Friday, September 30, 2011

Widowed Scribe

The Widowed Scribe

Where are the wrinkled
forebears, the fabled pallbearers
playing Atlas with table-scrap castles,
those false rascals

of whom you coo and spew
paltry praise? You speak
in arcane phrase, your prior purpose pawned away.

Our lazy ramparts will not dry. It has been
days; the walls fashioned of gum and imitation
clay sag and shudder in the rain. You abstain
from raids to forge a future from the fallout,
but your recycled paste of ash and glass laughs
at its past, this last homage to eunuch ancestry
nothing but a failed retreat.
Weave me a revolution, son,
lay civilization at our feet.
We’ll flabbergast history
and filibuster empires
(hands tied behind our backs);

although you have tired of the torment
of triumph, our ascendant dynamics
will not relent – your strategies
slip across my pillow, and night-ready,
I empty pauper’s pockets & prince’s petticoats,
I’ll burn bridges and banknotes.
I leave my name engraved
on the throat of paler gods,
pausing to admire the slopes
of vowel and consonant,
the intrinsic arithmetics
of muscle and mercy.

I could drizzle diamond and jade
on the cloud-caught remains
of Father Time

(a celestial array of age spots
and varicose veins). If you will not

stay for me, then remember your able hands, marred
by history; reclaim those moonside coups you’d promised me -
all in vain.

For this, you taste the
shame of man’s fairy-tale fall.

A Messy Divorce

Hello chums, it's been awhile. I hope Boulder, the Gulch, Steuben's mountain town, and Alyssa's present location are all awesome at this present moment. If not, I'm sorry. I can't say Littletown has been awesome, that's why I've been away from Littletown and overseas in the UK and Amsterdam. But I'm back now and have a silly sarcastic piece to contribute. It's my take on the restaurant business and a possible answer to why the restaurant industry loves cocaine. Enjoy, I hope.

I could spot them right away. They were angry, pissed off. Talking in hushed voices about alimony and child support over their juicy, red steak and salad. But none of it was touched. The wife hadn’t even moved her silverware. The husband, he just waved his fork around, stabbing the air at every point he was trying to make. I knew this because I wanted to go on break. But I couldn’t because of these fucking squatters. That is, leaches who sit and hold a table and prevent other customers from giving me tips.  I had been watching over this table for almost an hour and the only thing that changed from when it had been set was the little puddles of red wine spreading across the absorbent white tablecloth. I mean, I knew this guy was leaving her, but she didn’t have to make a scene and drink two bottles. 1970 was a good year for cabernet sauvignon, so what if he was cheating on her? I didn’t care, as long as I got my break. Nothing tears me apart more than having a gram of nose candy and not snorting it. Finally Silver, the owner, sees me in my desperation and says I can take five. She has no idea I’m a user, I explained my twitching as a bladder problem.
Euphoria. That’s the only to describe the feeling that comes over me the moment after I rail a line. Euphoria, in the handicapped stall of the bathroom, Euphoria, with the diaper changing board down and my tips receipt rolled up. Too bad that poor sap with his fork couldn’t feel euphoria. Too bad waterworks with her wine couldn’t feel euphoria. Maybe I should’ve offered them a bump. I felt so powerful. I felt so perfect. Of course it felt dirty to finish a line on a baby changing table. The foul odor of the recent diaper change invaded my nose. But it didn’t matter because my nose was numb. The kind of numb a nose gets after the cold weather punishes it for an hour or two. We’re talking no feeling whatsoever. I couldn’t quit snuffing. This always happens, and I hate it when Silver notices. I told her I have allergies. She’ll believe anything.
So I walked back out of the bathroom and back to the bitching couple. The same fork was still as poignant as ever. The white table cloth was ever so blotted with red wine stains. At that point I seriously considered walking over and offering them a line each. They would feel better about their situation. After all, I hated them before, and still hated them just as much then, but I didn’t care. They would’ve looked at me like I was crazy if I had offered them relief. I would’ve lost my job over euphoria. But shouldn’t I look at them crazy? I know I was a deviant. But so was she, with her two near empty bottles of cabernet and tears, and he with his near empty soul and infidelity. 

