Hardly Strictly

me the black seals a few of us in our stoned drunken glorious euphoric acid baked pod encapsulated within among amidst the multitude we gather in the meadow gather together to celebrate to immerse ourselves

to listen learn participate

doctor john having sailed his psychofunkadelicious whitebelly blacksoul riverboat self all the way here from that french confederate creole haven our majestic lady with a perverse jambalaya of petticoats rye whiskey french reds latex and blindfolds

the city of new orleans

doctor john having come to join us all in reverie and merriment come to join us all in these hardly strictly shenanigans of bluegrass by the bay deep within the whimpering fog long since defeated by the early october sunshine

right place right time

and we the black seals a loose confederacy of dunces of former adherents of the faithful grown older with our aches and pains but looser with our morals and attitude

comfortable in a certain aura of what the fuck that tends to ward the harsh from our mellow

and for that we are grateful

and we the black seals who many a year ago came together about around a bottle of black seal rum imported all the way from that colonial home of knee length shorts and sock garters grown from some rock out in the atlantic ocean imported to our baghdad by the bay

oh what a world

what a world

a gathering around this bottle not out of any committed love for black seal or even rum in general

but rather simply from the inspiration of the moment

one pill makes you smaller

and we the black seals we now gather many years later here in our decrepit presence we now gather to express our love and admiration for doctor john our momentary journey into the heart of blacklit darkness a delving into sunday morning irreverence doctor john our own personal jesus of the hour our own personal satan

god is love is jesus is satan is god is love is jesus is satan

and we the black seals we who yes openly practice idolatry of the most blasphemous and perverse manner we shake our hips we wave our arms we do the funky chicken

we play air guitar air banjo air piano

we play air fiddle with a grin and a giggle

and we give thanks for our sacred church of the temporary respite because regular life won’t let us behave this way

and we pursue our own personal vices be they weed women or wine

and we oooh we ahhh as a big pink balloon comes bouncing back through the crowd launched from some amorphous virginal birth canal up near the stage up it pops bops floats

guided by its own faith its own fate

anonymous hands outstretched rising up above the mass of shaggy waggy bags of flesh and hair jiggling wiggling fingers dancing

here is the church
here is the steeple
open the doors
and see all the people

big pink balloon bouncing bopping

the people wanting only to touch his garbs they say oh they do say he has cured the sick raised the dead

and on the third day the big pink balloon bouncing bopping a gift from the goddess herself she who so loves the world that she farts bubbles of balloons spews them upon her worshipers and on the third day her spawn settles upon a sharpened nail

bursts

with a pop

just like that cycle of life

big pink balloon bops and pops its bloody remains plummeting to earth only to be picked up by an errant seagull who swoops down leaving a jet stream of biologic jetsam and anal jism upon the knit cap lidded cowboy hipsters from the mission an avian packrat fascinated captured by the shiny bauble that is this fragment of latex

who flies away carries it over the hill soaring with its mates over the presidio over crissy field over fort mason along the coast down to fisherman’s wharf circling down to land amidst the fatcat sealions piled one upon the other on the dock at pier thirty nine piled up in some orgiastic slithering and braying bacchanal

one of whom snaps at this avaricious avifauna specimen startles shakes confidences the shredded corpse of our savior the big pink balloon flips flies up into the air

a slow mo tumble cartoonishly animated by sparkles of salty sea sweat

snagged on either end by two other feathery cousins who pull tug stretch jesus armstrong across the span of its invisible cross that we bear

till it snaps yet again our buster keyton savior flip flopping air amoeba tumbling pink cotton candy only to land within the random trumpeting snout of some bubbling bull sea lion

in mid coitus

its rigormortic aquatic cock let loose upon his harem a finny fuck for any and all

who gulps swallows screams a horribly murdered prostitute pre-ghostly wail rolls over his rooster pointing sunward tongue flailing into an effervescent gurgle

a gagging

a sudden stillness

a still silence

a blubbery cock cooked cadaver surrounded by panicked females

witnessed by a towheaded minnesotan all of two and a half years on this here earth who up until this moment had been laughing and pointing at the silly seals while sitting comfortably in his daddy’s arm but who now also

