Sobo's Blurty
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Sobo's Blurty:
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| Sunday, April 13th, 2003 | | 9:42 pm |
Pre-Buddha: The Self-Test Notes
How do I decide what the truths are?
I jumped down the stairs and scared a lady on her rear. I offered a hand to help her up; the bitch just groaned and rolled her eyes back in her head.
-The excitement of my 9:30 Diet Coke break is to blame.
I worked up the courage to talk to the red headed girl across the room this morning. I had wanted to for a while. “Do we have a test today?” I said.
-Good news: we don’t have a test today.
There is a different red headed girl I want. But I can’t think about her face. Every time I picture her face, the horrible fat-assed glasses girl with horsy facial features shows up instead. Damn that horse girl, and her pile of pink, used handkerchiefs.
-I don’t even try to picture my red head girl anymore. Because: Lady McClydesdale of the Fatbottoms has conquered the Britons.
Someone I don’t understand is the immigrant woman in front of me. Is she Mexican? Is she Russian? I’m never sure if her accent is French or Asian. Maybe she is Argentinean; She isn’t very dark skinned. Maybe she is Portuguese.
-Maybe she’s from Andorra. Maybe I will ask her. | | 9:41 pm |
Sunday's Thoughts of Saturday
So the star of the show doesn't leave the house until one. I often leave prior to nine but this day, one. All the morning held was online sweater shopping and breakfast cereals.
Actually I awoke to an unreasonable hard-on; a morning stiff. Why? Only God knows. Perhaps its an alarm clock, for men, built right in. And there’s only a few options for dismissing it.
Finally I got out of bed at 11:15. The day was bound to be a boring house day, so I moped and grumbled through cereal and eggnog. And I showered and clipped my nails.
Journey to the Center of the Earth: when the duck taps out nonsensical Morris Code. I believe the duck’s name was Gertrude but I’m too tired to check the book across the room.
War books. Second World War. What was Vietnam for? America’s attempt to solve overpopulation?
Caroline works very hard. She likes the hunt, the chase, the slouch. Slight wrecks with trees and carts. Robyn: she examines x-rays, fun and games.
I want her, Katie, I just want to hold her and give her peace and love. It hurts me so much each time I see her. Damn Spencer and Joel and Nick and Dan. Her life, she is so fragile. And Nick… where’d what go?
-my trust.
So, the night began with a smoke and a drink and a slum.
But whether we left the night on terms of malice or friendship, the star was home in time for church the next morning.
For in the church
the young men trick,
and they steal God’s property.
They kiss girls lips
And soft finger tips
Slip soul from tender body. | | Wednesday, April 9th, 2003 | | 1:35 am |
The Day I Found Out Cat Stevens isn’t as Popular as I Had Hoped
Dust. Hair and skin and fuzz. My teacher says dust is mostly parts of meteors, but I don’t believe her. Why would a mass of rock travel millions of years just for me to inhale in my sleep? That’s why I sleep with my mouth closed; dust is fine and all, but I just don’t want to wake up with meteorites stuck to my teeth and lungs.
My alarm clock is dusty. It’s a windshield lightly covered with snow before school. When I wake up, Beep Beep Beep: Snow driving, avoiding the windshield. Not headlights approaching, rather the green numbers. 8:15. Damn, my weak morning arm struggles to support a heavy hand up, over, down on the snooze button.
I pour a bowl of Cream of Wheat. Dust. Tasteless, dirty, dust, just add milk. The dust absorb milk and grow fat and capitalistic.
How much for your bowl of hot cereal? Is it worth it? Where’s the profit? | | 1:33 am |
I Foolishly Accepted the Quest
Donna Sutherland sat at her computer in the old wooden chair. Her husband said it was an antique; she said it was a piece of shit. The back was long broken and since glued. It rocked with her typing. The farther her fingers stretched from the safety of “d” and “k” the more her crumbling chair swayed. With each extension towards “p” or “b” she would contemplate her diet. True, she was fairly bottom heavy. She probably carried the most extra weight of all the women in her investment club. But why shouldn’t she be? She was the richest! And all those other women sure kept their noses awfully close to her caboose. | | 1:33 am |
Controlling the Pet Population
What is the purpose in conception? My dog is pregnant. All I can think is, “why me?” I should have been more cautious. I should have protected her. The problem is I just don’t think I’m ready at this stage in my life to take care of puppies. So the big question is looming before my bitch’s girth: what do I do with the puppies?
I don’t want to worry that those who adopt them will be vile or injurious to the ever so vulnerable pups. It would be down right wicked to bring puppies into a world where food is scarce and homes are few. And what about the mother? She is much too young to enter the world of parenthood. She has her whole life ahead of her; puppies would mess everything up. So much for a future as a working dog. So much for a fun, active future brimming with self-enjoyment.
I’m not sure how I feel about the solution pressed by the family of the father. I’m not sure how I feel about the validity of the procedure. I’m not sure if the scissors in the tiny puppy skull is moral. I am sure, however, that the procedure is perfectly legal until the pups leave the womb. It has to be…
Doesn’t it? | | 1:33 am |
Detroit, Rock City
After the Member’s Credit Union, I rode in the aqua minivan next to Craig. Our conversations ere littered with conservative propaganda, numerous puns, and an over-enunciated ass. The pleasant surprise of the afternoon was actually “riding” in the van. Craig never volunteered to drive. Craig never drove. Also, Craig never volunteered.
The array of small speakers throughout the aqua van sang tinny Scorpions and an even more scratchy Joplin tune. I wondered how so many bad singers became popular.
Craig didn’t know, and offered to put in Tom Petty or Jimmy Buffet.
In the driveway I fumbled my keys and they hid amongst the yellow leaves. “Trees litter more in one season than most people do in their whole life!” Craig mused himself and kicked a maple. He waited for me to respond, agree, support; I searched the piles of nature’s rubbish, kicking and frustrated, for my keys.
Craig watched me search the yellow leaves. “Then, I’ve cleaned up a lot of litter in my life.” I retorted, watching Craig smile contently.
He mumbled monotonically the only known lyrics to Detroit Rock City which, as it happens, were “Detroit, Rock City!”
“Hell!” I shouted half at the song, half at the elusive keys. I kicked a tree.
“Are you sure you dropped them?” | | 1:32 am |
The Kerzen Haus
“Some has flowers and some has cats and some has dogs and some has candles and some are praying.” I knew she was talking about the stone carved figures by Demdaco, but oh how much her words felt prophetic. The young girl played with the little stone angels and spoke words that would mean, I was almost positive, something completely different later in my life. “Some has flowers, huh?” I asked the bored little girl.
Her mother laid brown table cloths and taupe runners and cocoa placemats on the sales counter. She was shorthaired and efficient, probably liberal. “I’m not done yet; I’m still looking.” She retorted, as I walked behind the register. The woman looked at the wooden spoons and then at the whisks.
“So,” I asked the little girl, “d’you have one of these?” I pointed to the stone angel holding the cat; she was favoring it the most. “Do you have a kitten?”
Her eyes lit up and she shouted “No, I have one of these!”(Little girls often don’t know their volume controls.) She laughed. How obvious! I was silly for even asking! She picked up the angel with a candle and, holding it close to her pink ruffled chest, she began to sing an indecipherable song in which occasionally sprung forth the word angel.
“’s not mine, she’s my husband’s” the woman explained. “’s got quite the imagination; come on Kaylee. I’m ready, thank you.” She said assuming I was ready. “These runners, do they come without the fringe?” Taupe fringeless runners were the most important thing to her, more important than chocolate placemats and wooden spoons, more important than Kaylee. She set the girl up on the counter and followed me down a step to the cloths.
I tightened my jaw and, sensing the desperation in her voice, frantically searched the cellophane packages for the woman’s joy. After producing it, she gave me a check and a renewed sense of self worth.
