The Dust

Ever see one of those Aztec cheekbone sets coming at ya down the street? Two tan roof slopes at a subtle incline type of thing. A while ago, I stood before a mirror and set my type. "Ah yes." That moment of realization. I need a few to get from here to the next city. The next city was Tegucigalpa, at the intersection with the whitewashed church sitting cozily on the dusty yellow sand. As usual.

Two bikes slowed to the intersection rhythm. They stood and said something in their native tongue. Something along the lines of, "I thought you were gonna go." So then they each started at each other, and slowed again. One said, under its breath, "For God's sake I thought you were going to go." The other one said, under its breath, "Jesus, I thought he was going to go." This kept on for a while, in front of the white church at the intersection of two dusty gravel roads in the yellow desert. Surely God was present, who else was driving?
If God tilted this scene on its side, as if it were the background under a glass cutting board in God's kitchen, and all the stones on the gravel path rolled out onto God's kitchen floor - THEN, I'd believe in God. Holy Moholy. If God picked up one of the bikes and twirled it around in a dusty wind funnel that was actually the water drain in God's kitchen drain - THEN...you know. Joan. Joan.

All the little rocky gravel chunks rushed down the serpentine staircase and crashed in a most inconvenient manner for the earthball, and by that I mean the volume on Earth was turned up by a few thousand centibels. It was like when you get your ears back after a cold a thousand times magnified. And he stood there, Napoleon, standing all Vitruvian in between the Legend's legs (he was also standing Virtuvian - only there was fire coming out of his mouth and he looked glorious). I've never been so proud, I've never been so spiritual.

And then a drone came - it was God's amplification correction system, correcting the rolling stone's effects on the earthball. A few ballerinas slipped sideways off a bridge, off the "cutting board." Ted, a man, crashed his car. Two Aztec men looked up at the sky from their rooves (well, not their rooves). The drone had to continue for a while. Oh it was gross. It was a Dark age. It was not what I'd expect. Then the drone receded and these little fader tests slid up and down and the sky flickered as the drone came back in the background. The church shuttered. The floors creaked and the kickstands used all their might to prop the bikes up. They both said, at the same time, "let's get out of here man."

All this at the same time it was too much for me to believe. I've been fed dogma before.

It's Grand Really

Stunning in its Understatement
I actually watched this video for the entire 4:06. I can't tell you, I just, I - what would POSSESS someone to post this! I mean it's useful. Please imagine for a second the person behind the camera. They stood over a bowl of clams, one of nature's most inanimate living objects, for FOUR MINUTES. Arresting.



Inspired by the best linguine white clam sauce I've ever tasted (prepared by the Golden Goddess, she of Legend fame), I give you my recipe for spaghetti and Manila clams. As a soup fiend, I love it when my sauces collect at the bottom of the bowl and wait for me to finish the pasta before I tuck in for a delicious, passionate, saucy finale. Slurping sauce off a fork for ten minutes is the reason I love food, and in turn, life.

This is not linguine white clam sauce, the Italian-American standby. That's a simple recipe too, but I would use bigger, littleneck clams for that. Whereas linguine white clam sauce is most delicious with each component cranked to 11 (garlic, clam juice, cheese, parseley, butter, olive oil), my spaghetti Manila clams relies on a more delicate harmony of flavors.

The idea with this dish is to let each component impart its freshness onto the just-undercooked spaghetti (which I prefer to linguine because it's lighter). I leave the clam shells right in the bowl because I want the essences of the clam juices to mix with the pasta as much as possible. I use tiny pieces of crispy diced bacon and hope that they find their way to some nook in the clam, because everytime you eat cured pork meat and shellfish in the same bite, a baby stops crying.

z911spaghettiManilaclams
Serves 4 as a first course
Serves 2 if you're a close friend of mine

1 lb. Manila clams (2 or 3 dozen), scrubbed under cold water
6 strips of bacon, trimmed of fat and diced
1/2 lb. good spaghetti (like DeCecco), split in half lengthwise
2 cloves garlic, 1 razor-thinly sliced, the other cut in half

small baguette, cut into half inch slices
extra virgin olive oil
parseley, chopped
red pepper flakes

1. Fill pot with water, salt aggressively, transfer to stove on high heat
2. Bring water to a boil, drop in the pasta, stir immediately.

3. Pour a glug or five of olive oil into a saute pan and heat slowly, drop in the garlic halves. Just as they turn golden, throw the bacon in the pan. Bring the heat up slowly so the bacon crisps up. Remove the garlic.

4. Lightly dunk both sides of the baguette pieces in the garlic/bacon oil, place in a broiler pan or some tin foil and broil/toast until crispy.

5. Meanwhile, in the saute pan, introduce the clams and the thinly-sliced garlic. Splash the pan with a some pasta water to coat the surface of the pan, or, if you're so inclined, use white wine here. Cover the pan so the steam circulates and cooks the clams' muscles into submission (causing them to open).

6. Once the pasta is about two minutes shy of recommended cooking time, transfer it to the saute pan using tongs. You definitely want some of the pasta water to hit the clam juice/bacon/garlic/olive oil mixture. Cover the saute pan again and cook for a minute more.

