Words for Mercenaries: Associates and Appearances

Words for Mercenaries: Associates and Appearances: "'This is the world I sought out, the land of the perpetual night party, day swallowing night and night swallowing day, the crank compressing..."

Associates and Appearances

"This is the world I sought out, the land of the perpetual night party, day swallowing night and night swallowing day, the crank compressing time like some divine piston on its awesome downstroke. We've been at this for three days now - or is it four? Tweakers, lokers, slammers, coming together swearing eternal allegiance and undying love for one another only to wake up after the binge and realize you wouldn't piss on one of them if there head was on fire"


- Val Kilmer (Tom Van Allen/Danny Parker)
The Salton Sea



  In the slippery convaluted firmament of drugs, under-the-counter or over-the-counter, legal or illegal, by proper design or falsehood, healthy or unhealthy,  with legitimacy or illegimitacy, whether you got them from a friend's friend, or a flakey dealer you trust to show up more often than not, or some one who knows some one who knows some one else, they are never any fun unless you can do them a lot. They never any fun unless you can pursue them with reckless abandon. They are never any fun without exorbitant use, ignoring that universal instinctive feeling, the voice that bursts into the forefront of your mind imploring you to stop when you've had too much too fast.
   There are times when the person can wake up after ignoring the voice. There are times when the person can't. It depends how far he's gone, how far he's pushed his luck with that one drug he likes so much and so often. He pops it in his mouth followed by a hearty gulp of liquid, he snorts it with a shortened straw or dollar bill in either nostril, he smokes it in a pipe from the headshop, he turns it into vapor and inhales the fumes from a light bulb, he rolls into paper, he melts into a spoon and injects into a previously blackened, ruined vein with a hypodermic needle, he even purchases it by the bottle in the whiles of legality from the liquor store, and hopefully he's smart enough not to drive. Hopefully he let's a friend drive him home, the friend asking himself how long he's been the responsible party and is that any fun at all? He does it for his friend in the hope that this friend will do the same for him. He chooses this over peaceful pursuits, he chooses this over the simple idea of entertaining a foray into peaceful pursuits on that Friday or that Saturday of Saturnalia at the peak of midnight.
  Regardless of any type or fashion, any rigged statement of legality that only induces greater desire to do some thing one shouldn't, there is a universal truth that supersedes it all, that nullifies it all no matter how much rules from an outside source are set in stone. No matter how long some overly certified, overemphasized, self important rulemaker sits at a desk and materializes a sheet of paper with pros and cons, there is only one universal truth that stands between life and death. Edgar Allen Poe, some one very despondent, spiflicated, addicted, and very qualified once wrote, "Have we not in the teeth of our best judgment to break that which is law simply because we can?" Therefore any discourse or argument with the subject of legality must be eschewed or forgone for the sake of more thorough examination. Contrariwise the law is necessitated at times not by way of providence. Most of the time they are necessited when a body or bodies must be zipped up in a larg black bag and taken away. There is nothing prejudicial about the law herein. Just put your lofty notions about the law away for a moment, a small, innocuous elapse no matter how sharp or persistent a pang of ego strikes the turgid conflicting mental accumulation of your by-the-book morality.
   The one universal truth is the voice we all have when things have become too much, when things have simply become insufferable and seamingly deplorable. There is nothing too difficult about escaping the path of a moving vehicle traveling at high speeds unless the person concerned is decidedly suicidal. When drugs are concerned there is more subtltey involved. The person always has the voice. Every body has the voice. Good people may dismiss themselves; they have it all the time and take it for granted. However, the voice, the conscience is always present. It's there effectually or it has become a neglected annoying  moral excrescence of  I-can't-I-should-I-will-I-won't-I-never-will. The voice is present in the ennobled rulemaker's head before he decrees or writes a statement of law. Therefore his very qualified thought is first and the law is merely a regurgitation. Yes, yes, it's so important. There there, you can't live without it. It's your drug. Just try not to do it too much too fast. We understand.
   The universal voice is trying to get it's point across in a young man's head. His track veins wouldn't look any better if makeup were applied. His bleary, glazed, strained, bloodshot, and lifeless eyes are encircled with unwholsome patches of sleep deprivation. His drug has consumed him. Before it was just something he did. It wasn't a pastime yet. As he went the ratio shifted entirely and he could nothing else but support his drug. He was given to ennui and the distaste of anything beside. His ego was getting the better of him. The people he troubled himself with were his friends.
  Friend is a loose word in extreme drug circles. Alcohol plays a different role, but may be just as pernicious and belied. The commonality that binds them is only the drug, not compassion or the virtues of friendship. After all, a dealer is there to sell you something. Friendship and business are mutually exclusive. The dealer doesn't want to be your friend, the very responsible one in charge of driving you home - bless his heart. Friendship therefore is for other people. It's not his thing whereupon friends become associates. A casual observer who doesn't know any better is decieved by appearances.
  There is nothing prejudicial about drugs herein. They are fine by themselves. They are inanimate. One or two of anything can't be all that bad. The prim business ladies have their surcease of xanax, oxicodone, or oxicotton. It makes them feel better after clipping their wonderful legs on the corners of desks all day, after the encroaching pain of beautification and stiletto heals, getting things done in business for themselves or some one else. The buttoned-up businessmen may have those things too if they like or maybe just one whiskey neat. There is beer on days hot or cold, just good ol' marijuana for sensible people, both, or whatever and whathaveyou.
   Bells are ringing in the young man's head, the voice is speaking, but he isn't listening that heedfully. He's been taking his drug too long for that kind of sensible fortitude. He sits alone in the bathroom of his functional apartment. This time his associates aren't there to associate with him. His friends are few or not at all. In any case he is alone and has internalized for some time. No loved one or member of his family has intervened too strongly at this point. He has the misfortune of interalizing when he ought speak up, cry out for the help we all need. He has internalized habitually and irrevocably for this the last time he takes the drug. First the ratio shifted. Then he surpasses the ratio altogether. He is a goner. He sits on the porcelain goddes with his kit at his feet. He tightens a rope or a belt around his arm for blood flow. Usually he taps at the needle pushing that spurt of excess out. Not this time. He fills up the needle with heroin. He aims for the blackened protuberant vein he's used the most. He punctures the vein highhandedly - no alcohol swab - and pushes the entirety of the heroin into his bloodstream.
   He drops the needly any where and waits. The euphoria of the drug suffuses his body. His eyes swim in the back of his head. He has grandiose reveries and fantasies until...he- he starts to convulse and tremble. He foams at the mouth. He writhes and wriggles. He cries out. No body is there not even associates or appearances. He dies and that asy they say is history.
   Some time after funereal goings-on a loved one may ask one of his friends why he didn't do anything to thwart this terrible death. The friend recalls great times doing the drug and special the other was when he did it too. The loved one is enraged after the fact asking, "why didn't try to stop it?!" The friend is stupefied, standing in mental paralysis, indifferent, apathetic, never really concerned from the get-go. He is an associate and the loved one is passed appearances.
 
 

  
 

The Case of Velda Blair

  Velda Blair was Ozarkan, ex military, married, and in her golden years. She felt good besides bodily aches and was extra salty. She wasn't your usual woman. She had more hair and muscle in some places than her husband. She was something of a fierce and resolute troll, too unprepossessing for most men and tolerable enough for one. She had a good mane of jet black hair if one were to look at her from behind and willing to forgive her squinting or not when she turned around. Any jeering or gibing in regards to her unique appearance was water off a duck's back to Velda - bless her heart. Her constitution was that of solid rock.
  Most days Velda loved life, raised her three daughters with an iron fist, worked hard, played hard, and tolerated her husband who tolerated her. Their tolerance of one another could be considered love, was a kind of love, but couldn't be analyzed with any satisfactory measure of precision. It baffled some and amazed others. It was inculpable much like the universe when delving too deep for illusory answers. The answers seemed tangible and explicable but disappeared as soon as they were grasped. However, their love seemed functional and indeed it was.
  Most women do not like being called a bitch even when behaving as such. Therefore the epithet is ineffable. A veritable bitch must not be called a veritable bitch aloud. That is a privilege reserved for lesbians, Athena's warriors, and...and ah - trolls. Like most racial slurs and epithets, they are off limits to the tongue of any outsider who did not suffer the century-old rancorous history. Persons directly and egoically associated to the history may use these words freely amongst themselves if they so choose. Some are more polite than others having no particular interest in utilizing these words at all. However, any outsider is off limits regardless and may begrudge his neighbor these words to no avail. That is all.
  Calling a woman a bitch is impolite, impertinent despite stark lack of feminine rank, and unthinkable. However,  the man in question is most certainly an asshole and may be called so without equality between sexes. This is the way of things. Would Velda know this? Most words didn't matter to Velda. Many times she rose above them. She was a woman of action. In her erstwhile military days she was more fit and masculine than her gunny whom she rendered unconscious for yelling too much. When he awoke  he was so impressed that he decided to forget the matter altogether and bestow upon her more befitting rank. She knocked him out again asserting her position in that she did not require anything from a man. When awoken he was so impressed that he gave her an honorable discharge and a couple of shiny medals to boot. He had never met a woman such as Velda Blair and would ne'er again in his lifetime. "I will amain see to it that ya don't," said Velda as there were no more Veldas in mass production on the planet.
  Velda didn't mind being called a bitch when she conducted herself as such. What she found irksome and intolerable was being called a bitch behind her back. Her husband grossly erred when her back was turned one foreboding and seminal day. He called her a bitch and not to her face when engrossed in an argument loud enough for themselves, sparing their children's presence of course. Her daughters were eating breakfast at the table before school. She bided her time like a champion, patient and surreptitious. She waited for her girls to finish their dainty victuals. "Okayyy, girls," she chirped, patting them each on their jet black heads and behinds before sending them off to school.
  Her husband was facing her still when she prepared him his eggs and bacon the same way she always did without complaint or rebuke. She loved him afterall, but she didn't have a clean shot and she was exceedingly patient. She washed the skillet till it shined like a mirror and spat smack in the middle of it for sportive affirmation. This was a good way to pass the time, waiting for him to finish his breakfast ere he dashed off to his construction job. She would later have to call  his employer under the pretext of her husband being deathly ill and who would need at least two days to convalesce. Velda had perfected her slippery whiles over time. "Sir, he can't come in, and if your establishment has any respect for its employees, ya'll should  just submit and heed my request." She talked to Elmo, the boss man of hers truly.
  She continued aggresively keeping her tongue chaste, "He can come in his state if you want a lawsuit on yer hands."
   "No no no," said the sheepish Elmo. "There's no call for that. Mr. Blair has always done exemplary work."
  "I'm glad we agree. You tell that wife of yers I said hello." She hung up the phone and trudged back into the kitchen where her husband breakfasted. She always ate last and strangely she didn't seem to mind.
 "Who's that," her husband said with his mouth full.
 "Just my lady friend from across the way. She's comin' over for shots and Hearts later.
"Oh, well don't get too carried away."
"Ya mind yer own damn business. Just be sure to bring home my bacon, Pappa Bear. Besides, I'm put out by ya."
  Her husband paid no heed and ate well never leaving anything on the plate. She enjoyed what a facile task it was to clean his dish. "Thanks, love" he said preemptorily giving her his plate. She said nothing, feeling no affection whatsoever for him due to his recent transgression and washed the plate. She kept the skillet at ready atop a counter space. She eyed it like a gun in a rack, her favorite and the one she used the most in battle. "Hellooo Darlin," she whispered grabbing it firmly off the counter and holding it at her side, drying it for an unusual, needless period of time. This estranged elapse was part of her machination for Hubbie. He turned his back and began to occupy himself. This behoved Velda and she was a speedy opportunist. She had a good balanced weight on the skillet. She tightened her grip on the handle, skin and sinues in a lithe and strong hand stretched soundly. She aimed for the back of his head. She thumped him good and layed him out. He fell quickly. She knew and was accustomed to  how thick her husband's head was and hit him a few pounds shy of premature death. She could've killed him  had she wanted to, but she loved him. Velda was a stout Ozarkan warrior, no more no less.
   The frying pan hit his bald apex and put him down like a bull before slaughter, fast and hard. The clamor of the impact resounded in the kitchen for a brief moment. Consequently the frying pan was  slightly cracked and dented down the middle. Velda thought better of herself and fetched a pillow to put under his head. She also reverently added an ice pack, dropping it lazily on a face with a gaping mouth and a tongue hanging out. She hung the trophy skillet where he could see if for days to come. He would mark and remember the day well.
   When he awoke he apologized soundly and with some alacrity. He professed his undying love for her. She forgave him his transgression and bid him never call her a bitch behind her back again. He never called her bitch in any fashion after that. He kept a civil tongue in the kitchen and would tip-toe passed the trophy skillet with dread and remembrance. There is and will be no other case like that of Velda Blair.

American Pie-ism

  A film entered the media and the populace in 1999. It was a comedy for teens and all who could laugh for the sake of good stupid fun without necessarily reenacting any of the content therein. The film received praise, love, hate, and censure concomitantly as any film has, does, and will.
  The part of the population who would enjoy it did enjoy it. They laughed and talked about it with affection in the subsequent groups who developed quickly and had hap to speak of it between or after any other conversational topic. They did not expect any actual recurrence of the content in the film, most notably the image of a horny teen humping a warm, delicious, steaming pie with his father eventually walking in and seeing the whole mess.
   People watched the movie, liked it, and all was well. Nothing happened to disorder any one's mind beyond or pior to the ever present disorderment the world over. The film came out, it was received, it was rejected, the furor subsided, and lingers still some where some how. Would any one daringly imitate the content of American Pie?
   We must first make an interrogative stab of some kind. Where would something terrible and preverse ensue which parallels the content - more specifically the scene consisting of pie buggery - and cause a great deal of social tension toward an act so utterly disgusting, depraved, and reprehensible? By a short process of elimination we arrive at a solution. The actor, Jason Biggs, was attempting intercourse with a pie which was successful. Pie is eaten therefore it is food. As with anything we ingest we arrive at better locality for such a wanton, fell, and controversial misdeed. We arrive at the kitchen. How do we know who our perpetrator is?
  We must make another interrogative stab in the dark. We will take a cook. He's probably not as scrupulous as other cooks in some areas and absolutely unlikable in others. He has a sickly basement pallor from his mom's house, incurred by weeks of straight video games his in his dank, tenebrous hole of privation and inactivity. He has black under fingernails he doesn't clip. His person is slovenly. His hair grease could be peeled away with a butter knife. He smells like the squalor of the basment, his preversions, and the flatulence of sandwiches comprised of mustard, garlic, and bologna.  He has probably watched American Pie and liked it. By a short process of elimination, we arrive at our perpetrator. He is the man for the job. He is the elect candidate for he his just disgusting enough to do what the other man will not do. Viola!
  The perp works in a kitchen specializing in midway Italian. Hell, Throw some pizza in there and we arrive at the ubiquitous and cherished Hobart dough mixer.  Some mixers are better than others, but they abound and are bullion in kitchens. Fools think everything in the digital age is good. Digital hobarts are not durable. Nine times out of ten old mixers with gears stand the test of time.
  This cook is not fit to be seen. The rotund jolly jackass pours out of his chef's garb; he is unprepossessing as may have been previously ascertained. This miscreant is put in the back to avoid appearances. Only his mother can see him and who probably got slapped by a skittish doctor at his birth. He knows a thing or two about a simple dough recipe and can yield a product on demand. Not difficult even the product is second standard, which it most likely is.
  We have partially constructed our character and our story. The scab is alone one day. He is rendering dough balls for the pizzas. He rolls them by hand. He is asexual as are worms and suchlike. He does not have the experience of the opposite sex nor the virtue of conciliating their affections. He is lonely and feeling uncommonly frisky.
    He loses himself in a lewd reverie. The dough balls start to resemble tits. If pie is small-time action then dough is big love, having first arrived onto the counter from a huge heap mixed in the ubiquitous hobart. The heap must be cut into two or more smaller parts with a knife to make it easy to lift the dough out of the mixing bowl. The poundage is nothing to get cocky about, but it is considerably heavy. The perp knows this. His first batch is halfway in balls - tits - on the counter arranged in lovely rows. He is increasingly frisky. His eyes are fixated more and more on the heap of dough from his second batch. He rubs at his flaccid member and shakes it around to jump start it. This is foreplay to him. The batch finishes its mixing cycle, the dough stops spinning, and the music starts. Violins and opera  melodramatically set the scene for strange romance. A torrid bead of sweat slides like snot down his forehead.
  The perspiring oaf looks around for any undesirables, any body who would forbid him his love, this act of fruiting passion finally leading up to this perfect, beautiful moment. Finally his love like none other has arrived, the stuff of memories and stories. He looks around; no one seems to be watching. What luck, a feasible moment of grace for our perp! The opera is blaring ferociously, a baritone, a gut-level thunderous bass loud enough to shatter windows! A cloud of Cupid is hovering o'er him  and the dough, only he's not holding a bow and arrow. He's holding a dildo and a rubber chicken with a sleazy grin.
   The cook wastes no time. He pulls down his pants and goes at it unabashedly, making strange with the heap jutting out of the bowl and holding a dough ball - tit - on the counter. He grabs at is as if it would lactate. He moans his mother's name and smacks his own ass repeatedly for motivation. He makes an aperture in the heap wide enough for staying power. He starts slow and periodically scans the room for undesirables. His balls commense to slap the dough and his chode back and forth, keeping time with the opera. He gains speed and his eyes are hopelessly pinched shut in oblivion. He is soon found out, incriminated, and thrown out in some haste.
  The chef arrives. He is standing behind the cook now at it like a fly to shit, his bare, red, and hairy ass shaking like jello on an unstable surface. He at first sees nothing. He is not an alarmist merely an authority figure. He looks up from his clipboard. The veritable pin he holds drops on the tile floor. His jaw drops abruptly like an anvil. His eyes well up with horror. He is aghast and at first paralyzed with a stupid look on his face. The guilty cook looks over his shoulder acknowledging his chef's sudden, disconcerting arrival. "Ooooo yeah, oh yeah, oooo - uh, fah - fuck! Sheeeitt! Heya chef, hahaha!" He is panting and perspiring in the heat of the moment, slowly withdrawing from the heap and relinquishing his vice grip on the ruined, deflated, flattened, sorry-looking dough ball. A wet hand print is sustained in an irrevocable indentation where he grabbed, pulled, and leaned.
     The opera comes to a screeching halt. The chef comes out of his paralysis and wallops him with the clipboard across the jaw. He ties a knot of death at the end of his towel, stooping over the cook, who is shuddering and quaking, too stupid to pray. He swings his weapon across the cook's head, sending a spray of blood to the heap in the hobart. He pulls the fellow up fiercely by his scruffs and rolls, partially tearing the chef's garb. The chef brings him vigorously to his feet.  Another wallop from the clipboard seemed a good idea. His rage goes unsated. He begins lambasting and then bludgeoning the fellow for good measure. He finishes punctually with a blow to the preponderate cook's sizeable belly. He drags him to the entrance and throws him to the street, God help him.
   We have reached the end. What was seemingly inimitable in American Pie is subject to one-upmanship from a fellow braver than the film. Consequently the chef would have a heated and exasperating time with the clean up and no doubt submit the occurrence to an instance of ipso facto food costs. Did this really happen? American Pie happened, right?

Social Satire

Scenario 1.

 There was only one man left upon the earth alive for one reason or another. There occurred a problem in that every one else who had the good fortune of surviving was a lesbian. That constitutes a frigthful quandary. He would not have enjoyment of breeding or simple coitus under such rigged conditions.


Scenario 2.

 If one were gay and the last man on earth, he would undoubtedly and with much perturbation have more sisters than required by any reasonable measure.

Scenario 3.

 A boy looks up to a gay man as his father. This is not an injustice. God, Satan, and guilt-driven Christian literalism have no place in the precarious unfolding of any life.  However, the boy will realize the peculiarities of his situation and with good reason eventually adopt the man as his mother.


