Merry Christmas, Mr. Hemingway

This poem was originally published and featured by Rick Lupert in the Poetry Superhighway website and then consequently in my second book, LONG. I try to repost and reprint the poem every year at around this time. Enjoy. – Angel Uriel Perales

Merry Christmas, Mr. Hemingway

So the writer steps
out unto the curb
to kindle a lung
in the city of lights,

not Paris, never Paris,

just another urban vanity
in the endless series of
conscious similarities.

Well, maybe Paris
seen in the dull sheen
of seasonal gloom,

handmade toys and
silken scarves,

festive boughs
sagging over
speckled streets of
honking cars,

a fine gray mist
envelops eyesight,

pantyhose perception,

fogged-up lenses
suffocate a viscid
postcard vision

of electric Christmas
trees glimmering and
sparkling on windowsills
and rooftops like numerous
sprinkled tiny Eiffel towers.

Wait,
don’t believe,
maybe this Paris
is my Paris or yours

truly, the sidewalks
endure the same scars
of the ragged rabble,

dust the same soot
from crumbling chimneys.

Incinerated carbon residue
settles like dandruff snowfall
over hunched up shoulders,

the ashes to ash of continual living,

the black breath of industrial air,

the unfelt pulse that binds
those faces created for murder
in the banks, the factories,

time squandered gossiping
in restaurants,

machine lust polished
over burnt oil,
opium incense,
flaked rust,

offered by the malicious
masochistic Magi.

Fidget on the corner and
smoke a lung, Mr. Hemingway,

the men of action dance
the flirt of death,

the writer genuflects
the genuine bullfighters and
the women of the Tarantella
flaring a ruffle of skirts and
flashing bandied legs
for the leap of the tarantula
and the snap of the tempting
red cape.

All is memory in the dearth of winter.

Scarce photographs remain:

Poor Julian kicks up his feet
with crazy Zelda,
ornaments hang haphazardly
behind them in their favorite
holiday pose, a full library
to their left.

Celebrating what results to celebrate,

the repose in the eye of the storm,

the stillness between two cataclysms,

sea bass gulping for air
in a mud puddle,
not so much a generation lost as
left stranded by the Gulf Stream
and all things eternal,

the immortal sanguine fisherman
caught deftly by a journalist’s
terse laconic hand,
a tough prose,
an ink and paper rose.

Which will not survive intact,

the young banderilleros thrust
stilettos into the withers of
bleeding knuckles

already usurped in scabs
of criticism and praise,
not what you meant to type at all.

The false nobility
of a fake Nobel summons
you to Ketchum,

true speech waxes profane,
true love fucks pornographic,

Emerson and Thoreau lied to you,
these lights cast from these cities
spill over and transcend into
your sacred mountain,

dragon fire,

a perverse jetliner aurora
streaks across the northern skies,
a tinsel of torment,

even blind Tiresias
gets blinded by the rapidly
encroaching glare,

and the gleeful are dazzled
by this brilliance of ignorant
hope and wish peace on earth

on earth, in Spain,
a horse in Guernica,
Goya’s soldier up a tree in Madrid.

A legitimate measure
of a learned span,
an ambulance in Italy,
first love in Milan

prior to the opal opulence
that book-ends with the whores
and the profiteers of a liberated
Paris, the original city
of continual luminance.

Key West callused fingers
that can no longer write.

A lifetime of priceless
possessions seized
from a finca in Cuba.

Feigned interest in phantom
Nazi submarines
and six-toed felines,
a legacy and myth,

your legend longing
for the deep darkness
dreaded no longer,
disdainfully desired.

Do not fret, Papa Hemingway,
here is my Christmas gift to you-

My pen,
not as agile or nimble as yours,
I cede to you with all
the aplomb of the poetaster,

a homage from the homespun,

when the words dry up,
fade,
and cannot be recalled,

when language,
finally,
becomes my last
treasonous deceiver,

when the vinegar crusts and festers
in the self-inflicted wound

and I laugh at such absurd metaphors,

I will stomp out this cigarette
on my corner of my city beneath
the luster and the splendor awash
in the harsh agonizing grainy
spleen of communal existence,

my accumulated hell of halcyon nights,

I will slouch off towards Idaho,
much sooner than you ever thought.

Posted in My Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

This Fatuous Existence

June 18th, 2013, today was a trying day. The kind of day which begins pleasantly enough, waking up to the wonderful morning shrilling sounds of leaf blowers, 6am lawnmowers, LA traffic, a plethora of garbage trucks backing up all over the city, and which ends with blind furious murder pushing to explode out of your red-rimmed eyes. Yesterday I worked, and I was thankful to do so, but I worked an earlier shift which meant I had to concentrate all necessary chores for today. Last night I made a list of what I needed to do, arranged the chores so that I could seamlessly and fluidly go from one chore to another according to distance, route, and right turns, then went to bed satisfied and feeling accomplished and ready to get everything done in the morning. I woke up to dogs barking and cars honking and an ambulance wailing down my street. By the time I got ready the landscapers were in full force and adding to the morning cacophony. I was ready and invigorated and in a great mood.

My list if chores were fairly commonplace. They consisted in the order of:

1. Getting my smog test done on my truck so that I could get my registration sticker
2. Picking up my dry cleaning
3. Dropping off bills at the post office (including my car registration fee)
4. Picking up my prescription medication at the pharmacy
5. Stopping at Staples and getting ink toner and office supplies
6. Going to the bank
7. Stopping at the hardware store and getting a copy of a key
8. Getting some food to take home
9. Getting home and calling my parents before 3pm in the afternoon in Tennessee

Simple enough and planned out, I planned on leaving at 8:30am. I planned on being back home by 12noon so that I could eat lunch and call my parents by their 3pm. Before I left I called the pharmacy to make sure they had my prescription filled and ready. The pharmacy tech assured me my prescription was ready and filled and then I told her to put the medication by their drive-through window since I planned on not getting out of the car. She said great! And then I left the house exactly at 8:22am.

SMOG TEST

No June gloom in the valley, temperatures were in the high 90’s even this early in the morning. The air felt like Hades was regaling us with left over refried rotten bean smog stink wafting directly out of his ass. My truck has no Freon to work the A/C so I just have to suffer the heat.

The first smog station I went to had the state inspector calibrating the smog testing machine. I asked how long the calibration would take, the owner of the station said 15 minutes no problem, here have some coffee. Coffee sounded good so I sat down to wait. I was first in the queue that early in the morning so I didn’t mind. 15 minutes pass. 30 minutes pass. An older elegant lady comes in to get her car tested. She asks how long and the owner says 15 minutes no problem. The lady sits right next to me even though three other rows of chairs are available. She begins a conversation about birds and the Audubon Society. Ok, she’s pleasant, educated, I don’t mind talking to her.