sits still and silent

scarred

who we know will grow up this scene etched in his memory a cave painting of satirical savagery that will haunt him in his loneliness as he ages that will keep him awake at night force him drive him to a career as a midnight to dawn disc jockey of shocking proportions in the northern lake region near the canadian border pandering to anti-immigrant sympathies those who loathe the pasty skinned canadian interlopers who sneak down here to the land of milk and honey to the land of opportunity

to the home of the brave

to become one of god’s select

a fallen saul blinded by the expiring otariidae on his trip to damascus many years before a sinner who we know will grow up to seek desperately needed help from the easy high of cocaine

who we know will grow up to go from cocaine to rehab

from rehab to alcohol and nicotine and back to rehab

from rehab to jesus to crystal meth and back to rehab

from rehab to four day a week freudian analysis and ecstasy and enlightenment to wandering the land across the plains across the mountains across the desert clad only in a burlap robe and carrying a bowl to accept alms and morsels provided by the faithful

to wander through the crowds the committed we the hardly strictly devoted who believe in the father the son the doctor with a feather in his cap

we the black seals

we who are grateful we who are blessed in our stoned drunken glorious euphoric acid baked pod encapsulated within among amidst the multitude who gather in the meadow who gather together to celebrate to immerse ourselves

to listen learn participate and all that

Austin City Limits

it had not rained the mercury had not dropped below a hundred in forty days forty nights maybe more

god had wrought holy hell upon the landscape inflicted drought pestilence disease and fire on all that is this home to prairie dog coyote horny toad and fire ant

god had peered down upon wetback and redneck alike and she had declared a war of biblical proportions upon their

sinful sodomite souls

god from atop her mountain seared brown the grass the trees the bushes she boiled the lakes ponds and rivers fried chicken alive within their very own feathery coats sizzled bacon in the stye fricasseed the frogs as they tried to cross the road

just trying to get to the other side

a land so barren and wasted a little morsel of hell sliced off by satan and flipped out of the frying pan into the fire god herself ignores the locals their selfish solicitation for relief in the form of self-righteous pleas for salvation god herself won’t even bother to squat and dribble on this parched scrub that is

texas

the corn don’t grow
the beans don’t grow
the cotton don’t grow
the watermelons they all dried up

a people so guilty of letting loose a pox upon the world a people who threaten to do so again such hook ‘em horns hubris such a land lacking humility

texas

and from such a miserable fuck of a place from the hearts the souls the tickling tongues of such a miserable fuck of a people comes some of the simplest songs of the finest melodies and for such beautiful music we flew into austin from san francisco pulling behind us a bucket of fog to spread generously upon their toasty white bread selves

we circled round and round dipping our long-haired beatnik flower child ladle into the bucket dear liza dear liza drizzling drops of lecherousness lust and love doing our best

our profound earnest best

to douse or at least calm the contempt that just seems to simmer beneath this griddle that seems to keep alive these fires of

i have
you don’t

we sky sailed down from the heavens mary poppins’d from parasols of hope dropping into the fray dropping into the cauldron double doubled toiled and troubled hopping skipping through the security gates manned by uniformed officers of the law and corporate managers of commerce sporting white starched short sleeved shirts skinny ties and heavy duty industrial strength bold black buddy holly glasses

both quoting heavily from the book of revelations

our kind california green bud nestled safely though a bit uncomfortably in body cavities best not described our own attitudes worn callously on our sleeves

my own personal jesus lifting her skirt and climbing up upon the cross i bear a cunt so sweet as to be the honey in my tea the ginger in my ale the doctor in my pepper the branch with my bourbon

following the music around from stage to stage finding shelter in the shade beneath the spread of the live oak when we could

dust dancing inside the intensity of the rays of life of lies when we could stand to be in the kitchen when we could stand the heat

she swung her hips full and inviting inside a hula hoop as the tall negroe man with a borrowed artsy monicker rapped rhyme and verse her arms raised above her head her breasts bobbing on the downbeat

she strutted across in front of me wearing hot pants halter top and cowgirl boots

she leaned over in front of me showing off luscious globes of joy

she stood in the middle of the field her court jesters standing around her surrounding her shaking bottles of water on her her hair her blond silky smooth shock of hair braided and dreaded down a pale sister in wolf’s clothing

she wiggled those little piggies in the dirt this one to market this one staying home this one eating barbecue at stubbs this one having a vegan meal along with the hippies down on fifth street and this one taking a wee wee on my leg in the shower