7. Take a crostini piece and place one in each serving bowl.
8. Add a pinch of red pepper flakes and a pinch of parseley to the pasta and clams, and mix well. Serve the pasta over the top of each crostini, making sure you portion out the sauce evenly.

Notes and Tasty Substitutions
You can definitely purchase premade crostini or croutons at any supermarket. They'll work fine. To that point, if you don't add enough of the pasta water to the oil mixture, you won't get enough liquid to soak the bread and make it taste delicious. At the same time, if you drown everything in salty water the subtlety of the clam juices and garlic/bacon oil will be lost. You're going for a greyish solution with globs of olive oil to coat the bottom of your saute pan. I would top the dish with a quick drizzle of olive oil.

In my mind, Manila clams are the poor man's cockles. I get my Manila clams on Grand Street for about $3.99/lb. That means you can easily pull this dish off for under $10.

Cockles are these vibrant, symmetrical, uniform little clams. If you can find and afford cockles, more power to ya.

Substitute pancetta for bacon? Definitely. In general pancetta has a more subdued flavor, and the theme of this dish is to remove knock-you-over-the-head-ingredients.

At Peace

i will bring you water, if you will bring me wine.
we will sit together, until the end of time.
and you will call me yours, i will call you mine.
and we will stay together, until the end of time.
i will call you mine.
---
i will bring you water, you will bring me wine.
we will be together, until the end of time.
you will call me yours, i will call you mine.
we will dance forever, until the end of time.

i had to walk a long way to get to the cloudy dwelling of the Legend, and at the end of my trip i was sweating a great deal. there were nice little shrubs and these odd-shaped, fragrant roots all along the side of the road. i couldn't take my ipod because of some provincial regulation, but that actually worked out fine because when you walk around in heaven there are all kinds of interesting things to listen to anyway.

you'd expect that daylight lasts forever up there but each little province has its own solar regimen. actually the occupants of each province select it themselves. there's a form you can fill out when you get your place, it's a neat little interactive chart that can be as detailed as you want, and since time and bladder considerations don't really exist, new occupants typically spend quite a while detailing the atmospheric conditions of their plot.

it's a cool setup, i have to say. they really thought things through. i heard they used IBM for all the operational stuff and they use Microsoft Surface now for the adminstrative tasks and bookkeeping. i'm not surprised that the Legend chose the environment he did: a sort of perpetual golden blue just-before-twilight, juuuuuust shy of overly humid, and no breeze. he did choose — as many do — to have a few hours of random weather generation every now and again.

you can restrict the types of random weather. for example, you can say, "random weather but nothing worse than 50 mph winds and nothing better than the nicest day i ever experienced on the earthball." the Legend did not put any such restrictions on the weather in his province, he didn't mind patching up his home if something happened, these were the pleasures he missed since he arrived, and he actually welcomed a palm tree or two falling through the roof of his garage.

i walked confidently along the dusty road and felt my heart fill up warmly and comfortably. i would love to join Him there for longer but I had to go back to the city after I spoke with Him, oh well, I'll definitely visit Him a ton when I get up there.

...

"i don't know, sometimes i take such a huge step forward and then i see them and they grab at me and pull me back. it's a little upsetting but i guess that's part of life." He told me to relax and not think about it so much. he told me a story about a dream he had. i smiled the entire time. As he told it, i mouthed some of his words if he elongated them or when he would emphasize a point with his hands or his electromagnetic eyes:

"I was watching my son play baseball near the airport and I saw a woman with a child down by the bay. She was hunched over with the little guy between her legs and he was splashing around with a red plastic shovel. I walked over to her and along the way I thought about lying down on the side of a road. I looked up through leaves and saw airplanes and the sky and the golden hair of my wife. I loved when she rode with me. She'd say things to me as we drove and I'd feel a little sad or a little happy. I felt admiration and jealousy, but what mattered when I stopped the bike was not my own emotions, but the beauty of where we were, how we were together, how beautiful she was and how comfortable the dirt was against my back."

...

then He told me a classic story about Him and His golden goddess. i told Him i wouldn't tell anyone about it even though He said He wouldn't mind. one of the things i always admired about the Legend was his understated dignity. in the most extraordinary way, his mannerisms conveyed epic dignity. sometimes i do things so wretchedly devoid of dignity and i am ashamed to even consider what He would think, how He would gaze at me. that memory alone should keep me from the rock-bottom. i don't want to go there again.

...

the blue light at the edge of the golden flame reminded me of the pavement — our city. the dusk and aromas and alcohol reminded me of argentina and motorcycles. i remember alternately the sterile white houses and the hangar-car-garages. we sat in these ungodly comfortable lounge chairs and looked around, over the fire, at the fire, at the harmless little flies. gorgeous creamily rigid jungle leaves relaxed there too. we all listened to Him. He told stories that made your hands recall an index of touches and shapes and feelings that your fingers may not have ever experienced. He cast my face into an uninhibited, effortless smile, and i miss that now. the glow must have been visible in the other provinces.

rest in peace Friend.

August 8, 2007

Shutters

Pour some arancia directly into the sauce you'd been preparing, that's what they told me. That's what I had to work with. I figured, "Hey I gave it my best." I analyzed the curve. Indeed, there was a steep scale on which infatuation turned into disrespect, which caused me to open the window over the urban backyard.

I had been thinking of that green hose a few times more recently. I thought about shattering that garage light with the little basketball. I guess that's in my past. What would a mental mirror show? Yuck, I don't even want to picture it - even that's flattering terminology.

So the window opened, and I looked out. Things looked pretty normal. I saw little ants, gravel, chlorinated water, some slick pavement. I saw a barbecue and a ladder, a fence and a man. That's that I thought. My heart felt empty knowing I'd never get to be in that same setting again. That was behind me. That is gone now. It sits about six feet under a nicely manicured lawn. It is sad. I am sad.

It's an odd vacancy because I remember those moments most fondly. That's incongruity. I saw a picture of a girl H.H. who looked great on paper. That is a kick, this is a kick, I don't think I'm flexible enough to kick the window back up. To keep it up without letting it close for a few more years. It is depressing to be honest. It is sick and filled with regret.

It's borne of some kind of resentment for other people. They are on the other side of my forced mannerisms. From them obligation turns to resentment. From the source comes obligation and from me comes resentment and with that the scale. Is everything doomed, am I stuck as a master of white lies and scorecard credit? It's an odd situation. There's so much time? Right?

There aren't many things that could prevent me from the stupid window. But that's a lie and I know it. There are things that necessarily prevent it, and they are pathetic. They are thoughtless and inane. I am a subject on the manor of perception and narcissism. I obey my master, and my master wears boxer-briefs but would like to switch back to boxers in the near future.

That's the way it is. Duh. Seems like a rotten deal doesn't it? Well it's not too bad. It's sort of standard, I can see it dates back at least to Madison Avenue in 1960. We'll see what happens next. I'm sure it'll be a real hoot. I'm sure the window will go up and down and nothing will change. Or maybe they'll stick it to me. Maybe they'll slam the fucking shutter down on my hand and break my bones into a thousand pieces. Maybe they'll take turns turning salt against me and slapping my face. Maybe that's what's in store. I need help I scream out the closed window and the submarine is submerged. Oh it's eternally submerged. Too soon. It's over. The legend has left his backyard.

What Comes Out of a Cake [1st revision]

A relatively tiny fly expertly navigated some neon tubing on his way to [well let’s be honest the fly doesn’t really care where he’s going]. Still he weaved in and out of the fiery green cursive like it was nobody’s business [when, clearly, someone owned the place; someone paid for the words ‘Miami BBQ’ to be written in gaseous script]. All this fancy wingwork had little value when the legend turned the corner on a humid city night and submarined down the street – not even vaguely self-conscious – holding his bold weapon down below his waist like the protagonist in a Western or the good guy in a sci-fi or the tattooed guy in a porno.

Splat went the fly after being fried against the non-lit tubing extending to the dot in the i. The legend stepped on its remains and inhaled deeply. The night was humid but the temperature was just right. Neon green always made the legend happy, always made him feel distant in a good way. The neon green air allowed his spirit to roam around about 3 feet outside his body in all directions, and sometimes he’d tell me this in no uncertain terms: “Let me tell you man when the light is [light neon green], I feel like a machine that just got lubed up real good or just got simplified you know? I feel like I had a thousand working parts and now there’s only fifty and everything is running smoothly, no kinks, no rust, no friction you know? I feel bigger than myself, not you know fat or anything but I feel my spirit come outside of me and just roam around like I’m more flexible or something; like I’m a force outside of my body.” His eyes got so big as he spoke about the spirit escaping momentarily; I felt something just listening to him. I tried to duplicate the feeling then and there and my attention to his words wavered slightly. I tried to feel what he was talking about but we were just sitting in his kitchen and I guess both of us were pretty rusty rickety machines.

I liked the feeling of my bare elbow cocked and leaning against the shiny plaid tablecloth. He did the same with his arm as we sat there chatting. The table had been cleared and Missy came by with a sponge to pick the crumbs up and take the paper plates and the plastic forks.

“I didn’t want to lose that feeling you know? So I stopped in one of those little bars on the street – nothing fancy nothing new and artificial.”

What I took this to mean was that the bar hadn’t anticipated outdoor seating or the luxury of beautifully bracketed windows that could be removed when the weather got nice so people could look in and it’d be all upper middle class and spineless.

[happy birthday brother]

Telescopic Project

Deskside, where I hold court in the evenings and weekend afternoons, my spectacular IQ denominator presides, holding itself in contempt, loving every minute of it, and, like the little symbols for whales and birds, it eagerly anticipates the migration back North. Evidence precedes me, my old friends know me well. I scatter my one, benign secret into other secrets, and then type them into password boxes on the Internet. If password boxes could talk they’d bore you to tears, but if you could somehow monitor their dreams…I bet you’d find out a lot about people.

But besides all that, there is this word I know. I have literally met the word and extended my hand to it. It was a firm handshake. I can’t tell you what an impression it made on me the first time I met it – and sometimes, I think back to that first meeting: “what’s the use in worrying?”

The legend knew the word well and somehow never entered the arena of public disdain. It’s interesting because to me he transcends the spectrum of society that I grapple with all the time. So I test myself with that, the Legend’s Paradox.

Small Cap Vacation

The mailman came down the faux-marble stairs into the basement and said, well I'm not sure what he said because I don't understand Mandarin. But whatever he said, it must've been funny, or maybe the person he said it to was just being friendly. I thought for a second maybe they were making fun of me, but that's pretty typical, you know. I remember lots of scenes from back then, from back when the legend settled in to plastic jungle and went down on some pork and seafood like the world stopped to cheer him on.

Shit. I wish I hadn't been such a little bitch back then. I wish I could've given him a high five, nah that wasn't his style, put an arm around him, yeah. Loss comes from your heart, it's weird ya know how the heart has nothing to do with emotions but it's associated most closely with them. Fuck man I miss that guy, I really do.

They sell all these ripoffs down there, ya know, "no, uh, refahnd." yeah i know no refund. believe me, i'm not comin' back here anytime soon. all the knockoffs. all the cheap plastic stuff they make down south east. everything's a trading company, we trade fake shit and then sell it. but some of it's good ya know? some of that shit ain't bad. Here's a knock-off that's just so fuckin' good:

"I'll be proud, ooooooooh, i want ah ah, to run away! Street tonight baby where there's the sound, take me in my arms. tonight on the street tonight, on the street bring the sound, and it's hey little stranger, lookin' like your lost, you're just some crazy, runnin' crazy in the streets, i know a place maybe we could go, nobody knows it, and it's hey little stranger what ya doin' tonight, you just some crazy, runnin crazy through the streets, baby i know a place where we can go, it's warm and dry, it's safe there, nobody ever goes there, nobody ever goes there, nobody ever goes there, nobody'd know us there, i just got this new stereo, i painted the place, i mean hey little stranger what ya doin' tonight lookin like you lost, and uh standin in the rain in the street, and that joker's standin on the corner sellin dreams that can't come true, i laughed at you baby, i laughed, but at night i bought 'em too, i bought em too, down and down and down we gooo crawlin' down the street, pushin buttons in the alley, I laughed at you baby. Down, down and down, down down and down and down. Round and round down and down and down we go. TV, tv's the one with the sound turned on, tv's tv's on with the sound turned on, Johnny Carson, down and down down and down we go sittin' on the couch and the couch, down and down oh inside down and down we go, hey little stranger, what'chya doin' tonight? down and down, such a good girl tonight, Honey, outside the cops sittin' on the corner drinkin' coffee in the squad car, down and down, on the corner sittin' on the corner, honey outside the girls on the street comin' up to you, hey mister, you got a girlfriend, hey mister, wanna go out tonight? down and down and down, inside down and down, down, down and down, mmmmm, baby, baby we could slip away. we could slip away, we could steal away, we could slip away, oh that's the thing i'll take all my money outta the bank, and uh, baby we could slip away, baby we could slip away, hey little stranger what'chya doin' tonight, wanna steal away, baby we could steal away, baby we could steal away, don't tell your mom your pop, baby we could slip away, oh baby, baby we could slip away, we could slip away, baby we could slip away, baby we could steal away, we could steal away, oh baby we could slip away, i got my car parked outside, pack your bags baby, oh, baby we could, we could shake this city life, we could - quit your job, baby i can make it, tonight, baby we could slip away, baby we could, shhhhhhh, shhhhhhhh, down and down, shhhhh, ha! slip away! slip away! SLIP AWAY! SLIP AWAY!! whoooooaaaaaooohhhoooohh! whoooooaaaaaooohhhoooohh!"

So they sent some clown around to the back and I said "leave me here." Then I left the bar, drove through town in the wrong lane caught the cops sped through Harvard square. In the sun, that's where the fun, oh, that's where the fun is. That's where the fun is. Ooooooh, tiny pieces of growin' up.

Still Missing

"You can use periods of dismay to collect data - about yourself...about others." ~ [32]

That is a response you're familiar with, right?

"Pull the carpet out," said He.

And in the heat of the night, errr....the moment, the carpet slid briskly out from under the entire fucking table. The order flew lengthwise, but it hit the perpetrator flushly. Inside my helmet I see calm seas. The rage and pain administration comes later. The king doesn't come out for long. In my life I'll try to live this out the way He'd have it. The only way the skyway. Fishin' marlin boat just missed him in a slo-mo fish hook submarine panorama. From all angles, from all sides, we caught it, we got the shot.

Jaw clench tackle lean-back, muscles to the brink, flush-faced even for such a dark-skinned man. The release. Exhales the stories and memories of that bullshit life sentenced hellboat. He advocates the underbite in these times, and he told my dad so much. He smiled politely - and thought of it in terms of himself. WCBS FM 101.1. Gidiyap! Let's go and never stop. On the corner flower store my uncle pulled away when he saw the black plastic artillery armor, but the legend - he approached with a double-barrel.

Root out the evil man, the big man! The big man! The pride of Kings County, the victor of all that is holy and sacred on the boulevard. See it in the window and the lights...they fall into my eyes. Into the fire. Into the copper-rimmed pots and pans of the bright-brick pastels in the Cuban kitchen in my Dream Bubble ®.

September 26, 2007

In a wild frenzy induced by tripping over a cord, our cameraman executes an opening scene that Orson Welles, Ingmar Bergman, Stanley Kubrick, and Quentin Tarantino wouldn't have come up with if they were having Sunday "dinner" at Martin Scorsese's house on a red-and-white plaid tablecloth with Mario Batali in the kitchen and Bruce Springsteen in the bathroom. And there, with ambiguously-striated focus, greyscale color imbalance, a cracked lens, and flickering light from a fountain of sparks at the site of the rupture, our hero opened his eyes and noticed a cameraman in his bedroom.

"Good morning son, what did I tell you about sending your feed to the editing software in real-time? Only problems, only problems my son." And so it was. Our hero stood up and cracked his meaty knuckles, leaned forward a little bit and reached for his toes, coming just fourteen inches short as his back cracked. Smoothly, seamlessly, like an American submarine in the Gulf, he torqued left and right, cracking some other stuff. He reached for the ceiling, formed mighty fists and more stuff cracked. He stretched his arms out to the side and briefly rotated them as he began a yawn large enough to end the day here at 4:30 a.m. But his day was only getting started, our hero had awoken, and his son returned to his room.

With a sponge the size of a small stubby brick, he alternated scrubbing. What was more valuable, the carefully-cultivated patina on the all-copper shower walls, or his tropical skin that had endured the pressures of a society that had grown complacent about having him in it? Probably the walls. You could fit an 18" pizza within the shower head's perimeter, and our hero'd have it bigger! On one wall a mirror, on the ceiling - a map of his homeland (interrupted by the shower head's pipe). He swished some hydrogen peroxide in his mouth, and allowed a little to trickle halfway down his esophagus - when, like an economy toilet in reverse...

At our hero's deli, which he owned in another life, he was putting new tape in the register when a little kid placed a Gatorade on the counter between the thick glass covered in lotto tickets and the beef jerky or whatever. The little guy then reached into his pockets, cupped his hands and began lifting his arms up over his head. His hands descended on the counter and he slowly let one hundred and seventy-five pennies cascade onto the immaculately clean surface (underneath which a black Sharpie had scribbled "100" beside "Million Dollars"). As the copper-plated coins fell on top of each other, our hero had a vision of the little guy's future.

Like the beginning of a trailer for a bad movie, the little guy’s silhouette (he was 18) contrasted with the setting sun and heat lines waved tensely in orange and red all around him. A slick black assault rifle bumped up and down against his back. He turned around and mouthed something in a foreign, barbaric tongue. The little guy was great at rolling laterally, springing to his feet, and firing like a stud. He entered a hut and shot someone in the thigh, saying “you won’t be so cheap next time!” (rough translation). The little guy had been on his own since he was eleven, climbing mountains, killing wild animals, enamoring little village girls, stealing from dusty markets, etc. He went into another hut and shot someone in the arm. Their elbow exploded, he said, “you won’t ever know me!” (same). When the little guy wasn’t off shooting people, he would bring girls to the top of a mountain that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. “Woman, one day I’m going to get out of here altogether” (same). He had a vision of himself with two prosthetic falcon-feather-wings that he had been working on for a while. The little guy ran and jumped off the mountaintop. He glided eternally.

It actually took a while for him to get the hang of it, he took some pretty drastic plunges. Luckily, the mountaintop was about 10,000 feet above sea level – a fortunate buffer. The trick was to let air under the wings so as to glide – no need to keep flapping. See but it actually was eternal, he didn’t get tired, the wings didn’t erode, he didn’t get bored. He’s still up there because he earned it and because there’s always something to see.

Running, Sadly

A stem some seeds and the chemicals...swirling all around the room. The passion the fuel the fire...oooh in the planted in the planted oh we planted our hopes and oh wow we planted in my eyes your eyes oh the swirling. The rip-roaring the falling the roaring...crawling. The wedge the sand the precision the crawl the wall oooh in the plant in the pool in the hopes we lie we lie you lie you lie youlie you lie you oh the cryin the hopes the oooh we crawl we fall look around...around around around.

All around you in your world. Emphasize me emphasize the feats your feats the untouchable your stories your hands the clench the grip the skin the sweat the rolling and roaring and fire and sweat and skin and liquid in the world in your world you made my world. The jaw the clench I watch you watch me listen I listen you watch I imagine I fantasize you saw what I didn't the sound and the clench the jaw and the skin with sweat all around all around the room. Sifting, separating leaving all in the room, all in the clench and the jaw and the skin with the sweat in the aaaaaahhhhhhhhfternoon.

The steady summer sub and its chlorinated blue and the missed metaphor for refuge your refuge. Ever catch that...show me how you caught it how'd he catch it how'd you protect him? The blue and orange and black and the ridiculous pavejob the chuckle the assurance simply simply remember me please don't worry about me remembering you around the room around the time in the time we share we shared when your eyes pierced through me and reminded me of the fault of my egotism I can not help but grow older and try to steady the ship sense myself stop lying stop lying and be reminded on our day it comes its yours its mine I promise it's ours.

"Come on now. You sound ignorant. I don't want to hear that." He put a fork in it - something I wish I had the courage to do. The master mediator, the straight-shooter with a famously indexed collection of bullets, a transcendently tactful surgeon of the mundane that surrounds us...he was an impossibly powerful man. Time spent around him enchanted your physical and spiritual sides equally. Watching his eyes was a full-body experience, a leveling and forceful communicant of a verbal undertow that shook your core and sanitized your heart.

We are grateful to have you in our lives. We aspire to possess your energy, compassion, intelligence, and sense of self.

Rest in peace, Fidel. We love you.

Bottlestops, Cops

A little folky don't ya think? I liked everything about her except didn't ya think she was a little folky? Let's move on to the next candidate, what do you say? You want to take a little break, huh? Oh you quit? But you're our diversity officer you can't just pick up and leave. No, see you can't do that unless you don't want to be eligible--what's a polka-dot-collared job?

On the street things were decidedly less surreal even though I'm prone to dramatize colors when I'm alone. Now I don't have a job, WWDD? Actually my surname has many more Confederate city streets named after it than yours. My stupid little red shoes gripped the ground and I pulled up and up on my chin to avoid sobbing. Goddamn white laces, ya'll get dirty so fast...find me. I need someone else to give me a chance. Where's the adjusted line of professional behavior for people like me?

I need a thumbnail picture and a byline and a ticket for a bus to a train to a ship to an island to a hut to a bed to a hole to a handle to some sweet deadly darkness. I kneeled and raised my hand and got a taxi who took me to Church...to Canal past Tillary to Flatbush saw Jacob by Robert from Robert also Robert heard something to Beach Channel to Rockaway Beach a few blocks...135. I got out and scaled a 7 inch concrete wall (how symbolic) to a set of eroded stairs - saw the dunes saw the sand saw the sky saw the beach touched the sand with my shoes - which are stupid. Removed them, discarded them, threw them away they washed away like anger like disappointment and the sun moved behind some thunderclouds and the afternoon got purple and the rust on the bridge turned yellow and the green turned dark blue then grey then asked for shelter but the man had plans to go. An escape plan some broken bottles a needle a trip a fall a high a crash some reading all wet all emotional all impossible all too much to handle to much to stomach digest process daily weekly after a day a week a year a decade veins and colors and dye and needle the needle his needle his hands his fingers guarded protected explained taught held. Hold on.

What happened with her Harvey? Can you hear me Harvey? How could she say all of that? I take offense to how she said Adios Muchachos without at least stopping to think that there was a woman in the room.

God winced. We all winced we couldn't believe it. Fucking life...I want to see it. I would give mine to give the world more of his. A chariot and a street and a dynamite listen to this wind all the sand on this beach she thought! Roll me over let me swim she thought. A knock and a nudge and some neck muscles and a sinking feeling give me more. She dug up a mental motorcycle and rode it off into the still-orange grimey sunset as the lightning refracted on the ocean right in front of her. Chances like this come and go the train noises hide it the jet engines hide it and the storm hides it and at each one of those it's great to scream and get all the fucking shit out.

Rarely are all three of them audible at the same time but the jet had to land because it was below decision altitude outside of the storm and the A out there with the purple summer storm crossing the bay. As the wind and the bay with the rain and the wind and the plane with the lightning and the lighting, which was purple and the bridge that was dark green between the grey that was the cockpit she saw the pilot and the conductor and the mother and her dad and she turned her neck like the last time she did before everything sank. The whirling and swirling and vibrating pulsating wishing crashing sliding surfing flying falling tripping. All this nasty yellow fluid came out herb leaves jungle leaves Amazon keys golden and Socialist but better but barely leave it there and walk back to the street. She left it there and went back to Beach 135th St.

She walked to a payphone and placed two quarters in the machine and dialed the operator. That was wrong they told her. For operator calls press 411 then oprima numero uno not to speak in Español so she pressed 24 because it was funny and sentimental and not uno. Queens, NY. That is not listed in our directory, please call back with a valid city and state please. She called back and pressed 24 and then said she wasn't exactly sure what town she was in but please don't hang up they asked what was the last town you were in she said New York, NY. They gave her a Holland Tunnel-based taxi company. She asked to be picked up they declined. She dialed 411 then oprimió'd 24 then said Brooklyn, NY and she got a very local taxi company even though Brooklyn isn't really a city. They picked her up it was dark she had no shoes or money and forgot her phone where she used to work and now she was wet from the storm she lost her voice basically. She liked the bridge and saw the city and the lights and thought she saw JFK. Got to a busy intersection she had to pee her cigarettes were ruined didn't have a light anyway the driver wasn't very aggressive she paid and got out far from Tillary far from the bridge - Flatbush. Hailed a cab he said not going to city she said neither was she. Let her in she said, Port Authority Bus Terminal, he said get out she kissed him, he took her by the chin and threw her against the little glass opening she hurt her neck her stomach sank her heart sank the fucking shit had come back.

The lights of downtown Brooklyn in the distance reminded her of Manhattan in the distant distance and the lights and all the fucking shit. Got another cab didn't have any money he didn't care took her over the Manhattan Bridge let her off when two little kids needed a cab they had money higher priority missed connection? Said thanks said thanks so much said one day, had faith believed it thought it ok didn't think about it. Walked from E. Broadway and Canal to 41st and 8th Avenue begged for a bus wasn't that era. Can't beg for a bus the busses left from garages roped off no hitchhiking no valuable trade no pawn shops needed money knew what to do went to 42nd saw some guy needed a lift gave him the needle fell crash cash - beautiful cash "get me out of this place!" Next bus out of PA is in 6 hours attendant said gleefully. 4AM to Philadelphia first one on last one off got to sit in the back.

In Philly she had slept on the bus lots of stops then packed gross and constricted and stuck and sweaty and wet and tarred pockets and bare feet funny looks concerned looks two faces especially. In a crowd far from home kneeled raised hands no cab this time. Stood up not a power ranger not a superhero nothing...deflation but closer to the resolution to the reconciliation to a comedy to disbelief to bed.

Screwed Sockets

“That was Fleetwood Mac with 'Go Your Own Way' and after a short break we'll be back with a 42 minute non-stop rock block here on blazin' 94.2, double-you see ayche eee. ... Captain Freeland, how do you stay so cool under these tough conditions? It's easy, Officer Prowing, I drink Coca-Cola to fuel my rudder and use Xtreme Sport Old Spice to prime my engines. Sometimes the best way to stay so calm is to be sedated, and for that I grill up some short ribs – all in all officer, I do my body good. Coca-Cola & Old Spice do not have anything to do with one another, neither do Coca-Cola and short ribs, or Old Spice and short ...”

With intense frustration he turned the dial all the way to the right just to get off that channel. He couldn't take that wordy nonsense. With his right arm hanging out of the pool, he turned his big black radio off and then leaned back on his silver floating throne. The gurgling of the pool filter wasn't audible until the 3:43 p.m. Delta MD-80 had landed, but after that the filter was all he heard for about 70 seconds. That's all he needed to get comfortable and relax his muscles. He closed his eyes and rifled through some things: “I'm going to have to get out soon to help with dinner. I need to piss but not even close to badly enough to get me off this raft. She'll start first the longer I wait more she'll do. Wonder if she'd do all. Probably say something if she does it.” He exhaled. “Oh whatever I'm sure I still have 20 minutes.” Another MD-80 roared. “Michelle that golden hair, smile, body, haha.” He stuck his jaw out with his lips pressed together, then he twisted his torso a bit. He exhaled. He folded his hands on his big abdomen, a warm wind came in and turned the next 30 planes around, forcing them to land on the 31's instead of the 13's. “What I'd do ... she'll do it.” He fell asleep and the filter kept turning water on its head at the other end of his pool.

R-Gulves: Attempt 1

Across from me diagonally down and to the right was a little black boy. He arched his neck and received a blast of water much bigger than mine. I arched there too and felt a meager stream against my pathetic tongue. I wouldn't have said white – despite the el's grime, the blue A, and all the yellow plastic bags. On one side, on the interior, I'm decorated like my closest friends. I love those little guys, even though they're only a couple. Honest (for the most part), dignified (according to a reasonable, if primitive, moral protocol), and frugal (or they wouldn't be my closest friends), they are spokes on a wheel that I'm proud to be turning on – occasionally run over, occasionally on top, occasionally apathetic. Maybe the lack of rotation in the early years has something to do with the rupture, a sick foreshadowing of the gulves I am currently trying to reconcile.

Expectant rays of early sun coated the steel grommets that greeted me every week, I learned what the phrase “morning dew” meant. I walked and slowly cultivated a distaste for walking. I learned the difference between black backgrounds and white sans-serif. I asked important questions and received important answers. We strolled, sometimes I sat, sometimes the pigeons squatted, and the roar and the grime and the grommets vibrated when the Concorde flew over our house at 5 p.m. Radios are for talk shows and sporting events and Bonnie Raitt cassettes. Radios are in cars and cars are weapons. The Gulf War proved a raging success and the pledge of allegiance was a chance to stare at Lady Ashley. I like marble counters and I adore center kitchens – certain complexions make more sense with certain hair styles, and these formulas were scrawled on the wooden planks which rested on the steel beams of the overhead ceiling.

Drawing on such topics exposes key vulnerabilities – so it's necessary to close it up for a while, to whisper at a distance, to follow the lead of my hero. To rise in expectation amidst the orange flourescence of a gymnasium where my little friends grew up, where so many methodical feelings and predictable let downs occurred. This was the place and time when and where prancing up the steel staircase yielded a swirling dust platform, and I was left with a view down at the asphalt. I settled then and I settle now – there are too many bright red stickers with key-punched courier black text indicating $6.99. This was my steel ceiling, the blue A. That is my Liberty, and that is what I thought.

Until in a flash of electricity everything changed. The planes grounded. I feared disease and looked to the center like a good dude should. I saw red and I retreated, my expectations were shattered I was a scared guy and a small, thirsty boy. Now I learned what the phrase “angels bowling” meant and I associated it with a very specific sound, but also a very literal interpretation of beautiful blonde people in white robes throwing strikes. Following through. Spinning.

The lunatic is in my head. Sly lateral socket movement causes intense hubris generation, which in turn stimulates digital fluctuation on an unprecedented and thoroughly irrelevant scale. The eye movement is paired with flankular cornicial ascendancy. Then the impotent lizard in me sticks out his pathetic tongue, and in that moment my royalty is legitimate. Fire. There is a fire in my power station. So there's a panic at the control station. There are backup plans illustrated with “elementary” precision, unfurled for the world to see but more importantly for the crew of my vessels. On trials and inundations, the first officer warns that plagiarism is not a laughing matter. That stealing and misrepresenting one's work is punishable by time in a small oak-paneled room with nothing but shelves upon shelves of sodium-free bread crumbs and Red Pack crushed tomatoes.

I'm all about reflexes. I have a full range of motion, document it. I want to remember the power of my muscles and bones. I want to look back once my muscles and bones go and remember the prowess of my fat ass. That assumes natural deterioration – we should all be so lucky. I love shellfish and secret societies, so let's start this off real subtle, Lady. Every random number generator I incorporate into web sites in the next few years will be a custom-built model of the organic deterioration of the range of motion of my appendages. So if you think that the time in milliseconds is an appropriate seed, think again. Actually I will think again, uhthankyou.

So off topic. I veered, at what point did I veer? The introduction was completely contrived and subverted my own intentions. I sabotaged myself at the very outset but tricked myself into thinking I was on track with the el avenue flashback. I mean the wheel metaphor was not as bad as you initially thought it, though it was very, very poor. I'm proud of what came right after that. I'm quite fond of the Pink Floyd bit too: I made up two adjectives there, but by then I had veered. The gulves are simply not reconciled. A failure.

Beady black eyes...deep light blue and deep light pink...the appreciation of soft cheese...the spectacular ridges, the expectation of nothing and the white light growing closer in the dark night. Moist wool stuck to my ankles and soles...the spiders, the chordata. The cavernous realization of a collection of soul utencils.

My cowardly and insincere desire to experience anyone else's pain.

Ring Me Another...

I need a taxi, beansie. I need one... hook me up. Whistle one for me. Whistle into the microphone under the bright lights for me, honey pie. I need a taxi, whistle, taxi. Hook me up tomorrow, hook me up right now. Lighten up a bit, swell towards me, sweet thang. oooooh, i need a taxi baby. i need to ride around the city under the bright lights, lovely lips. I need some taxi healing, I need some wonderful pastel umbrella t-skirts in my life, just a bit more. under the sewer system lies a community of indulgence, and that's where I'm gonna tell my taxi driver to take me, if I can ever blood-orange wire that information to ya, soft and luscious. Oh, you're saying I'd be rightly tightly wandering spellbound around the chalk undertow your big beautiful eyes pull on my belt buckle - deny it, taxi serplenkter, deny it forever - just know that under the bright lights where the jazzy silky smooth creamy carpet-ride gets pumpin' it gets really, really steamy...baby.

Under the hood he told me a while ago, but this taxi does things differently, it doesn't even ride, Rosie - it slides. We pause for a smooth sec because that's what you do in front of something so easy on the eyes. we roll out and the bright lights beam on me, baby. well i guess that's the way things are these days, sweet thang.

And when the stereo drops out, even momentarily, that's when those loaded wristfuls forge on forward, carrying high octane taxi fuel, friendly foe. we revolve around the new force field, the bright lights start humpin', foxy - and the neon green teases that trashy comfortable maroon into excitement. and when you see something like that, you slow the fuck down baby, and you pay your respect. because that's what the legend would've done, that's how the garage master would've done it.

And in the time we call the "Smoothly-golden, Savory Ages," my man ruled this here grimey sidewalk. we're talking about the man who not only plugged in those topsy curvy neon garnishes; we're talking about the guy who single-man-handedly invented the luscious language of light, you yellow-robed legend you.

We love the driving so much. We need stereo again, now that we're done with that stop. Whooshin' and sidewalk sweepin' through life is what I desire my sophisticated friend - so proceed baby, keep it goin'. And we rode and rode baby and the left lane became the right lane and the yellows bowed down to us and we accepted their deference. In my taxi honey, I'm not up to my ankles in the grimey haystacks of my city, I'm back in the Smoothly-golden, Savory Ages, and I'm with my man - I see you prowlin' around on your chrome cat - and I want you to tell me about your life my man. Talk to me baby.

Tell me about your trips my happy man - talk to me about the fucking freeway dragonflies and the wingbolts and the fucking right lane shining regalia. you went all the way down, you're a legend, you're mine. Sometimes I laugh and think of you, you classy cat you - I know the way your bottom lip probably protruded when you and the golden goddess made love - teach me my man. I'm still here, I'm still here in this glorious fucking taxi baby, hook me up. Hook me up, teach me baby. Teach me before I have to step back out into the bright lights, where the stereo stops. Where the world stands still but my ill-fated heart keeps aging. Slow down taxi man! Slow the fuck down when you see something like that....because my man would've - and his eyes would've opened real big.