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Foxfield Races

Sailboats skim the bruised
basins of my body, sickly
tender as silken stardom,
necessary as the tabloid travesties of modern
Americana which unfurl at our feet

while my pale skin still clings
like a wasp's nest to newfound
grass-stain scent. You've seen

logic bent backwards and sent
away on converted battlefield grounds.

The sporadic tempo of hooves
resonate through late morning:
a subtle vibration, native,
navigates through sloping
strata below as if unseen

racetrack cut through our well-
dressed flesh. The autumn wind
toys with ornate hats, short hemlines -
and Trickster returns to the landscape

with a bang, not a whimper;
with a slammed shot of dollar
whisky on crowded plastic table,
barely stable in southern heels.

We jerry-rig our showboat
motions with hands bound
behind our string-led spines. Alas,

you may find yourself anew,
twined in some vacant truth,
mired in the lawschool blues.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

First Writing in Rollingsville

Stumble Frames #10

Someone stands in the rain
I can't see their face but
I see an umbrella of rain

A surveillance camera watches
a stamp, that explains the Panopticon

Stars glide over carved mountains, our galaxy
small creek and vegetation beneath the Himalayas

A woman flies while playing the piano
reading a book
pouring a cup of tea

Red water covers broken streets
but a stranger walks like there are
people living happily on the moon

explorers walk underneath a tall Banyan Tree
but fall victim to orchids
and poison dart frogs

Ninja Spacemonkeys, Chapter 2: Spacemonkeys visit Rat Town

EPISODE II - Space Monkeys Visit Rat Town

A small bush held all of the chaos the crew of the ESS Consul could handle. Preliminary life scans were nil, the planet deserted. But, Sir Walter Scott did find an anomaly, a small pinion bush full of life.

They named it “Norvegicus.” The Spacemonkeys surveyed the planet. A topographical map of mind blistering proportions was made. Areas surrounding the small pinion bush were surveilled heavily. Daily comings and goings of the Rats were put on a note buried in an envelope deposited into a safe. The Spacemonkeys were dubious of the safety of the planet.

The fired up the Transmogrifier and taught some old cogs some new tricks. Gerard lived for two weeks in the rat-haven, a miniaturized weird ass monkey rat. Transmogricafation was an important tool the Spacemonkeys utilized; one part ninjitsu, one part varied optical sensors. Ninja secrets aside, it made a monkey look like a rat. Gerard described the bush,

The indiginnes are most kind. I’ve but been here a week, but I have found honor, justice, and joy in their hearts. They do inspire awe, these Rats. Though there be injustice in life they say it’s not thine fault, there is always a Rat below you. A most noble hand holds their chin up. Litle rat chins.”

Gerard met the captain in his quarters, snapping to attention. His monkey heels knocked together in a pleasing beat.

“What do you have to report, my good man, Gerard?”

“Captain, The Bush is quite large, five kilometres or so. Inside of that bush is a mixture of dogs, cats, firecrackers, and vestibules. Oh, and the ever present Rat.” Time puckered and rippled, evidence that somewhere in the past or the future, they went through a wormhole. The door of the captain’s chambers whooshed open, and in stepped a Rat.

“You!” yelled the rat, pointing ambiguously. “Thanks to you, we are doomed!” Then, The King Of Tomorrow fell over.

The Prologue

The ninja stuff was unnecessary, but crucial to their mission. To the Spacemonkeys, now disguised as twelve simple Rats bringing a supply of miniaturized bananas to the center of The Bush, stealth was of the essence. A rat might look that way to another who was approaching on the promenade, only to see a shadow. Thus they made their way into the center of The Bush, a teeming metropolis. Rats bartering over porcupines or their quills, trading bets on cats and dogs in the arena, albino rats selling spotted rats to black rats, and everyone making a pretty profit.

Through these tangled streets of the Bush the Spacemonkeys ventured, realizing that the rags they had seen on the outside of The Bush were only those of the lower classes and that as one went deeper, the threads of the denizens grew in quality with each step. A little ninja trickery, some pickpocketting, and a knife fight later, the Spacemonkeys stood in finery at the foot of a great castle.

A guard rat, a wicked mean rat by the look of him, held the entryway. Garbed entirely in black, he drew his sword upon the Spacemonkeyrats. “None shall pass.”

The crew of the ESS Consul were quick on the draw themselves, swords, scimitars, and katanas within easy reach. Paws held hilts, but Balthazar kept their deadly blades within their scabbards with a gesture. “My good Rat, we beseech you, pray look into this basket.” With that he pulled the checkered cloth from the basket he carried, revealing a mound of cereal.

“Will this grant us an audience with the king?” The guard’s mouth was visibly watering.

“It might, granted it be a few bits lighter upon it’s arrival. Young ones to feed and all.” Balthazar nodded, the Spacemonkeyrats walked through the gates, and Balthazar crossed his arms in both directions, pointing, and three shadows disappeared.

The King of Tomorrow’s whiskers twiddled about, noticing an oddity in the air.

“These are no ordinary travelers who have entered my throne room, present them to me,” he ordained. So it was that the crew was ushered in, their hoods removed. Customarily, the ninja Spacemonkeyrats presented their weapons. “I see nine rats here, where have the others gone?” Guards checked their manifests, only to see that the original number of twelve had been crossed out and replaced with a nine instead.

“Me lord, nine were originally recorded. Must have been a bit of a mix up, if I may say,” A simple guard with a large build reported.

“Absentminded, but very good,” spoke the king. “And they bring bounty?” Another twitch of the whiskers.

“A great bounty sir, more cereal than we’ve seen in a blue moon, sire.” Said the guard. With that he presented the nineteen flakes of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, huge as dinner saucers within The Bush, as they had not been miniaturized. A gasp resounded throughout the hall.

The King of Tomorrow regained his composure, despite the lingering aroma of cereal in the air. “And how did you rats find this treasure? And how, being rats, did you bring it me?” His beady little eyes targeted the best dressed of the monkeyrats.

Balthazar stepped forward, still awkward in his ratsuit. “May I speak honestly, King of Tomorrow?”

The King of Tomorrow blemished. “There is no other way to speak to me, my subject. I am the adjudicator, the absolver, the forgiver. There is no honesty that I cannot judge.”

“We are not Rats. We are Spacemonkeys wearing rat suits.” There was a great hubbub.

The King of Tomorrow waved a hand, and the racket and rabble fell away. “And you assume, Spacemonkeys, that you can buy my allegiance with tempting, awesome bits of cereal?” There was a shrill anger in his voice.

“Neigh, honorable king, there is much that we have to offer other than cereal.” The King turned up his chin. “We have technology, we have a vast knowledge of the stars,” the King’s interest was waning. “We have more bananas than you can count.” The King’s interest was renewed, imagining bananas on cornflakes.

“Oh, hell,” muttered Sir Walter Scott under his breath.

Meanwhile, several Spacemonkeyrats, Simon John, Duncan, and Malachi, stole into the sewers of the castle. They were able to disable some sewer guard rats with ninjitsu, others with kung fu, still some more with wing chun and san soo. The further they went down into the sewers, into the dark bowels of the castle, the more guards they confronted. But, to their delight, the guards were always trying to keep rats in, never thinking to keep rats out.

“This is a most heinous place,” Duncan said as he laid a prostrate guard down, spine broken in several places.

“Something most curious is afoot here,” smacked a rebellious Simon John.

Malachi, the quiet one, lay down a guard most gently. “Can you hear that?”

And they could, the shrill cries of a billion rats, every single cry a cry for freedom. Malachi twisted his feet to break the neck of the guard at his feet. The sharp crack served as a contrast to the drone of misery below them, a drone most corrosive to the souls of the Spacemonkeys.

“We must go deeper.” Malachi said.

The bargaining at the King of Tomorrow’s Table was most ferocious. Balthazar offered his Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, his bananas (sliced), and yet the King of Tomorrow refused to give anything in return. For the king had seen the dropship ESS Louie arrive, and was a shrewd politician, he knew the best way to deal with foreigners was to make sure that they couldn’t go home. The bartering was a silly jest, the rat king was merely wasting time, finding a way onto the Consul, as that was the best bargain he could hope to accomplish. The bartering continued as rats mounted on Chihuahuas charged to the ESS Louie, the ears of the dogs flailing as the whips of the rats that rode them.