Scenario 4.

Two lesbians are stranded on an island, one male one female. There were no orgasms, no food, and scarcely any other provisions of any kind. Would she in spirit of a forced yet oddly convenient friendship administer fellatio thus satisfying him and for herself recieve a hot meal?

Scenario 5.

 An amiable man graciously lent his sperm to all his lesbian friends. All of his children still address him by his first name, usually in passing, and applying no other title respectable or otherwise save that beginning with an ass and ending with a hole...and - and in that order.

Scenario 6.

 Two Lesbians when in doubt utitilize a phallus of some kind. It is not a recourse; it is merely an enhancment and one unfathomable to any self-respecting male prospector.  However, they have never required an actual penis having 20 fingers between them. It has never bothered a straight friend having one penis to himself.

Scenario 7.

 Two lesbians, three jews, four gay men, five straight men, six cookie-cutters, seven dwarfs, eight meat heads, nine blacks, and ten latinos gather in a small space....Midtown house party.

Harry's Bar: Hot Toddy

A musician with a cold
was playin' bold
in a malaise, in a mar,
tryin' hard at Harry's Bar,
to do what they told
with a gaze and a guitar.

Bartender says to him,
"You seem a trifle dim."

"Yes, and I'm dangerously trim -
I've come...come with a benign request
in search of  hope on a whim -
but you must follow all of my behest."


"All that playin' by an ill man!?
We succor and serve Jameson,
American Honey, and Jack...Jah -Jack Dan.
You'll soon come back to fun
and tall enough for a nun."

"Well, could you add two lemons
 and honey with cayenne pepper -
 to exorcise the demons
and put flesh on this leper?"

"A hot toddy if my name isn't Ronnie!"
 I've got all the that.
 We'll render the toddy for your body,
 a leper to be rosy, jocund, and fat!"

 "There is the issue of the liquor
 and we'll have to dicker -
 I'll stop when you're quicker."

 "Make it American Honey"
  with a dash of mace,
  and make it funny,
  seering hot to scorch my face!"
  And...make it, Sonnie,
  if you want euphony in back in the place."

Le Club Casanova Pt. One

 For Natalie Paige Lyman, Miriam Tyndall,
 and Cortney Layne Rudder

Creole: "comment ca va?"
 How are you doing?
Cajun: "Tout ko mwen cho."
My whole body is hot...
see you in the glorious quagmire


Casanova is reputed to have invented the lottery among other things. He may have also invented sex.

"I have always love the truth so passionately that I have often resorted to lying as way of introducing it into the minds which were ignorant of its charms"

"As for myself, I always willingly acknowledge my own self as the principal cause of every good and of every evil which may befall me; therefore I have always found myself capable of being my own pupil, and ready to love my teacher"

 - Giacomo Casanova
 "New Orleans is a dying whore. Naked she sleeps on my floor."
 "Vultures circle up ahead. This is the home of the beautifully depressed."
 "Smoke 'em. Do what you must do. Wake up my baby now. Higher than moutains....look around, feast around the fields" -

 Philip H. Anselmo
   Down 11

People are still recuperating and rebuilding after hurricane Katrina (2005).



    The bars weren't letting out at midnight in New Orleans even though they did - or rather booted- a bevy of bumptious and impish wags out onto the side walk just shy of the gutter. They were slightly contused and ruffled from an altercation with security, big, ferocious, and capable negros with an attitude you couldn't knock down with a hammer.
   The boys coughed and harrumphed, helping each other back up to vertical advantages. They'd gotten a little too rough this night. The pool table was full and one occupant, a petulant self important busy body, wasn't being a good sport. Abetting eachother against a bad sport who couldn't pay his agreement wasn't paying off. So many moves on the table and they got into a skirmish which escalated into a squabble.  The C. Club preferred an air of superiority though it didn't sustain their stay at the bar.  The bartender saw, summoned trusty security, and thus the dismissal near the gutter of a cobblestone sidewalk on Toulouse St. out of some potential mark. Beautiful bodies deemed gutternsipes and cast out like the awkward Lautrec.  It was humid and blood was slightly aboil in the glorious quagmire.
   The boys dusted off eachother's pinstripes, straightened suspenders, corrected half windsors, scraped hard soles, and used a little spit shine for gibed hair product. There was Julian Giacomo -or Jack Jewels - the tallest and most earnest of the bunch, the leader. There was Pierre Rousseau, commonly known as Ruby to men and Jean Jacques to women, Jack's foreman. The rest were made up of staunch followers who did well in keeping up with the dress code. There was Danny Demarco, Don Juan, Alfi, and Oscar, or Ovid as he was proned to regurgitate philosophy in a situation trying to him alone and relatively simple to his cohorts. Four men total,  an organized bunch, but they had expansive connections throughout the French Quarter and in-the-know locales throughout the city. In New Orleans there was a different kind of business underneath the swamps, a beguiling surreptitious creature, slithering like unto the Devil around the tree, offering forbidden fruit to any Adam and Eve, or to just rob Adam and swive Eve. There was a different kind of enterprise when the rest go to their jobs, Le Club Casanova.
  The swains finished dusting themselves off by the frowsy gutter, sighing unanimously with inward, tacit compromise. Unlike the loser at the pool table, they salvaged a stout portion of resolve. They stood in a moment of silence,  abreast of eachother postering like the fairest silverbacks ready to pound their magnificent chests, the city lights reflecting blue and silver off their glistening hair, the fog moistening their lapels. Julian Giacomo lit a cigarette and rubbed at his temple with two fingers.
 "Jack," said the foreman, Rousseau, smiling like a tike trying to hide a fuming diaper.
 "Wait a minute," he puffed heartily, exhaled, put out the cigarette, and then lit two a la Bogart for Rousseau and Demarco. Alfi and Ovid didn't smoke.
   Julian Giacomo gave the two cigarettes graciously to his colleagues and resumed rubbing at his temple.
 "Jack," Rousseau was becoming insistent.
 "Don't annoy me. I'm trying to enjoy the moment." Rousseau sighed and tapped idly at his cigarette like salt and pepper.
  "Damn fine job, " Demarco added. Jack remained retrospective in his own little bubble. Rousseau looked at the Demarco with a wry pratical countenance. The others leaned in attentively. "Sure, we didn't win the game" - Ovid interjected his usual quotative light,
""Either don't attempt at all, or go through with it.""
"Ovid again," Rousseau rolled his eyes. The others leaned in like credulous church ladies to a weak sermon. Oscar continued, "
 ""W must"" -
 "Oscar, shut up," Julian wasn't having it. "Boys I love you all, but what did we win? Reach in those pockets, boys." They pulled out wallets which didn't belong to them. However, these men were steadfastly complicit and possession is nine tenths of the law.  The wallets were fattened with crisp, jaunty bills and identification not their own. "Our compensation demands nothing short of Benjamin Franklin's. We can have our way with credit cards, but those are a last resort. " They flipped through the turgid billfolds, nodding their heads at Julian. "We're good, Boss," Rousseau's confirmation was well enough for all - even Oscar's Ovid - for which they secretly loved him. They made off with the booty. The victims exited in the bar with their arms folded and murder in their eyes. The loser, the bartender, and the two bouncers were utterly had by Julian Giacomo and his henchman.

                                                                          ______

Words for Mercenaries: Militarized Man: Eight

Words for Mercenaries: Militarized Man: Eight: " A venerable cook wont to muse on a crate would stare wistfully into April rain on a frow..."

Militarized Man: Eight

  A venerable cook wont to muse on a crate
   would stare wistfully into April rain
  on a frowsy dock with a wrist watch - his mate
  and tip his hat to all he would and did attain.
   He was an erstwhile gunny with an amiable fate,
  now a sage, all that is Man, and a genteel swain.
 
  Most days he'd amble into work in the afternoon
 at two,
  extinguishing a cigarette with a polished boot.
 He exuded punctuality - tools at ready like new,
 and sported a chef's coat like a three-piece suit.

 He'd stand erect over his line and render his mise,
 "I'm an honorable working man for the Hyatt."
 He could do it all with legerdemain, finesse, and ease.
 "Damn it, nothin's ready - I don't buy it.
 How's my sauce, my prep, my cheese?''

 Pots and pans were rattlin'
 blazing a trail through his station,
 customers, service, and the crew were battlin',
 tickets lined up for cookery and creation.
  Forward march with a cadence -
  feet movin' furtively and dancin'.

   He gave behests aloud with force,
   razing lads to build them up,
   a militarized man, an eight, and a horse
   steadfast at every morn and every sup.

   Who was this man little tolerant for guff and static?
   He was a venerable esrtwhile gunny -
   so he was and so named Bob Kirkpatrick.

