Can’t Find The Words

How many poems have you read about rain?
Christ, how many have I written about rain?
Yet right now, as I stand in the garage
As the rain is slapping the sidewalk
The kind of rain that should cleanse
The kind of rain that should free me of the dirt
As the birds are chattering between the heavy drops
As I look through the smudged windows
Seeing trees shedding themselves of winter’s nude
What? A week? A few days?
Then an orgasm of green…
…yet I can’t find the goddamn words for a poem…
Yesterday, it was eighty degrees and eighty miles per hour
Two wheels down and getting’ it along a familiar ribbon
You know the road— I wrote about it not long ago
The one that squeezes between the airport
And the tired old river
Today, along that same stretch of road
Rain was hurled at me as I bounced and tossed
Four wheels down, a canvas roof up
Those windshield wipers still ain’t been replaced, friends
Fresh asphalt puked into holes; mere divots
Compared to the gaping yawns fifty feet on up
And that old DC-3 still winked at me
Teasing me to ride her
to her…
…yet I can’t find the goddamn words for a poem…
Looking past the billowing Camel breath
Into the darkened garage and beyond
I feel the weight of the Titanic’s anchor
Pulling at the bottom of every heartbeat
Because again, I should be on that plane, or landed years ago
Or I should let the rain heal me, make my vision clear
But instead, I am a blackboard
Nothing but smeared images and haunting chalk dust
Empty echoes where footsteps once filled the air…
…yet I can’t find the goddamn words for a poem…

Down In It

That’s how life goes…
Just when you think Prometheus took that holy fire
Handed it to Vulcan to be forged into your soul
From some godly steel stashed in the backroom of Olympus
Yeah, right—
Because at that moment
When you think you are above it all
You find out Loki had a bigger hand in it
You get get kicked squarely in the balls
An shatter like pig iron
It’s right then…
You have two choices…
Either curl up and spend your life whining
Like some fucking miserable centipede
Or…
Pick up those pieces
Grab a tube of Super Glue
Reconstruct yourself….
Get a pair of glasses…
Or better yet…
Wrap the legs of some gorgeous woman around your head
C’mon in- the water is just fine
Enjoy the view while you can
And then…
…and then
Drink her essence
Like you are a fucking dirty street bum
Soaked in cheap vodka
Begging for more
That’s when you know
The glue stuck
The Gods lose
You’ve been down in it
Only to survive as her whore…
That’s when you watch
Prometheus’ liver get pecked at
Loki perish at Ragnorok
Vulcan’s hammer shatter…
And your pig iron soul glisten like gold…

“…every one of your so called truths have been met with challenges; confrontations that were met with one of your seemingly adept codicils— amendments that served more to underlie the false foundations of your gospels than to support them. I am not a killer, Trevor. I am an author.”

Lord knows I am not a killer; for fuck’s sake, this gun is trembling in my hand. How on Earth do people get the nerve to pull the trigger…

…but I must. I have to. This man has raped me of my life. He has screwed millions out of hard earned cash with his lies…

…one more pull on the bourbon…

…yes. That was the trick. I can feel my nerves dulling now.

“It’s time I am rid of you, you lying bastard. It’s time the world breathes a bit easier. No more of your dark dishonesty. Good-bye, Mr. Evans…”

The trigger is taut- the hamstring of a lover who’s on the cusp; teetering on the edge of a world shaking orgasm. Slick with dewy sweat. Resisting, but not forbidding….

Now I understand the edge; the adrenaline filled, sexy feeling of justified eradication. Not the cold blooded without-a-reason-bang-bang-you’re-dead of those who have no remorse, but the primal act of someone who knows a higher purpose when they see it….

Here it comes, Mr. Trevor Evans— the end.

…………….

“Tom, the world is mourning the loss of a literary giant this evening.”