I smiled at the quirk of fate. Here I was, sliding this woman’s proudest accomplishment into a paper sac. That morning I had slid one of my own proudest accomplishments into a paper sac. A self-made corned beef and pastrami sandwich with spinach, Muenster, deli mustard and cucumber on healthnut bread. I had even wrapped it in wax paper. Soon enough, I would slide that out of the sac and partake in self reliance.
“Okay Hun, go put the angel back on the shelf where you found it.” She set Kaylee on the carpet and sent her off, running.
“What do you suppose it all means?” I asked the woman.
She was puzzled.
“What your daughter said,” I clarified. “‘Some has flowers and some has cats and some has dogs and some has candles and some are praying.’ I mean besides the stone models; what do you think it means?” I was mystified. It had to mean something else. It had to.
“I don’t know; zip up your coat; is everything in the bag?–thank you.” She took the little girl’s sleeve and the heavy door closed fast and hard. I was left alone to consider the tiny daughter’s insight. I took out a thick inky pen and wrote those words on a card. “This will be valuable information someday,” I defended my hand’s actions to my head.
The backroom lunch table is covered in pictures. Always the happy moments in the employees’ lives: weddings, births, brunch parties, families, and pets. I unfold the wax paper on top a series of wedding photos. I set my soda can on top a man holding a koala. Out of my wallet comes the card. “…Some has candles…” I whisper, covering me and my happy sisters with the card. It’s a bad picture; we look emaciated and pale. With sandwich in my mouth, my front teeth cutting and my back teeth grinding, I watch the pictures on the table. There are more on the new, black filing cabinet in front of me. Some pictures are taped to the back door and still others are in large collages, framed above the water cooler and microwave. So many people have sat in this exact same spot, cutting their lunch with front teeth and grinding it with back teeth.
Everyone is connected, everyone related. Behind me the growth of a family is charted. Pink girls with flowers and feathered bangs hold cakes or boys’ anxious palms. I smile at Brenda’s mammoth St. Bernard sleeping with a kitten, her infant grandson with long, filing-cabinet-black hair. Underneath my brown paper sac is the final stage of the rising family. I see John, venerable yet enigmatic. I think about John, established and cautious, passing the flame to a faceless hand.
“…Some has candles,” I read from the card, “and some are praying.” All the faces taped up on walls or pressed under glass listen; they light their candles and live their lives. They light their candles and mourn. So many lives connected through one building. Some have youth and some have friends and some have lovers, but all of us have candles.
“…And some are praying.” | | 1:32 am |
As the Son of a Son of a Sailor
I never was a big fan of ships or boats. Growing up I had friends who dreamed of having the same career as their fathers. I dreamed of what my father’s career was. I had the basics down. Dad goes away and lives on a ship. Several months later he comes home and we go fishing, or hunting, or down to visit grandma. So whatever it was my father did, it must have been important. He was gone long periods of time, and checks were sent to the house. Sometimes my sisters and I would miss him and want him home to tickle us or drive us to school. Other times we would blush with embarrassment riding to school in his corroded Oldsmobile. (He eventually gave the heap away)
But while he was gone earning money and providing for his family, we grew tall and skinny and wealthy and fatherless. I knew what it was like to have a two-fifths dad: A dad who lived at home, but not all the time. A dad who always loved me, but he sometimes was to far away for me to sense love. I grew through elementary and junior high and high school. I read lots of books about heroes and crooks and I learned much from both of their styles. I was the man of the house. I represented the masculine authority, bestowed unto me by my father upon his departures. “Remember, Jeff, you’re the man of the house. Watch out for them womenfolk. Keep them in line.” I foolishly accepted the quest. | | 1:29 am |
The Chinese Pirate Dagger
The cloudy pink and blue and green gems grew white and powdery. Rust ate their fasteners. It ate the carvings of dragons and vines and the rings looped with worn leather; it was so greedy, so hungry. The handle crooked to fit four tight miniature fingers; the silver rubbed brightest where sweaty digits once nervously gripped. Outside of the ornamented sheath, it was pitiful and corroded and brown. It wiggled in its footings and chipped in use.