 

Vermin

  A one simply and humbly benamed  Bob walked down his stairs to the basement of a very old home. Every single one of his joints popped and cracked. The hamper he held betwixt his weary, tremulous arms was brimming with week-old laundry. "Sonofabitch...ma-my back," he muttered with clenched teeth. He inadvertently took a whiff of his sullied clothes. He smelt the mixture of accumulated stains, activities, sweat, and parties from yester and yore.
   He made his way down the flight of stairs with the hamper in tow. He set it by the washer machine. He turned the dials this way and that accordingly. Yes yes, Bob was a half-smart fellow. He knew what would sap the dirt out of dirty clothes. Hurrohhhh! He put a cup of detergent in the drink, and sat atop the drier, waiting for the machine to fill up. He flexed his toes, his legs, and took deep inhalations. The popping and cracking was no better. He wondered what he had done to warrant this bodily dysfunction at his young age. He cursed and muttered to himself until - diiing! The washer was full. He hopped off the drier and systematically put the larger articles of clothing in first. He followed up with smaller ones.
  As he went through the motions, he saw a large black silhouette scurry and squeak its way passed him across the floor. He saw this fell beast out of the corner of his periphery. He wasn't sure yet. He asked one or two questions aloud to corroborate his suspicion. "A rat!? A buck-toothed bastard? Wait, now I'm talkin' to myself? Am I asking myself this? Sheeit!"
  He reached for a loose, stray two-by-for by the drier. Hmm, the ubiquitous old piece of wood. There's at least one or two in every basement. They just sit there suggestively and interminably. He raised it high ready to bring it down forcefully, swiftly, accurately, and effectually over the rat's ass. The rat eluded him. He saw nothing but the tail disappearing into a friendly alcove in the wall.  These old abodes afforded him no peace of mind. He knew that the years had not only gathered decay but had simultaneously made way for peculiar excavations. Yes, many tunnels had been cleverly dug and routed by rodentia or genus Rattus - God help us all.  He was sweating, still holding the two-by-four high over his head, his eyes turning fiercely like pivot guns.
  He put his weapon at his side. This wasn't a sound method of approach to defeat the rat, a clever but base invention of Satan . He finished the load, closed the lid, and put his hamper on top. He made his way back up the jinky flight of stairs. He festinated to the kitchen and got a loaf of feta cheese out of the refrigerator. The malodor was key when inducing the attraction and affection of genus Rattus. He fetched American Spycho from his book shelf and held at his side. It was a bible with a god in this occasion. He flipped the pages to the chapter where Patrick Bateman is accosted by a gay liberal,
accompanied by a noisome cutesy whisp of a kanine doomed to the hightened masculinity of more self-respecting fellows. Bob harbored no prejudice, but could admire the engine of thought introduced by such a wanton and beautifully bloodthirsty passage.
  Excusing what Batemen did to the other fellow, as one thing led to another he eventually came down on the dog's forelegs with his hard-soled shoe. Bob would perhaps repeat this savagery in some way or simply fancied the idea as it coincided so well with the occasion. He put the smelly block of feta on a dish and carried it with him to the basment. He took the book as well. After all it was his bible. He set the feta by the alcove and sat on top of the drier next to the thumping and moaning of the washer machine. He read his favorite passage from the book. His eyes drifted periodically to the alcove. He read and he waited. He grew tired but was still poised in the heat of the moment, the raw anticipation. His eyes grew heavy and would've fallen asleep if his instincts didn't have have the better of him. His eyes drifted to the alcove once more. They widened with bloodlust as he saw a nose poking out, sniffing the irresistible block of feta. He slowly reached for the two-by-four. Be leery, Bob, and no sudden movements!
   The whole ten- inch body of the rat appeared ready to sieze the cheese! Bob raised the two-by-four and jumped off the drier! "I'll killlll youuu! I'm gonna killll youu! Damn your soul!  The rat's eyes were stark red filling with Bob's total eclipse. Genus Rattus was ready to retreat back to the alcove. Too late! Bob blocked its path with the two-by-four, stepping hard on its tail. It was all ashriek like a thousand screaming voices in the infernal underworld. It was ready bite down on his foot. "Youuuu sonofabitch!" Bob made quick adjustments. He lifted his foot off the disabled rat and came back down over it's head. "Die, die, die, youuuu bastard!" He could hear the semi-wet crunching of the rat's head underneath his superior foot. "Hahahaha!" Bob rejoiced. "The will of Man is mightier than thou art. Hahahahah!"
   The rat twitched and writhed momentarily and finally passed. Bob said a prayer and sat back down on the drier. He finished the passage and closed the book. He sighed wiping the sweat of his head. He would make a speedy disposal of the deceased before rigor mortis could set in.
   He went back up the stairs to fetch gloves and a trash bag. His shoe might need to be cleansed or better - burned at the stake to settle his mind. As he made his way back down to the basement there was something that most disordered his mind. There were at least five or ten rats where once there was only one. "Jesus H. Christ, help me," Bob screamed at the top of his lungs. They were swarming around the cheese and even eating at their dead friend. "Jesus, you dirty cannibal bastards! I'll kill you all! Hahahaha!

                                                                       ______

  Bob sat atop the drier with a separate plate of victory cheese. The load of laundry was going gracefully into the second cycle. He poured himself a bit of wine. Ahhh, such a beholden refection was this. He rested one hand on the book and eyed the two-by-four covered with bits of wiry fur and gore. Before him was a heap of dead Rattus Genus. Mind you Bob harbored no prejudice against small creatures, but vermin was inexcusable. Bob smiled to himself, giggled, cackled, and guffawed for he was the bigger rat after all.

2010: Year of the Metal Tiger

Complementary sign: Rabbit


Steel was adept with a kitchen knife,
cutting and slicing with muscle memory.
Vegetables and and meat received her strife -
she did well cutting all but a human artery.

 She stood twelve hours a day
 with a swingin' pony tail and a rod in her leg,
 amidst fierce competition in her way,
 by a cutting board, a stove, and a keg.

 She was quite the fire tiger lily,
 rearing and ready to pounce
 on silly Sallie and silly Billie,
"Do you know your measurements -
a cup, a quart, a pound, an ounce?"

Fed up with all in this barren locale,
hunting in a role that didn't suit her,
"Hear me roar - hear me growl!
 It's the year, the year of the metal tiger."

 She sported her stripes and boiled snipes.
 She'd learned the snake and the rabbit,
 weary of the gossip and the gripes,
 "Don't poke that meat, man, stab it!
  Use a fuckin' towel - eschew those petty wipes!"

  Steel was ready and rearing to go,
  I've gleaned much and I'm working harder,
  "Year of the Tiger - don't you know?
    My rabbit friend could be smarter."

Anti -Valentine's Day: On Forgetting the Past

Disclaimer: There's actually nothing wrong with Valentine's Day


Red Fellow, say hello.
Red rose, red alert.
Red Day  - jolly good show.
Dont be cast out -thrown down in the dirt.



   At least year ago today, Gyles Redding wasn't so adept at this particular holiday. He had no understanding of colors, their unique vibrations, . He was invited to an anti-Valentine's Day party. He couldn't believe there was one, couldn't believe people attended one, but he accepted the possibility as much as it sickened him to do so.
  Did he want to attend some anti-Valentine's Day soiree, where people jeered at those vomiting sunshine and shitting rainbows? Absolutely not. He was quite fond of vomiting sunshine and shitting rainbows. It was better than the alternative, hearing people complain and mock their long lost love lives. He was unabashed, confident, and had dealings elsewhere. He'd made a plan with a member of the opposite sex. A plan with a member of the opposite sex is risky business. There is no plan, but there is planning and planning is everything. The plan is inactive and does not adapt. The planning is active, mutable, and more successful than not. Gyles, a year ago today, had a plan but no planning. He was doomed and his confidence had nothing to do with it. Even if one is confident with a member of the opposite sex, she does not let him project what he wants on to herself. The confidence comes when both are immersed in the moment, even if the moment grieves one or the other. Sadly projections are not a method of approach. Patting some one on the head for good graces is not a method of approach. Compromising, communicatively leaning, and being in the moment at least comprise a sound method of approach if not a successful one.
   His plan was working in the beginning. Ah-hah, the beginning is half the battle. He was embattled, entranced, and fairly good at beginnings. As yet he had no acumen for endings. Poor fool. Three cheers for confidence and projections. Hip hip hurray! Hip hip hurray! Hip hip hurray! So on and so on. His confidence helped him purchase an inexpensive red rose which was apropos to Valentines Day. Why not?  Extravagance was not becoming to Mr. Redding. The message, simple giving, and the approach were. However, how, why, and where were three factors he unwittingly overlooked.  Alas he payed them no mind. He was resolute in his incontrovertible stupidity. I am beguiling and I have guile in spades! Not so, sir, not so.
  He took the red rose in hand and jumped on the metro to his destination, a decent apartment complex preceeded with a billboard that said, "It's Snow Joke!" It was far south of the Plaza in Kansas City. He stood by the billboard and called Annie.
"Helloooo," she said.
"Hello! I'm ready to come visit you now."
"Ohhh, ohh, oh, I'm still busy. I forgot! Don't worry your pretty little head. Go to the Westsider, have a drink, and wait for me. I'll be along."
 Having another drink, going to some bar, was something he did not want to do. He assured himself that this was a good idea. He trudged to the bar with his head down in thought. He was beginning to feel increasingly unhappy and examining why he was unhappy. It was treacherously frigged outside, so going some where warm and cordial was at least a plus.
  He kicked the tavern door open highhandedly. Disconcerted heads looked him up and down. "Sorry," he cried out in oblivion. The heads went back into their longnecks and shot glasses, all huddled around a big screen tv, watching some banal soap opera. He couldn't forbear the alienation he felt, so he left and trudged to Jimmy John's, feeling more hungry than thirsty. He had a sandwich and a bag of chips, waiting for Annie. She rang and bade him come over. He through the vistages of his meal in with the refuse and left the sub shop.
 Annie had just gotten off work, something he couldn't blame her for. She was in sullied chef's garb and smelled rather like Italian. She had already entered her home and was waiting for him there on the third floor. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and unbuttoned his Navvy Pea coat. He reached for the red rose inside his pocket. He tore the rapping off, adjusted the presentation of the rose by removing a leaf or two, put it between his teeth and marched up the staircase to the third floor, to the lodging of the dark-haired irritating Annie. She stood provocatively at the door, her hair messily attractive with one leg curled over the other.  He growled with sexual undertones. "Hello, woman, " he cried out through the teeth that bit down on the rose. She raised one horny eyebrow and grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him inside and kicking the door shut behind him. "I have this for you," he pulled the rose out of his teeth, spitting out some of the earthy flavor. He put in her hands. She looked at it indifferently, and put it in a basket in a corner of her living room. She took him to the kitchen and made them some drinks. He was already dismayed and new what was about to happen. With some eventuality and weak foreplay they began the evening's copulation, starting first on her counter top, which he vigorously cleared, sliding the dishes into the sink.
  They went at it like rabbits. He cursed himself inwardly, hating the experience. He began to see his irritation in Anny's eyes. She wouldn't look at him at first. He hated that. "Annie, look at me." She did with so reluctantly. That was the final straw and thoroughly ignited his rage. He began to grudge fuck her and lifted her off the dirty countertop. He screwed her in midair, hating it and hating himself. He took her all the way to the disconcerting twin bed she slept on. He wrestled with her and utilized the rest of the room.

