Musty Inn

We waited in the car until Tim and Conner came out with the keys to our hotel room. We unloaded our travel bags from my car and unlocked the door to our room. As the lights came on, we could hear the millions of roaches and probably dozens of rodents scurry from the openness of the room to their respected hiding places.

Upon first glance of the room, I knew we were doomed. This was it. This was the end of our journey. We had found our resting place. This was exactly the side of the road motel featured in every horror movie about wayward travelers and blood thirsty axe-men. The room smelled of fear and anxiety, the nervous sweat of a lying convict, a trembling paranoid. The room stank of feet, armpits, bleach and ash, not just cigarette, but the noxious fumes of burnt plastic.

The motel had apparently opened in 1968. The pictures of Elvis Presley, soaring bald eagles and grizzly bears were all sun damaged and fading in their frames. The forest green and mellow-yellow shag carpeting was flat and matted down to the surface, worn in specific areas of the runway, between the bed and the bathroom, to the concrete beneath it; the padding long dissolved beneath the wayward boot-heel of the transient.

The beds were both sunken in and beaten to the spring. Two people would definitely have trouble sharing these beds.

I opted right away for the sleeping bag, taking my chances with the blood thirsty rats and the skin hungry roaches than face the disease and bedbug of the mattresses. The lamp shades had a decade worth of dust on them and made the room even dimmer, never mind the fading force of the fifteen watt bulbs therein. The faux wood paneling was chipping and scarred, full of holes, as if used for a knife throwing contest. The television was so old it had beveled glass, and a thick knob that only had thirteen numbers on it. It did not work.

I unrolled my sleeping bag beneath the table and the two chairs in the room, making a kind of fort; hoping that when the madman came in, in the middle of the night and blasted the occupants away with his sawed-off shotgun that he would somehow mistake my form for some kind of chrysalis; cocooning peacefully in the mildew and must of the room; not human at all, just some giant winged insect about to take flight and cause some sort of chaos in my own right. I figured if he thought I was some sort of future Godzilla-battling Mothra then he would leave me alone, as he had come to only slaughter humans.

The bathroom was moist with bacteria. I was sure that all forms of microbiological entities were growing in the mildew and fungus of the green stained shower, toilet bowl and sink. There was a soaking wet towel on the floor as if a lonely trucker had come here to shower, masturbate and sleep for a few more hours until he had to hit the road, and roar on across the country, high on speed, and pushing to meet his payload. I looked underneath the sink for a fresh towel. There were two. One was stained with blood, deep red and light brown, the other stank of human feces. I chose the blood soaked one, took a hot thirty second shower and went to my bag.

“Hey Mikey!” I heard Tim yell.

“What’s that?”

“We’re sharing towels.”

I walked over to the bathroom where Tim had so quickly taken over after my quick and dexterous first place finish to the shower. I took off the towel I was wearing and handed it to him. I turned and paraded my svelte form and low hanging balls to the rest of the room. Johnny and Claudette hooted and hollered. Conner pretended not to notice.

I put on fresh underwear, which I realized I hadn’t done in a week, and curled up in my bag for sleep and dream and possible gun blast.

Claudette sketched while the boys took their turns showering and drying off; Johnny and Conner cursing Tim and I for taking the only non-stinky towel. Claudette had her own it seemed.

“Hell! Ours is covered in blood!” I heard Tim say.

“So; at least it doesn’t stink!” Conner yelled.

Finally the lights were out and I listened while Claudette and Conner snuggled and made out, enjoying the taco shaped bed, and Johnny and Tim fidgeted in theirs. Finally Johnny came over to where I was, carrying with him a comforter that smelled like squished maggots. He rolled the comforter up at one end until it was a pillow and he lay down close to me beneath my table fort.

The dreams were flickering their tongues of flames about my icy consciousness, attempting to merge with my reality when the noises came. BAM! BAM! BOOM!

Screaming issued from the bottom of some female form in the distance. Thunder clapped the lightning strike. More banging of mysterious sounds. Was the murderous madman I had envisioned, sent from Hell to drag me back to my spawned doom?

“Is that a gun?” Johnny asked.

“Hey Mikey should we go investigate?” Tim was up and at ‘em.

Claudette turned on the lights.

“Fuck it man let’s just try to get some sleep.” Conner suggested.

Tim differed; “I want to know what the fuck it is. If it is gunfire, then we should call the police.” He probably thought he could unarm the assailant and become a hero in Nowhere Saskatchewan, accepting the key to the hick city and having his choice of every eighteen year old girl in town.

My common sense spoke up; “If those noises are gunshots, then we would certainly be defying our safety by opening the door.” I wanted to sleep and dream, not have this conversation, not be aware of whatever horror was happening on the other side of that door.

