Frivolities and Otherwise

Reflections of light bounce of the smudged window like fireworks. You pull down the shade, and I wonder what kind of girl pulls down the shade when she's flying at night. You take out your computer and blind me with the screen, and I guess it makes sense to block out one kind of light for another, to minimize the reflections. Still, nobody asked me for I am the lowly middle seat.

I judge you as you pay the whatever price for the no more than forty-eight or so minutes of Internet you'll be able to use in the air. I judge the man next to me for spending all that money on a little scotch. Can neither of you go one hour without these little frivolities? But perhaps I am too good at going without things, frivolities and otherwise, people and places and memories. And suddenly a drink and an email don't sound so bad.

And if I could look out the window what would I see? Cornfields and man-made lames and the lights of houses of people I will never know. An entire world spent going over and never through. Would I see anything I couldn't see from the discomfort of this middle seat, knees wedged up against my own book? And as I think that perhaps I have seen all I am meant to see the plane shakes, hard, then harder still, and I can only laugh at the timing.

Chemical Change

I've seen your God and I'll tell ya, it's one crazy way to make peace. Don't seem very efficient in my opinion. But that's probably why I wasn't made God. I was only made a measly man to question his every waking move. I've seen him and I've screamed in his face, I've said why why why why why. And does he answer? Silence is a kind of answer I suppose. I've seen your God and he is a slow burn. He takes some getting used to, and then it's much too late. And that's a chemical change, mind you, there's no going back, that's bread you can't unburn. But if that's the way you want it then that's the way you want it. You want your slow burn peace you can have it. I'll keep looking, over here, asking why.

My Bed, Your Bed

You collapse onto the bed, my bed, your bed for the weekend. I zip off your boots and take off your socks. I want to take off your belt, or loosen it, and I look around for something to hell, a fork or forceps. I settle for the very tips of my fingers, I make as little contact with the leather as possible. I think about all the times I've heard women and girls both real and scripted talk about the discomfort of bras and the sweet relief of their removal. I wonder if I should bother, attempt the impossible. Could I do it with the shirt on, would you wake up, does your passed out comfort really mean all that much to me. You turn over, moan, back to the ceiling, a small strip of skin breaking your pants from your shirt. It moves, up and down, and you're alive and so am I. So I set a glass of water on my nightstand, your nightstand, and curl up on the couch. It isn't big enough to hold me.

It's All Won

My rotted shadow attempts to meet you for an encounter. I produce nothing but serpents, words and ideas that slither in the garbage of love. I am the wreckage of a corpse I will never understand, dead yet living all at once, and you have the nerve to ask me how I am.

The Family

This is my daughter, Jocelayne. She's ranked in the top half of the top ten percent of the top half of all students the St. Vicarious School for Little Ladies. She gets her hair from my side of the family, once a year after report cards.

This is my son, Dollar Bill, which is short for Dollar William. If we want to go extra short we call him Penny and put him in a nice, short wig.

This is my dog, Brutus. Well, it was my dog Brutus. BRUTUS! ... Yep, was.

These are my fish. The trick is to keep a few slices of lemon in the tank, then it acts as an extra long marinade.

This is my ex. He still lives here and we're still married, but calling each other exes makes it so much hotter, don't you think?

One Night in Hollywood, III

"If you're not weird, you're weird."

"Guys, is any black guy Tracy Morgan?"

"Sorry for partying. Not."

"The same people who are intent on selling the American people crap are the same people who say we're a culture in decline. But that's capitalism. We're a functioning hypocrisy."

"Bronze that Tarzan up!"

"Could I get two vodka tonics and a Cincinnati Shuffle?"

"The reason I keep touching your breasts is because I just don't know."

"Ew, no, the bus is too real. I won't even Uber pool."

"It wasn't worth it. But it was worth something."

"I'm William Tell and you're William Shut-Your-Fucking-Mouth."

"Who you talking to? Who you talking to now? Oh, slippery slope..."

"I'll see you dead before I see you paid."

"I know I'm not supposed to wash my hair with bottled water but the danger is part of the appeal."

"I don't wear condoms that much since I have a low count... of partners."

"But at the same time imagine never seeing the color purple before in your life besides grapes."

"Yeah, but to dwarf and a dwarf are different things though."

"In the realm of eyes, I have bigger eyes than some people."

"He was the gayest kid. And now he's the gayest little boy."

"I enjoy a sensible farmers market."

"In some sense potatoes are potatoes are potatoes."

"The apple doesn't fall very far from the orange."

"I am with hangover all over me right now."

"I do a lot of construction so I work with a lot of Spanish people, ya know?"

"I feel like I have a knack for birdwatching. Anybody else feel that way?"

"Part of me thinks that I am the villain."

Direct Deposit

I take my time getting to you. I rush getting out the door, but once it's locked I slow down. The storm is over and the air is cool, it is a reprieve. The puddles soak through my shoes but I don't mind. Today was payday, direct deposit, I know I'm doing fine. I could get a car, flag a cab, but I decide to take the bus. Its post-storm A/C has always held a strange appeal for me, and it's holding onto it tonight. I don't know who these people are, on the bus so late, a strange combination of to works and from works and students and the destitute, and for a second I wonder what they think of me.

I could pay to get to you, but I don't. And if you're asleep by the time I arrive I suppose I'll have to finish this whiskey myself.

West

I see it as a distant devil there, hot and dry and alluring. Dangling what I want in front of me like a carrot to some stupid horse. But do I need the carrot? I'm getting away from myself.

Yes, though, perhaps that's what I need. To get away from myself. A place like that is a place for anyone. But no, I am not that naive. The devil, he gets what's owed him. The lights and time and fame and fortune, they will all get what's owed. So, the question: How much am I willing to pay?

Seems silly to wait any longer, though I know more waiting is inevitable. Was this my journey, is this all part of the tale? That man, he finally knew himself though he was grey and alone. And he spent his final days in a used car he didn't much like, surrounded by people he didn't much understand. But the sun was shining every day, and the heat was dry, and it was all right there in front of me.

Alphabet Your Ass

A. We're all out of our cages, some of us are out of our shirts.

B. Someone get this blonde boy some parents.

C. This place could be great without all these people.

D. A woman with a sweat and a Jamba Juice and no clue.

E. I see your letter in my notebook, written with love, written with your left hand.

F. There isn't a lot of difference between a shallow dive and a belly flop.

G. Young blonde woman in boat shoes, one heel out, nearly touching the pavement with each step.

H. What's with all the blondes today?

I. She was waiting for a young man far behind her.

J. You walk with the person, always with them, that's what my mother taught me.

K. Burn it all.

L. I'm alone, but I'm not miserable, so that's something.

M. It's weird seeing sailboats moving when their sails are down.

N. And here's a man eating a papaya like an apple.

O. And here's a man standing and paddling himself.

P. That came out wrong.

Q. That's what she said.

R. Jerseys: Scotland, Leicester, Qatar, Brasil, Rose.

S. Girls moving so fast you can't tell if it's the middle or ring finger.

T. Everyone trying to capture the same picture, to remind themselves come winter.

U. How easy it is to forget these things.

V. How easy it is to think we've always thought like this.

W. She won't see you where you're sitting, but at least the view is better here.

X. I found your other note, with the cursing, in all caps.

Y. It's always a long walk home.

Z. Ice cream man.

Morning Rush

Pressed for time, shoes on but not tied. Thermos is hot, coffee just poured in, some on the skin, wince through the pain. Hotter than realized outside, expect to sweat through the undershirt. Race to the corner and miss the bus, hail a cab, skip a couple happy hours. Necktie stuffed into a pocket somewhere, newspaper forgotten, banana on counter, who needs solid food. Traffic jam, cars backed up all down the highway, hope it's something good. An accident, a bad one, two ambulances and three police cars, be careful what you wish for. Smoke, a body being carted away. No time for that now, presentation in less than an hour. Get there, pay the man, run inside, check email, tie shoes, freshen coffee. Old bagels brought by somebody, every cream cheese has to have something in it nowadays. Conference room has water bottles and coffee and juice and pastries and fruit. Strange how we treat others better than ourselves. Too much coffee on an empty stomach, pop a couple strawberries and rearrange to fill the gaps. Soon people will be in here listening. Sit and breathe and go over notes. Traffic. Every accident starts with people doing what they always do. At some point the laces became untied.

