annual. Though, I can take a guess. I am a novice in this setting. One must go for what feels right; what appeals to the senses and triggers the emotions. Act on faith.

The bloom for her, an orchid boldly blooming.

Off to the Races

1 a.m. Sleep is absent. Tasks and hypothesises flicker in schizophrenic streams of ticker tape beneath my lids, some damned parade gone haywire. Cut to: Vibrato drifting through the floorboards. The neighbors installed a television in their bedroom. Probably one of those flat screen deals. Their bedroom was above mine. At $ 675 a month, it’s what an office salary can afford. All divisions between myself and them, walls and ceilings, are paper thin. Ordinarily, cheap does not impose such fantastical annoyances.

Thinking back to the morning. The memory of his face is clearly etched. His blue collar-tough, bronze toned skin held hard lines across skeptical forehead and butressed a half grimmace. His boots were of manmade materials which almost encouraged the frigid moisture to seep through and set in. He would carry a slight shiver until the whistle blew for lunch. Later, he would be victoriously self-deceiving in his need to see a doctor once a cough set in; better that than worrisome over scratching up the copayment.

“Hey.” He was thumbing through items in his wallet. The green of small bills scrambled with soft-cornered business cards.

I nodded and smiled. My mouth smiles with suspicious caution in the mornings. I’m not myself. But then, who am I lately? Someone waiting for the fall? Someone waiting for the next set of lips on mine? Someone waiting for the victory banners to unravel? Someone calculating nickels and dimes until the next destination? Someone tinkering with how to put my brain to the world and move it? All these things. The ticker tape.

He pushed a business card toward me. “Look at this!” His peppered moustache hanging like an awning over his smile.

“Best Discount Inn – Hollywood, CA”

No shit. It’s what it said.

“I took my wife there once.”

I nodded and smiled. Cautiously. It’s not right to be so suspicious. I think about George Bush and his plan to add employer paid healthcare benefits to taxable income. I fret over what economic impact it will have on social security benefits. I wonder what Washington whiz kid came up with the formula for the poverty line level: $30,000 for a family of 4. I think about the cost of the war and where the sacrifice lies. The soldiers and their families, of the old folks, of the students from parents of the working class. Why can't we spend a few more dollars in taxes each, the entirety of the American people, so that the noticeable sacrifice does not lay soley on the backs of these people? I think about the Best Discount Inn – Hollywood, CA.

He pushed the card further into my hand. “Ever hear of it, huh?”

I shake my head. “No. Never been to Hollywood.” My voice is not my voice in the morning when I’m being so cautious. The tone bumps like tires across an old dirt road. I'm tired and bone dry of small talk.

What about his wife? Did she love him? Did she love the Best Discount Inn – Hollywood, CA? Did they get married in Hollywood? Did they bump into Leo and his people? She loved him. She loved the feel of that moustache against her forehead when she slept. It made her feel safe. I’d bet she made him a sack lunch of 2 turkey sandwiches for when the lunch whistle blew. And I think, if him, why not me? And I think, if her then why not me?

All this thinking and I was a bit dim. I handed the card back and retreated into silence.

Sink it someplace else. Passion. Love. Loyalty. Inspiration. Sink it someplace else. Fingers gripping hard. Sacrifice. Patience. Devotion. Sink it someplace else. Someplace. Someplace.

Mr. Carville: A simple doctrine, outside of a person’s love, the most sacred thing they can give is their labor.

So, to the victory banners, I go. Perhaps, the thought will subdue the ticker tape tonight. Perhaps, I will nudge the world just a half inch. A half inch is all it takes most times.

For (dot. dot. dot.)

There is

this man.

There is

that man.

And woman. And babies. And flowers. And mailboxes, a mammoth dot-to-dot from high above, 360 degrees around the cul-de-sac.

There is a pause. And a moment.

There is birth. And then.

A man.

The coffee drips. His wife set the timer. He awakes in the morning. His sons are still dreaming. He sips his cup, shakes his head at the headlines. He rinses the cup. Kisses his wife on the forehead. She never fully wakes, only dazed.

This woman.

This man.

This pause.

This moment.

Not fully awake, merely dazed. His sons still dreaming.

It was the last of a lot of things that morning. Off to work. They say he worked too hard. That's the way sometimes. The last of a lot of things that morning. Of birth and then, dot. dot. dot.

My mind is coasting through this scenerio. She was out to put coins on the track. Under the wheels. Against the mechanism. But it would happen. This pause. This moment. This ultimatum.