Tim had already jumped out of bed and dressed. I got out of my bag begrudgingly, because one has to have their brother’s back, and because I would never hear the end of it from him if I didn’t. ‘I could’ve died out there’, he most certainly would have said.

“Let’s just open the door a little bit” he said. Tim then got onto his stomach and raised himself only tall enough to manipulate the door lock and knob.

The doorknob slowly turned. The door slowly opened to the inside. Nothing. We could see nothing. Tim stood up a bit, keeping the door only cracked a touch, a hair, a smidgen, only enough for us to peek. He continued to rise; now standing beside me, in front of me, wanting to be the Shaolin master to catch the bullet between his teeth; wanting to be the man of steel and have all weapons be useless against his impenetrable costume.

Finally, after a few peeks and quiet guesses, Tim, Johnny and I were outside looking around the premises for any danger that we might be able to thwart with our magnificent abilities.

Nothing. We could see or hear nothing.

Finally: BAM!

Johnny and I each made a quick leap back in the direction of our safe hotel room. Tim didn’t move, didn’t flinch. That meant Johnny and I had to stand our ground. We both knew it; knew it like every teenage man knows it when he must choose to die with his brother than flee the scene and leave him unattended, unprotected, not gotten, not backed up. Testosterone driven boys have no other recourse: It’s kill or be killed.

BAM! BOOM!

We all three stood our grounds and wondered where the sound was coming from. Suddenly we heard the scream again though this time it sounded a lot more festive than fearful. Then the car: The old 1975 Firebird came rolling around the corner with two women in tube tops pouring from the roof window and screaming in the rain. The car was driven by a young imbecile and was backfiring in the night.

It was pouring rain and the car was being flooded. They were on tremendous amounts of some type of lethal drug I assumed and felt satisfied that it was not some maniac drill sergeant recently AWOL and in search of free birds, traveling kids and drug users to slaughter with horrible weapon.

All of our dreams of local news stardom were shot down. We were actually disappointed. We wanted to save the day, swoop upon the perilous horror like Mighty Mouse and save the damsel in distress, untie her from the railroad tracks, seconds before the locomotive flattens her, therefore embracing her undying love. “Sorry ma’am, there are many towns, many damsels in distress. We must be off to another town to fight for the good of mankind.” And then we would vanish.

Inside Conner and Claudette were asleep in each other’s arms, unconcerned by the commotion going on outside or the Robin Hood / Peter Pan never-ever-land activities of the boys in flight to save the day. Tim was amped. He wanted to take a dip and talk with me outside. I smoked a cigarette and listened. He was my brother. I would’ve done anything he asked. That’s what trust earns you. I knew, and know, that he would never ask me to do anything that wasn’t worth doing, even if it cost my life.

The sunrise was beautiful and the drive out of town couldn’t come quick enough. The heat came on us in an instant. The sun hurdled itself across the sky in search of wax wings to melt, flower petals to open, water to evaporate, skin to burn.

Saskatchewan looked worse in the day time. It was all Nebraska and Kansas, flat farmlands and uneventful towns. We drove and we drove and nothing happened; until; suddenly the mosquitoes came. I have never seen so many of one type of living thing ever. A cumulous cloud of billions and billions of mosquitoes engulfed our vehicles. I lost Tim completely. He was on his own I figured. We would just have to meet at the job sight. I couldn’t see. Nothingness. I slowed down to thirty miles an hour. I didn’t want to get hit from behind either.

Again, I thought the end was nigh. I was certain that an out of control big rig would split us in half; unable to see our slow progress in the storm of insects we were being attacked by. The windshield wipers only made it worse, the bug guts and blood streaked across the glass in yellow, brown and red smears. I slowed to twenty miles an hour and just plodded along, hopping not to get hit, hopping not to hit anything. I had no idea of Tim’s truck’s speed, perhaps they had better windshield cleaner than I and were making terrific time, perhaps it was worse and I was sure to rear-end them at any moment.

The mosquitoes began coming in through the vent. There were ten or twenty of the little fuckers inside. Johnny and Claude armed themselves with rolled up newspaper sections and went to town attacking the bloodsucking little vermin. SPLAT! SWAT! SMASH! THANK! PAM! BOOF! They were the frontline in my defense as I drove and dreaded Yellow Fever, Malaria or any form of toxic viral matter transferred from some sick fuck to me.

Sting! Bite! MMM! I could feel the nanovampires getting at me, sticking there hypodermic snouts through my tissue and sucking my plasma into their bellies. I could feel myself feeding the little monsters; the welts swelling on my youthful skin as I smacked and batted my legs and arms and neck while driving.