The blade once lived on a ship. It stabbed admirals, cut salt pork, picked rotting teeth, and pointed the way towards plunder and maliciousness. Now, above the merchant marine licenses, it hangs pointing toward the pink shirts and swim trunks hanging on the line in the basement, points towards the gray card table with bowed legs. | | 1:28 am |
September Eleventh Made Me Sick
While most of the nation prayed to their gods and lit candles and set fireworks, I drove to work. The banners were pasted all over town, on buildings and cars, on shirts and hats. Red, white, and blue.
I felt the acids in my stomach climb towards the freedom inspired by the flags. A group of silver haired ladies toured the fire department. Each one had a hand bag or hat or fanny pack with the popular color combination. My eyes winced in pain.
I greeted my favorite eighty-year-old when I got to work. She moved here after World War Two, desperate to leave behind memories of nazis and death.
“Where’s your red and your white and your blue?” I asked her, surprised at the pink sweatshirt.
“I already loved this country.” | | 1:28 am |
Ping Pong Offerings
The Japanese man was very tall and thin. He wore skinny glasses and skinny pants. His shoes were scrupulous and his faded yellow shirt was smudged with integrity. Mr. Wagner spit out two numbers and hit the white plastic ball at the Japanese man.
Mr. Wagner had forgotten to shave again; his wife was out of town. He wore an inside out gray undershirt and maroon sweatpants. His little pointed teeth were ever-present through the huffs and pants. He envied his Japanese friend. Mr. Nakosumi was especially quick with his little wooden paddle.
Mr. Wagner knew the Japanese were comfortable with ping pong; He watched television. He knew the Japanese had small houses with small cars and small offices and small hotel rooms because of their small, overpopulated country. He also knew that they had smaller games. In Japan, Ping Pong was the little version of tennis. Thinking about this made him smile and forget about losing.
Mr. Nakosumi, single and tall, bent way down to his shoes, untied the double knots, and retied them. He waited for his friend to chase the ball. He watched it roll behind the stairs that led up toward the kitchen.
Mike fell to his knees and slid his furry arm under the stairs. He was embarrassed that the ball had gotten away from him. When he stood, sweeping dust off his maroon pants, he motioned for Mr. Nakosumi to open a new package of balls. | | 1:27 am |
The Drakes Take on Termites
I didn’t know that the name next to calculus meant anything more than professor. Drake.
MTH-141-calculus 1-Drake
I didn’t know where my class was. I didn’t know calculus. But, more, I didn’t know that five letter word meant The Drake -the man who spent more than half his life in universities studying calculus, physics, chemistry, nuclear physics, biology, biochemistry, and even entomology.
On Louisiana, Thus spoke The Drake:
“Now in the state of Louisiana there are many stretches of flat land. Highway 413 runs straight due south. County road 676 is a straight road that rungs directly into 413 at a 40.2o angle.
“Now, on 413 is the town of Swampsville and on 676 lays the community of Gatortown. The folks in these two towns had a huge problem. In between the towns was a gator swamp so the only way to get from either town was to drive 110 miles on 676 and 73 miles on 413. The major problem was that Swampsville made the best beer in the state, while Gatortown made the best gator burgers.
“So to have a good Friday night, the fellahs would have to get their burgers down in Gatortown, then drive 183 miles to Swampsville and buy the beer. Swamp beer, the good stuff.
“Your job is to find out where they should build the bridge between the two towns, the length of the bridge, and most importantly the angle between 676 and the new bridge.”
He waited for us to finish scribbling in our fresh notebooks with new thick, inky pens. I scratched the problem on the back of my Freshmen Comp. syllabus with a borrowed pencil. The Drake waited for silence and continued only to amuse himself.
“The angle is most important. The angle. Because of the way they make bridges in Louisiana, the angle is critical. When that first dozer starts pushing earth into the swamp he needs to be going straight towards Swampville. He pushes dirt, pushes dirt, pushes dirt. Then he runs out and sinks to the bottom of the swamp. Then they get another dozer to come and push dirt, push dirt, until he sinks.
“So as you can tell, its very expensive work building bridges over swamps. The answers need to be exact on this problem; the social lives of the poor townsfolk of Gatortown and Swamps Ville depend on your work.”
I woke up when he stopped talking; I broke the lead in the borrowed pencil. But The Drake was far from being done amusing himself.
On Termites, Thus spoke The Drake:
“Termites are very dumb. Termites don’t have big brains. But they can be very useful tools in math. Termites march in straight lines, see, that’s what they do. So if ever you need a distance between two points measured, go get a termite. Set him down in ink, and then have him march a straight line from point A to point B.
“Now, if you know the stride of a termite you’re all set. Just count the number of steps he took. Sometimes you might have to trim the legs so the stride is perfect. Termites: useful in measuring, but dumb as hell!”
I smiled and my insides laughed. Termites… Dumb as hell… | | 1:26 am |
With an Argentinean Accent
When I returned from my backpacking trip with Captain Adam in the Upper Peninsula, I saw a big puddle of ardor and splashed my way in. I welcomed infatuation. I tried my hand at match making and I avoided a thirsty Pisces. And the girl I chased relented and time was spent and words were few.
She was so milky and slender, eccentric yet mild. Her laugh soothed my cochleae. Her skin was always cold to the touch and I wanted nothing more than to rub her hands and arms warm. I remember the last thing she said before I retired that night. “Try to say/hear everything with an Argentinean accent”
She was an equestrian. | | 1:26 am |
I Only Lift One Seat
But its ok, I have good aim. I once believed I could fill over one thousand thimbles without one spatter hitting the ground. Unfortunately fluid waste is the only thing my hands aim perfectly. Sports. Yeah, I know my capabilities. But hell! Unless it’s long fleshy and pissing, I don’t even try. | | 1:25 am |
All for an Avocado
I wish my life was like television. Not the attractive but broken, wealthy family with a large house in California with a single mom who dates younger guys despite her children’s sabotage. No, I want the features of television included in my life. More, I want the elaborate plots and storylines and settings. My life would be so much more than produce shopping for a sibling.
I recently went out and bought an avocado for my sister. On my way back from the store I imagined my television life in the same scenario.
I offered to run the errand for my sister. I imagined walking in the house with THREE DAYS LATER in a plain white font down around my waist. I would be covered with dirt. Foliage would be tangled in my dusty hair. My cheek would have a crusted gash across it. My pants would be torn. One had would be clutching my broken ribs and the other would slam down the perfect avocado onto the counter. And I would say only this before stomping up towards the bathroom, “Here’s your damn avocado right here!”
The credits would roll. | | 1:25 am |
The Man Watching from the Base of the Mosquito River
My eyes stopped helping me read and ran across the beach then right, toward the stone slabs and rock formations. I saw the two younger hikers hopping water and climbing rock. (I had seen them earlier in the day when they started out from Chapel Rock. I had greeted them and then hobbled down the sandy banks to the beach. Had I stayed close I might have heard the one in the white had accuse me of homosexuality, and the taller one explain that I was just nice.)
I watched them take off their shoes and socks. The boy with the white hat removed his shirt without moving his Indians cap.
I struggled to entertain my mind with written story but my eyes rebelled in the presence of abundant natural beauty. I surveyed the horizon.
I now saw them sucking on fat cigars and slapping bare feet on the wet stone. I saw them blow the smoke- spit the taste. They were arguing, but I couldn’t hear that it was about whether nicotine was a stimulant or a depressant. I couldn’t hear the tall one complain about blisters and his feet. The boy in the white hat burned his fingers on the last few drags of the stubby ashes and flicked the butt into Lake Superior.
I regained control of mine eyes and glanced down at the page. It was one third blank besides a large black three. I closed the cover. | | 1:24 am |
I Need to Control my Racial Slurs
Well it’s not like I want to offend my Puerto Rican, Korean, Irish, Guatemalan, or German friends, but hell! I do it just the same.
Anyone born south of the border is labeled Mexican in my head. They speak “Mexican” and eat “beans and rice.” I try not to drink the water at these homes. So it crushes me to hear, “I’m Puerto Rican. I speak Spanish. Not “Mexican.”
Ouch, strike one.
And Black People. I had a very white friend in seventh grade that had black people hair. I recently was scolded for recollecting that Brian Purdy had black people hair.
He does.
Strike two.
My Korean friend was beautiful that night she dropped me off at the front door. I waited for her to shut up so I could touch her. My arms hugged her good bye but I wanted to kiss her. She was my cigarettes and chocolate milk. I said, “See ya in a couple months!”
Strike three; My Asian weakness dragged behind me as I scuffled toward the dugout.
Gone and banished before I could comment of the Irish or Germans or All of Europe for that matter. What a bunch of flaming liberal tree hugger, whale saver, baby killers. But maybe that’s why a scrawny Pollock like me wound up in a melting pot like this. | | 1:15 am |
I Want to Make Friends with an Overweight Leprechaun
Not just any overweight leprechaun, but the one who works at Olson’s as a cashier. He wears a glittery green vest and a derby and a sword through his ear. He is awfully grisly looking and drives a motorcycle to work.
When I make friends with the overweight leprechaun we will visit kitten farms and he will want to eat the big ones. After I explain they are pregnant, he will want one even more. We will travel across the state on his motorcycle and I will convince him to by a sidecar.
When I make friends with the overweight leprechaun that runs the sixth register at Olson’s Food Market, I will be a trickster. I will buy day old jelly donuts from Kathy at register two. I will place one on his normal sized bike seat and wait to see him place is extremely large bottom on the extremely messy treat.
On sunny Thursdays we will go out on Captain Adam’s boat and plunder Long Lake. And Captain Adam will make him sit on the left side of the boat while the cooler, the gas tanks, the Captain and I all sit on the right.
When I make friends with the overweight leprechaun I will buy the weekly world news instead of reading it in line. And I will get a matching sword through my ear.
I will persuade my lucky elephantine friend to not wear the ugly buttons-he made them at the community center- with pictures of his obese family and friends. He won’t wear the glittery green vest either. And Kathy at register two will ask him out for dinner in her rough emphezymic voice.
When I make friends with the corpulent leprechaun I will gain some weight and grow a beard. And my sisters will tell me to cut it off. | | 1:13 am |
Where the Street Bubbles
So here I lay with toothpaste covering my bumps and redness. My chest is rounded but my arms and legs are straight and thin. Thinking fills my head, resting on an awkward pillow. I replay the entire evening on the blank screen inside my skull. I cheer and applaud the protagonist and when it is over I watch the credits list all of the friends I enjoyed that evening. I gripe about the film, though. It wasn’t supposed to end like that!
She is my friend and would be leaving for college soon. Questions scroll across the marquee: “How come I feel like this now?” and “Why not before?” Regardless of the questions, the answer remains the same. I feel altered. The emotion is familiar, but when did I feel such joy, such elation, such rapture? I begin to peruse my past in hopes of finding a day of similar bliss. I was not supposed to fall in love. I was not supposed to go to bed feeling the way I did.
I feel much like I did on those humid August mornings where my only alarm was the golden beams bounding though my window. They would hop and dance through the leaves, and smother me with warmth. Eventually my blue eyes would rise to a world filled to the brim with the glowing yellow of God’s love.
During a syrupy breakfast the birds in the trees sang their arias, the crickets fiddled their sonatas, and the moths beat their wings to the cadence of nibbling caterpillars. The morning doves cooed; the grass rustled and hummed. I felt all of creation calling out to me, drawing me out to the paradise that surrounded my house.
On the front step the wind left an aura of manure and sweet corn. I took in the sweet mixture and held it in my nose as long as I could. It sent a message to my six year old brain, run! But I wanted to fight that gesture, I wanted to watch the melody and breathe the harmony. Wet grass clung to my feet; deep blue air stuck in my tiny rounded chest and made me run.