Her eyes are split with an ax.

"Don't go to Haiti." She says.

"I must." I say.

"They're talkin' Revolution." She says.

"Then I'll make history with them." I say.

I'll die in some man's Revolution. Or perhaps, I'll die alone. Or perhaps, I was dead already. Perhaps, all this time is borrowed. There were moments. The suspicious car in a pitch dark parking lot. Sometimes, when I dream, I dream in crow-colored landscapes. And there are the headlights. That pause. That moment. Headlights like shiny pennies in a stutter-step 300 yards in the distance. I took to the treeline and stilled myself. Held my breath. The car creeped passed and gunned it.

And she asks me not to go to Haiti. But, I'm already dead.

There is this man.

There is that man.

A pause. A moment.

There is birth. And then

When the Going Gets Tough, the Snow Plows Get A-Going (2007 Alternate Ending)

It’s morning and it is snowing. I am refreshed by the flickering flakes as I skate along the glinting slick of a West Suburb side street. I entrance myself in the hypnotic, rhythmic motion of legs in brisk shuffle. The daydreaming begins. Brain, in brass knuckled grinding against my skull, cataloging the current emblematic mudstorm.

Fuck.

The intensifying, bellowing of deisel at my backside tows me back into focus. A gargantuan, salt spitting snow plow is trawling the stiff pavement. The bright green monster barrels towards me. As it passes, the beast’s mouth spews slush in tall, arching abstractly, muted rainbows and finishes me with a scattering of salt pellet buckshots which riddle at the black dye of my pressed slacks.

Double Fuck.

“You mother-EFFER!” I was so angry, I didn’t even hear his sidekick tearing behind 100 yards back.

Triple Fuck.

“You MOTHER-FUCKERS!”

The driver waves at me, all friendly like. "I'm not waving at you, asshole," I mutter. But, I'm the asshole. He is doing his job. And then, a fool feeling more foolish. The plow is on my heels again, creeping slowly this time. I squeeze myself to the shoulder. Heavy tires grunt to a halt and a snow blasted window unravels itself. A smiling man tips up his cap at me.

"Need a ride?" He shakes his thumb at the passenger seat.

"No. I'm right up here. Thanks though." I say. Oh. Yes. I'm the asshole. He is just doing his job.

New York City By Camera Phone

Prince is King

No amount of chicken wings or cupcakes decorated in the Bears' mighty blue and orange could lull us out of our first half stupor. The Colts were headed to the locker room for a light lunch with a 2 point lead. Not a bad spread if #18, Peyton Manning, weren't commanding the fleet. Mr. Manning has a date with history, even Bears fans can not deny it. And after a scoreless second quarter, the Urlacher jerseys seemed to sag a bit.

Thank God for giving us Prince. A bit comical and ironic that the folks in charge of the Superbowl halftime show would take a gamble on the likes of Prince. One would think that under high scrutiny stemming from Janet & Justin's halftime show, wherein a wardrobe "malfunction" exposed Ms. Jackson's breast to the world (well, sort of), that Prince isn't the most conservative choice for entertainment. The man exudes sexuality. In the land of phallicism, Prince is King.

Set List

We Will Rock You (Intro), Let's Go Crazy, 1999 (Short Interlude), Baby I'm a Star, Proud Mary, All Along the Watchtower / Best of You (Foo Cover), Purple Rain

Rest in Peace

I have been a bit out of sorts. 2 weeks ago, I strutted into the gym and was faced with a stunning new reality. My Koi pond was gone. The rock wall had been wrecked down to the floor grout. Zoey and Chloe are no more, and that shit has got me feeling a little depressed. RIP, wherever you girls may be.

16 March 2006 - BIG AND SMALL, THINGS ARE A-CHANGING
Chloe moved 3/4 of an inch today. She is alive. I had just finished a 3rd set of crunches. And the lay-about actually tricked me into believing she was about to take a dip. She creaked her slow legs 3/4 of an inch toward the water line and then plunked her head beneath the water. There she stayed. 3 sets later, her head still submerged. I think she is trying to drown herself. She has a rock, 15 pesky koi fish and the attention-hog, Zoey.


13 March 2006 - ZOEY
Zoey is so cute, I can't handle it.

Zoey busies herself with carefully pecking marooned food pellets from a large rock and hauling them to the water line. When the koi fish surround her, she submerges her head beneath the surface and breaks up the pellets for them to enjoy. She scales the rock again and repeats the process.