And just like that (A snap of fingers) they dissipated. As fast as they were there they were gone. Tim was up ahead a ways, but thanks to the flat landscape I could tell that he was not far.

I sped ahead and squirted the last of my windshield wiper cleaning fluid on to the glass and created a toxic yellow smear to barely see through. I dared to open my window and wiped a line of insect guts with the meat from the pinky side of my left hand.

We pulled off at the next gas station and washed our vehicles, hoping not to see another mosquito for the rest of our lives. We all pissed, got coffee and tobacco and hit the road again immediately. No time for lollygagging we had a crane and a truck to meet. The rest of the drive was flat and uneventful. I put on Paranoid by Black Sabbath and we prepared for the next city, the next carnival, new faces, old faces, a routine, an unfamiliar surrounding, the whole journey congealing into a common motion. Commotion is better than boredom.

Lost Without Rocket

I was lost in the town of my birth
I kept running into people
who knew what a pimply faced
voice cracker I was
what a goofy coltish math class boner I was
what a tragic heartbroken loner I was
what a foul smelling evil tongued monster I was
what a self indulged dessert I was
too rich for their blood
chocolate cake and whiskey
I detested seeing people with whom I shared memories
I was anxious to create a new world in which
to invent myself; spiritual calculus, imagined heaven...
I was anxious to leave town and forget all about it
like I had done so many times before
I was some place familiar
and this irritated the hell out of me
I wanted to be rocketing to Mars in a cryogenic slumber
or even Jupiter
equipped with enough food and water
for when I’m awake
I wanted to see all of our planets up close
and in their own atmosphere
I wanted to orbit the giant gaseous orbs
and study their climate
their temperament with naked eyes

I wanted to munch on French fried asparagus
in some members only club
where chimpanzees on roller-skates
serve mint juleps to big time crooks
judges and lawyers and congressmen of one stripe
good ole boys
ex-governors of southern states
children and grandchildren of plantation owners

I wanted to drive a steamroller
and melt down the tarmac with my heavy roll
cigar mouth, beer belly and wife beater

I wanted to stroll hand in hand with the Taliban
whipping opium farmers with long canes of bamboo
urgent to get the crop in, make the crop fuller

I wanted to stroke my riding crop
against the ass of the fastest horse in town
and outrun the law
leather satchels full of gold coins
stolen from the federal reserves
and passed out like candy to the locals

I wanted to be Mayor of that sleepy little hamlet
and one day run for congress
where the real money is

but really...

I was found in the disease
of the nearest biggest city
with a cinematic vision and projector eyes
being introduced to the pretty young poets
as whatever I wanted to believe myself to be
hero and villain
scourge and cure
beyond good and evil
and wrapped up in the thrill

Ready for Dessert?

Do you like it salty or sweet?

a little bitter or smooth and bland?

Swing with the band or sit and listen?

Petition the lord with prayer

Or out in the jungle; slayer?

Tip-toe lightly or pound the pavement?

Country or city?

Ruthless or pity?

Feathers or leather?

Run with the pack or lone wolf?

Conservative fear

Or try anything once?

Get it in gear or grind the fuckers out?

Petal to the metal or slam on the brakes?

Right lane speed limit or

Left lane hammer down?

Make-over

sits silently in

silk spun cocoons

with no intention

of cracking the egg

answers the ring

pauses the play

lights a smoke

talks for hours

hangs up

resumes the game

keeps to itself

doesn’t leave the house

has been doing this all week

becoming something else

waiting for the fur

to transform

into feathers

for the bones

to hollow out

and stretch

into angelic wings

useless

heavy

unable to lift the sluggish

man sized structure

without some new inspiration

of the anti-self (you)

the heart still small

unable to pump the blood

and chemical ferocity

to lift the enormous breastplate

of the animal (me)