goddamn she gets my goat
goddamn what a goatfuck
goddamn goddamn

and i sat in my dee fucking luxe folding chair complete with headrest and cupholder tapping my foot like i had the shaky leg tapping my fingers on the aluminum framing keeping a beat with the drummer from social distortion trying to keep up with the beat laid down by naz and damian walking the boogie strut down in the ghetto with stevie trying to weave in and out of the gomez riff spinning around with pretty lights climbing crescendo with cee lo occasionally reaching into my pockets discretely pulling out a baggy of kind green love bud stuffing my pipe looking around for big blue meanies packing heat and lifestyle opinion

flick flicking

my little green bic belying the burn ban waving wafts of godbreath swarming my soul cleaning out small pockets of memory with a feathery duster doling out dopamine by the dram

i am a priest of the sacrament my incense swinging from spice balls on a chain my manhood swinging long and low on a mood

wagging my finger in two four time a little tsk here a little tsk there

waving my cock like fucking excalibur like a fucking divining rod wandering through and over the fields hill and dale beseeching the gods for respite and by the third day the clouds they all bunched up held their breath until their cheeks turned black

oh sinners let’s go down
down to the river to pray

and by the third day she relaxed let loose her kundalini sprinkled her holiness upon us all upstanding citizens and sinners alike

and by the third day the masses looked heavenward intentions of impetration in their eyes in their dust ridden nostrils arms outstretched remorse dripping from armpits raw and aromatic

and still they point at

them

yes the them that are not us

so willing to sacrifice fresh blood so willing to set to the stake the souls of the innocent so willing to toss them all into the lion’s den so willing to clip sam phillips of his hair

j’accuse motherfucker

divert the attention of the gods the old spiritual bait and switch rock and roll and hip and hop just ain’t enough to cleanse the spirit just ain’t enough to send them to rehab

we those who are not texans true tejanos are nothing but faggots and fornicators tatted and tainted pierced and pissing our pants

we are driven outside of the

austin city limits they squeeze us in by the third day they close in by the third day austin city limits they just seem so small and

yes

limiting

by the third day we climb back in that jet plane don’t know when we’ll be back again

and all that

metro park

fucking pigeons

winged rats

they don’t give a fuck they don’t give a flying fuck they dance in the street pecking at shit bug shit bug guts mice tails and ears they dance in the street daring the cabs in line to run them over waiting til that last second that urban version of chicken

no orthogonal pun intended

before either the cabbie can step on his brakes or swerve or interrupt his otherwise fairly calm and normal vector through the metro park train station looking for his own pigeon

or it this pigeon it flutters up and away free and clear not a scratch not even a drop of sweat on its brow

how can that fat feathered fuck get up and out of there out of the cabbie space that space that rapidly evolves from asphalt black to cabbie yellow that is the cavalry crossing the bend of the river at wounded knee

how can it escape so quickly

there must be some life lesson lurking about

something deep

the clashing of grand universal ideas of cultures lost in some fathomless history only to rise up as some new age post hippie tie dye fad complete with crystals tarot cards and the dried bones of road kill rodents flipped with the full faith and foreplay afforded such sacraments onto the dusty ground

well she turned me into a newt

and there must be some kind of life lesson here but maybe i’m just a pigeon

not really giving one flying fuck either

i’m down with a good game of chicken and don’t you know i’d love to

flip fly float through the air drop a load at will on any windshield

or hell

even better

on some hipster’s chapeau du pork pie

i do oh i do especially want to splatter some smooth silky chunks on one of those gay-ass lavender lids some skinny jean wearing ben davis shirt sporting shaggy sans scoobee doo glancing up just as i dive bomb down all kamikaze screeching claws all stretched forward like i’m some sort of renegade redtail hawk

pulling up just as he looks up

bomb doors open bombs away load glances lavender lid brim pork pie purple done got spotty

i loop-de-loop to the top of a telephone pole

watching

harry hipster hands wiping at his face lips moving murmuring something foreign and vain betty faux beatnik his soon to be ex-girlfriend

she laughs

but i’m just a schmuck on a bench at the metro park train station somewhere in new jersey somewhere between newark and philadelphia only minutes before i had been sailing along sitting comfortably in my first class seat on the amtrak acela

the conductor dude seeped simmered and boiled in his deep jamaican accent he says

ticket please

i hand him the ticket the one that the guy in newark sitting behind the bullet proof glass that transparent wall that keeps me from him and him from me the guy in this uniform complete with plastic identification badge hanging around his neck on a red plastic lanyard that looked

perhaps because i had just spent five very brownie stoned hours on an airplane from san francisco to newark

strangely like a twizzler

tickets that this amtrak amboy had given me had slid through that little scooped out plexiglass hole

that i had given to my responsible rastafarian requestor his dreds hanging low swinging low beneath his conductor’s cap who said all sing song hey brother man maybe you got other tickets these no good these for different train

and i shrug and he shrugs

and at the next stop the metro park train station stop a sweet little suburban stye with lovely shops and green leafed trees and jersey shore refugees japped out moneypennies lifting their lifted mugs up from behind the wheels of black mercedes and lexi lined up to pick up the bread winner to provide carriage home for lord and master for he who brings home the bacon

and at the next stop the metro park train station stop i exit stage left grumbling and cursing and embarrassed

to find a station agent adorned with accoutrement similar to his conducting cousin his amtrak associate who is also behind a glass wall that keeps him and his world just beyond the grudging grab of my jealous reach

who says

in his south philly finest tongue twisted up with ancestral gullah

he say

he shouldna done that why he do that he shouldna done that

and i shrug and he shrugs hands me another ticket tells me informs me the next train comes along at eight thirty four i look up at the

clock that cannot be wrong the cocksure chronograph passed down from god herself

and see that it’s only seven oh two

and i stumble around the mini terminal all antiseptic with its red brick tile and post-eighties ergonomically enhanced anti-recline plastic benches i am baffled and bounced between buying gas station coffee and a sara lee cellophane wrapped blueberry muffin from the faux seven eleven only three dollars fifty three cents or a bag of roasted nuts gathered in peaceful coexistence with the amazonian rainforest and all its godly creatures and an aseptic container of caribbean coconut water from the gourmet yes gourmet said so in big orange letters coffee place that had only just now completed the end of day scrub down of its big ass brass brought over from italy on a clipper ship espresso maker and was no longer serving coffee

i finally bite the hook that is baited and set in liberal yuppie school that preaches from pulpits on high that nothing that cost less than five dollars can possibly be good for me i need colon cleansing i need my guilt assuaged i desperately require reminding that i am of the uber hip cool

i mean just naturally so

and i fork over the ten and receive a few coins of change and then wiggle then wander out of the terminal out of the station into a little plaza between track and parking lot a lovely little clearing with a ribbon of road looping through

kiss and ride and taxi cabs and black lincoln town cars and black lincoln navigators

and a couple of benches beneath the couple of trees standing watch hessian mercenaries imported by landscape architects working for

the man

the city fathers whose dual purpose is to increase property values and warn the riffraff to keep away

unless of course they’ve come to town to clean in and around the neat little brick houses and their environs

and i claim my bench as dusk dabs its brush across the sky reds and oranges backdrop for black cotton balls bobbing on their threads tied tethered to old man moon

a sky strapped gulliver

he wants to leave her but he just can’t pull himself away

and i claim my bench beneath the tree stretch my arms wide settle back into the wooden slats

they give a little just a little

open myself up to all that metro park has to offer i let her grab me by the hair and assume a dictatorial position over me she has her way with me

as the pigeons they puff and peck the pebbles pushing them across the pockmarked pavement

prudently

preciously

permissively

and the clock it ticks it tocks i need the big hand to click off ninety some jumps around and around i got time i got nothing but time such a modern world in which we live such an era one can wake up on monday morning in san francisco go grab a cuppa

and a few hours later and our hero he is in some town in new jersey trying to make his way to philadelphia

just like old ben franklin i wonder if before he decided upon immortality atop that building in the city of brotherly love if perhaps he too had sat upon a bench in metro park

and a cab driver wearing a turban baggy polyester pants and sensible shoes walks up and down the sidewalk in front of me he walks down to the corner of one end of the sidewalk he turns around he walks up to the corner on the other end of the sidewalk maybe a total of thirty forty yards

i ask him if he’s counting laps if he perhaps needs a trusty sidekick to click them off as he walks back and forth

to and fro

and he smiles he says from beneath a full beard he says no he says no thanks he says he’s just stretching his legs he’s in a cab all day he’s just keeping it real he asks me if he can drive me some place

me i smile i say from cheeks smooth but for a smattering of whiskers pretending to be a five o’clock shadow i say no i say no thanks i say i’m just waiting for my train i’m enjoying the evening i’m not in any hurry

and so we leave it at that and on the next couple of laps he glances over and smiles and nods and smiles but after a few more passes he doesn’t notice me any more and i don’t really notice him any more and we’re simply background for one another

a meditative meme

and i quietly slide a joint from my pocket and flip open the lighter the engraved zippo given to me on my birthday by man pete

been walking god’s green earth for fifty plus years and i know what from what

and the zippo flame it ignores the slight breeze while i inhale the sugary smoke alongside new jersey fresh air i release it moments later my lips tickling the exhalation massaging the vapors to take shape to take form

a ring of course

and a bunny and a chipmunk

and a bag of pretzels

and every once in a while a group of people bursts from the terminal a stream really of those coming from points north or south cell phones to ears briefcases in hand or backpack on one shoulder or another they dissipate into the parking lot the town cars the cabs the awaiting mercedes or lexus

a bustling of activity and languages varied and accented that peaks then ebbs into the relative silence that slowly wipes across the palette that is my world tonight

and this kid this young adult a teenager with baggy jeans exposing boxer shorts a tee shirt adorned with some faded logo he appears in one of the bustles though i don’t really think he came from the terminal but from some other point of ingress i notice him wandering around talking briefly to one or another random adult

his hands in his pockets his shoulders scrunched up around his neck as if he is warding off a chill that can’t that couldn’t actually be

and as this pod of commuters dissolves into stillness he is left standing there in the middle of the plaza looking around slowly looking around

he chats up a young black woman maybe she’s a teen maybe older i can’t tell she talks to him for a minute or two then slowly shakes her head and disappears into the parking deck

and then he spots me sitting on my bench my ignored joint extinguished from lack of attention and dangling from my fingers he strolls my way and i get this sinking feeling

i am to be driven from observer to participant from spectator to player

and he sits on the opposite end of my bench the bench i had only just claimed as my own he leans forward elbows on thighs head in hands and i glance over and he glances my way

and he asks me if i have a cigarette and i say no and he says thanks anyway and i ask him how it’s going tonight and he says it’s going ok and i ask him where he’s headed and he says he doesn’t know he asks me hey how far is trenton he needs to get to trenton he has a place to stay in trenton

and i say i don’t really know can’t be that far probably too far to walk though

he says he’s in some program something called youth services they have a place for him to stay if only he gets to trenton and we talk for a while about school about how hard it is about work how hard it is to find a job for the summer we talk about the phillies and how good they are about the mets and what a joke they are

he tells me he needs to call his mom he tells me he hasn’t eaten today

my radar goes up my spidey senses tingle i don’t want to be the traveling rube i want to be street smart and cool i want to be hip and hep and cold and calculating i live in the city i’ve heard every story i’ve heard the lines before i’ve walked through the haight in san francisco where all the wannabe punks come in from outer suburbia to sit on the sidewalk and bum bills and coins

i don’t want to be the pigeon from out of state

but

yeah there’s a but

it’s not like some overwhelming wave of sympathy overcame me it’s not like some elitist guilt poked me in the liver it’s not not like jesus sat on my shoulder and whispered in my ear

more like just one of those things that i’m just supposed to do i walk him back into the terminal i offer to buy him some amazonian nuts but he asks if he can instead opt for a muffin and soda

like it was some mcdonalds happy meal hiding a cute little toy promoting some recent movie or saturday morning cartoon

and i buy him a ticket to trenton and give him some spending money

and i watch him smile i hear him say thanks i watch him bound up the steps to the tracks two steps at a time the energy of youth carrying him up to catch the train as it pulls into metro park

and then he is gone passing from sight dissolving into the crowd that exits the train

that exits my metro park world and all that

Wake Up Call

down down it bounds the world it bounces around about through this space this darkness this void like some super ball thrown off the garage roof off the drive up up into the sky above crashing down surprising us all with each and every direction

just as i am today surprised with each and every erection

such a blessing for such a messing

what are the odds who would have thought who could have imagined

heh not me

crawling from an unshared bed glancing back over my shoulder just in case hey it happens just as the world yeah it happens but there is love hey there is love it’s simply silent this morning this dawning of a new day

cock still hard can’t remember the dream can’t remember the object of my yearning i’m sure my intentions were honorable i’m sure my furtive frolicking fancy fucked me with nothing but love lust longing

desire

before sucking me dry

a quietude broken by the push of a button a familiar unnamed voice what the fuck ever happened to bob edwards when did he leave a stumble upon arthritic feet to stand before the toilet hang cock and piss glancing out the window

witness the whispering of foggy fingers frottaging up against the walls even the fucking clouds get a little somethin’ somethin’ this morning

a shake a shiver a flush a whoosh a swirl a rinse a splash of cool water on the face a glancing a lingering in the mirror hands on the edges of the sink holding myself up holding my own gaze studying looking deeply man to man eye to eye beneath the dark brown beneath the blackness of the edges eyelashes long and thick like they belong to some chick eyebrows threatening bushiness if left untended beard whiskers merely pretending coarsely coming around sparsely sprouting in patches like a backyard lawn littered with atomic doggy pee spots

i shake my head hair flies jowls jiggle and i spit

my image asking why

i have no answer and i shrug

down the hallway the nip of the hardwood floor comforts my sore soles that carry me into the kitchen tip toeing from wood to tile changes the chill only by a couple of cool degrees the coffee grinder grates my nerves the scent grants serenity calms the nerves heightens the senses with raised eyebrows piques my picadilly even before a single drop drips touches to tongue

inhale deeply

breathe

in the gurgling espresso atop the stove

a demitasse pinkie extended purple mountains majesty fruited plains discussed on the radio that same strangely familiar eerily strange voice that is not bob edwards follows

i don’t like the quiet who stole the noise where is the click click shuffle shuffle giggle gaggle yelling screaming j’accuse leggo my eggo they were all here not so long ago

i look out the window demitasse in hand a trickle of fog slides down the glass down my cheek the steady grumble of the ocean my own personal white noise machine massages the edges of the caffeine bursting through my veins

addictions are so subtle

they start with a touch a greeting a grin a giggle a chocolate bar and a jar of peanut butter handcuffs and candy valentines tangerines and tongue

addictions are so subtle

they never end they just slow down to an itch they never end they just scratch at the screen they just jiggle the handle

who will be my pocahontas save me from this sword hanging over my neck

don’t you know i’ve got you under my skin sugar i’ve got you deep in the heart of me so deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me i’ve got you under my skin

and i’m left doing the two step with nary a transylvanian transvestite transexual tagging about no tantalizing tart with an adam’s apple to twirl about one two three one two three

no one with whom to tiptoe through the tulips i just want to tiptoe through the tulips

and the coffee works its magic the bowels flutter morning gas the porcelain calls beckons i oblige the dude abides morning ritual overcomes any thoughts of procrastination immediate gratification always rules over distant goals ah the dignity of regularity

addictions are so subtle but goddamn i do love a good morning shit

plop plop fizz fizz oh what a relief it is take me to the river the warmth of the shower pours over me scrub a dub dub a little morning soapy stroke just to let big john henry know the desire is still there that i’m not forgetting about him just a tease i whisper i suggest hey don’t worry you’ll get yours hey diddle diddle a cat a fiddle a cow a moon a bag of day glo gummy worms a towel stolen from marriott buffing my back and ass a q-tip whisked out of a sweet pewter container stolen from a marriott

sit naked on the couch the sun does the morse code jitter through the windows fighting the fog sit down on the couch decode the message while i grind a bud and roll a joint on a silver pewter tray stolen from marriott slip the phattie behind my ear shred a couple more buds roll a couple more jays place them in a handy dandy anti airport detector plastic case that our hero dug out of a box of lucky charms collect all five colors

jeans black tee shirt boots

throw my laptop into my bag grab my suitcase packed the night before

clomp down the steps

ready for the road and all that

give me your dirty love

give me your dirty love just like your mamma make that little poodle do

beautiful post earthquake gotham all awash in blue sky dabbed with puffy cotton clouds like the dark side of some teenage girl poetry with all the cute things young and old wearing as little as possible and yet still staying six steps ahead of the fashionista polizei one two cha cha cha

drinks at rockefeller center sitting at the bar with television wannabe and tourist drinking rye and soda alongside comrades who are as faux serious i we all wear this mask of seriousness no matter if it is work or fun because goddamn it we're fucking focused on our fun goddamn it can't have fun unless it's big over the top i'm talking vegas baby the definition of fun

remember when remember when

it's all about the story got to have story if you have no story you've had no fun

period

it’s laid out all neat and pretty in the postmodern man book of rules

and the women at the bar they stare intently into the eyes of their fellow women themselves talking in a serious manner don’t know if it’s mimicry don’t know if they have their own book of rules don’t know don’t know

woman thou art a mystery to me i love you so i worship the power the say thee has over me

and drunken goodbyes laden with mutual admiration and stumbled shuffles take our hero down fiftieth street across madison and park to lexington the mellow ganjaesque coating the throat a phattie stroll through the evening lights that comprise midtown

slipping into the room into bed toying with thoughts contemplating considering a bedtime stroke a midnight masturbation propped up through some pornographic eyelid theater but the mind is distracted clouded by wandering lingering fading desire and i doze fall asleep

only to arise with the sun i am my own dawn

shit shower shave

head to penn station amidst crowds of heads down people as if this indeed is their daily prayer one two three four forgive me father please allow me the freedom to fuck my neighbor it's a zero sum world

i don't get unless she don’t get

roll the dice box cars move me around the board take a ride on the reading railroad if i pass go

line broke monkey got choked we all lived together on a little rowboat

currents of people to and fro dunkin’ donuts tim hortons very serious official soldiers of the realm german shepherds sporting holsters and six shooters on their haunches there to give it all for their masters who wear uniforms dark blue with gold celebration and long black batons hanging from batman style utility belts

holy scowl caped crusader how will we this time rescue gotham from the clutches of albert kayda

their helmets strapped to chin as they stand tall and stiff like proud circumcised cocks titillating the freshly douched suburban housewives post-divorce city jobs in hand chastity belts popped open swinging wide and free nervous giggles muffled by tom carvelle ice cream sublimation to ward off the weight of responsibility known but never previously considered theirs

suitcases and briefcases and flip flops and halter tops and belly button rings and oh so long legs shaved shined and tanned up into beneath skirts of mystery and denial panties of undetermined color pattern and material meh matters not my granddaddy says it’s all pink on the inside

and the board click click clicks a slot machine matching tracks with destination a melodious mechanical messaging amidst a sea of silent smart phones being nurtured like some angry starving infantile tamagotchi all aware of the fact that if they set it down for even a minute some distant idea concept opportunity concept may die a slow and lonely death

nothing worse than being left out of the loop

conductor sings all aboard wanders the aisle collecting tickets punching holes in some mysterious yet ancient pattern ritualizing one’s mass transit experience enabling the next priest that floats down the aisle providing communion to read translate and understand the message

that will be passed down from generation to generation along with millions of other tidbits of transportational transcendence delivered to saint peter the scrivener who dutifully logs them into individual books of life

collect my two hundred dollars collect my collective insanity on the third day let me arise from the dead up the escalator to the beaux arts lobby of the thirtieth street station philadelphia freedom ben franklin and william penn bless his quaking heart

to the cab line fuck fuck fuck it’s fucking raining early signs of irene yet to come into the cab to the restaurant pulling the prerequisite rollerbag and some nouveaux pseudo hipster bag serving as briefcase but what looks more like the fucking beach sac carried by my mother on panama city beaches in nineteen seventy two check in tip the hot chick in the simple black dress and sweet uplifting cleavage that i swear to god on high looked right at me

grinned and winked

and said yes they spoke they said to me oh kay buddy you’ve had enough move on

meet up with my man mickey marketer and our customer hey hey how’s the world how’s the wife how’re the kids how was vacation yeah that part of carolina it’s pretty nice we chit we chat we dance the social dance we hold hands in that secret way swear fiduciary loyalty to one another how much this much how about a little less how about a little more we both know there’s a spot there’s a sweet spot where this lotto ball will land gonna be one or the other either one is as good as the other the only reason we care the only reason we allow it to bounce is the pure ritual passed down from father to son throughout the millenniums it may be more processed it may be more refined it may be more vicious but it’s the native dance nonetheless

and we break bread and sup we are modern men yes indeed we are men wearing ties and charcoal suits and cufflinks and sharp plastic modern eyeware and as modern men we no longer drink martinis as did our forefathers nay we sip on iced teas or arnold palmers and post lunch cappuccinos said lunch which consists of gazpacho and an organic salad of mixed greens with shavings of some exotic dry italian cheese and we can exist on such rabbit fare and keep our cocks strong and proud because