01 March 2006 - TULIPS AND TURTLES

Chloe and Zoey are not metaphors, as I've been asked. They are actual, breathing turtles. So, now that I have prefaced, here's a story:

Zoey had become accustomed to winking hello at me. The pattern was that I would peer from beyond the edge of the rock wall surrounding the Koi pond. She would wade over and stretch out her long neck at me. Until, one day, I tried to sneak a picture of her. This is the precise moment at which she stopped greeting me. Now, whenever she senses me, she paddles away frantically.

If her fondness of me hadn't vacillated so, yesterday would have marked a clean and clear opportunity to get a healthy shot of her cute mug. The cleaning lady was dusting off the rails near the monitoring camera; therefore impeding The Man's view of the pond. But Zoey sniffed my presence and immediately sank her head into her shell, cut a swift U-turn through heavy Koi traffic and sputtered away.

Blast my gluttonous ways.

13 September 2005 - ON MAKING IT AND BREAKING IT IN THE BIG CITY

Also, I have a sickly fascination with the Koi pond turtles at my gym. I've named the smaller one Zoey and the larger one Chloe. Zoey is a rascal. Chloe is a couch potato. The troubling part is when Zoey has just emerged from the water and her little head is perked, I have a strong urge to grab her and gently gum down on her wet head with my lips.

Bionic Presents: Mix Tape Valentine's Issue Vol. I

Moved from February 14, 2007

Sure, sure. Some of you are in love.

Hell, Bionic, don't bleed on our...errr...love parade.

Before anyone goes jumping to any conclusions, I do not begrudge all (or any) of my friends who are currently shacking up with, sleeping with, snogging with or general kanoodling with other folks on a frigid Valentine's Day. I do not begrudge you, my friends.

Let's call an ace an ace though, Valentine's Day. Bullcrap.

What a cynic you've turned out to be, Bionic!

Well, whatever, it's my blog and I can.....errr....cry if I want to. Cry if I want to. Cry if I want you.

Hit the lights and turn the volume up!

Smother It

Lost again, at the moment.

She wrings her brain around her heart. Smother it. Smother it. Smother it. Her heart doesn't kick, doesn't flail, doesn't go for the eyes. It goes easily. It's apathetic. She wrings her brain around her heart. She confirms it's apathy.

What happened to those glorious days of good feelings? Her heart on eagle wings. Blood on a race track. What happened to the glorious days of defeat? The deafening, diving sub of security. Sound the alarms. The tears soaked through the sheets. Smother them. Smother them. Smother them.

Certainly, good or bad is better than her insides standing still. She's not good at that, a Grandfather clock with no tick or dong. It's all too easy. The cereal for dinner. The leaving dishes in the sink. The bed never resting, never exhausted. It's all too steady. No variance. Almost boring, though she won't admit to that. She's no bore. She smothers that. Smothers that. Smothers that.

Her heels pound against the bitter sidewalk. She keeps reminding herself: keep the knees loose, take shorter steps. It's slick out. The chill permeates through the soles of her boots. They are made in Brazil. Her feet won't be warm again today.

She sees Jessie through the window of his building, like Sir Isaac, Jessie Newton. He was waiting for her. He waves. He blows a kiss. She should invite him to breakfast one morning. She wondered how he ended up gray, never having been married. She waves. She blows him a kiss. He flashes his teeth in a grin. It's the most romantic thing in her life. Jessie.

The city is blue. 12 degrees without the windchill. The office is 72 degrees. Her feet never get warm. And somehow, the sub feeling is coming. She gulps it away. Sips her coffee. Drinks her water. Breathes intentionally. It subsides. Smother it, smother it, smother it.

The Raven

Third Act:

A raven haired beauty enters stage left. Her head hangs in a teardrop. She steps, dragging a thick rope of chains at her feet. They scratch the floor like the nails of a Halloween ghoul. Her black dress flows in a glide, ruffling like in a slight wind at her own funeral. A cello plays. The houselights dim, surrounding her silhoutte in an ice blue beam. She raises her skinny arms, long wings casting a shadow across the crowd. Three finger long hooks pierce the skin and muscle of each arm, heavily suspended.

Her mouth opens and she chirps a soft hymn. She raises the chain and attaches a section to one of the hooks.

I hide my eyes. My stomach is leaping. I turn around so that I'm not tempted. She continues to sing and I tell them to let me know when the hooks are done.