The three subterranean ninja spy rats looked down upon a great candle-lit domicile for the spotted rats. They were fed bits of cereal indigestible by most, only digestible by the poor spotted rats that subsided upon such heinous feed. For it was the only food available to them, due to their mottled coats.

Malachi, with the help of his trusty crossbow, was able to disarm the top-most guards in the sanctuary. As the ninja raiding party moved down, ever downward, into the beehive that was the slave/work machine of spotted rat labour, they killed each and every one of the guards. Not for hate, nor vengeance. They killed out of love for each and every soul imprisoned in any universe anywhere. Simon John was most violent, slashing and stabbing more than a good monkey should.

That was when he started wearing a clothing pin in his ear.

Balthazar’s patience was worn thin. The King of Tomorrow kept throwing oblique terminology at him, offering him the cereal already given to him, plus a discount, and the bananas, and the King offered to go down with the ship (no small thing in Rat terms). Balthazar’s patience hurt.

“I will,” the King of Tomorrow continued, “as such, allow you to give me cereal! The gift you have departed shall mind my paws in good form! Aha! And the bananas! It’s best with cream.”

“I can get you cream as well.” Balthazar immediately regretted his forgone promise.

A wave of ecstasy ripped its way across the King of Tomorrow’s face. “Oh, it shall be.” His whiskers probed wildly at the air around them.

The King of Tomorrow beckoned Balthazar up to his throne. He whispered into Balthazar’s monkey-cum-hologram-of-a-rat’s ear while commanding a parade march to begin. As rats, the Black Guarde as well as the White Guarde, marched with fortitude, glory, and pride; their formations were perfect squares, their eyes never meeting the king. A cannon was fired and the ceremony was over.

“Come with me, Captain Balthazar, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

Their Chihuahua dogs digging in the shade, three extra special Guardes of the Black found the transport ship ESS Louie deserted. The Black Guardes gathered up some kindling and started a signal fire indicating that they were now in command of the spacemonkey's ride home.

The concentric circles of the massive vestibule that Simon John, Byron, and Malachi charged down were but the dormitories for the slave rats. Hundreds of the poor little buggers were in each room, packed tightly and fighting over the meager scraps their guards fed them. Simon John picked the locks on the cages as they went, his fury growing with each sad soul he saw shackled. The doors were flung open and a great march of spotted rats charged up the ramp, heading for the comfort of the sewers.

“Who’s in charge here?” Byron kept hollering, only to be ignored by the rats running from their slave quarters.

“Methinks nobody is charge here,” Malachi ventured.

“Nobody chooses to be a slave, my good monkey. Nobody.” Simon John was spray-painting “God Save the Queen” on the wall.

At last the final gate was thrown open and the last wave of spotted rats were set free. The vestibule was alive with their chatter. “We’re free!” “Let’s go see the sunlight!” and “I never really liked it down there.”

One, well, one and half rats stayed. “We in charge,” said a black midget rat sitting on the shoulders of hulking, retarded black rat.

Simon John snarled and cracked his knuckles. “You run this slave house?”

“I run Rat Town.” The Master Ratter spoke matter-of-factly.

“But what of your king?” Simon John wasn’t sure whom to punch, and that bothered him.

Balthazar looked upon a great pile of riches, everything from broken wire, old string, scraps of cardboard and the like. Not riches to men, but to rats, this horde was a grand treasure. “Yes, this trove has been in my family for generations. In exchange for your good will, I will let you take any one thing from this room.”

Balthazar looked to the king, “You’re too kind, my liege.” Just then, a booming voice came over the intercom within the castle.

“Who run Rat Town?” The voice of Master Ratter echoed through the halls of the castle.

The king lost his composure and blushed in front of Balthazar. “Pardon me, kind guest.” The king walked over to the intercom and mumbled something into the receiver.

“Say loud.” The voice blared again. “Who run Rat Town?”

The king swallowed his pride. “Master Ratter runs Rat Town!”

“Wrong. You do. All the slaves escaped, I quit.” The intercom turned off.

A pallor crept over the king’s face, his whiskers twitched, his eyes closed. He paced back and forth and put a paw to his narrow rat chin. After a pregnant pause of consternation, he jumped into action. “Guards!”