doesn’t let the end come

doesn’t let the thrill cheapen

into manifestation…

Ingredients which taste the taster

sometimes it takes a devil

to enlighten the Christ figure

a bullet through the brain

to splash new light on

stagnant subjects

vampires of romance

to suck the virus

clean from the stream

boys with lice

and savage ethics

to teach and decorate

the order of chaos

with curious and fearless

fingers

to probe the unknown

stretch the future

belly open

and scratch away

the gossamer

Erasing the Mistake

stitches the torn veil

pulls nails from the wrist

removes the thorns from

his hat size

lowers the symbol

as soldiers suck

the urine from his

royal swaddling clothes

as Roman doctors mend

his broken legs and ribs

and the pilot forces

the audience

to eat his name

in backwards shouting

pulls an ear off

for the sword’s healing

gives each apostle

the Heimlich maneuver

places torn bread

back onto reformed loaf

corks the bottled blood illusion

unloads nets full of fish

back into the sea

apologizes for knocking over

valuables in the market place

comes out of the

baptismal waters dry

still a sinner

lays in the hay

sends all the wise men home

crawls back into the womb

grows accustomed

to inhaling

amniotic fluid

shrinks in eternal collapse

without human seed

to contain it

The Enveloping Evening

The stranger wraps himself in the darkness of night. He hides in the squid ink discharge of evening. He slips and slides through the city with invisible ease. It’s important to be anonymous; to be nothing, to be no one in particular, indescribable and disappearing in the descriptive recall of the pedestrian mind. It is important for the stranger to interact as little as possible with the people he meets. This is an easy thing to accomplish in such a large city, black and grimy, thick with history and the nausea of the future. Everyone is in a real big hurry, everyone is such a big deal, and has a very important engagement; and no one can be bothered with courtesy or manners.

It is easy for the stranger to see the flames in the skyscraper eyes, the split in the concrete; hear the screams of pain and panic from the people under Pan’s spell, manic and crucial for the thinning of the herd. Architecture is not spiritual. The hermit crab does not love his borrowed shell or can. The bricks explode into dust. Noises brash and pounding burst eardrums. The stranger shuts his eyes to the visions and turns left down Tenth Avenue.

Liana Greenburg has an allergic reaction to the stranger. She breathes in his perfume. She coughs and gags, staggers back to catch her breath and is hit in the shoulders by a taxi cab. Her head splits open on the tarmac and the blood and the black make oil paintings of the bubonic plague.

The stranger takes no responsibility for the causality of his presence. His existence as exterminator gives him no satisfaction. He believes he is a karmic dispenser, a being whose nature is reflected in his attitude to whoever you are. If you are dissatisfied with yourself you will hate him. If you are happy and well adjusted to life you will have a more positive response from his presence.

Charlotte Metcalf smells the strangers perfume and smiles. She is reminded of her first night out on the town – when she was sixteen and riding the trains from the island to the city and that long passionate kiss from a boy she had a crush on all through junior high school, Billy Mantis. She shuts her eyes and remembers the sensation, the newness, the freshness, the endless possibilities and excitement of being young and untried. She misses her chance to cross the street. She decides to have a cigarette. She can’t find a lighter. A man she has never met before strikes a match close, but not too close to her face, and offers it slowly to her cigarette.

She blinks her eyelashes, which stick because of too much mascara and she sucks in the hazardous chemical. The man’s named is Billy. Charlotte, after introducing herself laughs a little. She knows that this is more than a coincidence.

The stranger wears no artificial perfume. His aroma is a sweet smelling gas that is floral and excrement, glandular musk and frenzied cellular decay. He is pungent and leaves a trail any beast could follow for days. He seldom bathes and often stinks, but the stink is part aphrodisiac.

The water is black glass, bottles crashing against the night, shipwrecks and partygoers. The stranger walks along the promenade watching the men and women dance on the party boat and consume the dizzying drink. He is not coming aboard tonight.

Memoires have no master. History is what you choose to remember, record, reinvent.

The nights in the city are not like the nights in the country. The evenings in the city are much more quiet and full of more stars. The nocturnal hunters tiptoe on quiet pads, unfurl silent wings and glide to the ground, mouse eats bug, owl eats mouse and if the fox or the cat could ever jump that high; dead owl. Sometimes the insects serenade the dark wooded area – crickets rubbing their legs together or a hundred times more deafening; the cicadas stiffening and rattling their tymbal membranes.

The stranger remembers his first assignment. Gloria Ratcliffe. She was a teenage runaway. Her father was a Methodist preacher. The preacher prayed to his savior to have his daughter returned safe, but his wife, Sheila Ratcliff knew better to hire the stranger.

The stranger found Gloria two towns over in Springfield. She was being used as a prostitute by her junkie pimp boyfriend. Both of them had a lot of growing up to do, but the boyfriend would not experience the future.

The boyofriend pulled a gun from his jacket, when he saw the stranger walking away with his girlfriend, his moneymaker. The boyfriend shot himself in the left arm with a 45 caliber hand cannon. The bullet severed a main artery and he bled to death in six hours. No one called the ambulance. No one heard him scream. He died hoarse and in shock.

The only justice is emotional satisfaction. The rhyme and reason of the maestro are a part of music’s greatest secret, the unexplained source vibrating communicable sounds. The painter uses images that fueled the big bang. Everything came into being because of the desire to come into being. The infinite void began to sparkle because of the urge to thrive – to orgasm into being.