                                                                        __

   Gyles Redding awoke on Valentine's Day, and retrospected at least a year ago today. He inwardly forgave Annie and himself. He sipped his coffee. She had changed. He had changed. He wondered if she was able to accept the simple giving of flowers and receive the right kind. He wondered if she could be with some one, the right some one, and not complain about simple giving. He wondered if they had good adventures together, clean ones, whole ones, good ones. He wondered if she had found maternity and stability and acceptance. All things to Gyles Redding were left decidedly to wonderment and musing. This hurt him, but he sipped his coffee in solitude. At least he'd gotten better at giving and not expecting. Gyles Redding, a red fellow for the rest of his days. The path of the fool was over.

Guatemalan Pigme

A friend of mine, Dallas Clements, complained to Mixahl, "You've hired another person who can't speak English!" Mixahl looked at him perplexedly and said, "Heee doesn't have to talk to the dishes!"
Hahahaha! That broke my heart with fifty percent laughter and fifty percent sympathy.

Christopher R. Lyman



 My friend, a Guatemalan pigme,
who sailed athwart the treacherous sea,
all the way to middle Missouri
with hardly enough to feed a flea -
something to be said for it - really!

He came far, picking up some of the tongue.
He couldn't speak Spanish or English
but had enough voice - enough in one lung
to wash a tray and a dish.

He eluded the taxman and the INS,
Driving with a different picture -
to him more meant less,
he needed neither sermon nor lecture -
was content absurdly with a guess!

Raffeal Avarado Yule was his name
Too short to wear an apron right
and not long enough for any dame -
this was neither shame nor blight
to be so charming an unfit for the game.

Most cooks wanted to get done,
throwing their dishes in the drink,
"Raffita! Enough with your fun!
Vamanos wey, think, Raffita, think!
I've got more in my pinky than you in your lung!"

He flirted with many a lady,
smiling with a shit-eating grin.
He meant well but was quite shady,
not long enough even in his shin.
"I'm short, but I'm a freak and I'm crazy!"

My friend, a Guatemalan Pigme,
did the same number every day,
but never complained See!
'Tis hilarious in every way!

Scortney: Continuance

 Veronica Scorp was marked with beauty and pain,
 her tail was dull and withdrawn.
 No more lusty days with the sluttish and vain,
 her earth with water overflown, waiting for fire in the dawn.

 She tended to hers and all was sane
 Lovers were superficial and seldom there,
 treading carelessly - quite a bane,
 she left them all compromising with care.


 She stung with goodly intention -
 her son and learning was goodly enough.
 Grudges were a matter of prevention,
 traction on firm earth, wending water aright -
 and all that stuff.

Veronica Scorp was snowed in one day
 till one came along when all was dire.
 She remembered him in a play
and she spilled water on his fire,
and remembered him for his gentle way.

He rendered her and rendered her well.
Passive was she, but she needed the spark,
"All this other stuff has been a hell!
 It's good to have fire finally in the dark."

 They wrote and wrote and two was the game.
  they romanced, reveled, and rivaled -
  impetuity before learning? That's a shame.
  They joked, frollicked, fiddled, and bediddled -
  "Hello, man! I'm Red. Tell me, what's your name?"

   The man reared with hooves and heat,
   an aged steed with an old expression,
   "woah boy! This time don't defeat!
   "This time learn - there's beauty,
    beauty in another's lesson."

   She was balanced and well to do,
   she wrote to him and he to her.
   "No more flummery, let's see it through!"
    What's the secret of this great allure?
    "Tell me, man friend, who are you?''
    "Ah-hah, I'm Julian Jup, pleased to meet you."

Occult: Spirit Lodge

 An old Jeep sped over rocky and alluvial terrain. It was on it's way clandestinely to a place where much talk would commense, talk of spirits and necromancing, and maybe an excorsim to boot. Missouri was wide open for such things. The big City was in it's way, but the men occupying the jeep started where they were. It was simple. They found a contact, contacted the contact, with all the surreptitious little things undergone quite well. The whereabouts and thereabouts had all been tended as carefully as possible.
  One of these men was tired of society because he'd failed to please it as a whole. All the things projected onto him he was weary of. Perhaps he made all of this up his mind. Perhaps Eckhart Tolle was not good enough as a spiritual leader. He'd disobeyed that little number too. He was going the hard way. Sorry, Eckhart, the "pain body" is being a "pain body." He loved the work, but was in search of a form more agreeable with him. He didn't quite know that it would be, but there's no time for further conjecture or self doubt. He was going come hell or high water, for good or ill.
   He reached in his duffel bag and pulled out an old delight. It was White Man's Grave by Richard Dooling. It was a wonderful satire. It's focus was on a one Boon, who sickened to the teeth with Societal projections, gave up everything to go to Sierre Leone, or as it was called, The White Man's Grave. His relations wondered where he was going. His father recieved a package in the mail which  consisted of an African tribal curse. It would plague him and motivate him to reach his son. It was wonderful stuff. He read aloud some lines from it without realizing it.
 "Christian! What the hell are saying?" Bill, a cohort, and one ready to help, was yelling this trying to surpass the noise of the jeep over the terrain.
 "Ohh, nothin'. Nevermind that now. How far is it?"
"Whatever - it's two miles ahead. I can take you there, but I'm afraid I can't join you."
 "Why not? Aren't you my guide?''
 "Yes, but I'm needed elsewhere. Besides, only you can know what's going to happen there. I can show you the way, but I can't join you."
 "You tryin' to make me crap my pants."
 "You will or won't, Christian. Besides all this voodoo shit scares the pants off me."
 "Missouri Indians."
 "What?"
"Nevermind - are we there yet?"
"A mile ahead. Be patient. You freak out on me and we are going straight back."
 "Don't worry about that. Just hurry your ass, Bill.'
The two men raced along, jirating and bouncing up and down with the strength of four-wheel drive. It was gloaming. They could see the lodge up ahead. The jeep holted. Bill looked at Christian.
"Well, this is our stop. Get the hell out," said Bill.
"Sure you won't join me?"
"One hundred percent you crazy bastard."
"Do remember the movie Lion Heart with Val Kilmer," Christian was making an attempt at levity which did not amuse Bill.
 "This ain't no fuckin' movie and it ain't no fuckin' book. Put all of that crap out of your head before you go in there, young man." This was Bill's final farewell. He pursed his lips and tightened his grip on the steering wheel waiting for Christian to get his ass off the seat. Christian grabbed his personal effects and hopped out of the jeep.  He could hear the incantations and the tribal goings-on emanating from the tent. He had butterflies in his stomach. He took three paces forward. Bill started the jeep back up. "Move your ass!"
"Any other provisions or encouragment," Christian shouted back.
"Hellll no, ya damn fool. It's your funeral my friend. Take good care of your hair!"
Christian heard the jeep make its way back over alluvial Missouri. He walked towards the tent, Aliester Crowley on one shoulder and Christ on the other.

Jup

Julian Jup cantered down his dirt,
speechifyin' plain and savvy
with the breeze flutterin' through his shirt
with Ozarkan realism and no time for sappy -
some times he could be curt, cantering down his dirt.

He cooed, warbled, quipped, and altercated.
He swived, shagged, regaled, and loved the smell.
No, he's not the type at all - not the type to be assimilated.
He wasn't going to hell, but he was already ablaze...
and quite burning well.

He drank wine with Pholus, he mischiefed with Nessus,
and some times he sparred with Chiron,
and he saw his father, lethal, thunderous  -
We can't stay around, Jove, free, swift, and spun.
Jove, stay astrife, we will bless us.

The magnificent Maverick meandering mare,
he ate and smoked all manner of grass
from land to land, racing, travelin', here and there
Defusing, debating, and visiting his favored lass.
He didn't pick one forest -friendly fire - he could share,
with his tail swingin' to and fro, grazin'g good grass.
Ownership? Jove, we are dead. He didn't care.

Julian Jup was gallopin' with a flaming stride.
He was  jocund, bloomin' red, and always right -
a few good rules he'd abide
with the universe and the cosmopolite,
"I've got my good shoes on, so follow the ride.
Keep up, keep up, there's another delight."

Jup mused and mulled,, aimed, and shot his arrow
his mates, Chiron and Cupid, tapping his shoulder,
"aim high and narrow -
you've got to be hooves -rearing and bolder,
but don't hit the cardinals and or that sparrow.
Leave her alone, she'll be fine when she's older."

He speculated and impatiently waited,
Burned out, the land was a desert with a dream of water.
His usual appetite was hated, maligned, and sated.
 He'd no son, no love, no labor, no daughter.
His mane was weathered, seasoned, and dated,
He wondered - he wondered about his father.

Julian Jup's shoes were worn and cracked,
he wandered -  no home, and no surcease of the stable.
He coughed, repined, and hacked,
boons and boondoggles weighted with a label,
none so nary trinkets and good shoes stacked.
His story was misguided and just a fable,
His image was mangy and his best was in a cradle
Till....

He descried another sign, versed in roots from the  grass!
Just be dainty and dandy down the hill
with all your acumen, tact, and good things amass.
"Rearing horse, blithely now - not a blathering Bill!"
You can be tall and venerable with the lass
not wanting, not burning, not possessing the thrill.

Jup amended thunder and lightening,
Saturn, Mercury, and the moon decided how he shines,
genteel and gingerly lighting,
"I've done this. I've done this nine times.
I want to survey and learn the sighting."


He'd fought the Hydra and extracted from the scales
a goodly bunch of healing and dealing.
He saw one as red as he, a scorpion with veils,
rearing well and feeling.
She knew all the small flavors and smells,
and gleaned a great Virgin commingling.
Nine heavens masked and conquered hells,
she was still puissant, brilliant, and stinging.