He sprinted back into the main hall followed by Balthazar. Upon entering, he tripped and fell on a pile of rat bodies. Rejoined by Simon John, Byron and Malachi, the spacemonkeys stood over the dead, cleaning their blades. The White Guarde, the Black Guarde, all dead.

“Good God, monkeys.” Balthazar was just as befuddled as the king by the slaughter before him. The king ran away screaming. Well, not as befuddled. “What happened?”

Master Ratter was the first to answer. “Justice. Justice happened. King no like spotted rat, king throw in prison under castle, make work. Make work, dig up cardboard and bits of string for himself. No more. Spotted rats are free.”

Balthazar looked to Simon John. “I told you to reconnoiter the area! What’s this I hear, you started an insurrection?”

Simon John shrugged. “I don’t know what I want, but I know how to get it.”

And all was set right in the kingdom of Rat Town. Master Ratter was a good leader, setting up work relief programs to help the newly freed spotted rats find decent jobs. He set up a public works system, and converted the old slave chambers under the castle into a fine museum displaying the fallen king’s riches for all to see. The Bush was more alive than ever, the pulse and energy of the market even more chaotic than before. As the Spacemonkeys were escorted out of town heroes, they saw the good that they had done and were warmed in their monkey hearts, hidden beneath the veneer of a rat suit. The past was dark, but the future was bright for the Bush.

At the edge of the Bush, Master Ratter saluted them with tears in his beady little eyes. The spotted rats sang them a song, their emotions so powerful that many of them could not finish the Ode to the Spacemonkeys. The Bush was a better place.

At the ESS Consul, The King of Tomorrow lay in wait. His three Black Guardes were armed with pikes and swords and spears and daggers; he would get his revenge. As the Spacemonkeys approached the dropship, they spied the King. Balthazar was quick to remind his men that diplomacy and good will always should precede any violent acts.

“Oh, King of Tomorrow. Your kingdom is a better place. There are no slaves, the economy is picking up, and the Bush is fervent with hope. For that is the new king of Rat Town, Hope. Hope shall be the king of tomorrow.”

“You Spacemonkeys think you’re so wise, with your space ships and transmogrifiers and huge flakes of cereal. But we shall see how wise you truly are. Attack!” The three Black Guardes rode out from their cover on their noble steeds, the Chihuahua. The dogs were snarling beasts, chomping at the bit, charging at the defenseless Spacemonkeys.

Simon John had held his anger long enough. He stepped forward, turned off his transmogrifier, and showed the King of Tomorrow the true face of a Spacemonkey. Huge and horrible, four feet tall, he towered over the rats, their massive Chihuahuas now more like silly little dogs. With a scream, Simon John kicked once, twice, three times; he knew it wasn’t cool to kick a dog, but he was also punk rock. The King of Tomorrow wailed.

“Let us leave this place. It’s getting a little bizarre.”

On the ESS Consul, the Spacemonkeys were jubilant. There were many cheers for a job well done. A hip, hip hooray and banana champagne were both in order. After much celebration, Balthazar returned to his quarters, and perched in his tree. There was a knock on the cabin door. In stepped Gerard, his heels knocking together with a pleasing snap.

“Sir, scans of the Bush show it be in good order. That was awful kind of you to beam down that box of corn flakes, I’m sure the Bush thanks you.” Behind Gerard, a rat stumbled into Balthazar’s chamber.

“You!” yelled the rat, pointing ambiguously. “Thanks to you, we are doomed!” Then, The King Of Tomorrow fell over.

Gerard looked down at him. “Pardon him sir, too much banana champagne for his little rat body.” Balthazar picked up the rat and placed him in his cage, nestled in sawdust. Gerard watched, curious. “Sir, the men feel that it be odd to keep a prisoner like that. After all, he tried to kill us.”

“Dear Gerard, this is no prisoner, but a pet. I feel that the general demeanor on this ship would be for the better were we to have a mascot. And what better mascot than the King of Tomorrow? Wouldn’t you say so?” The two looked down upon the rat, dozing in his cage, and Gerard knew that his captain was right; they were better to have a pet, and rats make great pets, especially for monkeys.

“I do say so, sir.” Gerard moved to exit the cabin.

“Oh, ”

“Yes, my captain?”