But as I lay in bed, I searched for excuses. I am older now; I am taller. Those signals of happiness that make me move are long gone. Air does not curve my lips and sun does not brighten my eyes, so why did she?
I was charming all night. At the sushi bar I was droll and courteous. Once her eyes lighted up and her teeth were glowing, I wanted nothing more than to preserve that beautiful face. After our meal of uncooked fish and vegetables, the horns called out to us.
Solid walls of brass smacked our faces inside the doors of the hall. I took off our wet jackets, from the soft rain coming down outside, and led her into a jungle full of screaming DOO-EEEs and SKIBBELDEE-BOPS. The trumpets slapped my back and shouted Dance! I checked courtesy at the door and swung her around. We stamped our feet and hopped through the crowd.
When we tired, I took her home and we played games on the carpet and turned on a movie. Eruptions of thoughts stuck inside my head. Was I watching the movie? My arm wrapped itself around her shoulder. My eyes watched the movie while I concealed my futile falling. As the tasteless film rolled on to credits, my eyes shifted from the blue glowing screen to the sampaquita beside me. I was in love.
My eyes grew large and eager as I thrust a pillow at her head, and then another across her back as she squealed and retreated. I did not feel lust or desires, just love. We struggled on the floor, immaturely wrestling. Her atmosphere stuck in my rounded chest and made me hungry.
On the porch I waited for silence. The moon lit her hair like silver threads shining. The moist muddy puddles in her eyes reflected my imminent gloom. I wanted to touch her, but her tongue continued producing chortles of contentment and appreciation. My arms hugged her, but I wanted to kiss her. She was my cigarettes and chocolate milk. I told her I would see her in a couple months. On the front step she left her aura of regret and jasmine.
Now, folded inside my bed, I watch the credits roll and wait for sleep. But my brain isn’t ready yet, he keeps replaying the evening. Commenting. I search the recesses of my mind for the switch that fades out thoughts; it’s too cluttered.
Back on those hot August days, I would peel the wet grass off my feet and wait for noon. All day long the sun would grind the street with intense dazzling rays. The grass beyond the tics of the sprinkler bowed to the vigor of the sun. Sometimes I would find ants or beetles underneath limp dogwood leaves on those hot August days. As I waited for the most scorching hour of the day I would bang rocks or search for sticks.
When that hour came, I would squat in the dust beside the road with a stick. My blue, glowing eyes would flutter about the street searching for the object of a six-year-old’s affection. The tar bubbled up between gravel and stone, it would ooze about the cracks. I was in love. My hands thrust a stick into the climax of an expanding bubble of tar. The eruptions of oily fumes stuck in my little rounded chest and made me happy. | | 1:12 am |
Girls Don’t Play Fair
From Chicago to Cadillac I rode in the stiff front seat of the red church van. Everyone fought over the red van. It was newer, cleaner, and transported only the coolest senior high church kids, and PR.
I read my Neon Bible, and ate candy and broke my whoopee cushion. PR would often interrupt my reading but eventually the boy killed the preacher and rode the train into a sunset. Having completed both books I brought on the trip, I shimmied and wriggled across three rows of gray bench seats and collapsed wheezing in Libby and Sarah’s thigh shelves.
I regained consciousness as the girls and I were apparently about to enjoy some little girl games. I often wonder why my life would be like if the predictions of seventeen-year-old girls rang true.
When I’ve had my twenty-eighth birthday, I will have already been married for ten months. Each morning I will stretch my arms above the headboard and lean to my left and kiss my much older wife. Her first husband died two years ago, and she lost the “Decision 2008” to a Clinton. That winter I swept her off her feet and we courted for a year, traveling the world before marriage.
We bought a penthouse overlooking Madrid and three Spanish orphans, me and my wife Elizabeth Dole Sobolewski. On my days off from the subway conducting job, I play my mandolin and taste my wife’s kiss, hear my wife’s political speeches, touch my wife’s back, smell my wife’s love, and then, watch my wife die.
I punched Libby’s arm and crumpled the paper with my future projected so accurately. Girls don’t play fair. |
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