The stranger misses the twinkle, twinkle little stars, the glittery ceiling of sky calming him with the constant remembrance of his insignificance in the grand scheme, and consequently his vast importance in the universe – which is no more alive than he is. He made ten thousand dollars for bringing Gloria home to the Methodist preacher. The preacher gave the stranger two gold bracelets as gifts, thick and cumbersome.

The stranger had the bracelets melted down into a lump. He sold the lump. The reason for this procedure, was, the stranger hates gold bracelets, and finds that only the sleaziest of men wear them. That is his opinion he knows; but life has taught him to learn from stereotypes.

The ceiling of light in the city is sky traffic – constant jets and helicopters. The ghetto birds glare down to the crime scene, with spotlight and stern warning from loudspeaker. The news choppers hover above the traffic problems constantly reporting the condition of rush hour. Passenger, military and cargo jets flow across the sky en route to or coming from JFK, LaGuardia, Newark, MacAuthor/Islip, Stewart, Brookhaven, West Chester, Danbury and a handful of other airports. Private helicopter rides for tourists, or from Mother Stewart’s enormous building on 26^th street to her home in The Hamptons.

The stranger listens to the Hudson River smash against the concrete wall below. The city lights of Jersey City glimmer with sticky licks across the undulating layers of black night glass. It is not always easy to do the bidding of his masters.

Jonathan Appelbaum was a gifted athlete who owed too much money to the wrong types of people. He liked to gamble. He liked to gamble large. He had a heavy line of credit when he was a star athlete, but since his ankle injury forced him into early retirement, he hasn’t been bringing in income. His well has run dry. Jonathan thought he was smart enough to become a professional gambler, but the joy and rush of gambling when you have nothing to lose keeps your head loose and free to take losing in stride. When losing carries with it a heavy consequence to your existence, poor decisions are often made. This type of gambler always loses. Jonathan is this type of gambler.

The stranger wears two long black coats. He does this for reasons which will become clear immediately. He opens the small bottle of chloroform; he soaks a handkerchief with the hazardous, sweet smelling liquid. The action takes place in his right pocket. In his left pocket he unfolds a knife.

Jonathan Applebaum takes his nightly jog. He loves the sound of the river against the concrete walls below. He loves the winter breeze against his face. It frees him of the angst of owing so much money. How is he ever going to get that money? How is he going to earn 250,000dollars in six months? Maybe he could return to the game? What about coaching? Inspirational writing? Could he tour several college campuses giving speeches about his times as a professional athlete?

Jon always takes a rest at the new pier 65. This is the three mile marker, from his penthouse. Here he walks. He stretches more. He does twenty pushups and stares out to The Statue of Liberty in the distance, another twinkling light in the city.

Routine is predictable. The last breath Jonathan Applebaum ever took was the sweet smell of Chloroform. The blade went in deep; deep into the kidney and the twist opened the organ to profuse bleeding. Jonathan passed out dying quickly.

Blood vomits all over the stranger’s black jacket. Jonathan falls to the ground. The stranger puts the chloroform, knife and handkerchief in a Ziploc back. He closes the bag and tosses it over the banister and into the river. He takes off his gloves and outer coat. He shoves the gloves into the coat and throws the bundle into the river. It is weighted down. It will sink.

The stranger walks quickly and quietly away from the scene of his crime. He is common looking – average, forgettable. He wears a coat and new gloves already, and there is nothing incriminating on his person. He is a pedestrian with no witness.

The evening welcomes him with a dark anonymity, incorporates him into the controlled chaos, the mapped madness, almighty anonymity, lulled loneliness…

There is no one action greater than the other, all bursts are proof of existence only.

At The Stampede

Tim and I took a peek at the stampede one day. We were just in time for the chuck wagon races. Horse driven wagons full of cast iron kettles and skillets and bowls and ladles and hundred pound bags of beans, of flour, of corn and wheat and chunks of beef fresh cut from cattle, prepared themselves for the race. These wagons were driven by speedy chefs who whipped and yelled and smacked their tongues against the roofs of their mouth in secret horse sounds to make the horses go faster.

The chuck wagons were the kitchen. They were in charge of the breakfast and the dinner. Cowboys don't eat lunch. They smoke or chew tobacco and barely bother with afternoon water, unless the day is so hot you sweat instead of pee. No time for pissing, got to watch the animals; the herd, the sheep or the cattle, look out for predators; the coyote, the mountain lion and the bear; got to stay on the horse and trot slowly along with rifle on lap; not to mention the rustlers who might shoot you in your sleep and swipe your entire herd. Beware the human; for he is the most cruel and cunning of predators.