Cecilia

  A one very confident M. Gyles Monroe ambled into the Beer Kitchen, humming and hopping like a rabbit in heat. He approached the bar forcefully and sat down on a stool. "Ahhhhh," he said. The bartendress was fixing libations, shaking mixers in either hand. She smiled and cooed. "Hello!"
  "Hello, Dear!" He requited. "How's it goin'?"
  "It goes." A frank edge.
  "Yes, that it does and that's all fine," he gesticulated the idea of space and serenity undulating his hands back and forth over the bartop.
  "Yessss, yes yes yes. It better be goin' rather than not."
  "Yes, ma'am. So it goes."
  "I'll be just a minute, sweetheart. I gotta get goin' here."
  "That's fine. Take your time. Go."
  He searched the bartop for some remnants of reading material. He looked left. He looked right - Kansas City Shuffle. Ah-hah, a crumpled few pages of KC Star lay lonely and some what interesting. He snatched it with one hand, and as a precaution he perused ere he delved. Good news is no news. So he was careful and cursory. Let's see, ingratitude about what the president  - a human being - was doing. Hmmm, sport's pages. Nope, no need. The Superbowl was over. Christina Aguilera bombed during halftime. Gee, the poor dear, couldn't live up to the media's chronic, hyper-critical self image and the affectations of patriotism haphazardly singing that silly song. She just erred in public, and visibility of that magnitude deserves perfection. Alas she was human and every body has to laugh. If she has any sense she would too. He felt a brief pang of sympathy and moved onward. He found nothing of laud or interest. He put it down, but words make great combinations, so he eyed the paper intermittently to fill the gap of time occupying the server, the time she was spending not making him his drink.
   "Okaayy, hon, what can I get you?"
  "I need no drink."
  "What?"
  "What?"
 "Sir, are you playin?"
 "As much as I can."
 "Excuse me?"
 "As much as I can."
 'Sirrr, this is a bar."
 "I'm well apprised of this."
 "Whaddya want."
 "Oh, yes, I've got a hold on it," he grabbed at his head a la thinking man. "Got it! I'll take a Cecilia."
 "Sir, I don't know how to make that drink."
 "What? Do you know who I am?"
 "You are, but I guess I'm only half aware."
 "The audacity. Make me a Cecilia on the rocks - and make it a double?"
 "I don't appreciate the way you're speaking to me."
 He gasped in the throes of passionate anger. "I'd like to speak with the owner."
 "Sir, I think you should leave."
 "Not until I've had my revivement! Be duly advised I have connections."
 "Ohhhh reallly, " she said through clenched teeth.
 "Yessss," he shouted stressing the s as much as was orally possible.
 "Sir, the owner's not here."
 "Put him on the phone then."
 "I'll beee right back."
 "Ohhhh, fiiineee, just take youuurrr time."
 She went to fetch the blow, the hardline. Muttering and anathematizing. His name had much to do with it. "Sum....fuckin', basterrrddd, goddamn...I'll show you," and so on.
  "Take your time, sweeeet heart!"
 She brought forth the hardline, pausing, standing affirmatively direct, ready to sic the dogs on him. "You wanna talk to the damn owner?"
 "Yessss!"
 "Fiiinnnne!" she slammed the phone onto the bartop and spun round, her back facing him, her arms folded tightly and resolutely.
 "Ohhhhh, people still carry hardlines, eh? But you don't know how to make a Cecilia? Outrageous!" His fist hit the granite bartop for emphasis.
 "What's the number?"
 She spat it out at him.
 "Thank you sooo much."
He dialed and waited for the cue. "Hello," a placid voice came on the line.
"What? This is M. Gyles Monroe!"
 "Yeaahhh. You wanna talk to me about somethin'?"
 "No! What can I get from an absentee owner that I can't get from a present manager?"
 "Sir, what's that supposed to mean?"
 He gasped, "Think on it, man, think on it."
 "Don't worry. I'll be losin' sleep."
 "Hahahaha!" he hung up the phone and motioned for the bartendress. "Madame, here's your instrument."
 "I'm not gonna do anything stupid, asshole."
 "First audacity and thitherto cowardice!" he harrumphed. She reached under the counter suggestively.
 "Stooop, wench, that's a gun I presume."
 "It's a mixer, fool."
 "Of that I have no doubt, but it ought to be a gun. And you don't know how to make a Cecilia. God almighty, the people in this place. The the - theee incompetence! Before you reach for that mixer, madame, I'll have you know I have a lawyer who has a good time chewing you people up and spitting you out. Bring me the manager."
 "Rigght away, sir."
 "Make haste, wench."
 The mangager, a wisp of a whimp, approached in a vest and tie. He too had his arms resolutely folded, his eyes full o' business.
 "Your blundering bartendress doesn't know how to make a Cecilia!"
 "Sir," his voice was laced with felix domesticus, ready to pounce a furry toy, "I've been a manager a long time, seasoned in one damn bar after the other, and even I don't know how to make a Cecilia."
 "Well, you ought!"
 "Whyyy, ummm, don't you tell us what it is."
 " A splendid idea, man, splendid indeed. It would help the customer service around here."
 "Finnne," his claws were drawn and he was rearing for the kill.
 "It's water with lemon."

Lucid Dreaming

 A family is gathered outside. They're staring up at the sky. The moon is visible in daylight. It's smoking, exploding, cracking, and the earth is changing it's mind made up of thousands of years. I join the spectators. My eyes can't believe what they see. Debris is entering the atmosphere. I snatch a piece of hot debris with my bare hand. It hurts, but the shock overwhelms the pain. I look at it, my hand burning up. It a piece of placard with the date inscribed. It marks the day man landed on the moon. The nations are burning with brimstone. I hear Tom Waits in my head singing, "Books of Moseesss, brimstone news! Books of Moses keep me writin', writin' baaack to youuuu." I hear REM. It goes, "Niiight swimming deserves the quiet niiighht." The dream skips ahead.
  I land in Rolla along the train tracks I used to meditate on out of escapism. No one could find me out there. I used to put a quarter on a track, step off, and wait for the train to smash it. I'd wait for the train, it would come, smash the quarter, and I would stoop to look at it. This was my test to see the if the president was more handsome and approachable afterwards.
  The scene was very different after the moon went. I was like Bilbo finally coming back to the Shire, overtaken with thugs and varlets. It was like Christ walking into the temple. The train was overtaken with crooked merchants, in strange suits, selling all manner of futuristic contraband. The scene had ice, snow, and water, existing concurrently but not harmoniously, doing things water just shouldn't. I remembered how the moon dictates the sea, tidal waves, and suchlike. An oddly uniformed merchant accosted me. "Do you want sex for" - I couldn't make out the currency he was trying to impose upon me. Sex was the last thing on my mind I think.
  The dream skipped ahead. I looked up at the starless sky, covered in black film. I sit huddled, and I willfully gracefully perish. That was the kick. I awoke still wearing my lucky navvy pea coat with  my boots still on from class. My hair was standing up in places it ought not. Jack peered in with a concerned gaze. I saw him quite clearly. "Jack, what happened to the moon," I said, rubbing at bleary eyes. "Chris, were you dreaming?"
 "Yes, damn, I just realized that."

Transfer Fair

 Men and women were lined up at Penn Valley to snatch students away. Well, those of us who were interested or able. I was merely looking in. A girl once said to me, "you can talk to me over the wall." Gee, I thought, what an all-encompassing notion. I stooped over the stairs with my satchel, looking, looking down at all the heads stirring with elsewhere fantasies, the places they'd rather be, where they'd like to be, and intermittently pushing bottons on their cellphones, eletric shavers.
 I began my usual count, starting with a fidgety woman in the first row, standing anxious at her booth, moving from side to side with her hands behind her back. Her eyes were aglow with escapism. Three -then over the entire row of stirring wistful heads - four, seven, five, eight, nine, six, and so on. My eyes moved over to one booth in particular. The woman occupying that area was staring into space and twiddling her thumbs. She was prim, her eyes glazed with annoyance, and she was twiddling her thumbs. Ah-hah, one. She was trying to fight off a white whelp, his pants hanging too low for acceptable appearances, using a blackman's cant by way of inadvertent identity crisis, indulging his own barrage of empty flirtation with her. She was accustomed to this and judging by the goings-on, she had become quite adept at rejection uttering, "Yeah, that's great - can I help you with something?"
 Who could blame him? She was very attractive and very uninterested. "I'm finishin' my business classes, yo." She payed him no heed, dodging overtures with intervals of response, but her eyes rolled over the things she wanted, the things not at Penn Valley. I diverted my attention to another booth. A tall fellow rapped up in black pinstripes and a half windsor stood very serious, very poised, and very direct, and materially sound. Ah-hah, eight. He wore dark, possessive colors, his hair shimmering with product, and his wrists bejeweled with weighty nonsensical adornment.
  I clutched my satchel a little tighter and cantered over to the man. I smiled modestly, showing no teeth. He smiled back, showing all of his purly whites'. I could see cigarette smoke and coffee stains in them. He was going to introduce his purpose to me, "Hello, can I" - I trudged over to the cafeteria instead. They have Subway. Sandwiches, perfect, so they must have coffee or tea. I was weary of all the flummery. The employees were gabbing about Superbowl Sunday, the one I missed. The student/customers sighed trying desperately to remain comported, conciliatory, and quiet. It was the usual number, the usual dance of dunces. The boys were trading boy stories. The male smoke screed consisted of what team members they thought were the real McCoy's, who should do what and how, replacing sound strategy with their own masturbatory sportsmanship, projecting the penis, and bickering about years of establishment that gets along fine without them. I felt surly and chaustic. My satchel impinged upon the cashier's station. "Excuse me! Is there a way to get coffee or tea?" I looked at all the saddened faces behind me, which were trying to smile, and put myself in check. "I - I just want some coffee."
  Thereafter I trudged away with my coffee with cream and sugar. I made my way back to the fellow who smacked of eight vibrations. I corrected my erstwhile stab at social niceties with a bigger, better corrected smile. "Hello, and how're you," he said. "Fine, thank you," I shook his hand, one and two. "What's up," he said. "Ohhh, math class with a one miss Rogers."  Miss Rogers was an admirable, able, and hardworking woman, but to be true to my feelings and thoughts, I didn't want to see the bucked-toothed pedagogue, blathering about negative infinite juxtoposed to positive infinite, taking brackets away accordingly, on a board for a school, that in the decision to cut back costs, would no longer provision dry erasers. I wasn't going to clutter up my realism with emotion, but so it goes. "How can I help you," said the eight fellow. "Can I help you?" Hmmmm. "Yes, yes you can. Which way to the East Coast?"
  