“Tell Sir Walter Scott to aim the laser at the wormhole, there is much to be done.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

With that, the doors whooshed close. Balthazar turned out his lights and got comfortable on his tree. And so the ESS Consul travelled on into the stars, fighting for justice and rectitude, while onboard a little black rat slept dreaming only of revenge and murder.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Bicycle Trade Union Excerpts: Man With a Flag, Exhaustion

It is so green, it is frightening.  I keep returning to the images of my childhood, sometimes in pondering, sometimes in fast, fraught flashbacks.  The sky is exploding with color, as the rain comes monsoon in a dark soot purple.  Intentionally and immediately followed by a green of slime & verdance which flows over every inch puckered by a white and yellow which remains unfound in man's vast & mechanical incorporation.

Watching rivers consume bridges and buildings and fields, rocks reclaiming roadways in tumultuous torrents, brings a beautiful flurry of fear and momentum to the cozy reality of most.  It makes me feel free, my lungs un-free without the humidity of the jungle and uncomfortable with the differece peace brings from cataclysmic, churning, calm.

I am an artist, a thief, a soldier and a thinker, a degenerate, a drunken addict, a fool and a murderer.  When I wake up here and put the music on my ears I am a champion for at least this cause of mine.  The green hands of the trees lay their wet fingers upon me, a single man parade in the weepings of the sky.  I feel as if I am about to leave the city on horseback, for the bicycle is the makings of a man into a steed.  Leaving for a conflict, for an environment from which he might not return. I am indeed, leaving for a domain I claim in part as mine.  The illicit, that which is said to be wrong and despot, feared and demented, crushed up and unnatural.

If you make a journey there, into the unknown and frightful, into a place that is new because no one can prepare you for it, they don't even know how to find it.  I do.  You will find me there, in a military cap, on a bicycle of all black, holding a flag both beconing and foreboding.

I am only here to help, not to push people into anything or anything into people.  We all must go this way, to explore something fresh, so I offer easy access and stern, clinical warning.  I am better than your pharmacist.

I am exhausted, like nothing before.  There is no rolling out of bed, only crawling, dragging, pleading escape from the drug sleep has become.  Sleep deprivation, and the endless circling, trolling miles bicycle backed...  There is a misery to it, and a cold; but there is a schedule, a masochism, a suffurating pleasure to it.

Riding the bike to work, to the liquor store, there are helicopters in the sky.  Giant, dragonflied, double rotor troop transports floating onward across the state.  They are a firm reminder that when the states fall, Colorado will be the Afghanistan, it will be unbreakable.  The people here know that the land and weather a fickle, and its inhabitants even more so.  There are enough of us left who see those helicopters as big birds.  Guessing if we could take one out with a 30-06.

I feel the instinct to run, to get up and give up on everything.  I feel so alone, abandoned by even my memories.  Those which remain are of lovers & friends departing, violent arguements, vivid & frightening hallucinations, and the anthropophagi of the world.  It is a treatise of blood, and I see it now and wish it were different.  And I am fucked because I am more comfortable and enjoying of violence than love.

I am smoking cigarettes constantly, until they turn my tongue black.  Each time hoping the next one will stop my breathing.  I can't remember the last time I felt happy.  Part of me believes that I have simply forgotten, that it has all been wiped from my mind and memory, but the other part belies that it has never been and I have never felt joy.

That is the feeling, endless, hopeless exhaustion.  You are the architect of your reality, and you cannot change it because you cannot get yourself up off the floor.  Fear, fear is not in the heart, nor is there hope.  They are both shit, predicting and exaserbating reality.  There is only knowledge, that I have been hit once, and I will be hit again.  There is knowledge that I am trapped until I find a way to either kill this feeling, or kill myself.  So abandon, my friends, the lusting for something better, forget the idea of should...  Thats what it is, that is the feeling.  I don't care what is supposed to happen, just this, just fight. just:

Give me fire, give me wine, give me love & give me crime.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Things take ages

New York City>Boulder

People bounce around
like bumper cars: or
the city is everyone's individual game of pinball

Switch locations:

I hear water
Cairns I saw were balanced
like a kabob
The highways were vacant
and ducks floated
or pruned their feathers
with silence

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

90 pills in a bottle,

different states of corruption

iodine, carotene, calcium lactate ooze out of my soul