The Places of this World

Next time you see my dad ask him to tell you about my Aunt Lanie. She lived in a cabin all alone, a cousin or second cousin of mine had a story about her where she popped out of nowhere in the moonlight. She battles with depression, or battled with it, loved to live alone in the woods and worrying only about herself. And that's the thing, the thing they didn't get, thinking she worried only about herself. She wanted to be alone, wanted to have the trees and the cold and the fire and the animals and wind. She liked being the only one of her kind, she liked that it gave her space and time. Space and time, she thought, that was all she needed. That's all we really need to be who we are and figure things out and find how we got in the places of this world. Space, space and time, time. But anyway, that's how she told it. You ask my dad you might get a different story. But I hope that he understands, or that he knows at least. That one person could see a story one way, and another so differently. And everything is only a matter of space and time, and soon, probably, each will collapse on the other. But we're a long way from that I hope. Still, I'd like to know what he says.

The Other One

I'd turn on the lamp and you'd turn it off. We'd sit across from each other, looking at takeout menus on our laptops. We used to share our food. Wine reached a point where it found its way into water glasses. You would take a longer shower, I would change my shirt again, something extra to make us late. I'm sorry, we'd say, it's the other one's fault.

I paid for the cab last time. You made us breakfast. That rug's been in my family for ages. The grill is broken again. Your car needs to go to the shop, you can't keep putting it off. My friends don't like your friends. I don't want to take allergy medicine. You want me to drink less, and less often. There are certain things we'd like to say. There are things we wanted to do. There are things ahead of us. We can't keep putting it off.

Raise a Glass

I've raised a lot of glasses. Drunk my share share of health and good will, things nothing to do with me. It's bad luck to cheers yourself and so I've avoided it. There's enough luck of all kinds going around without me getting involved. But I don't know what it means to drink in a lie. To hold up your glass and speak the words and know that none of them are true inside. I imagine that, if I knew the answer, and could go back in time, I would have smashed a lot of those glasses on the floor.

Ready Answers

She shook her head at me, swallowing her latte. "I just want someone who's on the same level as me."

"So a failure," I joked. It was a joke because she laughed. I wasn't really joking. You're either talking about a very successful 23-year-old, or a very unsuccessful 32-year-old. The gap between those years isn't small. It's probably the biggest there is.

"No, not a failure!" she said. I was drinking black coffee, we were splitting a cookie. "I just want us to... I don't know." Bite of cookie. "Be on the same level." Smile. Sip of latte.

"But what does that mean to you?" I wanted to know. I wanted ready answers. I wanted someone to be sure of something.

A beat. A beat of realization. "I guess I'll know it when I see it," she said.

Secret Pee

I know what it means, the door opening and the footsteps and the other door closing. I know why you go to the bathroom and, when you get back to the bedroom, then she goes. I know why you both have this sudden urge for clandestine urination. I know what you two get up to in there. I think it's sweet how quiet you've kept it, or tried to at least. The off-hand mention of a current event while you open the door is a nice, albeit see-through, touch. But if you're really trying to keep what you're doing secret, don't follow each other so closely to the toilet. Rest a while, have one go, rest some more, then the other one. Or, better yet, go nuts. Throw that caution to the proverbial wind with whatever reckless abandon is in you. It must be in there somewhere. For a celebration of life and love and everything that is good between two people shouldn't be hushed. We shouldn't feel ashamed. We should do it in the middle of the road.

Malbec

She said if it has the consistency of mead then it's probably gone bad. It's supposed to happen over five or so days. she told me, but that seemed wrong. I heard two weeks somewhere and that sounded more like the truth, although as a wine novice I'd really no idea. Any normal person would have finished off the bottle by now.

She'd insisted that I take the bottle with me, half-drunk and uncorked. I'd hidden it in the inside of my coat, which somehow I'd worn even though it was too warm for it. I grit my teeth and worried at the state of my best white dress shirt as the cab aimed for every pothole on the way home. But by the time I reached the light of my apartment: no stains. I covered the open bottleneck with packing tape and set it atop the fridge.

Now the tape was on my fingers. I flicked it to the floor. I poured the Malbec out into my all-purpose wine glass. The smell was fine, the color was fine, there were no chunks or skins of any kind. It seemed to pour as any wine that hasn't turned should pour, that is to say smoothly and without incident. I didn't know much about wine but I knew that Malbecs were crowdpleasers, a straight-shooting and flavorful red with just enough personality to not ruffle any feathers and not taste like crap. I related.

It was a subtle question but I thought it alluded to more. I asked her how to tell if wine went bad, I mentioned there was nearly an entire bottle, I confessed I knew nothing about the stuff. And she'd actually been helpful, which I couldn't get mad at, although I did. Maybe I was too subtle, maybe I was too stupid, maybe I should have learned to be bold back when boldness didn't loom so large. I did what I did and I said what I said and I could only live and learn and move on and all those other horrible things that people say.

So I poured myself a glass, and I sipped from that glass, and I commented in my head about the liquid's unctuous legs. Wine always seemed so thick to me, so medieval, something you use to wash down an entire fowl cooked over a spit. Late grew later and later grew early, and I made myself a king in this great hall, and after three or four glasses it seemed to me the red was almost black.

Quiet in the Streets

On a night like this, quiet in the streets, when somehow everyone has collectively stayed at home. When I'm in the middle of the street, walking with my eyes closed, this is when it happens. When they're out, the radios blaring and the panhandlers begging and the birds looking for anything, children and businessmen and dry cleaning, appointments and exercise, that is when I'm lost. When things are never quite right and there are a million options and none of them for me. But here, now, finally, with everyone inside their separate drawers, and I can think and breathe and listen to the openness. I am not alone.

Tour

It was cold outside and warm inside and it made him feel sleepy. He had air around his knees, around his ankles, there was a flow close to his skin and it cooled him, too much. And now, a blanket and some tea, the small confines of an empty bus, he wanted to pass out.

He'd gotten up early, played outside on the sidewalk for three hours, playing his music and spreading the word. He left his guitar case open, put in a few of his own dollars. It was a trick his mother had taught him with pistachios. Always put a shell in an empty bowl, then everyone knows what to do. But the streets were not a party and he had less than fifteen dollars.

The seats were gone. Some blankets, a couple mattresses, some battery-operated lamps and lights strung up. He fell onto a mattress, sheets kicked off the edge, and covered himself with a quilt, patched together from old high school T-shirts. He had no idea how many people would be there tonight, but he had just enough time to rest, heat up some soup, and give whoever showed up a good show.

Last Meal

Steak, steak sauce

Mashed potatoes, butter

Fried shrimp with cocktail sauce and fresh lemon

Two lobster tails, more butter (melted)

One cheese pizza

One meat pizza

One veggie pizza

One dozen bacon-wrapped dates

One dozen bacon-wrapped breakfast sausages

One pound bacon cooked not too much (floppy but firm)

Double cheeseburger with everything (cooked medium rare)

Extra large McDonald's fries, ketchup

Sausage, egg, and cheese McGriddle for good measure

Three large buttermilk pancakes

Blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, chocolate chips, fresh whipped cream

Also Cool Whip

Also Arby's curly fries

Cheesesteak (steak, grilled onions, provolone, plenty of ketchup)

Just bring a whole bottle of ketchup and that should cover all the ketchup needs

Two fried chicken breasts/thighs/legs/wings

Wendy's spicy chicken nuggets (however many you can get)

Peanut butter and jelly sandwich (extra crunchy Jif, strawberry [preserves if possible])

Spaghetti bolognese (Grandmother's recipe, but please don't tell her what it's for)

Chocolate lava cake

German chocolate cake

Raspberry cheesecake

Rhubarb pie

Fresh, warm chocolate chip cookies

Large chocolate-peanut butter malt

One pot of strong black coffee

One gallon cold water

One gallon chocolate milk

20 oz Dr. Pepper

20 oz Coca-Cola Classic

One bag of pistachios

One toothpick

Cigar

Match

Handkerchief

The Outside

I wake up and something's wrong. My legs won't move, I try, they do not budge. I've heard of this, sleep paralysis, a strange, rare place between asleep and awake. I open my mouth, stale morning air, last night's wine, no words. I wait for the hallucinations, they are supposed to come. I wait for the creature to rest on top of me, suffocate what's left of me, as I lie helpless against the pressure.

I see the light stream through my dirty, crooked blinds. The garbage truck outside, I know it's Tuesday, I see the clothes I threw on the ground last night. The details are too fine to be a dream, I know I am awake. I try again to move, even the slightest thing, a toe at the end of my foot. I peer down like a hospital patient after some great wreck, the doctors say he'll never walk again, come on, come on, you can do it, just one toe, just one little toe.

Am I sweating? Am I hot, cold? How can I be sure of anything anymore? Birds chirp and the room begins to shift. Does it? I am awake. Am I asleep? I wait for something to come from the closet, a corner, crawling across the ceiling like a horror film, creaking its neck in unnatural ways, pouncing and devouring me. And it is true that I am stuck and stretched; one part tragedy, one part comedy.

I close my eyes, the one thing I can control. Maybe if I go to sleep in a while this will all be over. I will get up and get dressed and go out into the world, doing a little more than I would have done, conquering what's left for me to conquer. But the sleep doesn't come, the sunlight still streams in and I am here. Footsteps above me, footsteps outside. I want to cry out for help, a subtle but convincing cry, I don't want them to think I'm dying. But maybe I am. Not that it matters.

Footsteps turn to thuds, something I feel deep inside. A shadow by my window, the streaks in my room grow cloudy, the creature is here at last. If I will not go outside the outside will find me, and it has, and it is tall, and big, and black, and is standing in my corner. I try to move, I try to sleep, it's too absurd. I close my eyes, a human ostrich, hiding in my own head. But I can hear it coming toward me, everything I've ever known, everything I've yet to do, everything I've never done, walking slowly across my floor. It joins me on the bed, deep impressions in the sheets. My eyes tighten, my body, everything tightens, if only I could ease and loosen and let it out, if only I could make one sound, move one toe. But here I am, waiting, stuck somewhere in the middle. I'd laugh, maybe, a little, if I could. If I had a little more time.

Master

It has come to my attention that each man's life is his own and no one else's. I can scold you for your foolish choices but ultimately it means nothing. I must devise a way, then, to become your owner, master, whatever word that signifies I am in control of you I must become. And I don't want you to worry. I won't concern myself with the menial things. Your breakfast and clothes and nearly everything will still be yours to decide. But I will be there to make sure you are not lonely, or stupid, or feckless, or weak. When you are not angry I will be angry for you, and when you cry I'll cry as well. And when you want to throw your life away I will be there holding your hand back, clasping, squeezing, demanding that you put it down. And I only hope that I am strong enough to convince you.

Montana Outline

She had an outline of Montana on her side. Are you from there, I asked. No, she said, but I'll die there. When are you going to head out? I don't want to be there long, she told me. I don't want to live there for years and years, I'm not looking for a life. I only want to die there. Seems like a good sendoff. I didn't ask how she would accomplish this. I did ask well, what would happen if you passed on someplace else? Well, she said, I guess I'd like to come back and try again.

Let Me Out

She looks at the window, through it, outside, some nameless creature, some small vermin, bird, shadow, ant. She stares, cries, mews just audibly, stares at me, let me out, let me out, let me out. She is a protector, a huntress, she belongs in the night, she stares at me. I let her out, I obey, I am her subject. She is in her element, she is ready to hunt, ready to pounce, ready to kill. It is late and I am tired, I am ready for sleep. She stares out at the shadows, at the moving nothing. I think about nothing, about moving, I close my eyes and she is gone. I wait and she doesn't come back. I go out to find her and I call her name. I can't. She is out in the world now, she needs nothing from me. And me, I will call her name, and wait, and never sleep, until I let her in.

Don't Worry

You don't want to know what I'm thinking. It's not like I want to know what you're thinking! It's not a constant thing but my mind does wander. But I'm here with you physically and so are you and I think that it's fine, really, it's fine. I know you're like Alvy Singer, you want the whole thing, you don't want me floating away on grass, my spirit sitting in a chair by the bed. But I'm not completely anywhere all of the time, I never am, never more than a few second and then I'm gone. And, really, isn't it nice that we can connect like this and also be somewhere else entirely? Be other people? Be happy?