Kenji's Hydroponics: Dedicated to HoneyBee Network

  Kenji is a Japenese American who works at CrownCenter, KC, Mo. He is unassuming and is sparing of words unless someone rubs him the right way. He's worked for Crown Center Parking for years. This is not a glamorous job. Suffice it to say Kenji is hated. There's no odium more heartbreaking than having to use a hard-earned repsite only for the lackluster purpose of  moving one's car in rigged intervals in order to not be charged an arm and leg by the complex.
  The phrase parking control does not quite roll of the tongue. In so many words the employees have to pay to be the employees in more ways than one. Some have given up altogether resolving to take The Maxx or Kansas City Metro, which is difficult and time consuming. As for any kind of respectable commute? Forget about it unless you drive your own vehicle. A respectable commute probably won't come along until Lite Rail gets better funding and more votes.
  If we take Kenji out of parking control and isolate him, we find out what he is really about. Kenji has a considerable green thumb. He has spent years tinkering with a hydroponic system that has stood the test of time. No, it isn't his own, but the very fact that he expands on it gives it an individualistic and innovative edge like unto Kenji, the infamous parking monger we jeer and sneer at every time we tell our boss we have to spend our break paying for a place to park. There is more to Kenji than the job he chose to make ends meet.  He must not remain anonymous.
  Anil Gupta, a multitude of a man, a saint when helping the poor develop business models for their own innovations, and is the quintessential founder of Honey Bee Network. The three guiding principles of Honey Bee Network are: (1) the bee is invited by the colors of the flower (2) the bee takes nectar from the flower (3) does not make the flower feel short-changed when it pollinates them in return. Honey Bee Network emphasizes reciprocity. He has said, "I have not changed one percent of the thinking in business." He went further to say, "We cannot even get justice in the knowledge market and India wants to be a knowledge society." This is a tragedy to Anil Gupta. His point of view can be understood, but when we look at the world is it realistic? The world - especially the corporate world - runs on money and I'm-going-to-get- mine. The corporate world needs to be competitive. How would new businesses ever get a chance if it were not so? However, a lot of corporate procedure has become dogmatic and meglomaniacal, and does not focus or give room to any new arrivels, businesses and/or rugged individuals. Especially to those with families. Why should they care if they cannot get what is due to them?
  That being said, Anil Gupta, still espouses a business head reflective of the coporate world. He perhaps ruined his chances when he said, "You cannot expect two different principles of justice - one for yourself and one for others." Therein is the crux of the matter. The story of Kenji is reflective of Honey Bee Network and Anil Gupta's intentions.
   Kenji in his spare time goes to church and gardens. His ambition is to give the church its own garden by expanding on his hydroponic labor of love. A lot of us think about marijuana upon the word hydroponic. Rest assured, Kenji is not involved in any illicit activity. He just wants to grow his own vegetables, give his cohorts something to do, and in return they all develop better conceit of themselves through cultivation.
  Kenji's system consists of a main water resevoir or "unit" he called it. The main water resevoir sends nutrients to the plants through a chamber grower. Affixed to the chamber grower are tubes, about three, if you have three five-gallon buckets containing soil and nutrients for the plants. Where would get the buckets. Simple. Any pickle container from a restaurant will do just fine if not a trip to the convenience store selling green-thumb accoutrements. If you go to a convenience store, "It's still worth it," says Kenji. He keeps the hydroponic system near a good size window in his basement so it can receive not only the ingredients of the soil but that of sunlight.
   He wants to expand on his system by adding two more five-gallon buckets. He wants to make the main water resevoir clear so he can see what the water is doing. He even wants to go so far as to put small fish in the resevoir. "The fish will not be sent to the plants," says Kenji. Any water filter is such that the fish remain at bay and where they should be.
   Kenji, along with other agricultural interests and the necessary applications, could very well be on his way to developing a fully efficient fully functional garden for his church. They could prepare their own meals and even sell their produce for more reasonable prices than those on the common market. Kenji is not finished telling his story. More will come anon.

A social Consciousness

  Barley sat at a strident sky-blue table at a restaurant, in a time, at a place, and so on. He sat there for ten minutes, listening to the concern about imminent weather. The two glasses of ice water the server brought to him were gathering their puddles. He could hear the ice cracking and melting in the glasses. He saw his reflection swallowed in the limpid water. He was waiting for some one. It wasn't an inconvenience. He was happy to finally reach this point. He thought he would finally get some real communication under way. He wanted his partner to take his time. He had a moment of relish, basking in the experience novel and significant unto him alone.
    He examined his property. He rifled through his satchel filled with note books and pens. Wonderful, he thought, I can write something down and and actually build upon it. He was making a stab at some real live reportage. At least it tickled him to think so and money wasn't even an issue. He looked through the door of the restaurant out into the misty, sopping cold trying to descry his partner, the one who was supposed to have arrived at seven thirty. Davis wasn't tardy, but Barley was anxious to meet him. He glanced at his phone. Time: 7:35 pm. The hour was on the wane, but it still didn't bother him as much as he thought it would.
   He thought he would call the man's wife to be certain of his arrival for this antedate they'd taken some time to set up. As he put the phone to his ear in walked Davis reassuringly, nullifying the phone call, wiping his shoes off at the door. "Am I late," Davis asked courteously with an  undertone of neutrality. He looked tired but poised. " Fashionably - and, nooo, it's no big deal- have a seat," Barley looked him up and down. Davis also had a satchel filled with notebooks and pens. Thus far the only certainty was they both had notebooks and pens. How wonderful, thought Barley.
  "How're you" asked Barley cheerily.
  "Oh, fine fine - yourself," the languid Davis threw his trappings into the booth and plopped down. "Ahhhhh."
    The puddles of condensation were getting bigger around the two glasses. Davis reached over for some napkins. Barley mimicked him. They both wiped their respective areas. At first they didn't say anything. A bespectacled Davis took another napkin to wipe his lenses, tossed the crumbled paper to the side, and placed both hands on the table with his fingers flayed out. "Mhmmm," he said. Barley grunted back, "Mhmmmmm."   Davis grabbed a menu. Barley sipped his water and looked over at another booth at the far end of the restaurant. He remembered a comedian friend who was in town to take his folks to the movies. Coffee, he called him. Coffee was formed from the first four letters of his name Kaufman. "What're you looking at," a slightly bemused Davis asked. "Ohhhh, I was just wondering if a friend was still here. He was sitting over there."
  "Coffee."
 "Yes, coffee. Waitress!"
 "No, no, his name."
 "Who?"
  "Andy Kaufman."
  "Oh, really, I'm his cousin."
  "I mean Dustin Kaufman. I call him Coffee."
  "Could o' fooled me," Davis grinned, "really, though, Andy Kaufman's my cousin."
 "A proud cousinage, I hope."
 "Ummm, yeeahhh, right."
  The ebony server approached the table. Both men perused their menus. The prices were good and simple.
 "You both ready to order?"
 "Mhmmmm," went the programmed Davis, "I'll have the tunasalad sandwich on white bread, a banana split, medium, annnnnnd'' -
 the server pardoned his prolonged correlative conjunction with, "and you want fries with that?"
 "Yes! Thank you." He bouncily and merrily closed the menu and tucked it back in with its friends salt, pepper, sugar, sweetner, and napkin dispenser. It was Barley's turn to order. "I'll have the BLT" -
"It goes really great toasted" interjected Davis. Barley looked up at the server feeling a sudden wave of surliness suffuse his body, " I thought it comes toasted."
 "Yes, yes it does," she relaxed him.
 "I'll take that and some coffee," he flicked the menu away.
  "Wheat or white?"
 "Wheat, a good wholesome bread."
 "I'll take coffee as well," said Davis staring with Barley at the ebony server sauntering back to the gettin' place.
   The first segue was complete. Barley and Davis commensed to unzip their satchels, fetching their instrumentation.  Davis opened his pad and took a pencil. His movements were concurrently lax and gentle. He proceeded to draw a knob and marked around the circumference low, medium, high. His caricature had a switch betwixt the knotches cleverly drawn in. "Okay, so I have a grandiose knob," his humility was quite conciliatory and bade Barley with nothing but a pat on the head and a handful of peanuts. Barley readied his pen, wondering which one to circle, depending on how the conversation would develop.
  "I have a nerdy streak. Some times it makes me incomprehensible to the other person."
 "Ohhhh, me too. No problem, " Barley was attempting to give back what he received and motioned to Davis a continuance.  Davis propounded a topic convoluted with mathematical vines. Barley circled medium on the grandiose scale. However, Davis delved into some esoteric-whereto Barley didn't have the acumen for. He corrected himself and circled low on the grandiose scale. Davis suspired with a slight undertone of exasperation, but pushed forward resolutely changing the lanes of the discourse.
  Davis was considerably older than Barley. The younger man was beginning to speak plaintively and humbly, conveying to Davis that the entire situation was new to him and refreshing.  They went a little into what Barley did for his so called living. "I'm with the kitchen people."
 "Eh? As a cook or a beggar," his joke did not amuse Barley.
 "Beggar," the tone upon that word was flat, quick, and precise. The older man's countenance darkened over. He pursed his lips and furrowed a quizzical brow.
 "Uh-um...hmmm. Who are these kitchen people, Barley?"
 "I don't know. But we have to give a shit, right."
 Fifteen minutes or thereabouts elapsed ere Davis saw the server debouch with their victuals in tow. He motioned her to speed up with two fingers, "miss, come come." They went back and forth and the server happily scurried to the table.
  "Ma'am, what do you do?" The server was beginning to feel human.
 "I go to school, work full time, and I have two children." She was proud to say this.
 "Hmm, I see. Does any body care what's going on in this restaurant?"
 "Nooo," she said. Her pride doubled with a quick intelligible rejoinder. Barley grimaced.
 "Seeee, Barley." He diverted his attention back to the server as he was not yet finished convincing Barley.
  "So nobody cares. Who does?"
  "The GM," she was smiling.
  "Any body else?"
  "Nope."
 "See, Barley!"
Barley surrendered. The last segue was complete.