A scuffle of bodies near the front. One girl goes down in a faint. The song continues and the crowd parts to let a friend carry her out. My eyes peer over knitting eyebrows and mouths shaped in capital Os. Near my other friends, another girl goes down. Let her out. The song continues. Then in front of me, another girl. And then another. And then another. 7 women went down on our side.

A friend leans against the wall to steady herself, another hands out water, and I still try not to look. The song ends and the raven, creeps from the stage.

I wondered if there is a gas leak. Though, it's not improbable that the raven physiologically effected her audience in such a manner. I'm still in awe of it.

The Story of the Rooster

I was stuck on the rooster. Each time I put pen to page about the rooster, I met an ocean. A warm swell stemming from my heart, squeezing through my larynx and cresting behind my eyes. I wonder if the rooster had her eyes.

“Did you hear that rooster this morning?” I ask.

“Did I? Oh, that darn thing. It lives up in the mango tree somewhere, you know.”

“Oh.” I pushed scrambled eggs and sliced tomatoes around on a plate, “It doesn’t belong to someone?”

“No. It’s wild.” She said and then leaned towards me in a whisper, “I think Mrs. Kagauwa feeds it though.”

“Hmmm. How long has it been there?”

“Oh, about a year and a half, I’d guess. It used to have a friend, you know. I think someone tried to catch it because one day I saw the friend and he was missing his tail feathers.” She ran a small hand through her silver hair and peered through the kitchen window at the Mango tree. “I haven’t seen the friend since.”

My grandmother passed away around the time the rooster showed. My grandmother and great aunty lived in this house together since 1961, though the house was a Miranda residence since the 40’s. It’s the only address I could never forget. I wondered if the spirit of my grandmother was somehow connected with the rooster. If she was watching over my Aunty, the last of all the old folks in Hawaii.

In a week, I hadn’t been able to sleep past 5:30 a.m. The rooster had seen to that.

I passed the time at the house by helping my Aunty rake the yard, hanging clothes on the line and peering behind the rubbish cans for geckos. My Papa used to catch geckos for my sister and myself. I’m not sure how he did it. Geckos are particularly rascally. A 29 year old woman getting outsmarted by a few little geckos is a sight to see. On late night TV one evening, I saw a story on an 11 year old girl lizard hynotist. She cradled them onto their backs and stroked their bellies a few times. It paralyzed them. She and her father started a photo project where she would dress the lizards in costume while in this state and pose them on miniature objects; motorcycles, diner stools, phone booths, speed boats. I wondered if the geckos could be hypnotized. I never caught one. I made spotting the rooster my new mission.

An old ladder was propped against the trunk of the 65 year old mango tree. I peered through the cavernous green canopy of her branches from the ground. It was dizzying. I’m mildly terrified of heights. Rather, once I get up, it’s a horrible task to come down.

“Whatcha doing?” My dad’s voice came from behind me. “We’re gonna cut down some of these branches next week after you leave.”

“I’m looking for that rooster.” I said.

“We should catch him and set him free near the cemetery when we put flowers on the grave. There’s another rooster there. Maybe he'd like some company."

The connection between my grandmother dieing and the timing of that rooster made the thought a bit startling. Who would watch over Aunty then?

I couldn’t escape death. It was all around me; it crept from the neighbor’s bed, slid through the thick-armed leaves of the papaya trees, slithered between the siding and into my bedroom. She was dieing over there. The next morning, I slept until 8. The rooster was gone. The next night, I stayed up listening to the woman dieing and wondering where the rooster went.

My aunty thought someone caught it for Christmas and cooked her. It made me sick to think about. At church, I prayed that the woman would feel no pain and for the rooster to return.
During dinner that evening, the neighbor’s daughter knocked on the door and told us that she had passed away. And at 5:30 a.m. the next morning, the rooster cocka-doodle-dooed me awake. I hoped he never caught that rooster.

More Pics

More Pics

Oahu by Camera Phone 2

Oahu by Dad's Camera

Oahu by Camera Phone

We've All Had a Bad Day, Lady

I wanted to write something beautiful today. The bus driver really pissed me off. We’ve all had a bad day, lady. I jam my frame heavily into the back corner seat and pull down my wool cap. It hides my eyelids. I disappear.

I was going to write something beautiful today; but disappearing was much more appealing. I’ll think of good things. I’ll dream about them. I’ll fall asleep and transport myself to where I want to be. I’ll reconstruct it.