I was getting into it totally. I wanted to race one of those big chuck wagons around the giant dusty track. The dirt track was as big as a NASCAR track it seemed or a pretty decent stockcar-track nonetheless. I wanted to whip those mean looking stallions with rawhide – Crack! Clack! – against their shiny muscle back, moving in motion with the sacred currency of our galaxy, sweating galloping, all four hooves off the ground at once, flying, twenty miles an hour on a dust particle racing 600 kilometers per second towards the hydra constellation, closer and closer to the great attractor…

“YAW! HAW! GIDDY-UP!” I wanted to scream cowboy jargon to horsepower and take those large cocked colts around every corner however many times was the race. I wanted to win! I wanted an enormous belt buckle prize. I wanted rodeo groupies and a bad reputation.

I would have shot every one of those useless beasts at the end of that race if they would have really put their backs into it for me; right between the eyes, loving and honest with the highest power rifle; if they would have given me the last three or four years of their life in that one final hour. I wanted to be the Dale Earnhardt of chuck wagon racing. I would have fed their hearts to the dogs I beat around the Alaskan Iditarod if they were strong hearts and they burst them across the finish line in first place.

I would have brought a whole new pizzazz to the world of chuck wagon racing.

Tim and I walked around the place in utter awe. We were both like prepubescent redneck children going to the monster truck races for the first time. It was better than wrestling, better than the circus; I always wanted to see those elephants race, those tigers and lions really tear up one of those clowns. I wanted to go chuck wagon racing. Tim and I spent a few hours at the Stampede, watching the trotting and parading horses show off their luster and strut, some fine young teenage guide in full booted uniform complete with riding crop and proper hat, keeping her well bred face composed.

There were solo horse races, horse jumping events, horse trick events and every legally creative thing a man can think to do with a horse, that doesn't involve its butcher. O How I would have loved to demonstrate the art of butchering a horse to any paying crowd and brother would I charge! I would have used no anesthesia and there would be great kicking and screaming and certain arteries I would let spew into the crowd - pretty crimson ribbons of hemoglobin squirting on the front row spectators like the log ride at a water park. I would have bathed in the liquid warmth myself, demonstrating bravely by rubbing the plasma into the pores on my face, forever young - and - tasting some of the substance, the iron rich pulp so good for your skin, like Christ Semen, fish oil and sebum.

I would have cooked great meals with its flesh, the muscle and tissue in stews with autumn vegetables, red wine, chocolate, chanterelles, truffles, I might even use a bit of the blood, not so much for pudding but rich and thick. I don't know why these great beasts turned me on so much. Maybe it was their enormous cock and cool strut, their long luxurious hair and swishing tail. I could think of nothing but slaughtering them for some sort of fantastic purpose of my benefit, but yes bathing in the warm blood, a savage magic practice; eternal life, youth, vitamins and sins.

I was coming into my own. I was exploring the universe with my mind, finding out who I was, and right then and there at that time I wanted to explore the Wild West with gold lust and six shooters. I wanted to be a murderous thief and a liar, a good-looking young playboy with gold coin pockets for brothel rooms and twofers. I wanted to gallop towards the sunset with a wild, wild west search for the infinite land, to try my hand at poker and never sit with my back to the door, guns under the table and cocaine in my whiskey, because no one catches me sleeping. I wanted an all night life full of rockNroll music and fast girls who were going my way. I didn't want to play my guitar under the stars with a bunch of other men in the sweaty boot air of a desert. I wanted to drive through Las Vegas on my way to California where the ocean air is perfect, crisp and salty like taffy.

Maybe I didn't want to be a cowboy. Hell what would I be doing exactly anyway? Herding sheep? Herding cattle? Isn't that how we introduce sexually transmitted diseases into our population? Who would I fuck? Who would I talk to? What would I do besides play a rusty harmonica and eat baked beans? I fart too much as it is. No thank you. So I no longer wanted to be a cowboy. Which meant it was time for me to go. Luckily I think Tim was having the same daydreams as me and he was done with wanting to be a cowboy as well.

Duck Soup

Happy children screaming glee with sticky sweet sunshine smiles and proud beaming parents: there was a certain charm and attraction to the daytime part of it; the time before the carnival air began to midnight; to stagnate, and putrefy, ferment and become addictive with high, syrupy toxic and preserving fumes.

Ice cream dragonflies with fried licorice wings buzzed the multicolored spinning toys that lit up and danced and sang; humming, zipping and pleasing to the senses. Kids on leashes led the way with busy mommy eyeing siblings in tow, scolding in three directions at once and doing her best. Hungover carnies smoked peaceful cigarettes and drank coffee from paper cups and rued the woo of the traveling prison of lights that held them captive.