Elana: Pain and Presence

Elana was a blind ol' tree,
brief in movement she was,
saying much frankly
as a venerable person has and does.

She searched around with eyes in slits,
could find some things very well
but she couldn't find half  her tits
and much else in her hell.

She hired her great nephew
to narrate for eight bucks a pop
He was very literate but with much ado.
She bade him sit and stop,
"Read everything in recording - what say you?"

He read much in solitude
and hated earthly matters,
Searching for his beatitude,
 with his clothes all in tatters.

Hark! His Great Aunt needed him much,
And he her,
Many pages to touch,
Together they found their cure.

Behold! Bill Bellamy Experience 1.

 Well, things were dull and any kind of passion was sapped by the second nature drudgery that swells and festers in the workplace. It was around four-thirty pm when Master Chocolate deigned to join us working folk, those of us not working in the entertainment business that is. As for myself I'm trying to salvage a writing career and most of my work has gone to amateurs playing entrepreneurs. Who should blame them? When I first started I didn't know what I was doing either, but some times we grow sensibility faster than we want.
   Bill Bellamy and his reputation occupied Three Little Pigs, a restauarant down from Dbronx in CrownCenter, KC. I didn't hear the whole story but quickly inferred that he had business some where in Kansas City. Whenever somebody remotely famous, a televison personaliy - or in this new age an internet personality - decides to join our world we are quickly preoccupied and the place is all atwitter with, "look who's here," "that's him," "that's her," and, "is that?" That's atwitter - not your trifling Twitter account. I digress. Bellamy is perambulating in Three Little Pigs to get barbecue and the adulation is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Punkin aka Ed, a chocolate brotha, was talking to blithe ol' Bill, asking him, "Hey, man, heeyyyyyy, what's it like," or words to that effect.
   Now who's Bill Bellamy? For those of you who don't know and who are graciously pardoned, Bill Bellamy is a comedian and socialite who stars on MTV's URL, played in Brothers, and Criminal Minds. He's tall, dark, and handsome to the ladies and a man's man to the gentleman. The ladies do swoon and coo and the men want to be like him. Still don't know who Bill Bellamy is? It's okay. That is a perfectly innocent position to have knowingly or inadvertently. As for myself, I fondly recalled giving Wee Man from MTV's beholden Jackass a piggy-back ride all over the store, watching Courtney Sickman make him a NewYork style hotdog - damn fine grub - and watching that tip jar brim with green. As for myself? I honesty do not give a damn if a person is famous or not, even if I harbor secretive admiration and self abation that wants to come out of the closet. Fame isn't a means to an end.
   At five o'clock pm.  Bill Bellamy is starting to gather a following. At this boiling point - in the depths of my claustrophobia - I've gotten a tad stir-crazy and made appeals to leave the confines of the store. Lisa, a suga momma, employed by the CrownCenter custodial staff, is leaning on a trash can with her nose turned up giggling like a damn fool. Well, hell, I think, she's a chocolate sista, so the she must know about the chocolate brotha gathering a following of other chocolate brothas. I have a lot of love for Lisa. She works hard, is sprightly, and, no, she isn't paid enough.
    "Hey, Lisa, what the hell's goin' on?" I say smiling my big wonderful smile.
    "Sheeit, Chris, there's some one ova yonda every body likes. Ya see him, fool?"
    "No, not yet," I was excited but seasoned with apathy.
    "You wanna tell 'him," she asks a fellow custodial member standing abreast of her. Those two gossip hounds were skin deep in their fantasies before I chimed in.
   "Ahhhh, sheeit, it's Bill Bellamy," uttered the custodial member.
    "No waaay, right on right on. Where's he at?"
   "He's in Three Little Pigs," Lisa pointed with her sore finger.
   Easily given to impetuity preceeded by big feet, I charge ahead and peer in the doorway of Three Little Pigs. Behold! There he was trading gang signs and the argot with Punkin aka Ed. I didn't make conversation; I had a Camel cigarette tucked in my ear that needed the luxury of my famous vacuum-cleaner lungs. I sauntered along akimbo to the docks, willing to put the matter out of my mind entirely. I came back refreshed and ready to rejoin my pathological claustrophobia in that insignificant little kitchen with the odor of pizza and gourmet subs, and that really bad yellow paint that looks like butter on really old bread.
   I had my elbows half deep in drudgery when Ronnie Hernandez, a fellow lover, debouched from the office doing payroll and Godknowswhat. I laughed when I saw him. He started to laugh back. "What the hell're you laughin' at, Chris."
     "Your face, Ron, and your bubblin' lips."
    "Hahahaha! Just tell me, man." I love imploration. It makes my heart break with laughter.
    "Hmmm, I dunno know," answering coyly.
    "Hahahahaha! C'mon, Brotha, what the hell's goin' on?"
    "It's Bill Bellamy!"
     "You fuckin' lying."
     "No, Ron, I lie to you like smoke and my lies are aplenty, but at this particular juncture, I'm telling the truth, man!"
       "Buulllsheeit, where's he at?"
       "He's standing over there, damn it!"
       "Where?"
       "Fuck, nevermind, come with me. Let's go meet him."
We strut out of the place martching toward the blithe blathering Bill. He's engrossed in a trivial conversation, feeding off the admiration, which is due to him, accompanied by some chocolate brothas exuding tacit blandishment and who were prepared to wash his feet if he asked nicely. "Bill Bellamy, Sir" I say," I don't want your damn autograph, but this guy doesn't believe you're you." Ron and Bill shake hands. "Wuz up, brotha," says genteel Bill. I leave them to their bromance and strut back into certain claustrophobia into the lodging of the modern-day trustee.

Grandfather's Mouse: The Devil's Elbow

    Two brothers gathered around an object it had taken some doing to procure. They procured it with everything but that of prostrate imploration. It was their grandfather's little ford town car he inherited from a deceased member of the family.  The deceased was a raisiny, ripe great grandmother of about ninety, who was fondly remembered in good times and who kept in her arthritic grip an old doddering  Ford, painted a lackluster white with much body work needed. It could carry four midgets comfortably but for taller creatures it left much to be desired.
     The interior too was white, but that was twenty years ago when the vehicle was in its prime. It coughed and hiccuped its way all over township but would never see the fruition of its dreams blazing a trail of steam on the Autobon.  The two brothers agreed on this even fantasizing as far with empty words ideas on how to modify it for such high - stake's territory. They felt sorry, though, when picturing a moribund woman of ninetey speeding to certain death. She too would have to be boosted with nitrous oxide not just the vehicle its self. Just modifying the vehicle seemed selfish, reckless, and a gross example of bad engineering.
   The grandmother smoked since she could maturely inhale and exhale. She preferred Marlboros in bad times and good, and smoked that car up for days on end. Whatever artificial aroma the car originally possessed fresh off the lot was replaced with a frowsy couplet of Marlboro-mothball and formaldehyde. It was venerable and well preserved.
   As soon as their grandfather became the new and certified owner, he generously lent it to his grandsons, who expected something with some muscle. They didn't repine its inadequacy but remained humorous and outwardly grateful. "Now, boys, you can drive it. Just clean it out and spray it down when yer done." The brothers looked at eachother sheepishly but any fear was assuaged with the acceptance of a man who could say anything with neutrality. He was old but new the game and remembered his youthful enjoyment of it with enduring fondness. After all, what did he care? "Do what ever the hell you want with it. If you have to crash the damn thing do it some where important and noticeable,'' he continued his sermon of passivity.
   They understood well enough and did the exact opposite. How could they crash it? They didn't even know the maximum speed if it could reach the semblance of speed at all. They surreptitiously took it off his lot in one of those serene Missouri nights in a rural and barren locale where the heavens could be viewed unobstructed by city lights. 
    They bickered and dickered upon the perfect whereabouts to test it's vehicular gumption on the  beckoning asphalt. Between them was a sweaty lump of cash and a ziplock bag full of  emerald green kind bud. They counted the booty and engineered a hearty joint with spit, herbs, and paper. One brother in objectionable forgetfulness blurted out, "Dude, did you remember the spray?" The other stared apathetically then barely ejecting his answer of reassurance. "Dude, it's right here - Febreeze, all-purpse and orange scented."
 "Well, keep it where I can see it, damn it," stressed brother number one.
"Maybe you need to chill out. The old man's just that, ooooold," stressed brother number two."
 They finished rendering their revivement and light it up firmly remembering the spray. They debated on where to take the car. What better place than Devil's Elbow. There is one every town. They are just named differently. Their eyes are beginning to grow bleary and questionable, the windows were conveniently rolled down, the breeze was lovely, and the silence suspenseful. They drove out on that starryt night to the edge of their hunting ground.
  "You ready," said brother number one.
  "Does a bear shit in the woods, does the pope have a balcony, does a" -
 brother number two was interrupted.
  "Dude, I just asked you a simple question. Are ready for this?"
 "Mhmm."
 The driver gave the pedal the led foot and aimed for the eblow, a curving, fell, black snake in the night. The old woman coughed and gagged on his foot issuing smoke from her dry exhaust pipe. "C'mon, give it some stack." The car was gaining it's way to twenty miles an hour, hopeful but hardly critical. They aimed high gaining twenty-five and a determined thirty. It was proving a mulish, recalcitrant endeavor. The enfeebled car choked and collapsed less than a third of the way. "How fast did the old man say it would go?" They reluctantly kept in mind that this car came from a jolly retired professor, who in his endless spiflications, drove a golf cart out in his front yard when his spirits were up. It came from a man who would hold an Amberbach bottle-neck in one hand and a steering wheel in the other driving foolhardily over treacherous knolls that didn't occupy a golf course. He'd shout at the passersby his jocund and hearty ravings whilst his ailing, senescent wife lay abed in the increasingly dilapidated estate, vegetative and slack-jawed. Their affections grew thereupon and they shared a decent moment. "This damn thing cuts at forty-five! Hahahaha!"
  They sat, shared cultured tokes, and listened to the Missouri night song, the Ozark jumble of crickets playing their washboard legs, and all manner of creatures present in the nocturne.