A top floor apartment. A new suede couch. It was chocolate colored. Or Charcoal. I can’t remember now. It’s been a long time. Longer than I’ve waited ever. The pillows were Mediterranean blue, that much I remembered. A cat lurking on wooden floors. Pictures of friends and three rascals decorating otherwise bare, white walls. A coffee table with swatches tidily lined next to one another. The coffee table was built by a friend. Notoriously uncluttered counters. A hat, the blue one, well worn and for comfort. A face like soft down on a frigid day.

The bus bumped onto the sidewalk and dropped off, shocking the serenity from my blood. She was cracking my patience across her knee, the renegade bus driver. I tip my cap up to survey the other riders. A heavy, pretty girl with a thrift store sack at her Doc Marten’s scratching her bleached hair away from blue eyes. Her nose was pierced. I’ve always wanted a pierced nose. A teeny diamond stud. I’m not too comfortable with the width of my nose. Her friend was uber-Lincoln Park, an H & M sack between her skinny knees clutching a purse in leather driving gloves. Pointed black boots tapping rapidly. A boy in a white jeep hat. A tattered man bogged down by 4 or 5 bags of recyclables. A 30-something mesmerized by a PSP.

I think about other things. This one. That one. Places I’ve been. The one who never forgets that I need jelly for my wheat toast, sometimes an English muffin. Packing for the trip. My Grandmother’s rosary, how the jade colored beads hold the heat. I cradle it in my hand and feel closer to her, to a woman who was so much better than I am. But then, I’m just having a bad day. Why I try so hard and some will still question my integrity. I wonder what the confrontation will look like. Will I be ugly? Will I snap? Will I be the ordinarily, predictable passionate self? I’m grasp at serenity. Calmness. Cool. Logic. Logic. Logic. I prayed today. Illogical. I forgot the Hail Mary. Upsetting. I had to look it up on the internet. It had escaped me. I wondered what that meant. Kyle's joke about the little man in the sky. Why had I eaten so many green olives yesterday.

Stop. Thinking. So. Much.

Every Woman is a Poem

He snapped the can top back and sucks the remedy through his teeth. The enamel still holds hard to decades old menthol. He quit 8 months ago.

“Everyone is easy when loneliness kicks in, honey…..Sweetie…..Baby doll.” He always ended in a half stab at affection intended to flatter. “Easiest thing, cutie.”

“If only I could be easy. That’s the trick of it.”

He didn’t care. He had been staring at my breasts. His words were an invitation. I wouldn’t RSVP. Wrong party.

The afternoon sky was settling into a gray, Seattle mist. There would be no sunset tonight, a sufficient impetus for a particularly melancholy mood. It didn’t rain like this in Chicago. I had forgotten. “Melancholy”, I loathe the word more than the actual emotion.

The two of us would be beyond buzzed soon. I’d sway my steps against the tilt of earth beneath my boots. He’d make his offer again, more blatantly than before. Perhaps, I would flirt and flash a sideways grin.

I had avoided this particular airport bar for 6 years. Every Christmas. Every Thanksgiving. Today, I had taken it by the horns. It kicked my ass.

Every woman was a poem. Some formed splinters. Some, like her, just split the chambers in two. She was a poem. She was a seamstress too. She was newly churned soil. She was fresh sheets pulled tight, just so. Until in a snap, her bones dried up. I didn’t protest.

Those were the bar stools. I didn’t have a ring; but I had never been so serious. Serious and determined, I had asked her. She answered with a kiss and another. She called me "Pie". I miss hearing it. We wrote the date on a napkin.

Every woman is a poem. She’s the one my brain never tried to memorize. She's embedded in every organ, kicking my ass at the airport bar.

Pocket Exploration of Gay Girl Bar Patrons - An Anthropological Study

The Various Business Card and Folded Up Money (No Wallet) Pocket





The Cell Phone, Crumpled Up 10 Spot (No Wallet), Gym Membership Card Pocket






The Lots of Folded Up Money (No Wallet), Massive Collection of Keys, Cell Phone, Chapstick Pocket




And My Personal Fave:



The Spare Change, Chapstick, Personal Affect, Nail Clipper Pocket
(Money in Side Cargo - Not Pictured)

The Best November Around Chicago By Camera Phone

Best Collaborative Effort


Best Evil Beer


Best Future Gangster Film Speakeasy


Best 80's Nostalgia Leather Jacket


Best Daft Punk Impersonation


Best Kept Secret Near Clybourn Corridor