Then a younger girl comes in and with a frown asks how long is the wait. The owner said 15 minutes no problem and offers her coffee. She sits down across from us. She has jean shorts on and a weird tattoo visible on her thigh. I can’t figure out her tattoo. What the hell is it? Is it an octopus holding microphones? No. The octopus is holding round headshots of babies. Does the tattoo represent Octomom or something? She notices me looking at her tattoo and frowns and then gets up and moves to the other side of the older lady. Now if I look at her I have to crane my neck completely to the left and lean forward. Fuck her and her shitty tattoo.

A lady comes in speaking Tagalog into a phone and trailing four kids of various ages. She asks how long is the wait. The owner says 15 minutes no problem. Over an hour has passed by since I first sat down to wait. The Filipino lady is smart and hightails out of there. 15 minutes pass. 30 minutes pass. I am about sick of hearing about California finches and New Caledonian crows who can make hooks with their beaks and carrier pigeons and endangered Condors. The owner of the garage comes over and apologetically tells us that his smog testing machine cannot be calibrated so he can’t make any smog tests today. Then he tells us where the next nearest smog station is located.

Because I was the first to park and parked closest to the garage now I am the last to leave the parking lot. I get to the other smog station and the place is full. Not only am I last in the queue behind the Bird Lady and Bad Tattoo but Filipino Mother is there with her brood as well as a guy with a Stalin mustache. What can I do? I need a STAR smog check because my truck is over 10 years old. I have no idea where another STAR smog testing is located. I decide to wait but this garage is smaller and I have to sit next to the Filipino kids. I get another cup of coffee, I set it down, the kids immediately knock against the table and the full cup of coffee dumps into my lap. Ok. I go to the bathroom to clean up, I come back and now there is nowhere left to sit because more customers are showing up. Fuck this noise, I decide to go wait in my oven hot truck parked in the sun until my turn comes up.

What I thought I was going to pay at the first smog testing station: $39.99 plus tax
What I ended up paying at the second smog testing station: $65 with tax.
Time I entered first smog testing station: 8:45am
Time I left the second smog testing station: 11:15am

DRY CLEANERS

Now I am severely behind schedule and bothered so I go to the dry cleaners to pick up two shirts, two jackets, two ties, and a pair of suit pants. When I get there and present my ticket the lady exclaims, “oh we tried calling you yesterday! We could not clean one of the jackets because the pocket was ripped!” I was like “did you leave a message?” She said, “We left several messages.” I look at my phone. No messages. No texts. Nothing. I show her my phone. She gets upset. “I left messages yesterday and this morning.” I repeated, “I did not get any messages.” She said, “I called this number, XXX-XXX-XYZX.” I say, “that is the wrong number, this is the correct number.” Basically she transposed the Y and the Z numbers of my phone. But she says, “YOU gave me the wrong number.” I am like, “Why would I do that? You think I don‘t know my own number?” She says, “Don’t raise your voice at me” which is a tactic that immediately makes me want to begin kicking kittens.

I take a deep breath. Ok, which jacket is ripped? Of course the jacket that did not get dry cleaned is my black jacket, the only piece of clothing I actually needed clean. I look at the “rip” and the tear in the inner breast jacket pocket is miniscule. In fact, the tear is so small I can’t even put a finger through it. I say, “so this little tear prevented you from cleaning the jacket?” She said, “the tear would get bigger, we could have cleaned it but we needed to know what you wanted to do” which sounds reasonable enough if the tear wasn’t 3 millimeters long with two little threads sticking out. I am pretty sure the tear happened because I jammed the end of a pen in the pocket, just to illustrate the smallness of the hole. “What do you want to do?” the lady asks. “I’m going to burn this jacket because this itty bitty puncture is giving me a migraine and then I am going to buy a brand new jacket with all the pockets intact and in full working condition.” The lady nodded her head as if my snarky remark was actually a good idea.

Cost of dry cleaning minus the only piece I actually needed clean: $23.65

POST OFFICE

The post office run was uneventful. But I have to mention the fact that I am compelled to drop off all my mail at the post office because the outgoing mail in my building is not secure. My Netflix movies got stolen enough and to the point that Netflix accused me of lying. I finally had to give up the service. This was back when Netflix was only available through the mail. A few years ago some guys got caught stealing mail directly from a mail delivery truck. My phone bill was amongst the pieces of mail stolen and I had no idea until a state official from an agency called “Victim Services” notified me. So ever since then I feel like I have to drop all my mail at the post office for peace of mind.

PHARMACY

I wait behind several cars at the drive through window. When my turn comes up, the pharmacy tech can’t find my prescription. She tells me to pull up and park and come into the store. I reminded her that I called at 8:20 in the morning and not only verified the prescription had been filled but I also asked to have the medication ready for pickup near the cash register of the drive through window. Doesn’t matter, she can’t find my prescription so I can either leave and come back later or park and come into the store. Oh wait, here is the problem, “your medication just came in this morning so your prescription has not been filled yet!” Which one is it? Did you misplace my prescription and can’t find it or did you not fill it when I confirmed you did fill it at 8:20 in the morning? “We haven’t filled your prescription yet. This will take us at least 15 minutes, do you mind parking?” “So somebody LIED to me this morning?” “Can you please park or move your car so we can take care of the next customer?”

I park and go inside the pharmacy. The line inside is longer than the line outside. In fact, I wait in line about 25 minutes. When I get to the window, the prescription is still not filled and ready. I have to sit down and wait or I could leave and come back later. “Can you fill my order next since I am the person who was lied to at 8 in the morning.” The girl throws up her hands and calls a pharmacist through the PA. I take a seat and wait.

The pharmacist comes in from a back room and I notice a security guard appears near the end of an aisle. I look at the pharmacist’s name and his name is something like DJ Cuong. The DJ part is written in with a sharpie. He asks me what is “the problem.” When I stand up to talk to him because he was sort of lording over me a little too close, the security guard walks over hurriedly. I explained how somebody lied to me that morning and how I had to park and come into the store and how I’ve been waiting now for over an hour for a prescription which I confirmed was filled and ready at 8 in the morning. The pharmacist said that he didn‘t think my story was accurate. I countered by asking if his phone system kept a record of incoming calls. DJ Cuong then got mad and said that he would help me “only this one time.“ Then he left and got my medicine but the security guard hung around the whole time as if I was a danger.

Cost of the medicine: I am not saying. But I was at the pharmacy for over 90 minutes for a prescription run I thought I could take care through their drive up window in 5 minutes or less.

While I was waiting in line at the pharmacy, I was able to call and talk sporadically with my parents. The call was fine except the service inside the pharmacy kept dropping out every other minute. I was unable to talk to my parents for very long.

STAPLES

Traffic and road construction now in my way. Also a truck tried making a u-turn in a busy intersection and ended up wedged inside a corner bus stop booth. Since the intersection was completely blocked off then traffic was redirected another mile down side streets in order to be able to cross under the freeway. Then if we wanted to get to our original destination we had to double back in slow traffic through extra lights in rush hour traffic. I lost 35 minutes between the pharmacy and Staples when the distance should have been only 5 minutes. Did I mention I have no working A/C in my truck?

At Staples they were out of my ink toner so my main reason for going was wasted. I was able to get other supplies. When I got to the check-out, I could get behind two counters. They both had lines of about the same length. I chose one, wait in line, and when my turn comes up, my debit card doesn’t work. The machine will not take the swipe. Ok. Try my credit card. The swipe doesn’t work. I try all my credit cards in sequence. None of them work. The cashier girl: “All your cards are demagnetized.” Me: “I don’t think so, I just used my debit card at [pharmacy].” Cashier: (laughing at me) “Yup, all your cards got demagnetized.” Me: (pissed) “You want to put money on the fact my cards are fine and that your machine is crap and not working? Why don‘t you try putting in the card number manually?” Cashier: (no longer laughing) “Umm, let me call a manager.”

Manager comes over and checks the machine. He tests the machine with a card he has hanging around his neck on a lanyard. “I’m sorry, this machine doesn’t seem to be working, would you like to pay in cash?” Me: (terse) “No.” Manager: “I’m sorry, you’ll have go over to the other cashier.” I look. Everybody that had been in my line is now over in the other line. Me: “Do I have to wait in that line or can you open another cashier so I can get out of here, I am in a bit of a hurry.” Manager: “I’m sorry, I can’t open another cashier at this time, I’m sure you won’t have to wait long in that line.” I leave my shit on the counter and walk out. I only really needed the toner and that was sold out.

BANK

I’m fuming. Why did the cashier not put in my card number manually? Why did the manager want me to wait behind a bunch of other people in line when I was next in line? I get to the bank, ready to get out some cash money! Their parking lot is closed off. Looks like they just repaved the parking lot so they closed it off. I drive around the bank. Not a parking spot in sight. Some restaurants next to the bank have spaces open but those spaces are for restaurant patrons only. I drive around all side streets. No parking. I am about to cry from frustration. I really don’t want to drive another 5 miles out of my way to go to a different branch. I still need to go to the hardware store, get something to eat, go home, I’m almost done, having to go to another branch of this bank and doubling back is just too inconvenient at the moment. And I feel like punching something.

I have to park about a half mile away, across a four lane highway, on an incline with the back of my truck sticking into the red zone of the curb. Fuck it, I’m risking the ticket. The only good thing is that the hardware store is equidistant the other way from my parking spot. I walk to the bank, I walk to the first ATM, “this ATM is out of service.” The next ATM- out of service. What is going on today? All the Greek gods hate me or something. I walk inside the bank, long ass line, just my luck. One more ATM on the other side of the bank, ok lets try that one. I get to that one, the ATM works but the machine is not dispensing receipts. Fine. I can live without the receipt.

HARDWARE STORE

Things are looking up. I got cash money. I walk to the hardware store, hardly anybody inside. I give the guy the key I want copied, he says, “right away sir,” copies the key in about 3 minutes, returns both keys, cost: $1.75. Ok, now I’m paranoid. This was too easy. I’m looking around nervous. I gingerly grab the keys and pay and then I stand there dumbfounded. The hardware guy is like, “anything else?” I shake my head no. “Are you ok?” I nod my head yes. The guy is looking at me like I am having an out of body experience, which I think I am.

I get to my truck, no ticket. Ok, I’m still in some kind of existential haze. I decide against picking up food, I don’t want to jinx this slow cloud of still oxygen encircling me. I have soup at home, pasta, I think to myself go home while you’re ahead of the game, before some more bullshit falls from the sky on top of your head.

I have a friend, his name is Nick. Nick told me one day, you know, you are always whining about how badly people treat you in Los Angeles, about how people are rude to you. But have you ever stopped to wonder, Nick said, have you ever stopped to wonder if maybe the problem is you and not them? Have you considered that maybe the problem is not them at all but something you are doing or saying making them react in such a way to you?

Yes Nick, I thought about that briefly, over the course of a few days after you said such an asinine thing to me, and I came to the conclusive and unequivocal conviction that the problem is entirely other people. Idiotic people who can’t be counted upon to do the job they were hired to do, people who have no social skills or a bad attitude, who say rude things not expecting any type of response because they count on your good manners to stay quiet. People who can’t drive, can’t make a simple u-turn. People who are just too bothered to do their jobs. People who can’t handle life at the moment. The problem is rudeness in all kinds of forms, cutting in front of you in line, talking your ear off about specious subjects. People who can’t be trusted to write down a 10 digit phone number correctly. People who lie for no goddamn reason at all, who waste your time with a lie, put you in a situation where you could get beat up or arrested because of their stupid lie. Mothers who can’t control their children. Douchebags who will not shut up their barking dogs at six in the morning. Assholes who steal your mail.

So Nick, I am not the problem. I’m affected by the problem. And the problem is the overwhelming stupidity directed at me in tidal waves every day of this fatuous existence in this sewage of a city. Every once in a while I encounter somebody who cares enough to do their job correctly, graciously, with a smile on their face, with warmth and concern, such as a regular Joe simply working in a hardware store.

When I got home and tested the new key in the lock, the key didn’t fit, the key wouldn’t work, they new key could not open the lock. Motherfucker!

Posted in My Daily Life | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

T.C.

You thought maturity was strength disguised
watching amber walls.
You thought happiness was endless chatter.
You thought success entailed
your cult of personality over ingrained traditions,
money and charm were party favors,
Indian gifts,
bait.

And you knew the terrors of locked hotel rooms,
the swallowed withering abandons,
the seizures of pitiless doubts.

A fine congee perfected paternally,
honed by a mother’s misbegotten unconcern.
They never let you grow up.
We can hear the disaffected child in your voice,
pleading for the strange, the different,
the feeble and effeminate, the weak,
those detested derelicts of your youth.

“A writer of uncommon grace and sensitivity,”
the critics proclaimed when you finally debuted.
A revealed understanding of the lonely
stuck in the margins, so you made them believe
and you did not demure;
instead, you dazzled, delighted,
a magician’s enchantment,
the consummate host, the enabler,
a regal majordomo
hobnobbing with the hobbled rich,
waltzing with extreme wealth.

You asked these moneyed scalawags,
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“What can I do to make your lives better?”
The swans bowed their jeweled heads
and fluttered, the peacocks flared.

Worthy by way of envy, Truman Capote learned
the keeper of lofty secrets could only
topple affluent empires
after his own was sunk, lost, and woefully forgotten.

Posted in My Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Pincher (Immanentize the Eschaton)

(The following story is a work of fiction.)

From the Australian Capital Government Territory and Municipal Services, hereinafter referred to as TAMS, the following is a condensed and preliminary incident report deferred over to law enforcement. The incident took place in the off-hours and off-duty in a private home and between two Parks and Recreation employees. Disciplinary action up to and including termination is reserved until the outcome and resolution of the criminal charges. At the moment the recommended action is leave without pay for both parties involved.

VICTIM – BACKGROUND AND HISTORY WITH THE SERVICE

Marietta “Mattie” Pincher, 39 years old, single, of average height for a woman, around 167cm tall, sporting shoulder length light brown hair with applied blonde highlights, average figure, her weight approximately 68kg. She is of a tan and olive complexion. Originally from Cooma but has lived in Canberra since coming into the Forestry Service. She has worked as a Silviculturist for TAMS for the last 12 years and worked as a Forest Ranger for TAMS in the 3 years preceding that time. She received her M.Sc in Botany, Forestry and Environmental Science in 2001.

In 2007, Ms. Pincher was involved in the scandalous resignation of TAMS Global Sustainability Director, Gordon Kemarre. During the course of Mr. Kemarre’s divorce proceedings, Human Resources became aware of Ms. Pincher’s role as the “other woman” when she was cited in Family Court as the main reason for the contentious divorce. This was disconcerting information for HR at the time because Mr. Kemarre was Ms. Pincher’s direct supervisor and trainer. An internal investigation into the affair was launched. The investigation suspected but could not prove that Ms. Pincher initially pursued Mr. Kemarre romantically even going as far as taking time off from work to obtain the first of her breast augmentation operations. Ms. Pincher vigorously denied these allegations. Her written testimonial states Mr. Kemarre as initiating the romantic pursuit and with her allowing his advancements indifferently but with the fear of losing her job and standing at work if she rebuffed his advancements. She also states that their sexual trysts were few and far between and never took place in the office. This directly contradicts photographic evidence presented in court where a private investigator showed that the affair lasted several months and took place mostly in the workplace and environs.

The result of the investigation was such that Ms. Pincher retained counsel and threatened to sue TAMS for allowing an atmosphere of sexual harassment. The resignation of Mr. Kemarre was prompted by the ensuing office scandal plus the fact that he was being accused of Parental Alienation of a Child in a separate lawsuit where Ms. Pincher was listed as a potential witness. Ms. Pincher, in turn, was reprimanded for breaking the work romance and fraternization policy and, as a consequence, was required to complete 16 hours (2 full days) of unpaid sensitivity training. The following year, 2008, the fraternization and romance policy was changed to be more stringent, as well as the sexual harassment guidelines, and every employee was required to read and initial the new manual and to pass a short online test which indicated their familiarity with the new rules.

“Pinching”

A more troubling result of the 2007 investigation was that Ms. Pincher’s predilection for “pinching” was first exposed or, at the very least, rumors in that regard. A running joke in the office, perhaps a riff capitalizing on her surname, is that Ms. Pincher will “pinch” or “tickle” a person, thing, or an animal when they are least aware or when they are not looking or at any given time. A cursory look at her social media pages, such as Facebook and Instagram, will reveal hundreds of pictures showing Ms. Pincher in the process of “pinching” a friend, stranger, animal, or thing. She has pictured herself, or instructed others to picture her, while “pinching” men in the buttocks and even “pinching” some women on the buttocks or the breasts. Most of the people in the pictures seem to be in on the joke but more than one picture looks like she took some people by surprise at the point of the “pinch.” Many of the pictures are taken in pubs and karaoke bars away from the workplace but also many pictures are of Ms. Pincher “pinching” her fellow working colleagues during the discharge of their official duties. She also “pinches” children and babies on the cheeks.

In addition to the pictures of Ms. Pincher “pinching” people, other pictures also display her “pinching” animals and things. Of memorable note is a picture that serves as her current profile on her Facebook page which shows her “pinching” a cow’s udder inside a barn, basically her milking a cow. She also has pictures of her “pinching” a wallaby, a platypus, and an emu, and “pinching” several Peruvian llamas and an alpaca from the Langcliffe Herd Farm close to Christchurch, New Zealand. In some of these pictures, she is wearing her official Parks and Reserves uniform.

Ms. Pincher also has an extensive collection of Beanie Babies, at home and spread out all over her workstation in the office, and pictures can be found of her “pinching” every single Beanie Baby she owns and other assorted stuffed animals. She has also posted online pictures of her pinching Barbie dolls, rugby cards, and a signed headshot of Russell Crowe, amongst other things.

One interesting set of pictures can be found in sequence on her Instagram page. The pictures involve Ms. Pincher frolicking around with her Dingo/Singer mixed breed while wearing her uniform. The former wild dog, named Elvis, is a domesticated pet which lives at home with her, and is one of the few Dingoes registered in accordance with the Companion Animals Act (1998) east of the Dingo fence in New South Wales. As of this moment, Ms. Pincher has not been forthright as to exactly when she acquired the pet and under what circumstances.

All of the pictures which depict “pinching” show Ms. Pincher smiling broadly in the act of “pinching.” In only one picture does she seem to take her “pinching” seriously- the picture of her “pinching” the headshot of Russell Crowe.

SUSPECT / ACCUSED – BACKGROUND AND HISTORY WITH THE SERVICE

Jay Byrd-Edwards, just turned 26, he is 182,88 cm tall and weighs approximately 85 kg. He has close-cropped sandy or ruddy colored hair cut in a militaristic style and blue eyes. He has been described as one of the most fit of our Park Rangers. He grew up in Concord, a working class suburb of Sydney, and earned his associates degree in environmental science from the Australian Catholic University in North Sydney Campus. He moved to Canberra when hired part-time by TAMS about two and a half years ago. He has a five year old daughter who lives with her mother in the Newtown section of Sydney.

By all accounts Mr. Byrd-Edwards was a hard-working and well-sorted young man. Since news of the incident some of his colleagues have stepped forward to report some peculiarities, for example: Ever since arriving in Canberra, he has been requesting to transfer to the Fisheries Department as soon as an opening was available. This may be to facilitate a move back or closer to Sydney since Mr. Byrd-Edwards reportedly tries to visit his daughter every other weekend. His supervisors report a fearlessness and ease around venomous snakes and, at one time, Mr. Byrd-Edwards considered expanding his expertise into herpetology. He has also expressed varied interests such as working with the Sambar Deer population and with tracking the Bogong Moth. At his first annual evaluation, a note in his file indicated that he should be given time to develop a definite interest and to wait for him to submit work into a specific field where ACT Services could then fund part of his continuing education.

Other idiosyncrasies of concern: Some of the other Park Rangers dreaded or otherwise refused to ride or drive with Mr. Byrd-Edwards on tandem excursions into the National Parks in a company vehicle. Mr. Byrd-Edwards tended to always carry a King James Bible on his person and was inclined to preach or proselytize or otherwise engage his colleagues in intense religious and philosophical discussions. His passion displayed in these discussions alienated some of his colleagues. This problem came to a head about a year ago when Mr. Byrd-Edwards distributed a religious tract on the windshield of every personal vehicle parked at the Yarralumba facility. As noted in his personnel file, a supervisor had to step in and admonish Mr. Byrd-Edwards to curtail his religious zeal at work and to keep such matters private. His reaction to the reproach was predictable in that he felt censured for his religious beliefs and persecuted and he wrote and filed a counter-complaint in protest. TAMS wrote Mr. Byrd-Edwards a letter of apology.

At some point in the last two and a half years, Mr. Byrd-Edwards must have met and become acquainted with Ms. Pincher or vice-versa. Some small amazement has been expressed that the two parties were even friends, since they did not work with each other, did not have offices or workstations near each other or in the same building, and their duties in the service rarely overlapped. Obviously they knew one another, perhaps had been dating or dated at one point in time, and some animosity towards Ms. Pincher may have already been brewing inside Mr. Byrd-Edwards. One fellow Park Ranger reports of a day in January when Ms. Pincher was spotted scraping some bark samples at Namadgi National Park and when her propensity for “pinching” was jokingly mentioned, Mr. Byrd-Edwards retorted, “I’d like to see her try to pinch a Brownie on the snout.”

One last curiosity: Mr. Byrd-Edwards hated being called “Jaybird” which is the nickname which Ms. Pincher reportedly always called him whenever they were observed interacting together.

INCIDENT REPORT

On Friday evening, April 19th, 2013, over a dozen TAMS workers met around 8pm at the Canberra Irish Club in Weston to sing karaoke and to celebrate the birthday of Mr. Jay Byrd-Edwards, who was turning 26. The Weston Room was rented out for the birthday occasion. The room has a seating capacity of 25. A single cake was brought and served on individual plates. A selection of wines and beer were provided on the tables but the birthday guests could also purchase mixed drinks from the full bar in the adjoining main room. For a list of all the TAMS employees who attended the birthday party, please refer to the membership list on file at the Canberra Irish Club.

Of special note is the fact that several birthday guests reported that Ms. Mattie Pincher and Mr. Jay Byrd-Edwards seemed to be at the party together. She stayed by his side and he stayed by her side for most of the night at the club, they sat at the same table together, ate together, were drinking together. Ms. Pincher seemed to be in charge of the festivities, she brought the cake, led the birthday song, and cut and served the cake to the guests. The Canberra Irish Club confirmed that Ms. Pincher reserved and paid for the rental of the Weston Room as well as purchased and distributed the wine and beer which was made available on the tables. The wine and beer cost plus room rental and tips total for the night was $436.27 AUD which Ms. Pincher put on her MasterCard. This total does not include drinks purchased at the bar.

At some point during the festivities, Mr. Byrd-Edwards became annoyed with Ms. Pincher. One guest reports as him being “fussy” with her at the birthday table. During the portion of the night when karaoke selections were being sung, Mr. Byrd-Edwards dedicated a version of “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor to “the centipede hands with the lobster fingers found in the room.” After finishing the song, Mr. Byrd-Edwards warned the room to “watch that your asses don’t get pinched by the lobster fingers.” Shortly thereafter, Ms. Pincher got up and sung the song “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks and dedicated her rendition to “the shrilling jaybird from earlier.” Mr. Byrd-Edwards responded by raising his middle finger and asking, “You mean this bird?“ After her song, Ms. Pincher exhorted the crowd to “keep bitching, bitches!” Some guests thought the pair was only being funny with each other. Others became uncomfortable and left.

The Canberra Irish Club closes at 1am on Friday nights and near closing time Ms. Pincher made the announcement that the birthday party would continue in her home. She was seen giving out her address. She then paid the bill and left, followed by Mr. Byrd-Edwards. Ms. Pincher lives in Woden Valley behind the Canberra Hospital and as such only a short jaunt southeast from Weston. Less than ten people accompanied them, all in separate cars, with everybody arriving and settled at Ms. Pincher’s home by a quarter after one. The dog had to be calmed down. Being a Singer/Dingo mix, the dog was not used to company and became hyper and had to be penned up in a section of the kitchen. This was unfortunate because people had to step over the dog containment to get to the refrigerator. At some point during that night, the dog enclosure was broken and would not stay in place.

Ms. Pincher lives in the right-side unit of a narrow two story duplex, with a full bath and two rooms upstairs, and a family room, kitchen, and half bath on the ground floor. The kitchen opens to a garden area in the back. The duplex does not have a garage, visitors have to find parking on the street. Ms. Pincher uses the smaller of the bedrooms upstairs as a makeshift office. The family room contains a flat screen television and a wraparound sofa. Meals are eaten on a small but tall round table equipped with stools in a corner of the kitchen. Her apartment can be described as cozy. She does not own her unit although she does lease to own since 2007.

Guests describe that within an hour of arrival at the duplex, an argument developed between Ms. Pincher and Mr. Byrd-Edwards. The pair went upstairs to the office to hash things out. People were then abandoned downstairs to their own devices. Some left, some were conversing with each other, and some were watching music videos on the television. All were drinking. Somebody, nobody knows whom, then went into the kitchen, probably to get another beer, and somehow the dog got loose. One person reported that they heard a crash in the kitchen but another person reported that the dog tore through the family room as soon as the kitchen door was opened. One of the eyewitnesses was Flip Corneteg, a Park Ranger from Kambah and a friend of Byrd-Edwards, and he records what he saw and heard next, as transcribed despite his thick bogan accent:

“The beast shot through the room with a yip and could not stop on tile and slammed muzzle first into the front door right fair and made me cackle. Poor thing didn’t know if it was Arthur or Martha. Then it snarled a low growl and showed teeth and everyone was like whoa! and the thing shot up the stairs like a flyer. Took maybe a second or two afore we heard the car smash upstairs. See, Jay, he wears these exy steel toed boots, in account of snakebites on the paddock, and I just know he gave that mongrel a swift one, cuz I heard it howl like it’s donger is on fire, after a certain commotion, and then Mattie got to screaming ya bastard! She trumpeted ya bastard a few times, I even think she stuck the word pommy in there, pommy bastard, useless bludgin’ bastard, and the Dingo gone insane this whole time….”

Bianca Tilbrook, another guest, relates how she was the first to run up the stairs and she witnessed how Mr. Byrd-Edwards had cornered the Dingo against the hallway wall and was repeatedly kicking the dog underneath the haunches. “The dog was trying to protect itself and bite at the same time but could not crawl away.” Revealed later was the fact that the dog had gotten a good bite out of Mr. Byrd-Edwards’ hamstring and the muzzle was matted and bloody. Ms. Pincher had strapped on to Mr. Byrd-Edwards’ back “like a Koola stuck on Euca!” and she was trying to distract his pummeling of the dog by pulling back on his mouth and eyes with her fingernails.

Ms. Tilbrook reports that she yelled at Mr. Byrd-Edwards and, when he looked at her, he appeared rabid and “wild-eyed.”

Mr. Byrd-Edwards then dislodged Ms. Pincher from his back by slamming up against the opposing wall. When Ms. Pincher fell to the floor then Mr. Byrd-Edwards focused his fists on her fallen form. Ms. Tilbrook rushed over and grabbed Mr. Byrd-Edwards by the arm. Mr. Byrd-Edwards then pushed Ms. Tilbrook hard enough where she twisted her ankle and fell halfway back down the stairs.