“Yes Candy, Trevor Evans, the controversial author of ‘Wayward Hearts’ was found dead in his upstate New York home this morning. Right now, the Albany County Coroner has confirmed that the cause of death as a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head…”

#WOTD

Toal generally entered his estate from the back of the property. Today was different. Today was the first really nice day since he moved out of the big city and into Small Town. Based on the weatherman’s prediction, he decided hiring a taxi for the trip to work— leaving his Beemer in the garage —so he could enjoy the brisk walk home when the day was finished.

All day, he felt giddy, full of piss and vinegar (as his mum would say when he was a wee lad back at home). He amused himself with little jokes. “Don’t stop short,” he told the cab driver- “Everyone, take a small break,” he announced over the p.a. system- “Sorry about the tip, I am a little short on change,” he giggled at the waitress.

But when Toal walked out into the fresh, early spring air to begin his walk home, he was humbled. Humbled by the aero sky that allowed stark white puffballs dance across it; the smudge of bitter lemon that seemed to smile down upon him; the sweet love songs whistled by the droves of birds; the verdant lawns full of erect and manicured grass. He felt ten years younger…

…until he came his address.

He stopped and gasped when he spied the ha-ha that kept his sloping and expansive front lawn from blending with the Earth somewhere near the middle of the street. The low brick wall that ran serpentine along the sidewalk was covered with graffiti. Some of the sprawling spray painted letters and pictures were legible, some were obscene, most were directed towards Toal personally:

“YOU ARE TOO BIG FOR YOUR BRITCHES”

“OVERSIZED LEPERACHAUNS ARE NOT WELCOME”

“THE WEATHER UP THERE MUST BE ARCTIC YOU COLD HEARTED BASTARD”

Toal suddenly turned, looking in different directions, as if he might catch sight of the midget vandals running away…

The WOTD for March 12, 2013: Bevel…

Three Weekends

She was in my life a grand total of three weekends; all last summer.

The first Friday night; she fell on Chancer’s Bar like a whirlwind. Full of stories grounded in exotic locales, dropping names we all felt like we should know— but didn’t —and an accent that could have been from anywhere but Earth, she rattled our bones.

Mine especially.

The second Friday; I bedded her. Or did she bed me?

Her movements were swift and exact; an alien vampire. Precision to match her beveled features— there weren’t many round spots on her tall, lean, angular, brown, slick body. Thirty-five degrees or less; an F117-A turned loose between the sheets.

Sunday came and I was a barren wasteland. Spent, gasping, and nearly crying ‘Uncle’. I swear she stuck an iron in the fire and branded my chest with ‘Almost Worthy’ (you’re fooling yourself if you think I’m going to own up to being ‘Unworthy’).

The third Friday; she waltzed in the bar, quickly, quietly, and adroitly threw three shots of tequila down her efficient throat before she blew me a kiss from across the bar. She left and I didn’t follow.

Every once in a while, her name or face pops up on the news, not that shlock crap entertainment news, but the old vanguard of 6:30. My shirt gets tugged, “There she is. Look!”

I don’t.

I am in denial…

What follows also appears in the FaceBook group WOTD and was generated for Dictionary.com’s Word Of The Day for Sunday, March 10th, 2013. The Word was haberdashery.

Every day, at nearly the exact time, the sky turned ashen and thick. Everything looked like it was part of a 1940′s graytone movie; even the tulips in the florists’ windows were a vivid gray. The air would have a hot breath with molars made of ice— rain was always near.

That’s what time of the day it was when I saw her.

The old codger Burroughs, proprietor of Burroughs’ Haberdashery ltd., had just rang me up for the new teardrop black fedora when I reached door to leave. My hand froze on the knob when I gazed through the glass, between the peeling gold letters, of the recessed entry and saw what was perhaps the most beautiful woman I will ever lay eyes on.

She was half a block from the opposite corner corner of Burroughs’ shop. Tall, swaying, clad in a trenchcoat and her own teardrop, black fedora— her head tilted forward as the first heavy drops of the day’s rain began to fall. Her legs struck me most; even from that distance I could see they were sculpted by an ancient Greek artist who understood every nuance of the female leg. Her black pumps crisscrossed like she was a world class runway model.

