Thursday, July 21, 2011

Bicycle Trade Union 1

This is the first two chapters in my coming compendium of short nonfiction which includes a chronologically scattered discussion on my inability to drive and the massive archive of illicit retail experience I have and currently am attempting to accrue.  I hope you enjoy: Bicycle Trade Union.

The rains have returned again, like they were when I was a child, like they were sent and meant to instill an awe and reverence in the fortuity of natural process.  Combined with both the rivers, teeming at their banks, frothing with aquatic & avian creatures, this old home of mine has returned to its being as a place of water.

This is an obstacle to me, but even this ample deterrent is but a flinch, a discomfort; not sharp enough to slow efficiency.

The best gift for a drug dealer is a road bike.  It removes him from the authorities field of focus, regulation, and play: the automobile.  In a place as small as this, with only about 8000 permanent residents, it makes him not only safer, but faster & more willingly mobile than the competition.

I am, and have always been a skilled, intelligent, first-rate criminal, as well as a prime retail opportunist and customer service advocate.  Here, now, there is such an abundance of supply, especially for someone as amiable & nonabrasive as myself.  Combined with a strict & rigid over-policing with the intent for social engineering this has created an optimum environment and a need.  These and many other, darker, more complex contributions make me ideal for the transportation & trafficking of illicits, contraband, and unfindables.  That last word, that is really what i retail, information; the knowing of him & her, and where to find it & them.  The question, where my business begins and the common blandness of social structure ends is always the same: "Do you know where I can find ______?"

"I don't know," is always the answer they receive, because mine is a business based on the flawed and inexact  nature of man, and the fact that I really don't like saying, "yes."

I work at a liquor store, on the weekends, it is most likely where I am now, writing all of this.  It is not that the work is up to my potential, or that I am forced to be here.  Rather it is that I find the work fitting, an adequate involvement in the party, the industry stable & constant, and the lack of background investigation in a small business is suitable for someone with my clottery of past and present follies.  I find it ironic, some kind of punitive, and almost therapeutic that my alcoholic, D.U.I. received body serve a tenancy here.  Forced to stay involved in the frivolity, but also banished from it, and always made to observe even the smallest regulation or rule upon it.

It is not that I have any problem with the rules & regulations.  When they are meant to protect us, and the dominions of our persons and humanity, I follow them diligently, with fervor.  However, one of the first lessons of the thief & deviant is that the government is a capitalist entity, and its agents, organization, and evolution are based to that end.  I have my own law, my own rigid constituency & consistency which I uphold even as un-law.  Morality is always before legality, even for me with all my crimes... there is still an honor amongst them, a criminal chivalry of sorts.

I have committed all of the supposed sins in fresh, varied, and creative ways.  Now though, i find myself trying to legitimize, to make some sort of life out of what many call mistakes, but I simply know as the skills of life.  Change is difficult, and we resist it, even if we do not realize.  So I hold tenuously onto the clandestine, operations of which have molded me into a skilled artisan, a master thief, and a member of the illicit cognoscenti.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Moisture and Dryness

Stumble Frames #7

lightning surge
wakes pools of infinity
and metal fish
swim around concrete idols

she sleeps from panacea
a warm blanket of nature

a heart in a window
bedtime stories
from the sky

morse code
a plant in light
the unfound retreat
while atlas
holds up

Friday, July 15, 2011

Before She Waketh

He slept next to her plump of a flesh body. Covers pulled down to the foot of the bed exposed her imperfect figure. The neck was too thick and round, her skin was too loose around the lower neck. He laid his head down on the pillow behind her to see her hair sprawling and matted. The curves down her sides flowed well and streamlined until her waist, where they abruptly stopped and dismounted, paying respects to the fattened love handles that presided in the area. Further past the fattened waste, the ass wasn’t smooth at all. But rather, full of black hair and red bumps from dryness or chafing in the cold.

The boy thought his own body imperfect as well, but somehow it was justified. Somehow he could strut down the beach with chubby love handles but she could not. Next to her in the bed he blamed society, the perfect scapegoat he thought. But even with that scapegoat he still didn’t have the ego, the flair, the confidence to stand next to her holding hands in park or grocery store, for she and her imperfect body fell short of all expectations, of all requirements bestowed upon him. On the floor, her black bra laid in the center of the rug, matted, thrown, unwanted until the morning. He thought of excuses to feed her before breakfast. Relatives due in the afternoon, work perhaps, anything to get her up and out before any false promises were made. Morning brought daylight, and daylight would further expose her body, so fleshy and pale, an imperfect luster would shine to it.

He grabbed the sheets at the foot of the bed and laid them over her figure. He hugged close to her, he could feel her warm flesh as he pressed closer. In the morning he would call her a cab. His eyes closed and he dreamed next to her, wrapping his arms around her arms, she mumbled with a smile at this.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Summer Days Are Great

Stumble Frames #6

A fox hunts for mice
in snow by diving
and breaking the hard snow

Off to war, a man
sighs on the train before seeing

water inks and
6 ways to travel instantly
where do we go
in the black forest
haunted by werewolves

a road in a meadow
with light creasing the trees
a murky forest

link to crazy fox gif here:
copy and paste

Friday, July 1, 2011

Crown of the Moth King

Here Grantalope, this is what has been delaying your damn monkeychicken 10''x12'' Polyphemus moth & acrylic on panel

Watch the whole city
Cannot sleep through a breath
Know where to find
Anything you need
Fluttering under streetlights

Shooting by
On all black road bike
Gangbangers step
Off the sidewalk
They don't dare slow
Warhorse on delivery

Face flickering colors
Wings before cell phone
Too poor for love
Need five dollars from illegal
To pay the police
Flying into the fire
Not want but need

Urban Farms

Stumble Frames #5

Gulf crossing
shakes a barrier of faces

the snake eye will be
in the center
and books will evade matches

Kerouac stencil
when will we run again?

close to home
thrill, a fox
made of wooden cubes
and falls carry colors
urban farms
regenerate the landscape
a Wal-Mart won't

link to dumb article here: