Thursday, August 17, 2006

What's Today?

An old brown rocking chair poses, recently carved, in the August heat like the outwardly oxygenless air that enmeshes it. A flannel drapes over the chair’s shoulders. It has perfect posture; a mocking standstill revives my own self consciousness. A multicolored blanket with various golf-themed images adds heat to the chair.

The Who adds entertainment and the fan from Sears contributes to my comfort. With The Who and a stationary rocking chair in my face, it makes me wonder if rock is dead. Long live rock! Keith Moon should have listened to Queen’s “Keep Yourself Alive.”

Two Heineken 16oz. cans tumble from my cutoff’s pockets, ricochet of a brass rail, and tumble over themselves on the glass floor. Reminiscent of Chinese acrobats or Russian ballerinas by way of Holland. The bouncing sounds like spoiled children in clogs stomping on the hardwood floor. They wind-up napping on a maroon, ripped throw rug. Sprawled out, it looks like a map of Minnesota. The beer stains mirror a Land O’ Lakes. Rough waters ceased to keep me away.

Sweet Memories

One more drink won’t kill him. He’s good for another thirty years or so. Crazy how it all ended up this way. Vodka in Gatorade seemed harmless enough. Replenish those carbohydrates and electrolytes. Rehydrate the system thoroughly to ensure a positive morning experience. No aspirin here. No sir, just scotch and coffee accompanied by a doughnut or two every morning.

As I wait, I notice a vein on the left side of my nose pounding. Its extension brushes against my eyelashes; in tempo with an old Madonna tune. Maybe “Get into the Groove.” Clapping hands never felt so good. Skin melts with the friction. I’m scared.

An errant chicken fucker fled another scene. The scent of iron penetrated my nostrils. Chicken anal blood lies dormant on the dirt. Mr. Simmons claims to have fired two shots from hand-me-down .30-06 (pronounced "thirty-ought-six") at the perpetrator. “I’ll follow the blood. Gut him to the beauty of Jerry Lee Lewis. Feed him parts of his body for lunch and dinner,” Mr. Simmons informed the neighborhood after thirteen longnecks. The adults wouldn’t let the elementary kids near the boisterous commotion. The wife and I told our children to get the poodle and go hunt for clues.

They searched the cemetery and wound up with Bob Dylan’s “Tombstone Blues,” but nothing more. It rained on them. Well, so they said. Their sweat and pounding hearts wanted to reveal more. Their mother coddled them. They drank hot chocolate and ate gummy bears. I had to find the dog and pretend to clean up her shit.

When I opened the front door to my house the news informed our small town of a bellybutton infection that had reached epidemic proportions. I quickly grabbed cotton balls (soaked in rubbing alcohol) and stuffed my family’s umbilical cord scares. It tickled and they laughed. My wife forgot the video camera.

The authorities finally apprehended the suspect in the Gordonski’s corn field. He’s in his fifties. “He was naked and masturbating by the scarecrow,” Mrs. Eaton gossiped. “Well I never,” our neighbor Mrs. Perkins said.

“Well now you did,” a crow screeched.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Chris Kelly & Cecilia Oleksak's art

I want everyone to check out these sites. Really great shit!

Support the locals even though these two went off to Tampa and D.C.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Scotch and Chicken Paprikash

“The time is currently 2 o’clock in the morning. I’m Nick Mickelson and you’re listening to WPSV, channel 830 AM, on August 1st, where it’s currently 90 degrees outside. Tomorrow’s looking extremely uncomfortable. There will be horrible temperatures in the one hundreds during the day and in the high 80’s at night. Expect clear skies and relentless humidity,” the Meteorologist said.
The weatherman was right. He’s never right in the winter. Only in the summer does he seem to get it right. The sultry months of Indiana’s summer were at their worst. This was time when death occurred. The forgotten elderly, dogs in cars, and drunken, shirtless drivers all had unfavorable odds against them.
Theft is usually up during the hellish heat-waves that ravish sweltering neighborhoods. Home insurance catapults up and people stay in bars and malls to stay cool. Smashed skunks on the road leave unspeakable stenches. Much like spoiled beef stew or rotten sour kraut. My fingers smell like chicken paprirkash and my breath reeks of scotch. Hoosiers of European decent feast and famine along with factories, cultural areas, and the future. The Euchre deck will be cut and dealt in the empty evening.
Buzz Aldrin was on the radio after the weather man finished his potentially fatal news. He said that he’d never saw a UFO or aliens while in space. Some people believe that he and Neil Armstrong never landed on the moon, let alone walked and bounced on it. I wasn’t there. The suit’s too heavy. The helmet could snap necks like dry spaghetti.
A man named Manny told me that a “volunteer” was going to go to the moon and live there for about five to six years. Water, food, and other supplies would be delivered
at the first of every third month. This “volunteer” was supposed to set up weather balloons and missile defense systems that the Russians couldn’t penetrate. He wasn’t allowed porn of any kind.
“It was going to be like what Australia was to England. A dumping station. We were going to put nonviolent criminals on moon stations, if they survived, to do tests on the surface and atmosphere. Experts originally thought that these men would not be able to survive more than two years in space,” Manny said. “Monkeys only lasted two months. Donkeys ate all the wiring and had to be shot towards Juniper.”
I had heard others tell similar stories about fake moon landings and the nonexistence of dinosaurs. Maybe I’m too cynical, but I don’t believe that these people are right. Like I said, I wasn’t there, but so what. I never witnessed Jesus crucified, Shakespeare write a play, or woolly mammoths roam the Earth, but I think that they could’ve happened. Probably the same thing is being said about people like me.
I have seen heroin be cooked on spoon stolen from Denny’s, shot in a woman’s vein, and witnessed her glorious overdose. I’ve seen the Pacific Ocean from a Mexican shore. I have never, however, witnessed a miracle of faith. Nor have I ever witnessed a miracle of the supernatural.The mother Mary pushed Christ into the straw and loved him right away. Just remember, little Jesus, to the old saying, “no one loves you but you’re momma, but she might be jiving too.”

A Whole Lot of Problems

There’s nothing like sitting at the ballpark. Catching a game in the sun or under the mezzanine during a rain delay. Slamming down hotdogs that are as loaded with preservatives as you are. Screaming your ass off like a wild creature as you cheer on your team and pray for victory.

It’s the bottom of the 3rd, with no one out, and Mason is up to bat. He is always a threat to go deep. Jennings, an All-Star shortstop, is on second with about a 3 foot lead.

The pitcher looks back at Jennings’ lead and spins around to fire the ball toward second base. Well, the middle infielders must have had their signals crossed because neither managed to catch the pitcher’s pickoff attempt.

Jennings was almost to Third before the ball had even hit the ground. He rounded third like a baby rabbit running from a mink.

As he darted home he stumbled, grabbed the back of his leg, and crashed onto the
white chalk of the baseline. He screamed in torturous horror while his career ending pain
intensified with every thump of his steroid riddled heart.

It was the complete ripping of his Achilles tendon that caused him never really to play professionally again. He did have a brief comeback attempt with the team that originally drafted him.

At Lincoln High School he was considered the 7th best senior in the nation and was picked 19th overall in the major league draft that year.

None of it matters to me, though. I was rooting for the other team that day.

An After Party

We were having a get together of sorts with past friends
(good-times, good-times).
Now I’m driving back.

Matured through the third shift but it has setbacks. It’s a cold night.
Sleet, hail, and rain forced upon us by powers and controllers who have yet to be recognized fully (or at least unmasked to me).

Bred upon social fears, ideologies, iconic rhapsodies, and set apart by tragic mishappenings.

Holy appeal has been diluted by the smallest amount of muck and peat moss.

I’ve happened to wander down to the wrong side of town to see where the action is,
what kinds of people are living in a virtual animalistic state festering in the bones that will soon be buried by death’s dog.

Go through one cross street. Stop at the next. Then begin the shortcut home.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

greetings from Indiana

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Squirrel Bravery

Squirrel Bravery

A Midwestern summer’s night leaves so much to yearn for. It is the presence of the easily obtainable that distracts necessity. Humidity falsely governs the wheat fields, soy beans, and corn. How dare you come to my backdoor with canned corn and pork-and-beans? The can of corn isn’t even creamed. This is an extreme disappointment and delusional dilemma.
A pleasing thought tonight rests solely on the fact that there is a small black cage hanging from my crab apple tree. The cage is home to mutton cakes that small birds feed on. I request memories from when I used to supply all of the feeders in town with seed. Sunflower seeds, black thistle, and the other kind that sparrows and the like would spit out for mice and chipmunks. Next year grease will coat poles and whatnot to eliminate squirrel bravery.The a.m. transistor warned of a marmot intrusion by way of Chicago. Possibly through bullpens and Indian burial mounds. Down Lakeshore. Burned grass in parts of Grant Park and froze the fountain. Lovers of the Midwest roam disregarded and eager for truth. We’re not from here. They probably aren’t either. My money’s on the Quad Cities

Indiana's Summer Sun

Indiana’s Summer Sun

I have no idea how I split my head open tonight. It is bleeding. The crimson fluid bubbled and squirted like hot springs on a misty Arkansas evening in May. The gaping wound felt as if it was the consequence of a razorback’s thrashing. Deep penetration in the head was the only proof I had.
My bedding was the carpeted floor of someone’s library. The covering’s color was close to that of a fake pearl. Cold, plastic molded to the liking of children and pretenders. They were made to hang there like popcorn drooping from a plastic Christmas tree. Swaying like neglected power lines in forgotten townships and farming communities.
I try to sit up but it I end up sideways at the waist and slump over causing my head wound to release nutrients on the floor’s fibers. The carpet and padding morphs into a sponge after a forceful thrusting and the release of screams, hard breathing, sighs and weeping. Hard pounding inside the skull pushes blood downward like an upside-down volcano. The carpet greedily sucks the blood and tears from my head. It wants to be me.
Parts of my face are tattooed pink from sweat and blood. My shoulders and feet are pink from Indiana’s summer sun. The hair on my head that wasn’t detasseled solidified rustled. A piece of my scalp melted to the carpet. Purple hair enchanted the library’s air and two purring cats.
A gray tiger and a tortoise shell fought for my flesh and blood. The tiger yanked at the evidence on the carpet with small fangs. The tortoise shell hissed at me from
behind a smoke bomb and scratched my ring finger. Where’s Ted Nugent when you need him?
My vision seems cursed. Milk fills my eyes. The cats want that now, too. Lapping the organic milk might tame the feral creatures’ bestial cravings. The gray tiger springs to the top a filing cabinet and licks the top of it. The tortoise shell laughs or sneezes and falls off an upright bass leaning in the far corner of the library. Their viciousness is not yet known. Nor is there intrusive nature, for that matter. I’d have figured them to be quick opportunists running over themselves in order to feed wholesomely on the flesh of mankind.
I looked over at blue and tan flannel shirt resting on a rocking chair and wanted to be wrapped in it. It’s warmth accompanying me with each rock. Back-and-forth like fetal infants gnawing at unknown mothers’ umbilical cords. Breast milk rising from shock and gasoline. Nine lives? How about just this one?

Herb's Zippo

Herb’s Zippo

Everyday, weather permitting, I take my walks. I walk after breakfast, and after dinner. I walk a mile or so in the morning, but in the evening I only stroll for a couple of blocks and back. At eighty, I’m not interested in running into any unfriendlys once the sun starts to set. However, I do carry a walking stick. I’ve been doing this the past fifteen years. Ever since Herb, my husband died of pancreatic cancer. It was hard to recognize him right before he died.
At 5:30 a.m. a black, plastic, Taiwanese alarm clock announces the beginning of my proclaimed day. The sounds of Classical music fill my bedroom and usher out the dreams in my head. I sit up and light a Pall Mall as I’ve been doing every morning for the last sixty-five years, and put on my slippers. I use Herb’s Zippo now.
“Its marks say “II” and it’s a collectable,” my grandson, Chet, informed me. It’s a tarnished gold, and looks like someone tried to burn it years ago. Probably before Herb took position of it. Long, long before I did. I never touched it when Herb was alive. He lit my cigarettes or I used matches.
Sometimes I have to use the restroom in the morning. I had the bathroom remodeled five years ago. My only child, Peter (Chet’s father), did everything but the electrical work. He’s scared to death of being electrocuted. “I don’t want someone walking into a room and encounter some horrible odor floating around and then find my burned body smoking. Plus, I’d probably be making some goofy face. Eyeballs popping
half way out of the sockets or my tongue would be hanging out like Michael Jordan,” Peter said.
Almost instantly after Peter and his electrician friend finished their work I stopped being reminded of when Herb smacked me in the face. It wasn’t wrinkled then. I was
pretty and youthful. My wrists and hands were strong. My eyes were sharp. He felt that I had been a little too flirtatious with some of the members at the Odd Fellows hall. Too many seven and sevens was the only reason for it. Nonetheless, when the shock of what had happened melted, his smack’s burn took hold I bunched up his testicles. I had life by his balls. He never touched me again.
After my evening walk I like to sit in my screened-in porch and watch life. Steady flows of specters bouncing off negative and positive particles and resting on neutrality. My squirrel friends nibbled on corn cobs and apples. They make chirping clucks to me and share the truth. They say, “We see you there. Sitting, astute, on the porch bench. Tears down your cheeks, we see you cry. Why won’t you acknowledge promises and lies?”

Essay of the Starved

Essay of the Starved

I remember reading or hearing before that God despised a shaved pussy. I don’t know what Its feelings are on the Brazilian V, or is it referred to as the Brazilian Landing Strip? Regardless, this higher being probably prefers natural. A Bushman, if you will, with a free-flowing machete.
I don’t think that I heard or read that the same is true of Catholic priests. I also heard that there is no such phenomenon known as paranoia. Only the guilty are paranoid. There are only hallucinations, delirium, and faith to mess with humans. These are some of the trivial conflicts that arise when the human mind grows weak.
I feel a sharing of history with American alligators (Alligator mississippiensis daudin). A beast with the survival abilities of that of sharks, cockroaches, and flies. The greatest existing denizens of Earth. Although we share so much in common, no one has ever stuck their head in my mouth.
I suppose that I’d make a decent soup. Probably not as good as chicken, turtle or alligator, but more humane than shark fin.
The recipe would call for about two or three pounds, cut into small pieces, of my meat. One large onion (your choice) translucently chopped; three bunches of finely sliced green onions, three to five thinly sliced garlic toes, two and a quarter oz. of melted butter, a sliced up lemon, some bay leaves, nine oz. of sherry wine, one shot of Everclear, half gallon of beef stock, three to four oz. of brown roux, fourteen oz. tomato juice, salt,
and pepper and whatever your favorite flavors, herbs and sauces that you might want to add.
First, turn up the stereo and put on “Sister Morphine” by The Rolling Stones on a continuous loop. Then fry my meat up in the butter and set it off to the side. Sauté the chopped veggies in pan drippings, remove veggies and make brown roux next, then add the beef stock to the roux. Season to taste with the salt and pepper, sherry wine, Everclear, tomato juice, lemon, bay leaves, and some Worcestershire sauce (optional). Place the veggies and my meat into the gravy and simmer for one hour and fifty-five minutes or until my meat is tender. Makes approximately one and a half gallons.
However, most people can’t cook, change their oil, or count to ten in Spanish. Most people don’t vote, love, listen, scratch themselves in public, sleep naked, read, have a hobby or practice some form of artistic expression, get enough nutrition, listen to good music, watch good movies, abuse enough substances (or themselves for that matter), or even care about anything. This is our world and there’s absolutely nothing that can be done about it.

note to friend #2

Black angle wings rest on the West window of heat waves and hypnotic hisses of AM radio. Splashes of ash, crimson, and memories flood internal pain.
Volcano Head shouted, "Plug it!" We left and laughed at his notion.

note to friend

you must do it in the next two years or else just blow it up to shit piles and puss ponds. the pudding is on your plate. jiggling, laughing, cringing on fine Kentucky china brought through the heart in Dodge Caravan. lesser children have suffered after the Superbowl of bumper bowling and hog-tied characters dressed in furry intestine costumes sell cable TV. check the windows that are painted shut for your next facsimile of your soul.