Bottom of a Tomb

I saw mine buried in the bottom of a tomb, returning to the earth, that kind of thing. I knew the worms and maggots, they'd have their way, they'd crawl and devour and destroy slowly but surely. I kept mine in my head, a picture perfected, surrounded by light, no dirt. I shoveled, dirt on my shoes, underneath my fingernails, I watched it slip away. Or I was pushing. Or something pulled. Or it was inevitable. Or it could have been any other way. I saw mine one last I always time, and every time I close my eyes, and every time I open them, and always and forever. You can dig and bury and bury and dig, but there is no escape.

Love is a Common Subject

I talk to her most weeks and she said nothing. Months went by and not a word. Maybe she knew what I thought of him; wretched, snobby, boring, and be anything but boring. But relationships came up, love is a common subject, and still nothing. I told her about girl after girl, worry after worry, the joys and foibles. And still she said things were fine, things were fine, things were fine, as things unraveled around her. Holding the threads up to her shivering body, hoping she could count the thing as saved. Maybe she only needed the time for herself, to get to a place where she could let them fall. Because now, I bring it up, and she speaks to me as if it almost never happened at all.

Tree Frog

A small tree frog got in the house, it's hopping across the rug leading to the upstairs deck. I pick it up and set it outside the door, slide that shut. He (which is what I'll calm him) starts climbing up the wall, stops after a while. He drops. He tries again, falls, drops, same thing. It's night out and the lamp's on and I can only think that maybe the siding is too hot for him.

He hops onto the glass and falls in the space between it and the screen. He's not trapped but I sure feel like he his. And I feel sorry for him, maybe just a bit, and I try to tell myself it's survival of the fittest out there. If he was meant to die between two doors, he'll die between two doors. But how did he even get up here? Scale my house thinking it was a tree? Get blown over by the wind? It's not survival of the fittest if he's being tossed around, if these things are happening to him. And he's trying to figure it out, trying to climb and hop, trying to figure out what kind of tree this is.

I pick him up, take him downstairs, open the door to the outside. I walk him to the hosted and kneel over, bring my hand down to the soil, reconnecting him. And what does he do, he jumps onto the brick, starts hopping back toward the house. And I think, OK, I like this guy.

Optical

I find reasons to look away, reasons to have my eyes shut, if affects the way I talk. The tears are coming and there's nothing I can do to stop them, I can make them seem natural and I can try to cover them up. People notice.

Is everything OK, they ask me. Yeah, sure, fine, of course, why wouldn't it be? God knows what's on my hands but I rub my eyes anyway, transmitting whatever filth and grime is on them to my already oppressed opticals. I am squinting, thinking, how did it get this bad.

In a moment the pain is gone, the tears subside, I go back to normal. And it's fine, for a time, until I realize that everywhere, everywhere I look is lights, bright lights, and I find reasons to look away. Boy, I ask, why are you crying?

Page

I didn't tell her it meant nothing. I was nice when it was over in the morning. I didn't feel the need to get into specifics, names and places and times and everything. I thought we were on the same page. And then I remembered, yes, there are books and there are chapters, there are pages, sentences, words. We spent a page together, made up of different thoughts and phrases. And I saw something I never thought of, that it wasn't her fault, that I couldn't blame her for staying in the sheets. That she, like me, was only looking for someone to share her story.

Album Cover

We stood on the steps in complementary coats, trying to look like we weren't trying to not look at the camera. One head slightly up, one slightly down. We put parts of our hands slightly in our pockets, stuck out a hip, bent a knee, balanced on one foot with the others toes on the ground. We touched the collars of our coats, we squinted at nothing. The photographer told me to look into the lens, and I did. And I squinted at the reflection of myself, the small reflection, what version of myself I could see.

Energy

I can't say that I've dreamt about you, though I have thought about you from time to time. Someone's hair reminds me of yours, someone's name. I'll hear a story or see a picture and suddenly there you are. This person, this idea, someone I never really knew. And while I can't say that I go to bed at night and dream of you, maybe o reached you some way. Maybe my energy conspired with yours. Maybe there's a reason I never really knew you. Maybe the knowing's on its way. And as I say it I'm not sure I believe it. But I could be convinced.