Always quick on my feet, I yelled back to Burroughs, “Quick, an umbrella!”

In his raspy, slow voice, the slumped shoulder little man answered from just over his bifocals, “That will be 250 euro.”

Nearly breaking my neck when I looked back at him, “What the hell?”

“Mr. Anderson, we only carry the best.”

With some disdain, I reached for my wallet, pulled out the Visa and tossed it to him from the door, “Put it on this, I’ll be back for it. Where’s that golden brolly?”

Burroughs had the umbrella out and tossing it to me before the card ever made the counter…

Like a sex starved bull released from the barn on a warm spring day back home in Wisconsin, I charged through the door and out into the street. Raging the crossing with my head down, my hand up, and totally oblivious to the honking horns, screeching tires, and the logic my brain was wielding like a wet noodle against the misting pheromones.

I reached the other side just as she landed on the same corner. The rain was falling harder as I approached her while opening the umbrella. I looked down at her seemingly startled face and said, “Here, let me help you get across.”

When she looked up at me to utter a ‘Thank you’ with a hint of smoke in her British accent, my heart leaped and froze in mid beat. Her lush lips were coated with an erotic crimson lipstick that accentuated the exact geometry of her Cupid’s Bow. Her nose was an unfaltering line of Roman structure. The flesh of her cheek bones fit like a little black dress that turns heads from three rooms away. And here eyes- gorgeous, deep emerald pools that were shuttered by thick, dark lashes that opened and closed like purposeful Venus flytraps.

I fumbled through, “Harold. I’m Harold Anderson.”

Again with the smoke, “Karen.”

I was in love before we stepped off the curb, back the way I came.

I had wined her, dined her, made love to her on our fourth date, and married her six months later. All before we reached the rain soaked curb on the opposite side.

“Where to, Karen?”

“Oh, I’m just going here to my uncle’s shop.”

Almost laughing, I retorted, “Burroughs’? That’s funny because I was just there.”

With a wink and a twinkling grin, “I thought maybe you were.”

As we entered the store, I quickly collapsed the umbrella and set it next to the door.

“Let me help you out of that coat, Karen.”

She smiled and said, “Thank you.”

I had to stop and take notice of a commotion taking place at the sales counter as I slid the wet garment from her shoulders and arms. Old man Burroughs had grown larger than life; his voice full of venom as he hissed to the man standing before him, “It is not this store’s policy to accept returns.”

My focus on the argument was broken when I freed Karen of the coat and something hit the floor with a clickity-clackety-clickity-clack. I saw a battery, a cover, and a pager all sliding in opposite directions along the polished wood.

Odd, I thought. Who would have need of a Beeper in this day and age of smart phones and not-quite as smart-as-smart-phones?

Then I realized that in the blink of a lazy cat’s eye, two diversions had broken my attention towards the current object of my cascading amore. I had to reassert myself. I had to recover.

Quickly crouching to gather the pieces of her gadget, I looked up and asked, “How close are you that you can walk to work at this time of day? You know, because of the regularly scheduled rain?”

“Oh! Just half a street up. I have a flat above the Tobacconist’s.”

The client who was in a losing debate with Burroughs had turned and gasped, “Karen! Lovely Karen,” he strode towards us as he continued, “I understand that this request may be sudden and forward, but I am compelled to ask if you wouldn’t mind joining me for dinner tonight.”

Then the obvious had struck me like a falling anvil. I saw what accessory the man had been making a futile effort to return…

An umbrella.

You Are What You Eat

The Christian cannibal was alone- the last person alive. The American missionaries who converted him were the first to go, the Swedes were the the tastiest, the Watusi were a bit too sinewy for his palette

The more he ate, the closer he came to omnipotence.

Just as he was taught— God was in everyone.

Tale Of The Sea Muse

“Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit,” the lanky Swede said aloud. Then he thought, did I say ‘dammit’ four, or five times? Anxiety rose like an urgent bullet because he didn’t know how many times he said the word.

Forgetting the reason why he was cussing in the first place, he started anew with his once proud and blond hair recording each word with a wild bounce, “Dammit— dammit— dammit— dammit— dammit.”

Untangling his fingers from around the large white ceramic mug, Sven Jensen stood from his cluttered oak top kitchen table, stabbed inside the pockets of his wrinkled and stained lab coat, and began remembering why he was swearing. It was the contents in the that trunk. Drawings and writings he thought would prove his theory and application. Proof he hastily gathered and tossed in that locker because he didn’t want to be on that boat very long; especially with at least one lifeless body on the top deck. Then he panicked and gave that trunk to his nephew to get rid of.

He was sure if that boat was ever discovered, no matter on what side, those documents could link him to at least one death.

Standing at the kitchen sink, unconsciously washing his hands for the fifth time in thirty minutes, he stared through the window and out to the boathouse that was the shelter for The Frigga, his craft. The forty-five foot long boat was the fastest in her class, probably in any class, and not only employed stealth technology that any government would pay handsomely to have, but also was the floating home to an experimental device that every world power would kill to get its hands on— if they even knew it existed, which was unlikely.

Unlikely because Sven was the one man in the world who could design such a boat, and the device it shrouded, but he was forgotten about years ago, not long after the the last Where Are The Nobel Winners Now article was published about him. Even the Zabatinos forgot about him soon after they were paid for building The Frigga.

“Why did I board that ship?” Sven mumbled as he ran his hand through his shoulder length hair, “Where in the world did the nerve come from to even enter the zone after the storm? Twice before that I didn’t enter, but why did I enter on the third activation?”

Of course he knew the one answer to all those questions. The end game, the Jesus pudding— the proof.

Every experiment would be a failure if there was no authentication of the results, and Sven Larsen never failed to grab substantiation of the end process. And that proof would only satisfy him and never be made public.

No- being in the spotlight was too much for Sven to bear. All the attention he was given after being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize created so much anxiety that he fled Sweden to land on some piece of secluded Maine coastline. He chose Maine because of a conversation he had with his nephew Lars who told great tales of pristine and rugged shores. There was also the fact that America was loaded with eccentric hermits, people who were the center of rumors, sure, but those rumors always faded into myths- and then nearly disappeared altogether.

His expansive cedar cabin, his boathouse, his dock, his boat, him- all just far enough away from anywhere to be an inconvenience to anyone who wanted to check up on him. So nestled away in the nooks and crannies of Maine’s jagged coast, that when he brought The Frigga over from Italy he spent three days looking for his boathouse, which was incredible considering his hobby since a child was navigating the seas— his father was a great sailor and a splendid teacher.

Sven built generators using solar power, wind, and trace amounts of fossil fuels, allowing him to be tucked away and giving even fewer people reason to know he was out on Ellis Point.

“I should never have panicked and taken that locker to Lars,” he said rubbing his stubble covered chin. “I must get it back and destroy it before the world comes crashing down on me….” …I need to call Lars and tell him I want to buy that trunk back. I’ll leave for Castine and call him on the way, which means a daytime mooring at the docks, which means people, which means I’ll run the risk of an anxiety attack.

But I’ll die from panic sure as I am standing here if I don’t act now.

After quickly washing his hands one more time, Sven slipped out of the lab coat, put on the cardigan hanging on one of the hooks attached to the kitchen door, and headed out towards The Frigga.

Sven could create scientific magic, he could build planets, he could solve unsolvable equations, and he could bend elements to his will, but give him a simple household chore— such as eliminating an annoying thumping against the backdoor every time he opened or closed it —and he would grunt, “I really need to take care of that”, and then promptly forget about it.

Just like those menial tasks, he rarely thought about the gold medal awarded to him decades ago, for his work in physics, and when he did think about it, he rued over misplacing it. All the while, that medal was hanging from a hook, covered by a never worn sweater, on the back door.