The voices all blended together as I sat on the bench and rolled a cigarette, listening to the barkers; “Step right up – step right up – three tries for a dollar – just one in wins – just pop one balloon – knock over only one set of lead bottles – win the stuffed animal for your girlfriend – for your daughter – for your son – for your grandmother – how ‘bout you sir? A hundred bullets for three dollars just shoot out the star – every round’s a winner – just squirt the water into the bulls-eye and make the toy horses run – just wind up and throw – hit the target and win – just pick a duck from the pond – every duck has a number on its belly – every duck is a winner.”

I watched the action at the games on my smoke break. I liked the barker’s, their greasy ways with the rubes. I liked the gambling fools hoping to score some major victory and collect their plush two penny prize. I liked the girls with their short shorts and demand-to-be-won-a-prize-for high-heel strut; their phony whine and expert lipstick. The more materialistic plastic princesses would often point at the largest stuffed animal and bat her flattering lashes to see if she could convince her man to win for her the life-size plush chimpanzee with Velcro hands and feet.

I liked the boys who had enough money to learn the rules of the game, and skills to sink the basketball into the bent basketball rim, knock all three circus punks over, shoot all ten ducks in a row, toss all three rings over bottle necks etc. etc. etc. Man would those asses swing back and forth when they walked away with their huge stuffed animals and confident champion companions.

“Hey man I bet all these ducks have low numbers on them!” Some touched patron offered to the carnie in charge of the duck pond.

“No they don’t!”

I never understood why someone would argue with a carnie. There is only the increased chance of you being taken for more of a ride.

“How much money do you take from people everyday huh? There’s no true number on ANY of those ducks that have big prize numbers on them I’m willing to bet you anything!”

“I’ll bet you however much money it takes you to pull out a duck with a big prize number on its belly,” snarled the greasy carnie.

I smiled and laughed a whispered chuckle into my chest.

“What if there is no big prize number on any duck belly?”

“Then I’ll give you back double the money you spend trying.”

The rube then went wild turning over duck after duck. He was examining the ducks. That’s when Ray slipped in a big prize duck into the stream behind him, away from the rube’s dutiful turning over duck after duck after duck after…

Ray’s duck eventually floated to the man’s desperate turning over station; “I got one! I got one!” The man did a little arm raising and fist pumping as if he’d just caught the final out in the World Series. He then did a little jig and pointed to the top shelf prizes and said; “I’ll take the Jumbo Elephant.”

“Sure – right after you pay me for those wet ducks at your feet.”

The rube looked down at his feet. There were thirty or so ducks at his feet. “I can’t pay for all those ducks.”

Ray pulled a gun on the man. “That’ll be thirty dollars.” He put the large elephant on the counter.

“I don’t have thirty dollars!”

“Pick up my ducks and put them back into the pond.”

The rube did as he was told. By now every barker in eyeshot picked up on the story. Most of the games had stopped and fifteen or twenty carnival goers were watching the action.

“Don’t shoot me man,” pleaded the mark.
“You have an outstanding balance of thirty dollars.”

“I don’t have thirty dollars!” The man was truly afraid.

“Too bad for you,” Ray pulled the trigger. POP! A cloud of smoke popped from the cap gun and shot out a thin rod from which a small flag rolled down “BANG!” It said in giant yellow letters on the bright red square fabric. “Get the hell out of here, before I shoot you for real.”

The rube took off running. Everyone laughed. I felt bad for the guy, but hoped he learned his lesson; never call out the odd makers in a game of chance.

The daytime carnival air was hot and full of insect excrement soaked in animal dander floating on the consumable waves of breath we all share. I snubbed out my cigarette and headed back to the ride. It was going to be a long hard sweaty one.

Fresh Butter

from the chicken to the skillet

eggs from the basket

from the oven warm biscuits

hogs led to slaughter

the red barn smells of death and snake shit

chicken shit, feathers, dead skin cells and dust

hay fever itch and sneeze

farmer’s daughter hiding out blanket

learning to kiss and fondle and be fondled

warm mother breasts and wet panties

reproductive systems a go-go

milk the cows before the cock-a-doodle-do

churn the butter

rooster sings loud and confident

cocky

pigs in shit

muddy swine honking like geese

and shoving their faces in slop

rotting tomatoes and moldy corn

cast iron stomachs

tasty fat

squeal like a pig boy

stay up all night and shoot the dogs

the canine thieves with a new taste for blood

chickens is easy pickin’s

POW! Put a bullet through

the throat of the mean old dog, hollering

and squealing as it dies heading for home

sunrise

cut the chicken’s throat

laugh as she circles about

flapping silently and squirting blood

about the sawdust and hay

dead head on the stump

pluck the feathers from dinner

take a hatchet to the snake

seven foot long sucker

sunbathing on the side of the barn

WHACK!

two confused serpentine tubes

spastically searching to reconnect

dying

another thief of our food

those ground crawlers like eggs

swallows them whole

stretching that scaled face over

the protein rich orb

Whack!

cut the head off

feed the pieces to the hogs

don’t let nothing go to waste boy

gravel road

chunks of cool rock

collapsing beneath the footsteps

mildew basement

where boxed memories rot

creaky staircases and a rusty car

that will never run again

dreams of setting fire to the house

and running away from home

running through the fields of wheat,

the dark and mysterious forest

across the road

with our surname on the street sign

familiarity is disgusting

turned sixteen

got a license and never looked back

put it in drive and turned the radio way up

got in so much trouble with the way it is

drugs, theft, scuffles with drunks

fights with kids,

entered at my own risk

read bad poems on spot-lit stages

for blowjobs and drinks

showing off my pretty face

and desperate attempt at understanding

the way it is

corn fed shoulder bluff

strut with no proof

dared the crazies to blaze me

afraid of no burn

metropolitan skyscraper eruption

vertical city blocking the sky

creating wind tunnels down the Avenue

autumn in New York

crisp brown leaves

as many as the stars

concrete jungle smog and pollution

of an energy greedy people

traffic noise

overpopulation

everyone is rubbing elbows

stacked one on top of the other it seems

apocalyptic future dreams

waiting for the meteor

neither rich nor poor

tired

older

all of the chickens, pigs, horses

snakes, dogs and relatives dead

laughing

imagining all of the skyscrapers

silos

An occasional bomb must be thrown at the king

An occasional bomb must be thrown at the king to keep him aware of the dissidents in his kingdom.

It is important to have dissidents and anarchists in a functioning democracy. Voices must be heard from every point on the spectrum to have a rich and full society.

Gone are the days of the red scare, the black lists, segregation and suffragettes. We are a united people seeking one common goal; liberty, justice and the pursuit of happiness. To achieve this goal we must not be apathetic to the interoperability of our government. We must be aware of the choices our government makes for us.

WHY do we go to war? WHY are we not investing in our infrastructure? WHY are we a country politically divided?

These questions can not be answered in this article; but must be asked time and time again until we solve the problems that face our great nation. If these questions are not asked then it gives our government carte blanche to behave as ruthlessly as the interests that got them elected want them to.

In regards to the Wikileaks cables that embarrassed the State Department this week I wonder which is worse – the spying, lying and name calling of the participants involved or the revealing of such behavior?

Why do the very people who demand transparency in government seek criminal charges against the dissidents who bring to light these certain truths?

Secretary Hilary Clinton said, “…they put at risk the lives of many people in oppressive societies who had spoken to American diplomats.” But WHAT lives? And WHY are those countries oppressed in the first place?

So far not one death has been linked to the Wikileaks cables. HOW MANY deaths can be linked to shoddy diplomacy and espionage gone sour?

Thomas Jefferson said, “Information is the Currency of Democracy.” Yet the U.S. Government labeled tens of millions of documents secret for years. How can a society elect leaders that do not disclose their actions to the very people they represent? This behavior requires tremendous amount of trust from the people. How much do you trust the government?

According to The Pew Research Center, American confidence and trust in its government has dropped steadily over the past fifty years, from its peak of 68% under John Kennedy to 22% under Barak Obama.

This is not a collapse in policy, but a collapse in the communication/secrecy of said policy to the American People. This begs the query: Can the American People deal with how we operate as a nation; sometimes playing dirty: rigging elections, assassinating leaders, undermining economies, lying to indigenous people who habitat the land directly above rich energy sources, and must be negotiated with/dealt with?

How do we negotiate with countries around the world without flexing our military muscle? We use diplomacy.

Diplomacy is the art and tact of finding mutually acceptable solutions to a common problem. What are some of the common problems facing the world today? Iran’s acquisition of nuclear weapons stands high on the list, as does North Korea’s perpetual poverty; China’s currency manipulation, Russia’s rogue scientists, Yemen’s jihadist havens, Pakistani’s terrorists and friction with India, and not to mention the handful of European countries who are going bankrupt and making the Euro seem like a bad idea. Wouldn’t Ireland and Spain and Greece be better off if they could devalue their own currency and make their exports and businesses more attractive to outside investments instead of being bailed out by Germany?

We need diplomats from the State Department to suggest peaceful solutions to the numerous problems that face, not only our country, but every country in the world. We need diplomats to help negotiate treaties, drilling rights, and peace around the world.

Have diplomats been embarrassed by these leaks? Yes. Will these leaks put pressure on the State Department to be more secure and self editing? One can only hope.