Short story 11-27-10

Let’s go to Reno. I hear God lives there. I’m not sure where, tho. We were at Tim’s. My shoes were off. That’s what you do at Tim’s. Take your shoes off so you don’t drag dirt into the house. It makes sense. Any ways, we were at Tim’s and he has all of these pictures around his house. You know, like pictures of rivers flowing down mountains. And pictures of lion prides. And of Mary holding baby Jesus. Then mixed in with everything are pictures of dead people. Lots of pictures of dead people. Mostly babies. It’s weird. I told him that. Any ways, Tim has this girlfriend. Molly, or Holly. Maybe it was Jenny. I can’t remember. She seemed smart. Kinda. Kinda weird too. Any ways, we’re sitting there with our shoes off and she starts talking about this and that. Her uncle in Kentucky. Her mother’s co-worker who joined the Peace Corps after college. Then she says she has this doctorate. Doctorate, can you believe it?! So, naturally I become curious. I press her for details. She says she studied the doodles in the margins of scriptures. Her words exactly. The doodles. I’m not sure I believe this whole doctorate thing, but it seemed entertaining so I went with it. Any ways, we’re sitting there talking about what kinds of things a doctorate in doodles requires. The classes she had to take. The projects she did. I don’t think I’ve told you much about Tim and Molly/Holly/Jenny. Every time I’ve hung out at their house they’re on some kind of drug. I think drugs were involved in her doctorate. Any ways, she starts talking about this class that she took called… “something pictures”. “Hidden pictures” or “meaning of pictures”. Something like that. Doesn’t matter. So she tells us that in this class the teacher had huge framed pictures and paintings and works of art made from string or torn up clothes. Weird stuff. She said every class period they would take apart a picture and describe, in detail, everything. Every little idea they could find. Any ways, she tells us that for homework assignments they were supposed to go to thrift stores and flea markets and find pictures and study them. They didn’t have to buy them, just give detailed descriptions. She said she loved the projects so much that she bought every painting she did her homework on. I guess pictures of dead people became a fascination. That’s why Tim has all of these pictures on his walls. They are Molly/Holly/Jenny’s. Any ways, she goes on to say that her teacher had found some really interesting visions in some of the pictures he had. It sounded kinda like seeing faces in potato chips or a macaroni dinner. Either that, or this guy had done some massive amounts of drugs in his day. She said he showed this painting to her class that was two obese children, standing together, naked except for their diapers. I mean she was describing these as masterpieces. Any ways, she said that her teacher would always go on and on about this painting. You know how people have life long projects? Well, I guess this was his. Except not life long. He had only found it during that semester he taught her. He knew there was something in the painting. She said he had it posted on his wall in his studio. Across from his desk so he would always be looking at it. I guess it kinda creeped her out. And made him go a little mad. I suspect the drugs had more to do with that then the painting. Any ways, they went through the class and the teacher kept pressuring them more and more to find messages. She said he would tell them to shoot their brains out and then sort through and find something. That was a direct quote. I assumed she wasn’t talking literally, but still asked. She said that they would often photograph the pictures to get better detail. Then use them as evidence. Any ways, I guess he stopped showing up for classes. Stopped grading their homework. All because of this stupid painting. I guess she took that class as a junior. And that after that semester, she didn’t see him until she graduated. She said she assumed he hadn’t figured out what the painting said. Or that maybe it drove him too mad. Any ways, I asked if she had talked to him at graduation. She said she asked him if he found anything. And that he got quiet. That he looked away for a minute. And that when she was just about to apologize for bringing it up, he answered. You ready to hear what he told her? I guess this master of finding messages, this guy who spent who knows how long looking at a picture, told her not to eat McDonalds. He said the painting told her it would make people fat. Just like the kids. Then I guess he walked away. Any ways, she said that over the years she had continued to collect pictures. She would go to flea markets wherever she was and would look for paintings or pictures. She said she didn’t study them as close, but they still interested her. I guess there were some that were pretty strange. So I asked if she had a favorite. You know, one that she couldn’t live without or something. I guess she had one that she loved, but Tim made her give it away. I didn’t ask about it. Any ways, she took me into this room that I had never been in and walked over to the far wall. She stopped in front of a small picture and said this one. I walked up to the picture and stared at it for a while. It was simple. A man dressed up like Jesus was standing in front of a billboard. And on the billboard was a message. It said, “God lives in Reno! Come visit”.

revision...

3 a.m.
Our last drink was number 4 past my limit. We should find a cocktail. Let’s walk the streets silently screaming attack us for our crimes. You’re holding my hand. As I kiss your neck. Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a hood rat with some blow. This all happened in a matter of minutes.

3:07 a.m.
- And no one thought?
- People hid their thoughts. It was easier to ignore than to be put in an uncomfortable situation.
- So you were sad all the time?
- I lied to myself to make it easier on everyone else. Found an area in my head where no one could question. It wasn’t obvious why…

3:11a.m.
We stop to pee on the church lawn. A man is laying in a pile of vomit – he stands up and points to the sky. Tells us Jesus lives but kills the sinners.
…we grow numb as he throws words through our paradise.

Tuesday - mid march

You walked into the room.
And now you’re undressed – smoking a cigarette down to the filter.
We’re laying in bed.
Our clothes, on the floor.
Crumpled like the revisions of love letters I throw away.

There was yelling coming from next door.
We’re in the kitchen – you’re cooking Betty Crocker.
There’s no more beer, we’re out of vodka, obviously out of tequila.
I’m not ready for the whiskey.
Two days from now we will see the bruises on her face.
And in three – more yelling.

I’m writing you a love poem
And now we’re sitting on the couch – at opposite ends.
A porn from 1973 on the tv – background noise.
This is our love theme, turn up the volume so the neighbors can hear.
Your smile is distracting me.

A man is running around naked in the street.
We’re leaving the house.
We keep the door unlocked – no longer worried about our secrets escaping.
The man screams about Jesus living under the freeway bridge.
I hand him leftovers of Betty.
Then he starts to pee on our shoes.

Poetry assignment...

He was an Elvis impersonator, a damn good one at that -
With a drive through attitude and knack for things fried golden -
Servicing in the middle class McDonalds two blocks
From our condo- with fingers as smooth as snakes he played –
Rockin’ pianiste was the title he gave himself,
Added the late e to emphasize greatness, prestige.
And because he didn’t appreciate “piano dude”.
I remember eating chicken nuggets with you, graciously
Going through pieces – ecru colored - is this chicken;
Is this meat; what we should expect from a pianist McDonalds
Or can I tip this man for playing Bach with a hairdo in
Tribute to the guru of rock, Mr. Elvis himself?
But then one day it hit me, like the heart attack I
Got from excessive fried-ness and obesity
that this is real life and the man emitting melodies
over deep fryer complaints in his lilac obscenity
is just a rock n roll hound dog in middle America.

Our last drink was number 4 past my limit. We should find a cocktail. Let’s walk the streets silently screaming attack us for our crimes. You’re holding my hand. As I kiss your neck. Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a hood rat with some blow. This all happened in a matter of minutes.

- And no one thought?
- People hid their thoughts. It was easier to ignore than to be put in an uncomfortable situation.
- So you were sad all the time?
- I lied to myself to make it easier on everyone else. Found an area in my head where no one could question. It wasn’t obvious why…

This has become too easy. I have run out of fingers to count the stares. So you lend me yours. That’s why I love you. That’s why they think we are sinners.

But to our advantage,
we grow numb as they throw words through our paradise.

THIS IS MY ODE FOR YOU...YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

I went to visit my rock tonight.
I walked around the dark
Making my way to the river banks,
I once promised her.
To the idea of laughter as a form of medicine.
I stopped on a hill half way down to the shore…
And saw her through the night.
She was laughing.
I told you we would laugh together.
One day in the future.
I walked to my rock
No longer feeling the need to protect.
It was the part where we checked the glue.
Tell me a story…
I asked.
You told me a story…
of two birds who went through trials together.
You said that each time one of the birds flew off in search of something different,
the other bird’s heart broke a little.
Each time the bird that stayed behind
thought it was the last time she would have to go through this.
Each time her heart broke a little,
her soul grew stronger,
her mind grew smarter.
And with each time her mate left,
she was able to rely on other birds around to help her survive.
Every aspect of her life grew and changed.
And each time the mate came back she was stronger.

Well rock, it looks as if your bird has come back to stay.
I asked my rock to promise me one thing
For the future.
I told her to promise she will be happy.
Because I have learned that through happiness
Comes strength.
My rock looked at me and smiled.
She said she will remember the times when her eyes hurt from nights of tears.
She said she will remember her place in my life.
And then she said she will promise to be happy.

Can I ask one more question,
I said.

Can I stay in your life?

This looks serious! It’s just a grasshopper chasing you. Change your crescent upside down – just a mouth forming a history of solutions to problems with issues. Copper corn drops and my wings are too small. I can’t fly away from this. The orchestra at the end of the movie tells me when to leave. But when I walk through the doors of the theater I fall off a cliff. Blind! I can’t see unless I’m looking at stars. Summer come faster cause I can’t sit still. The dots on my ceiling have taken forms, and as I tell you, I wonder how many more times I can do this before you think I’m crazy. Space Mountain. Octopi. Hopefully, you’ll never think I’m crazy. There is a woman in my home. She makes the trumpets sound. I accept you not, she stares. Hate crimes in my own house? I don’t care what you think - if your god is not going to take me to heaven. It’s hard to go somewhere you don’t believe in. This is what you want, right? For me to be as far away from you as possible. I’m listening to my winter music right now. It’s the first week of summer and snow has drowned the trees once more. Will we ever see the sun again?

We drive the countryside where I
play a game of eye spy with things
popping up that I can in no way relate to.

I spy with my little eye something
run down. Something rural and
brown or green…
the color of a deserted ghetto. Hidden life.

With miniature models of mountains
in the future, windblown hair
in the now and a western sky in the past

we keep on truckin'. Past Baptist
churches abandoned save depleted swings
made for the children of God. Past those whispered
prayers left behind from struggling mothers.

Past replicas of childhood daydreams -
wooden homes, matching red barns.
Here's the church, here's the steeple,

open the door and see all the people
kind of stuff. Follow a trail of endless
roads enclosed by fences made to
trap the wild. Trailers sit on blocks;

definition of your home. Mismatching
coats of spray paint mask the
love in this cowboy country.

We drive by the gentle melodies
of acoustic guitars. Oh mother bear, how
you defeat the surface. Lulling your cubs
to sleep with stories of your own.


Appreciation finds its way into my
vocabulary here. Opposites creep
through the cracks of observation.
I played make-believe with wishes

for purple unicorns and vampires
to be real in the future. They played
make-believe with wishes for water
to be clear. For money to be constant.

At least that’s what I thought,
at first glance. Until I put my eyes away
and listened. Until they told me of their wishes
to be smart like mommy. And strong like

Daddy. I open my eyes as I play
this game and realize I come from a
different land.

Where appreciation is left out.
and I ask if there can be a middle
to this middle class society?

I CAN’T TELL YOU THE TRUTH WITHOUT YOU REALIZING HOW MUCH I’VE CHANGED:

This is a poem of relevance….

Minus the love….

Plus the plastic flowers you kept in a rusted can in your room…

Minus the nights we spent under the stars searching for other planets…

Plus the blue rocket bike you gave me for my birthday…

This is a poem of rectitude…

Handcuffs chaining you to walls of ignorance…

Lies negate anything you’ve believed…

Leave this room of unconformities…

Don’t you like it?

There's a figure of an angel
standing lonely over your bed.
I didn't see her
until you woke up, eyes searching.
You asked her so softly
lets walk out of here, lets leave this room of mine.

And for a second my head dropped
eyes tired of watching your frail body.
But it only took you that one second, for you to skip your goodbyes.
That final red line, floating through the room -
the last note in your number.
And I panicked as the doctors ran...

Your angel took me by the shirt sleeve
led me out of your cold room.
Doctors rushing, nurses yelling
another person down during their time.
And I'm crying, repeating all our shit that's gone by.
A film reel playing memories in my head.

I worry that I didn't say goodbye
and that you left feeling forgotten.
I worry that the only constant in the past
months you struggled to call life
were the silent prayers to your angel...
asking for today.

I’M NOT AN ALCHEMIST, ‘CAUSE YOU’RE ALREADY GOLD…

This is a conversation. For you.

Have you ever seen a rock cry?

My rock is broken. And crying.

This is new for me.

I’m sitting next to my rock. It’s night. My rock’s glow has been drowned out

By a somber sky.

It will all be ok.

I tell her.

I have gendered my rock.

That makes her feel real.

I know my rock hurts and is feeling…

Used?

But I assure her that we can find some glue to patch her up.

…wait…not “can”, but “will”.

We will fix you, together,

I tell her.

And by this time, in the future,

I will be sitting with my rock,

On river banks,

Listening to her laugh.

I tell her,

Think about the rocks in your life. What will happen to them?

I ask my rock a question,

In hopes to be part of prevention…

Where does the greater impact occur?

If you fall off a cliff, will we still be affected in 10 years?

Is that what you want us to remember you as?

We have a conversation.

News flash: rocks are on the endangered species list.

Did you know that?

Too many have broke, fallen, or become unwilling to be stationary – stable.

I tell my rock,

That the contradictions in life, the cracks everyone has,

If fixed the right way,

Will only make you stronger.

I tell my rock,

That I think we are already patching up the pieces.

And the buckets placed sporadically outside, catching rain water, can easily be turned upside down in order to be stood upon when reaches are too great for arms. And the cats meow ironically sounds like your clock radio. That same clock radio that so often inconsiderately wakes you from a slumber deeper than the depths of hell. And when you hit snooze you feel as if time has stopped. And when you lose your place in your dream, life no longer works like the lights in your room that when turned on stay off. And the window opens up outside to one of those buckets collecting water used to wash whatever happens to be dirty. Today it’s the flowers laying in beds of mud. Wilting away from excessive torture from this and that. yesterday it was the front walk, dusted dirty by trampling feet and wind blown erosion. But still before all this is done, first things first. Snooze goes off on the treacherous clock and again you think about slamming the button so hard the numbers fall back, but you don’t. your dream is done and reality has lit up thanks to the blazing sun. get up and out of bed for only depression could keep you down and we want, more than anything, to not show that part of life.

But when I woke up I remembered that the only reason we were in this life was cause my dream. And I was nervous that the boxes sitting around the room would take form creating a vicious atmosphere that’s not safe for a fish in a tank. But luckily the world I’m present in is simply made up while my real reality is an emphasis on my imagination where I can take hold of the sun and turn it upside down when I want night to cover the sky. But my only problem with that is the sense of being doesn’t always arrive in the nick of time like it does in fairy tales of kings and queens. And you try to tell me that its ok for me to live like this but what no one gets is that I cant live not knowing a single person inside out and outside in. for made up characters are always fine and peachy except when they start talking back. but I suppose when you start hearing voices from those that reside in imagination you can remove yourself from responsibilities and what not. For more than likely you will be in a home with walls covered in padding and doors of white. And its then that people will start to believe that they couldn’t believe you for when you said you were ok it wasn’t actually you speaking. and when you said nothing was wrong, well, that was simply a lie. But then I turn over and I realize that while im still laying in my bed and you’re still questioning my existence in a world filled with a lack of emotion from every third person I cant stop staring at the crack between the door and its frame. And I wonder how something so restricting can have slips that can let in ghosts that float around spooking those small children we have yet to abandon. and that’s when I blurt out what, in a voice unfamiliar to myself and you turn and stare at me as if im a stranger from a strange land laying in bed with you. what? You ask and I turn a cherry shade of red for it wasn’t you saying anything but the people from my real world of hims and hers that, well, I’ve never really met, cause, well, they aren’t really alive. And you ask what again and I say only in my dreams does reality become real and only in life do my dreams come true. And although it makes very little sense to you and me both I know that you turn over and fall asleep cause that’s who you are and this is who I am. So I continue to look and count and reach for the items that surround me in the room I call home. But then it strikes me that im not really sure who I’m talking too because as I lay my arm onto your side of the bed….all I feel is the coolness of an empty sheet. And the space where nothing has been for a long while.

What I wanted, was a six foot pole in a summer rain storm. Or maybe just a leaf falling 100 feet south of a pine tree top. Dear friend, yell at me, scream at me when I’m wrong.

Once we sat in a car and got high – we were in a parking lot in the middle of perfection. I thought we were invisible.

Later, I slept walked to the river bend. You left your knife under your pillow so when you woke me, asking to help save them, I wasn’t in any danger. All I wanted was for you to reciprocate my feelings. Key word: wanted. I say honesty and your thesaurus mouth replies I live in fiction, exaggeration, deception. We took the same turn onto two different roads. Now we can’t stay here.

My wish is – I see now. That water and fire can’t mix.

be honest with yourself

Dear Betty,

I tried to ring you last night. No answer. I tried to inform you of my decision to abolish this act that we play; to let you know that when the sun rises tomorrow, my phone will be turned off, my sheets will be cold, and your world will be turned upside down. Hopefully.

Betty, I tested it out today. I wanted to feel that burn of something other than my anger flow through my body. I have the scar to prove it – which could be a forever reminder if I fail, yet again, tomorrow. But I feel confident in my methods and don’t think I’ll have to worry about hiding my scar. Hopefully.

Betty, how I wish you could see me right now. See that glow in my eyes and the flush of my cheeks. I finally have a plan that I can accomplish. I can’t tell you how great that makes me feel. Like a new life will be born, in a different world. Hopefully.

It’s been a couple years since this has been on my agenda. My hands haven’t stopped shaking since yesterday at noon – perhaps it is my excitement, my nervousness, or maybe six headache pills at once was three too many. My alarm is set for 5:30am so I can see the sun rise. I’ve been told it is a beauty – me being such a night owl, I rarely enjoy a sunrise. Tomorrow should be different though. Hopefully.

Well Betty, I don’t have much left to leave you with. I tried many a time to let you step in. You must not have gotten the invitation. I’m sorry for that, I think we could have made a good team. I’m also sorry for any inconveniences I’ll be causing you, but I think in the long run you’ll make it. Perhaps even learn something. Hopefully.

Have a good nights sleep – this might be your last for a while.

With all the hope in the world for you,

Me.

so the end of that last post is bullshit....sometimes nice guys really do finish last.

whats on my mind you ask? whats on my mind? how about a brief stint in sanity followed by a long period of being insane. does that work for you? how much would you mind just letting loose of those things that hold you back….realizing that not everything can be accomplished, not everyone can be ok with everyone else. what do you miss about life that is no longer? do you miss the times where responsibility was never forced? when life was explored as you grew with it? how do you be happy again? what are the constants in life that help you reach happiness? you ask me my definition and i reply, i know what it is, i know what i want but the journey is the rough part. i apologize for being frank, for being upfront about whats on my mind. i apologize for not being ok, but i need to let things out sometimes. who doesn't? the body is amazingly adaptable. things can happen, things can be endured that not everyone will understand. but the mind will work through the problems and come out on the other side. emotionless. i sit and wonder. stare at the dark of loneliness. i'm sick of all this woe is me bullshit. life is too short not to be happy. i have to make a promise to myself to change myself. to become a better person. i know that i go through ups and downs - thats what makes me human. instead of dwelling on things to make me down, find the good and focus on that. realize how nice it feels to be nice to someone. do not overwhelm yourself, but do not think that you are better than those around. when it all comes down to it, life is about surrounding yourself with people who are good for you. with people who understand you and will care for and about you no matter what. if you just be happy and nice to people you shouldn't have to worry about them fucking you over in the long run.

I've come to the conclusion that I really am not a fan of titles. Whether it be a title to a post, a poem or titles in life. I think so many people have grown up with this idea that having some kind of title is a safe, sound and successful thing. Therefore, people strive to obtain this goal while in the meantime missing everything they are passing by.

I grew up, much like everyone else in this country, in a place where titles could make or break a person. High school was the beginning to this dreadful existence....popular kids ate lunch over here, jocks ate lunch over there, blah blah blah. I guess if I were to label myself in High School, I would have been a loner. But those of you who know me now might not agree with that. Yes I am shy and yes I can fail to be social - often - however, the title of loner seems to not properly describe me.

I think titles are generalizations of people that help everyone decide who they want to associate with, when in all actuality, everyone deserves a fair chance and if after the fact you disagree with that persons' morals, judgments, etc...then you can choose not to be part of their life. But as that saying goes...don't judge a book by its cover.

with japan on the other line

asking me for autographs from Godzilla

in hopes to compare with those from

their sushi monster,

i listen to you yell

for fried fish and a bottle of saki.

but you convinced me

that you'll be a pirate with a

sailor growl just as rough as the rest of them.

and that way as we walk

from department store to department store,

stalking the belt racks,

i can be your translator.

for your language

is toned up from native talk

and surly if they found out

we'd get hanged.

but after our adventure

we can dive into another,

like i dive every other tuesday into a bowl of lime green jello.

and then a loud beeping goes off

and it's the alarm for fires.

and then a loud beeping goes off

and it's the alarm for smoke.

and then i realize

it's just the microwave.

open the door and

bugs fall from warm bread.

bread rub.

bread rub time.

i place it on my head

and immediately

thoughts of unicorns eating sunflowers

come rushing in.

and i feel much better.

but with a bed empty and a floor full

i practice walking on the ceiling

while standing on my head.

If you have super powers are you obligated to save the world?