By the time the rest of the guests arrived at the top of the stairs to stop Mr. Byrd-Edwards’ attack, Ms. Pincher had already sustained all the injuries detailed in the medical report and the dog was moribund. Mr. Byrd-Edwards could only be calmed down by having three grown men subdue him and sit on top of him. Mr. Corneteg reports that he was the first to successfully stop the beating on Ms. Pincher and he could only do this successfully by tackling Mr. Byrd-Edwards “like a flanker lowering a shoulder to knock the bastard in a ruck.”

“Jayboy kept going on and on ‘bout the end of the world. With each punch he screamed ‘don’t immunize the skater’ or some gob, whatever the fuck. Punter’s built like a brick shithouse, took three of us to scrum him down. Then scratched up sitting on a bed, he’s whispering about ‘dispersing accordions’ and some other shit to the ’sleepless mortician.’ I was like huh? Cracked a fruity, that one. Who da fuck‘s the skater and why would you not want immunizations? I think he was saying the damn Dingo was not inoculated, which is crazy talk. I checked the tags myself.”

Mr. Byrd-Edwards was taken into custody when the police arrived. He spent the rest of the weekend in jail and posted bail on the following Monday with the surety deposited by his parents. Ms. Pincher was taken to the nearby Canberra Hospital and treated overnight. She suffered maxillofacial trauma, a fractured orbital bone of her left eye, and an injured neck, details of which can be read in the hospital report, accessed with permission. Ms. Pincher is currently recuperating at home.

Our own department of Animal Control (Domestic Animal Services) took possession of the carcass of the dog for disposal, after the fact. A rabies test was conducted on the animal which turned out negative. As of this moment, the provenance of the dog is still in question and we do not know how Ms. Pincher acquired the pet and at what point the dog was considered bonded and domesticated.

CONCLUSION AND RECOMMENDATIONS

My recommendation is immediate pay without leave for both parties involved. I further recommend termination of employment for Mr. Byrd-Edwards after consultation with our legal department. I also recommend termination of employment for Ms. Pincher pending further investigation as to what extent her relationship with Mr. Byrd-Edwards violated our fraternization and office romance policy and also pending an investigation as to whether or not Ms. Pincher followed the letter of the law and fulfilled all permit obligations in owning and housing a mixed Dingo breed in her apartment and / or if she abused her position of authority within TAMS in order to acquire and house the animal.

I declare and certify under penalty of law that the foregoing report is accurate and true and as complete as could be investigated under the given time allotment.

XXX XXX XXX

Posted in Lyrical Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Eric Lawson – “Concrete Shoreline”

Eric Lawson is an author and actor living in Los Angeles. He has two poetry chapbooks under his belt: “Lady, Control Your Cats” and “Now With More Ewoks.” With Lyza Fontana, the comedy collections “Jackassery,” “Medusa Coils,” and “Snarky Snippets.” Recently, he was awarded Best Poem at the 2012 Los Angeles Neo-Noir Erotic Film Festival as well as a 2013 Editor’s Choice Award for his novel “The Road to Ruin.” His first produced short film as a screenwriter, “This is the Face,” is due to be released late summer (2013). While jovial, he has an unspoken distaste for invisible aardvarks and mornings without coffee.

CONCRETE SHORELINE
By Eric Lawson

Tidal offerings splash up against a sea of people perched upon a pier.
The people don’t back down and the ocean knows no limitations.
My city by the sea builds upwards as if taunting the waves to
gather up all their strength and knock them asunder and bury us.

I walk along the concrete shoreline, pondering the folly of man.
All our frivolous effort put into making the intangible solid.

Solidifying the industrial complex.
Solidifying man’s quest for fossil fuels.
Solidifying all that was designed to eventually erode.

Along the city streets, memories of a thousand beach-themed tunes
play on an endless loop inside the hearts of residents young and old.
The melodies soothe on hot days and raise smiles on frigid nights.
The city smells like the ocean and the ocean breathes salty smog.

I sink my hand under the surface and feel the current events pulling
me hither and thither in a timeless tug of war to which there is no end.

The ocean is on my mind as the blacktop jungle encroaches upon my
most fanciful of daydream aspirations, here, where trees give no shade.

One step from the shore, I am an animal in search of reprieve.
One block from the shore, I am a consumer in search of nostalgia.
One mile from the shore, I am a tenant in search of familiar echoes.

My city sleeps as the ocean whispers forgotten lullabies.
The electronic hum of humanity;
industry, economy, art, democracy,
such are the pillars we build upon.

Yet nothing is possible without water.

Posted in Featured Writer | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Flying Scorpions

I. The Father

The father brought home the gifts for the kid’s birthday.
They were well wrapped on gaily-colored paper-maché.
The father could not hide them in the crawl space above the closet or in the false
wall created by the upright Ping-Pong table in the garage.
These were all excellent hiding places, to be sure, but the father knew how
resourceful his kid could be and those hiding spaces had been exposed before, at
Christmas, always at Christmas.
The Father only needed a hiding space for a few hours while he went back out and
checked the oil in the car- that damnable small light had illuminated the dashboard- the
soft ping repeated itself in the car, a clear indication that something was wrong
or that the car door was not completely closed, he had opened and slammed the
door traveling at 65 miles per hour, the soft ping continued, so now he had to check
the oil.
A quick look in the dishwasher showed the dirty dishes inside and then, almost as
an afterthought, he stuck the gifts in the oven, snickering to himself in a proud way,
his kid would never think to look in there.

II. The Mother

The mother felt the beginnings of a migraine.
She almost dropped the groceries fumbling with the keys at the front door.
She knew it would rain soon, the pain started at the base of her skull, where the
medulla oblongata met the spine, and traveled in short spurts up past her ears to her
temples. Yes, the rain would come tomorrow if not sooner and she still had to
endure a noisy birthday party. She had everything ready, flour, mix, eggs, milk, but
she had to start everything soon if the cake and ice cream were to be ready by that
evening.
Everything, everything was always a rush, impatient, like tomorrow’s rain, if she
could just steal a half hour to herself, close her eyes, and let her medication work
it’s magic, she could avoid an extremely unpleasant evening, her shoulders were
already sore.

Even though she had baked cake countless times before and knew the process from
memory, she still poured and mixed the ingredients together in a bowl according to
the instructions on the box.
She poured the batter into a pan and turned the oven on to pre-heat it.
She almost reached for a cigarette; instead, she grabbed a bottle of mineral water
and went to the medicine cabinet in search of her Codeine.
She laid down on the couch in the living room, just to close her eyes for a minute,
rubbing her neck, she expected about a dozen kids that evening, if she was lucky,
only about half of those invited would show up.

Intermission

The father looked up from under the hood of the car in the garage when he heard
the school bus honking incessantly, loud, long, and obnoxious honks that reluctantly
grabbed his attention.
Immediately, he saw the flames spurting out from the side of the house.
His first instinct was to run up to the back door, by the kitchen, his hand hovered
by the heated knob, he knew enough not to open that door, it had already begun to
crack and expand.
He ran around to the front, where he saw his kid on the front lawn being held by
the bus driver, who in turn was speaking furiously into a cell phone.
Another kid sat on the driver’s chair inside the school bus, leaning on the honk, the
rest of the kids pressed against the windows and watching.
The father entered through the front door, took three steps, and woke his sleeping
wife on the couch.
The smoke was a layer of clouds covering the ceiling of the living room and had
not yet reached the mother’s sleeping form.
Luckily, she never even had a chance to cough.

And following the insurance investigation and determination of the cause of the
fire, the mother naturally blamed the father, how could he had been so stupid as to
hide gifts in the oven? And, every time the subject was raised, which seemed to be
constant, his patent answer to her question was a “how come you never thought of
checking the oven before turning it on? Don’t most people do that?”
And in later years, the father always had a rueful snugness that at least he had
saved her life, even if she never thanked him for that.
And for the rest of her life, the mother always hesitated before turning on the oven,
she always thought of him and bitterly but quickly checked inside.

III. The Kid

After the fire and consequent divorce, the kid was shuffled off between homes until
he was seventeen, when he was detained in a juvenile correctional facility.
His grades slipped early on, he lost interest in sports, except for baseball, started
smoking his mother’s cigarettes at twelve, stealing from his father’s home the next
year.
A school counselor and amateur psychologist evaluated the kid in ninth grade.
During their third session, the counselor tried dream therapy, she noted that the kid
had only one recurrent dream:

The kid would stand real still in the old burnt house when the snakes would crawl
in, king cobras and puff adders.
The cobras would flare up at the sight of him; the puff adders would crawl like
some perverse and poisonous worms. Sometimes they would crawl and wrap
themselves around his legs, unless, in the dream, he was lucky enough to have
climbed on blackened furniture.
If he leaned against the wall, they could crawl up the wall, so he taught himself in
his dreams to stay away from the charred walls.
They never bit or struck if he stayed real still, unmoving, and the snakes never
crawled above his waist, never got to his face.

No, that was the job of the flying scorpions.

When the swarm flew into the room, the kid had to close his eyes and hang his
head.

Posted in Lyrical Prose | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Terry McCarty – “Cutting Loose”

Terry McCarty was born in Electra, TX in 1959. In 1988, he moved to Southern California. He began workshopping and performing poetry in 1998. Terry’s books include 20 GREATEST HITS (Publish Green e-book) and the new collection HOLLYWOOD POETRY: 2001-2013 (Xlibris print and e-book editions). Terry’s poems also appear in the anthologies THE LONG WAY HOME: THE BEST OF THE LITTLE RED BOOKS 1998-2008 (Lummox Press) and SO LUMINOUS THE WILDFLOWERS (Tebot Bach).

CUTTING LOOSE
by Terry McCarty

I lost the monster somewhere
in the South Bay
and not a moment too soon
he wanted to sell me a crate
of misogynistic tabasco sauce
and insisted I sample it first
no thank you, I said
what’s the matter? he taunted
are you scared of
the natural order of things?
he kept needling me,
repeating the same nasty invocations,
jabs then gutpunches
No, I’m not going to enable your sickness,
I replied.
I’ve made too many people cry
in my lifetime.
And I don’t think it’s natural or right.
As I left the coffeeshop,
the monster yelled at me:
you’re no fun at all
I think I’ll take a drive
cross-country to
Steubenville Ohio
where some teenage boys
love me
unconditionally

Posted in Featured Writer | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Nothing That Happens

Late at night, her grandmother’s house, by her grandmother I mean some lady not quite 60 at the time who was raising her, providing a room, a bed, a place to sleep since her mother dropped her off and ran away to Florida after her father’s arrest.

We are sitting on the couch, in the den, with the television on loud, ostensibly watching. In actuality, we were rubbing each other crazy, kissing and rubbing, I was so stiff, hard and hurting, I felt backed up and stuffy, feverish as if I had the flu in my pants, my stomach hurt and I was nauseous. She kept thrusting her hips into my hand, the button of her jeans wide open, and she would grab my hand and guide my fingers to her zipper, which was only halfway undone.

Finally, with a surprising shriek, she pushes me off her, jumps up from the couch, tucks her shirt back into her jeans, storms away, returns with a glass of water, sits opposite of me in a rocking chair, glares at me, drinking her water, silent.

I’m embarrassed, nervous, shaking a bit, I have a strong urge to smell my fingers and to wash my hands. I feel dirty, titillated, I’m acutely aware of the wet stain on my crotch.

She shakes her head slightly, rolls her eyes fuming, when I begin to say something, she grabs the remote and turns up the television louder.

I hate my parents for this, for instilling this fear into me. I resent all the Sabbaths in Temple, learning the guilt associated with sex, the sexual urge. I’m sickened remembering the only time I got caught masturbating to pornographic magazines and how the punishment was six months grounded to my room, no radio or the Atari, and in the evenings filling up the back ditch of our property with dirt and rocks, a job my father had been talking about paying some Mennonites to finish. Other kids, they get caught smoking weed or worse and only get grounded for a week, but not me, my father believed the punishment had to hurt. So when I bent the spokes on my bicycle when I was twelve, he didn’t fix the bike for a year, that sort of thing.

And I just got my keys to the old car. My father was very succinct, get a speeding ticket, anything, a beer can found squashed under the floor mats, a small dent, the car was gone, sold. Believe you me, he inspected the car thoroughly.

Plus he said that thing about girls, why do suppose they are throwing themselves at you? he asked. Is it because of your sterling personality? I know how shy you are. You don’t go to parties (because I’m not allowed to go to parties without chaperones, Dad.) You’re not a jock, you aren’t the captain of the football team (all the games are on Friday night, Dad, so I didn‘t try out for the team.) Why are girls calling here day and night? I’ll tell you why, they know you’re a good guy, they can tell that you will care about them, they know you were raised right, they know that you will not just love ’em and leave ’em, and they crave that son, all of them crave that, the good girls and the bad girls, and you have to get to know them to know the difference, what dating is all about, son, is learning the type of girl to trust.

So I have been burdened with the nothing that happens. My first girlfriend let me manhandle her all over the top of her clothes, let me stick my tongue in her ear, and she gave me scattered hickies on my chest where I could cover them up with my shirt. But she left me for the jerk that plowed her in the back of a pickup. With my second girl, we dry humped for months, to the point where I had a painful carpet burn on the very tip which hurt whenever a cool breeze skimmed through when I had to pee. That girl went and got laid and then dated some Carnie after the state fair came to town.

And with this girl, my father was very stern when I brought her home after getting my license, be careful son, he said, her mother is gone, her father is in jail, her grandmother is a widow with a full time job, this young girl is going to latch on to you because she craves your attention but you can’t give her what she really wants, what she really needs, because you are too young. And you can only disrespect her further if you get her pregnant. The worse thing you can do is mess up her life more by getting her pregnant. And if you get her pregnant, forget school, forget college, forget that fancy car we just gave you, get her pregnant and we can’t help you son.

My dad thought he gave me a fancy car, how funny.

The television turns off, I’m out of my reverie. She hugs herself and rocks herself in the chair, glaring. I’m apologetic, I open my mouth to apologize, to say I’m sorry, to ask if she’s mad, to ask her not to be mad at me, I can’t remember what I was going to say. Get the fuck out is all she says, quietly. I’m confused. She is snarling at me, she snarls. GET THE FUCK OUT. I try to say something else but she gets up and walks to her room, slams her door.

I was upset. I peeled out of her driveway through the side lawn, I didn’t mean to but I was still learning the car. Somehow I stripped one of the sprinkler heads buried in the grass and the next morning the whole front yard was flooded.

Her grandmother was mad, my father was called, when the water bill came I had to work at the golf range all summer so I could afford the money and I couldn’t drive my car until the bill was paid.

She told everyone at school I was stupid, a wimp, too scared of sex, and did not know what I was doing, every single word the truth. And during the summer, I made out in the walk-in freezer with the girl who worked concessions at the golf range. We went as hot and heavy as possible in the freezer, in the garage behind the golf carts, in the utility closet, until she met some guy who owned a Shelby Camaro GT and drove off with him.

Posted in Lyrical Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sofa King

The City of Ann Arbor issued a citation forcing us to remove the couch from the front porch and to clean the debris and junk strewn around the yard. This was the summer we rented a bush hog and mowed the back lot because the weeds had grown so tall. One of the blades caught a rock and a small sliver punctured my chest like a bullet. I dropped the beer I held and I rubbed my heart but did not think much of the pinprick sensation. We threw the couch in the back of my rusted out cargo van, a completely stripped and rusted cargo van with only one seat, the driver’s seat, the van still had faded stenciling on the side advertising an air conditioning repair company long gone out of business. The couch fit perfectly sideways, so we used nylon rope and duct tape to tie the couch into place, and we were happy to fashion a place to sit down when we went out to eat or to see a movie. On sultry nights we sat in the van, the side and back doors wide open, and propped up our feet on discarded milk crates and smoked skunk and told stupid “sofa king” jokes such as this Chinese food is “sofa king” good or you rolled that joint “sofa king” tight. We parked the van in such a way where a breeze would sweep in through the side and blow out the back.

That summer was the hottest in history seemed to me. Took us almost two months to clean up the yard and back lot. I thought I got a nasty sunburn because my chest was so hot and swollen and peeling but what really happened was this: I got this sliver of rock lodged about ½ centimeter from my pericardium. An infection then spread slowly enough that, about a month after I noticed discomfort, enough blood and pus had accumulated in my thoracic cavity to the point where my left lung collapsed. I woke up one morning and could not walk or breathe and had to be driven, held down on the couch, slipping and sliding in pain, to the hospital. Once in the emergency room, they stuck a tube underneath my arm and re-inflated my lung, “just like Ronald Reagan,” a nurse said. My parents came up the next day from Sandusky and my mother got anxious and nervous and she had to be hospitalized. My father went to the house to get some clean clothes and could not find any, he took a look around the house, and was “scandalized” at the living conditions, so he proclaimed. While I was still in the hospital, my father told me that I lived like a junky in a crack house and that if I continued to live in that house then he could not support me or send me any more money for rent or for school or even to pay the hospital bills. I thought the whole situation unfair, I’d already been in the house three years, this was the first time they had ever visited, and I had never smoked crack in my life. My friends couldn’t believe how my parents made my hospitalization a big soap opera. These friends promised they had my back.

But they didn’t have my back. After I returned from the hospital, I still had to rest, so I could not work, and not one of them offered to cover my portion of the rent. The lease was in my name, I had to give 30 day notice. My roommates silently moved out one by one, taking shit that did not belong to them, my collection of glass bongs, water pipes. This was already almost mid-August and I did not have the money to enroll in the new semester. Two days before the lease ran out, I found myself alone, bandaged, stoned, stitched up with nobody to help me move. I gathered what I could and threw the bags in the back of the van. Thank goodness for the couch because I slept and lived in the van for the next six months. Ironically, I left the yard and back lot pristine but the inside of the house was a mess, no deposit for me. Some nights I muttered to myself, this couch is “sofa king” comfortable.

Posted in Lyrical Prose | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

In Extremis Extreme (Essay)

I’ve had the displeasure of perusing some contracts written up by the studios trying to either tie up your professional name or trying to buy the universal rights to some artistic work. The legalese in some of these documents delves into the ridiculous. They will say something such as:

“Artist or entity known currently as Fulano De Tal, and otherwise known as any other name, pseudonym, sobriquet, nickname, symbol, number, written, heard, felt, or acknowledged in any way and in any language or any types of communication known to man or any other cognitive being, implied or consented, past, present, and future, through any means whatsoever, be that through sound waves, light waves, microwaves, or any known or unknown device yet to be invented or discovered, and which universal rights revert to the purchaser of the rights as indicated in this contract, and by universal rights these rights include any country or governing authority known on earth, also the known and unknown universe, or any other parallel or multi-universes, which can ever be known, discovered, or imagined….”

Contracts are now written in this extreme manner to keep artists such as Prince and Sean Combs from breaking their contracts by changing their names multiple times or using a symbol or moving to Tortola and setting up a separate production company. The extreme to which the contracts extends their rights is funny and hilarious.

Which brings me to poetry, or rather, what NOT to do in poetry. And I only mention this because I am so guilty of this myself, the phenomena of what I call “in extremis extreme metaphor,” that is, when a poet wants to convey the depth and acute feeling of their image or angst that they automatically go for the most overdramatic simile imaginable.

Example: The birds fed in the birdbath like harpies from hell screaming down and gorging in the black waters of my drowned soul.

I’ve read so many poems whose inherent anguish is so multiplied in this ridiculous manner that my first reaction after reading the poem is “just go kill yourself already.” The reaction nullifies intent because poems written in extremis do not connect with most readers and the poems really do sound like juvenilia, goth kids juvenilia, goth kids crying in the middle of a candle lit pentagram in an underground nuclear bunker juvenilia (see what I mean?)

And when such extreme metaphors are coupled with the absolutely mundane then the poem becomes hilarity personified without reason.

Example: I picked my nose like a crane driven by Beelzebub digging out the darkest recesses of my damned soul.

The worst kind of in extremis extreme is the clever poet trying to make a statement about poetry itself and then the poem becomes a meta-poem on the meta-state of poetry and then the irony found in the poem is too exquisite for words.

My point is that all poets need to simply try to find the perfect metaphor whenever possible. Not all feelings are in articulo mortis, life and death. A poet is better served by a succinct and clear metaphor, such as the one exemplified by The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams, than by sounding off like Bukowski announcing the next wrestler at Wrestlemania Smackdown!

Posted in Featured Writer | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment