Through Your Blood

Don't go in the basement, don't split up, don't go outside or by a window. Trust no one, not even your family, not even your love beside you. Think about money, think about power, think about what's to gain, even if it's by that person beside you. Even if it's through someone they love, their blood, even if it's you. Especially if it's you. Sadly. I'm sorry, but it's true. If the gain is through your blood, watch out.

Boards and nails, knives, cleavers, hammer and screwdriver, mallet, glass, wire and rope, tables and chairs and sheets, a chair, a broken chair, scarves, ties, plastic, plastic bags, light bulbs, baseball bat, golf club, tennis racket, bow and arrow, rifle pistol sticks and stones.

They start getting picked off, one by one. How many lists do you cross them off of? Put them on? We can't know much about the living. How can we know more about the dead? Look for the ones asking questions. And the ones answering them. Pay attention for too much detail, too much minutiae. Anything that seems a little too in place. There will be someone with their wits about them. If there is another, be wary. Therein lies the danger.

You can't let on. You can't seem too nervous. Do not look at them too long. Do not avoid their gaze either. Don't talk too much or talk too little. Don't do exactly what they say but don't be contrary. Never be alone. Always have someone with you. There are a lot of rules. Stay below windows, lock and brace doors, find your anger, find your hatred, find the animal. Never be alone.

It's going to be one of them. It has to be. And, if you're lucky, it will be only one of them. And when you find them out, make them pay. In the ways they've made you pay. And now, lucky you, you know how.

Scene

Image: Four slivers of light, slicing out your bedroom door, separating it from the surrounding darkness. It is morning.

Image: A lemon, halved, in a plastic baggie. A seed rests in a corner.

Image: A clean, broken coffee mug.

Image: Shards of broken glass, embedded in my running shoes.

Image: A dusty old stereo, long and thin, silver. A tape is in the deck, one side of it old jazz tunes, the other side filled with blues. Played and worn and loved, made with love, from love to love with love.

Image: My friend slips on a small pool of blood in the bathroom. It must be menstrual blood, she thinks.

Image: A long grey limousine with six doors, matching grey leather interior. The overhead cloth is becoming detached in some small patches.

Image: Some sort of chopped salad, an attempt at health. Something with chunks of cold ham and disgusting egg, something with too much dressing on the side, covered in cheddar clippings.

Image: You sneak into bed, your back to your lover. Perhaps you don't even lift up the covers. You will sleep on top of them tonight. You will be cold.

Image: Grandfather's fedora. You've stepped on it.

Image: The pelt on that chair is tearing, and tears more every time someone sits down.

Image: Against the front room window, an open and empty fish tank. It is filled with books, periodicals, newspapers from the previous week.

Image: A cream-colored phone attached to the wall. Its long spiral cord stretches across the floor of the kitchen. Nothing at its end.

Image: Light switches flicked up. Darkness.

Sick Features

He looks dirty. His teeth are tinted yellow. He has terrible red stubble patching his greasy skin. He has an old baseball cap, probably because he hasn't combed it in days. His T-shirt doesn't fit. It doesn't fit his body and it doesn't fit her. She has on a nice blouse, sharp slacks. Her hair is done. She has just enough makeup to accentuate her natural beauty. She has a smile that won't quit. Her laugh has a laugh. Does he hear it? He doesn't look at her. Not as he should, not as much. She doesn't care. It doesn't matter.

He double-dips his pita bread into their plate of hummus. He licks his fingers. She kisses his cheek, his greasy cheek, his stubbled reddened scratchy cheek. Her nose brushes against his. It is a slightly crooked nose. Her lips are rather thin. Her nail polish is chipped. She laughs at almost everything. No one is that funny, certainly not him. He grunts with hummus breath, I'm sure. I'm sure there's something I'm missing. Underneath the hat, beyond the teeth, none of this matters.

O! Children!

Methinks I saw an little boy

An little boy go wandering but to and fro

To and fro quite aimlessly

And yet with steady purpose

Closely

Closely watching him

This tiny thing

I measured so much focus in his tiny steps

And tiny breaths

And wondered how an little boy

Might wander so much

Woefully yet woefully

Saddened

With his little head down low

Saddened with his furrowed brow

Hands in pockets little lips but moving

Slowly

Tiny breaths with smaller words

About the things he'd seen

The things they made him do

The things he'd done

O! Children! Children no

O! Children! Hands in pockets

Wandering

They will take you

They will teach you

They will kill you

They will come

Real McDonald's

"I love this Monopoly game."

"Sure."

"The prizes, you know?"

"You're just looking for excuses to go to McDonald's."

"I mean whatever."

"If you could eat there every day you would."

"So? I just love this game though."

"Sure."

"It's like a slightly more realistic lottery."

"Pff, barely."

"Barely is something. Barely is real."

"The grand prize isn't even that much."

"A million dollars isn't that much?"

"Not really. Not today."

"Well it's more than I have. What would you do with a million dollars?"

"Get revenge."

"...you gonna eat that nugget?"

Breaks Your Heart

Little Parker walks up to his mother. "Mommy," he says, "what am I for Halloween?"

"Woody," she tells him, "from Toy Story."

He smiles, but it doesn't last for long. "So I'm Woody?" he asks her. "Am I... still Parker?"

"Oh, honey!" she tells him. "Of course you're still Parker! You're always Parker. You're always you."

He smiles. Little Parker feels better. Breaks your heart how beautiful. He's still him. That's all we need to hear.

Brilliant

"You gotta be brilliant. You've got to. It's the only thing to do at a time like this, at the last second, it's the only thing you can do. What are you looking to me for? I'm not brilliant. I'm not even halfway decent. I don't know how much of my brain I use on a regular basis but I'm sure it's less than you. I'm not proud of it, it's just the way things are. Like now, this second, this last minute. It's the way things are. It's down to the nitty gritty, the itty bitty nitty gritty and you have to decide what you're gonna do. You have to decide. But whatever you decide it better be something, and whatever it is it better be brilliant."

"Thanks, me."

Crack Snap Turn

I crack my neck, but I worry about it. Not about the residual effects. Are there residual effects? No, I worry about breaking it. That one day I'll crack it too hard. Put my hand on my jaw, push, crack, and that will be the end of me. People laugh when I tell them this. I don't much tell them anymore. Is it really so strange a thing to fear? We're capable of much, you and I. We have strength we won't ever know about. And I guess I worry about it coming out when I least expect it. When I'm just trying to release the tension. That something inside will snap. That something inside might want to snap. Might want to turn against itself. And that will be the end of me.

Van

We were at the point where it actually started to become something, and that's when it all went wrong. Not wrong, I guess, but different. When things changed. Things were speeding up and clarifying and then suddenly everything happened all at once. I got too busy at work. Her ex moved into her neighborhood.  Student loans were making their presence known. Everything was getting soft around the edges. And it halted, it just halted. But we had enough there to work with, we had enough where we had to do something about it. I wanted to do something about it. To try. I think we owed ourselves that much.

She didn't see it in the same way. This was, in her eyes, a clear indication that we shouldn't try. That some things just aren't meant to be, and this was one of those things. We were one of those things. But no, I said, that's bullshit. Even though I understood where she was coming from, I got it. Maybe more than I wanted to.

It was a rough conversation to start so late at night. She was using her early meeting as an excuse, which again I understand, but also this is us we're talking about. Be tired for one goddamn day. But she already was tired. She'd been tired. She didn't want to be doing this right now. This conversation, I asked, or this us? She never told me. She just opened the door.

I started to go, then stopped. I stood there in the doorway. One foot on her polished wood floor, the other on the stained hallway carpet. She asked me what I was doing, why I couldn't just leave. But I wanted to say something. And it seemed silly, but it was the only thing I could think of. I would've said anything really, just to stay there in that doorway.

"My mom, she had this ugly purple van. I mean this hideous, this awful, bright rotten purple kind of color van, and she took us everywhere in it. We drove everywhere in that terrible thing. I hated climbing in and out of it, being eaten and birthed by it so much. It was a grotesque thing that acted grotesquely, sputtering fumes and cancer everywhere we went, which was everywhere. Then, one day, Mom and Dad told us they were selling the van and getting a new car. And I went into the garage, into its gaping purple maw, and cried for the rest of the night."

It's always easier in your head.

No Wonder

And so sat the three of us. The object of my desire, my greatest friend, and myself, there in the middle. I turned to her.

"I love you."

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing." I turned to my friend. "Finally get the nerve to tell her."

"What?" he asked.

"...Nothing."

Lost Grape

She filled her cup with cauliflower. That's the kind of person she was, she'd go to a picnic, take a plastic cup, and fill it with the cauliflower. I never could stand cauliflower myself. I'd pick its greener brother, broccoli. Now, radishes, that's what I really enjoy, but how often do you see radishes make an appearance? I wonder if I'd still like them as much if they turned up more.

First thing she said to me was, "Lost a grape. Don't trip on it and die." In one hand was the cauliflower cup, in the other was a plate of loose fruit; strawberries, oranges, blueberries, grapes. A lot of blueberries and grapes, a lot of roly-poly type things that would stay put in a cup but not so much on a plate. This is the kind of girl I'm talking about. The wonderful kind.

I smiled and said, "Thanks for the warning," or something like that, and we had a short smile between us. Some other guy came up with a bun, went right past the tongs and grabbed a hot dog with his fingers. He slathered that puppy with hot mustard and onions (which were utensil-worthy, thank god) and proceeded to eat right there. "Maybe don't eat over the food?" They don't make girls like this anymore, and if they do I've looked in all the wrong places.

She put cookies in her purse. She was drinking beer, but had a wine-mouth, and was giggling the whole time. She threw a frisbee, heck, farther than I could ever throw one. She let a dog lick her face for a good twenty seconds before its owner apologized, which turned out to be completely unnecessary. She had a plate of grapes and a cup of cauliflower. She had so many things and then so many more, so many things I'll probably never know.

You start seeing so much, so many things you didn't even know you wanted to see, and you start blocking other things out. Men. Kids. Rings. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Believe me, ha, I know. When they all drove off, I don't know how serious I was, but I started looking around for that grape. I went back to the table, tried not to get on my hands and knees, tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. But it was gone. I couldn't find it. And then I realized, even if I had found the thing, heck, I wouldn't trip on it anyhow, not on the dirt and grass like this. I'd only end up squishing it.

Decent Areas

Some people just aren't bothered by the cold. Last year I was looking for any bar that still had their patios open late in the fall. Forty, fifty degrees, I'll put on a coat, I just wanna drink beer and smoke cigarettes, I don't care. But I'm from South Dakota so you get used to the cold. Sioux Falls, South Dakota. And, really, the winters aren't that bad, it's just really boring. If you're a kid growing up there it's boring as shit. But now I wanna go back, I have a six-month-old son. I'm trying to convince my girlfriend to go back there but she really doesn't wanna. Sioux Falls is the biggest city in South Dakota and it still only has three high schools. She focuses on stuff like that. But I try to convince her, I tell her, yeah, small towns don't have a lotta things that big cities have, but they also have a lotta things that big cities don't. The public school system is still pretty good, the crime rate is low. Only bad thing about it, apart from being boring, is all the drunken Indians. Not to sound like a racist or anything, it's just my experience. Nothing worse than a drunken Indian, they're fucking animals when they drink. First time I was stabbed—I've been stabbed twice—but the first time I was stabbed it was by a drunken Indian. Still, there's no place like the South Side there. But I try to stick to the decent areas of town. I work at Madison and Ada, work at Wrightwood and Pulaski, I live over at Chicago and Ashland. I haven't seen anything that's too hood in my experience, not in those areas. Still, moving back to Sioux Falls would be nice. I think it's a good place to raise a family. I enjoyed it enough and hell, I turned out OK, I got friends who've been stabbed way more times than me. But they gotta do something about all those drunken Indians. It's not right people should act like that.

Day, Post-Gin

I wake up at eight AM. On the couch, fully-clothed, two bags of junk food leavings by my feet. Wild hair and smudges of grease. The arid post-gin mouth, clacking, clacking.

"Hey, Ott," I say into my phone, "making sure you got home OK. Don't know if you slept here at all, left in the night or whatever. Call me back. Some sign of life."

I hang up. My shoes are ruined, probably. Covered in splotches of I-don't-remember. Gin, beer, something. The splotches are sticky. I remember that I spilled my gin and tonic in Ott's car. What was I doing with it in his car?

I wasn't even invited to the party, not properly, I just tagged along. Made an ass out of myself by eating too much sausage, drinking too much gin, yelling my opinions from the top of my voice, as if anybody else but Ott wanted to hear them. Maybe not him even.

After a much needed nap Ott still hasn't called. "Hey," I leave with him again, "unless you're wrapped around a tree, call. Just one ring. You know the drill." He talked about crashing on the couch, the couch I crashed on. But there were other places. He must have stayed, even just a little.

What are those guests thinking of me? By the time I was done yelling most everyone was gone. Was it I drove them off? What was I talking about? What food did I eat from this bag? Did I enjoy it?

The shower doesn't help. It gets some of the dirt off, sure, but it's more than that. I need more than that. I need answers. I eat oatmeal.

Sun goes down early and still no sign from Ott. I leave him a final Call. Me. and call it a day. Is that what I call this? Can it even be called that? Was this a day? To me? Is that what all of these have been? It seems wrong. It seems unfair. It feels unfinished.

I'm lying on the bed, picturing him wrapped around that tree again, wondering if we'll ever learn. My phone goes off once, and not again. And so I know we'll never learn, at least not today, and I go to sleep.

Covers

I struggle here at four AM to sleep but my brain simply won't let me. Which leads me to the only possible conclusion: My brain knows something I don't. There is some reason for this. There has to be. Something I should be doing, seeing, hearing, feeling. Something else that's there beyond the bed.

But I'll never know what it is, it will forever remain a mystery. I'll stay here on the bed, safely underneath the covers. Awake and asleep, pretending my closed eyes aren't one prolonged blink. Still.

Sliced Bread

I don't know why I was skipping, I just was. Kids, you know, they skip. I skipped. Not that much, but I guess a little, and I certainly was that day. In the house, whatever, kids are stupid.

We were setting the table, out on the porch, this kind of indoor porch we had. We had the plates out, had the water glasses, had the silverware, too. I was heading out with napkins, skipping with napkins. Some food was out there, too. The salad, the meat, the bread. The bread knife. I don't know why the bread knife wouldn't just stay out there. Kids, they don't think about these things, not too much.

We turned the corner at the same time, my sister and me. And her, holding the bread knife, serrated knife, points out, close to her belly like a horn sticking out of her. Turning the corner with the knife like that. And me, skipping, indoors, fast, foolish.

We joke about it now, we laugh, we try to. It still hurts to laugh. Not a lot, but a little. Enough. Whenever we're there together, slicing up bread, we're never quite sure which one of us should do it. We slice our own bread when we're apart, and we probably don't even think about it too much anymore. I try not to. But together it's near impossible. We get that loaf, we have that knife, and suddenly we're wondering why we eat so much goddamn bread in the first place.

In the Air

We never lived together before we got married. People, people nowadays at least, say that's a bad idea. It worked out OK for us. We didn't really have much choice though, so I guess there's that.

I knew most everything there was to know about him. But still, I knew there would be a few new things, a few things he only does around the house. It's to be expected. And I knew I'd have them too and he'd have to deal with that. Marriage. Whatever, nothing all that new.

He doesn't change his clothes that much. I pretty much knew that already. He'd wear a shirt, and then wear it again the next day, because that's the shirt he wanted to wear. He'd leave the toilet lid up, I guess he only closed it when he was staying at my place. It's there for a reason. You think they added a lid to the thing just for fun? To run up costs? He'll still cut more financial corners than I think we need to, even though we've both got good-paying jobs. I don't know what's he's scrimping for. Just to scrimp maybe.

I was late. Only about a few weeks after we got married. We'd had scares before, but now it was something completely different. Now we were husband and wife. Now it was something that could actually happen. It was something we wanted to happen, but it could happen now. But I told him no. No, I didn't want it. I wouldn't keep it. If that's what this was, I would not keep it. And I don't know if he was upset at the not keeping, or the fact that I said "I" and not "we." But that was something about me he learned.

All that stuff of his, I would learn it at some point. It's just what happens. But what he learned about me, that was just a fluke. There was no guarantee that we'd ever have that conversation. And a few days later I had it, but those words were already out there, living in the air of our brand new house, going in and out every time we opened our mouths to talk about anything. And when I brought up actually trying, for real this time, and he said, "You sure you'll keep it," it was the most horrible thing I've ever heard, ever felt. But I couldn't say anything. He was still so crushed.

An Idea I Had

Strained eyes, in that sense even, as though they've passed through a sieve and been pieced back together. Topped off by a thin cold layer of dulled and dulling pain. Staring at a blank white screen all day, this is what it does to you.

One thousand two thousand three thousand four, six thousand eight thousand ten thousand more.

The idea is there, there are fragments. But how best to start? Perhaps just to get the start started would be best. Plot each one of these fragments out, go in between, start to connect them. Draw connections, draw conclusions, put down the bug, make it something more. Pull or push out the idea by any means necessary, breathe some life into it because it's doing nobody any good where it is now.

Or is it? Thousands and thousands and thousands.

Some ideas should remain ideas. Some ideas are always there telling us to keep going. Some sit there, not collecting dust, but living their own sheltered lives, gathering mythos. Yes. Some ideas mustn't be disturbed.

At Seven

It was in the winter months, when I was only seven. Sitting on the school bus going home, waiting for toys and afternoon TV. It was cold, a bitter cold, textbook. I would take off my hat, take off my gloves, put them in my pockets or my backpack. I knew my ears would get tender, my cheeks would get red, my fingers tiny icicles. I would throw in a shiver from time to time, on that walk from the bus stop to my front door, just in case my mother inside was watching. Sometimes I'd even unzip my coat, to really layer it on. I would walk in frigid, frozen, Mom would see I was in desperate need of hot chocolate and peanut butter saltine sandwiches. That's what all of this was for. This delicately-thought-out plan. I couldn't ask. For some reason, at seven, I couldn't ask for hot chocolate.

And that's all you need to know about me.

I am thus

and brother kill father and father kill son, mother kill son and son kill her back, father kill daughter and still blood seeks blood, blood for blood and blood for riches, riches for nothing and all for naught, heavy lies the crown and all of that, a strange heaviness we crave, another's downfall will not befall us, we are different, we will be the difference, if only we could lead, if only we could rule, the people need a ruler but they do not way to follow, they want to follow but they won't follow you, they'll ask for you yesterday and they'll kill you tomorrow, they'll replace their blood with yours if you don't yours with theirs, this will never end, this cycle, it's Greek to you and it's Greek to me, we are all the same but we will never learn, we can never learn, the second we learn the second we have to stop killing, we will be out of excuses, excuses for our terrible deeds, excuses for our dead and ourselves, excuses for blood and war, peace to war and war to war, no honor to be found, not anymore, the honorable turn villainous and those who don't are exiled, who wants honor when it's turned into this, honor and courage are just jabs from an empty tongue, honor and courage and shame, oath and loss, promise and lie, forgiveness and pain and punishment and even more we inflict on ourselves, on us, and for all of this love, through all of this love, a love to be found and lost and kill and die over, a love to create, a love to make your own, if we can't have a love all our own then what is there, what is left, what is right, what is wrong, are they ever the same, what is correct, what is good, what is pure, what is evil, what does any of it mean, what is black, what is white, how can there be so much grey, grey within grey within grey, from sunup to sundown, we are surrounded by it, you me all of us, this great grey limbo, surrounds us, consumes us, like a monster, like a child, like a baby waiting to be born, borne of us, screeching screaming slimy out into the world, of our minds, hearts, miseries, failures, shortcomings, pain, anguish, hope, loss, fear, joy, prosperity, goodness, effort, deeds, these things that we do, this list of things that we do that we then call a life, bullet bullet bullet asterisk asterisk asterisk page after page after page of ellipses, until it's dark, light, black, white, morning, day, evening, bed, coffin, book, pencil, apple, shoe, cart, table, mirror, statue, box, lamp, coat, coastline, pavement, rug, television television television, sand, dagger, poison, dog, cat, house, garage, ladder, wallet, ring, cry, crawl, laugh, hold, tear, try, try, try again, life, whenever, whatever, until something happens that restarts the cycle, vicious and vicious and vicious and then

Crease

It was today. The marathon. I told myself I'd train for it. Get in shape, jog and run and all that. It seemed like something I should do. Other people were doing it, weren't they? Seemed like the kind of thing that's good, that maybe leads to other good things. Exercise! Goals! I don't know, people like those things, don't they?

I had this thought a year ago, right after the last marathon. My girlfriend at the time, she was running in it. I was the sitting on the sidelines the whole time, cheering her on, asking her how much she ran today, but also throwing in the occasional, "Why are you running this much? Like... why?" Her answers always varied, when she gave an answer that was more than a laugh. She was nice like that, nice enough to shrug off my skepticism with a laugh. It's good when people can do that.

Her time was pretty good. I think. She was happy with it, but I had no frame of reference for any of that, no context I could put it in. So she told me it was good and I believed her. But it seemed... OK. This is a small thing that I'm not entirely proud of, but it's the truth, so I might as well say it, because really it's not that bad. But her time didn't seem that impressive. Like, maybe it was good for her. But I figured that I could do better. And a year out? I thought I'd be able to do just fine.

At some point I let this slip. I don't remember when. It's not important. Maybe it is. But I let it slip. I said it out loud, big boob that I am. There are some things, you say them out loud, and you can't take them back. I thought this would be one of them, wouldn't you? It wasn't.

I was high and mighty. I started a regimen, without research and without expertise. I just started running. I'd run a little here and there, just to work out the kinks, stretch the muscles, get this old body into running order or what have you. Then I figured I'd better get serious about it. Started running every week day. Started adding more and more, little by little, in increments here and there. Timed myself, tried to beat those times, added more, timed that, tried to beat it still. You picture that finish line, at the end of the street or sidewalk or whatever. The important thing was to visualize it. Then all you have to do is move it. It was at the end of this block, you stick it at the end of the next. You see it there in your mind, in your eye, and then you place it wherever you want. And suddenly it's something almost tangible. I was going to beat that time. I was. Hell, it'd be easy. A run in the city? A walk in the park.

Weeks went by and months and I was looking good. I was feeling good. I was feeling like I just might pull it off. I was sleeping better. I was waking up earlier. I had energy, I had stamina. My thoughts were clearer, my mind was focused, my pants were looser. There was always a dark visible crease in the center of my buckled belt because I'd gone up a notch. That crease bothered me, it was ugly. But still, it reminded me of this thing I was doing, this great thing, so it made it OK. And I won't lie to you, it was the best I've ever felt in my whole life. The best I'll probably ever feel. This old body of mine. Maybe not. Who knows. Certainly felts that way. Feels that way. Felt that way. No, it feels that way.

It was mile twenty-one. I was doing really well, I felt great, I felt like I could go all day. I was so close. And then... I don't know. I couldn't see the finish line. I knew where it was, but I couldn't see it. I closed my eyes and all I saw was... And I was asking the question I'd always asked her: Why are you running so much? And I stopped. I just stopped. Let the crowds of humanity rush past me. Let myself disappear. Let myself walk that long walk home. And I won't lie to you, when I got home, I was exhausted.

Blindness

He woke up and he couldn't see.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean I can't see. I'm blind. I can't see!"

She shrugged. "You're not missing much." She got up.

"But, I want to see you."

"You've seen me," she said. "What else is there to see? You know me. Isn't that better? We should be thankful for that."

"I don't like blindness. Why would I? I can't see what's going on. What are you doing now?" he asked.

She was looking out the window, wishing she was blind, too. "I'm looking at you, sweetheart," she said. "Only at you."

Study

He is me. Another me. Both me and not. I see me and I see someone else. I steal from him. He steals from me. We are stealing from each other. We are both ourselves and not. I am him and me, he is me and himself. And yet, we will never be the same again. You cannot study someone as we do and remain unchanged. You have to steal. You even have to give. We will always have a part, however small, of each other with us. For better or for worse.

Cowboys

One sits alone at a table, casual, slouched in a chair with his hand on a bourbon. He gets up from time to time and takes a woman on the dance floor. They dance, simple steps, he sits back down when he's done, same as before. Hardly moves, hardly breathes, just watches, watches everyone else, cool as cool.

Another hangs on my wall. In some pictures, aviators and a puffy vest. A book, a beard, another drink in hand. The beginnings of a problem. Blood he'd pass down to me.

Yet another from my childhood, those formative years. Music, friends, creating together, maybe the most creative I'll ever be. Something we had, not just had but created, together. Something that maybe I let slip away.

This one's a gunslinger. Another beard I'll want, a brim covering my eyeline. Some past he can't quite get away from, and maybe he doesn't want to get away from it. Maybe it suits him just fine. Maybe he needs to accept that, pick up, move on, stay exactly how he is. Quick on the draw, quick for blood, passing that blood along.

Another is dead. Another wanted me, wanted him, to do the same. And for a while it even happened. For a long while. But he's dead. We all wised up. Eventually.

There's no more frontier, not really. There's only different ways to see what's there. It's beautiful in a way, tragic in another. There are adventures we could have, sure, but not like there used to be. Things used to be cleaner, easier. Now it's different, it's muddled, the adventures are harder to find. Tucked away, under a rock, across the ocean, in the middle of a place we'll never get to. In the middle of a place we want to find. But maybe we're scared. Of what we'll find when we get there. Of which one we'll turn out to be. If it will be up to us at all.

Cool as cool, everybody. Cool as cool.

Danger and Trouble

I have a yellow bicycle and we will ride it together. It is not a tandem bicycle but I will solve that problem. I will build a seat, a separate seat, for you. I will take my hammer and saw and nails and a cushion and make a seat for you, just behind mind, that you can sit on as we ride. And I will do all the pedaling.

The seat will be as sturdy as I can make it. But I, remember, am not a woodworker (not by trade, not even really by hobby), and so the seat will most likely break. It is hard to tell when this will happen. It is safe to assume, though, I think, that it will happen while we are moving, especially if I hit a bump or a branch. The nails will fall out and you, my darling, will tumble. Possibly on the wheel, possibly missing the wheel entirely. But it is a near certainty that you will tumble truly.

I do not know how fast I will be going. I might be going down a hill, but I might be going up that hill. I might be swerving. I might be showing off, showing you just how fast I can really go. And you will be so impressed, yes, the moment before it happens you will be so impressed with me. And we will be smiling.

You will fall, and most likely hit your head. I will skid to a halt and scream your name. I will drop the bicycle to the ground like they do in the pictures and run to your side.

Are you wearing a helmet? I don't know. Is there blood? Probably. Will you be alive? Hard to say.

If you are alive, I will make sure nothing is broken (or too broken, that is). I will check for signs of brain damage and trauma and what have you, and hopefully I will not make anything worse. I will ask nearby if doctors are present. By now people will have stopped, gathered, seen what all the fuss is about. Hopefully none of them stay too long, because that means you are OK.

If you are dead, I will howl. I will howl at the sun and moon and stars and clouds and heavens and hells and earth. I will curse everyone and thing I have ever seen or not seen or will never see. I will be distraught. I will suck in on myself like a black hole, only blacker. I will spend the rest of myself asking why I didn't buy you a bicycle, rent, borrow, why we didn't just walk, why I had, just had to build you a seat. And why you let me. Why you went along with it all. Why we couldn't see how dangerous we were really being. The trouble we'd get ourselves into.

But you never see. You have good ideas, and bad ideas, and sometimes both at once. But you have fun, try to anyway, and hopefully it all works out.

We could bike around the lake, out to our old school. We could bike into town for ice cream. We could bike to that abandoned playground and play like children. We could, if we tried, stay exactly how we are forever.

Handprints

She passes by with her mother, another mother and her two small children. Little girl stops at a string of balloons, several balloons tied onto a length of string between two trees. Outside the art studio, an attractive eye-level advertisement. They're tie-dye, white balloons and rainbow paint, but the paint is on the inside. How'd they do that?

Seven rubbery rainbow orbs across this length of string and the middle one is starting to fade. It is not doing well. It has lost its air. Little girl is drawn to it. She takes it in her small hands and gives it the slightest of squeezes. Splashes of blue and red bulge and seem to smile at her. Hello to you, too!

Removes her hands, smile fades. But her handprints remain. Some new life is given to this balloon. It looks bigger than before, it grew where her hands once were. It is oddly beautiful and somewhat grotesque. It looks forgotten, and it is her favorite.

Her mother, the other mother, the other children, they are gone. They are down the sidewalk, turned some corner. They cannot see this. Or her. Or anything. Little girl looks at her balloon and thinks about paint and rainbows and parties and art and beauty and life and doesn't realize it. She traces each handprint over and over with her littlest finger. She looks at the splotches of paint. She wonders how, how, how they got in there.

Square One

Peel. The simplest idea would be to peel. To layer and layer, to start with option on top of option. You start with a lot and then add or take away. You start. With a lot. And then add. Or take away. You don't start with basics and then change them and them change them and then change them. You don't strip and then start from Square One. That's not what you do. It's an obvious thing, this is elementary. Why is it that we can see it and you can't?

You peel and add, add and peel. Never lose your base. Never. Time is of the essence.

Dry

It's a never-ending thing. Pouncing on him through the door, cuddling up in the theater, there's people around. A head always on his shoulder. Latticework fingers. Some groove to fit into or another one to make. Question and answer after question and answer. It never stops.

We leave and walk down the sidewalk, it's dark out, it's night. Passing through trailings of perfume and tobacco. Hands in pockets, fingers clenched.

A man in front of us, the smoker, walks on the edge. He's close to the cars, maybe too close. He looks over from time to time, maybe looking for something in those cars. Something nice.

My jacket doesn't protect from rain. Not really. It's showing these drops as they start, these slight few drops. A couple hit me on the cheeks, just right. Clenched.

We peel off, two and one, say good night, go our separate ways. A few more drops now. My coat will show me all of this. And always a head on his shoulder, keeping him dry.

The Right Words

She asked me what the one thing was that I would save in a fire. I thought for a moment, not sure if I should answer truthfully or tell her something that would make her happy. What would make her happy, what does she want to hear? I was thinking about it for too long, so I just picked. Wedding photo that I keep on the desk in my office. A nice compromise of a selection I thought.

She got upset. Upset that it had taken me so long to answer, and that when I answered I didn't say her. She wanted me to say, Why, of course I would save you, sweetheart. What kind of question is that? But of course I assumed she was in the other room, saving something of her own, that's how these hypotheticals work. Had I answered the way she wanted would it still have been what she wanted to hear? Is it one way in your head and another way in my mouth? Would you want me to describe you as a thing? I'll never be sure.

When we were young, and dating, I remember sitting in front of her on the over-sized cushiony chair in her living room. She asked me if she thought we'd get married. We were seventeen. I told her this was entrapment. She said no, it wasn't. I said yes, it was. We never brought it up again, until I popped the question four years later.

It's a beautiful picture of us. We both look so happy, so incredibly fulfilled. We look the way you'd want young newlyweds to look. I thought it was sweet. I thought it was a good answer. I thought it was a damn good answer.

I sit in my office now and I turn the picture away. I turn it back when I leave of course, and when I hear her coming down the hall. Funny how quickly my ears fine-tuned themselves to that noise. Funny's not really the right word. But it's the word I'll use.

To Bed

We woke when our daughter crawled into our bed.

The poison didn't work.

The Business

She's supposed to love me, pretend to love me, pretend to be my wife or girlfriend or something, I can't remember. She's cute, blonde, pixie haircut, but one I can stand. Loose, drapey sweater that you wouldn't think would look good on camera. Some mud and tan, charcoal and olive vaguely paisley number. Short, maybe a little over five feet, with a bright smile and she does seem like the definition of what you think a cute girl might look like. Real Girl Next Door. Real sweet.

I'm just feeling bad that I didn't shower. She's supposed to run her fingers through my hair, adjust it or something, poke around at me a bit. I can feel the sweat under my arms, of all the times not to wear an undershirt, this stupid ridiculous rule I have. I was soaked through in more places than one when I arrived at the agency and bee-lined to the bathroom, dried what I could of myself with the hand dryer. But my body heat it still high, I'm a hot body, and I'm sweating through again. My hair is acceptable I suppose, with a straggler here and there. But there's a general curl to it and it looks decently unmatted and I just couldn't make it to the shower. Still, the grease, it's there if you look at it, if you're looking. And certainly if you're sticking your cute little blonde fingers in it.

I feel the need to tell her all this. She's more concerned with her summer, thinking about something fun she did.

"What am I going to tell them?"

"I don't know. You didn't do anything fun? Go to the beach?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, "I guess. But, ugh, that's so boring." I don't know. I like the beach a lot. I like that windswept hair. It's a day for thinking about hair it would seem. "What are you going to say?"

"I can't tell you that. If they have you go first you might steal it, then where would I be?" She laughs at this. I think about asking her out, not now, but maybe after when we're both leaving, that second right outside the door when we could either go left or go right or part ways. She's supposed to love me, pretend to love me, and I'll pretend to love her back, and that will ease the transition. That's the business though, you can never tell you likes you and you hates you because they all seem to like you.

She ends up telling some lie about skydiving. It's so good she even had me going, I have to ask her if it actually happened or not. I'm not even trying to butter her up but I can tell she appreciates it.

I'm bending over, getting my bag from under the chair, thinking about how exactly to ask her out because I definitely decided I will. We walk out together, or not together, but nearly together, basically together. And as I hold the door for her she thanks me, flashes me a smile over her shoulder and she walks west. I have to walk east. I think about whether or not I should call after her, but the thought lasts so long that that's all it can be, a thought.

I turn around and go, don't want to seem like I'm staring. I stop in to get an ice cream. And I can't stop thinking that she, whatever her name was, was supposed to love me.

A Book Goes By

I press with my thumb and my nail goes click, my own version of turning the page I've created. There was no sound, and it was uneasy. A book goes by, a book grows uneven, moving from unread to read before your eyes, after they've finished the page. You can see the progress you're making, you feel like you're doing something. Not like the small percentage in the bottom corner, not like the small glowing "pages" that trick you. Four pages to one percent, four-to-one, like a ladder, leading nowhere. A conclusion, sure, a climax and denouement, but they are made hollow. By this glossy demon's card. It it smooth, it feels too smooth, it feels like an accessory. No smell. No smell to speak of, no history, no memory, no crisp or crumbled faded yellow tale. It just glows at you, another screen added to the pile. Must everything be as easy as it could ever possibly be?