we are postmodern men

and as postmodern men we shake hands with a spartan hug and an earnest spoken desire to a faith that we will see other again soon

and out to the plaza in the misty rain to hail a cab and these two cabbies stop at the same time their respective drivers both hopping out of the car both hailing me to come to their cab it’s cleaner he’s a better driver he knows the city he doesn’t know the city then they start to yell at each other in a tongue that i do not understand yet i find vaguely comforting in that from the roots redneck ancestry from deep within poking its head up like some stupid fucking turkey in a rainstom some bubba sniffing out chanting fight fight fight i finally simply walk over to one throw my suitcase into the trunk hop in the back my driver giving some foreign gesture to the other driver i believe it is the universal international self-congratulatory self-proclaiming sign for so hey cocksucker take that and shove it up your sorry loser ass

or something to that effect

and we me and my most recent provider of four wheel zim zoom zip through the drops of satanic acid rain up market street to the station

thirtieth street station philadelphia pee aa this cavernous granite fortress built upon columns of the legs of zeus himself marble floors sets of long wooden church pews facing each other in some postmodern podinal new age traveler’s intimate quite quaker group confessional we say absolutely nothing to each other perhaps a polite excuse me pardon me but we do gaze upon one another our eyes wander from pair to pair mutual body scans appreciative yet rarely rude or offensive our eyes they do catch and hold while we talk to someone else on our mobiles

there must be some sort of cosmic energy power surge such crowdsourced transcendental transformation soulful transmogrification multiplied repeated

lather rinse repeat

cycling through across the modern communication network over and over again and again

i believe we are unconsciously raising our mutual respective consciousnesses in a chaotic bursty spiral highway fraught with all sorts of rotted bridges beneath which live ugly ego trolls weak guardrails trap doors and winged goblins which swoop down to grab and whisk away your toto a highway headed to some global self awareness

and we don’t even give a flying jonathan livingston seagull fuck

nor should we give me one good reason why we should

and this huge fucking bronze art deco aztec motherfucker of a warrior god statue stands at one end overlooking the cathedralesque lobby

and it’s as if he our warrior chieftan god had waved his castro street buffed out muscular arms swept his eagle’s wings over the crowd and laid down the law

there will be calm there will be order

and it just seems it just feels that this place this downtown train station hub of humanity is so much more orderly than the chaos the confusion of the airport in all its depersonalized we are all part of the machine run amok converse crowdsourced energy in total disarray with an utter disregard for all others such that it causes an implosion of the collective soul into some pit of darkness

quickly my son fly through quickly hold on to your balls and jump through quickly to the other side

the yen the yang of the human conveyor belt

and on the shuttle from the train station to the airport i share a compartment with a large hassidic family a schlumpy bearded dad a soon to be schlumpy oddly similar mini-me version son complete with whispery dark beard and maybe six kids and a mom and there was this ten year old girl and i envied the simplicity of her future i mean there are six hundred thirteen laws if you can keep up with making sure you are following all these rules then hey ain’t no time for such shenanigans as an idle mind may fall prey to i mean such innocence of a child gently molded into what is what has been and what will always be

is it elitist to envy the simple needs of the peasants

but then i iook at her and feel a sorrow that touches me oh so slightly touches a sadness inside her hair such beautiful brown blonde hair that one day she too as her mother does as her grandmother did that one day she too will crop her hair shave her head and wear a wig

woman cover thy shame before god

and the shuttle pulls up to the terminal and they the righteous rugrats go scattering off the car cute little roly poly’s swarming and then dissipating into the crowd spatterings of crushed iced dribbled dropped plopped into a warm coke

i head in the opposite direction down beneath to the lower floor outside and across the street one last breath of the terrestrial ether through the parking lot my own personal club rasta where i must get righteous with jah before shutting myself into that aluminum tubular goddess dildo trembling through space and time

a zip of the zippo flame flips floats flutters touches the tip of the toke sending smoke and symbolism through the ganja delivery system into lung building courage and when it is of such an appropriate level i meander through xray and security apparati who pray for my soul and my safety they are our first line of defense they are mercenary to none loyal to the common cause the one true path

and I slip into my phat fat seat up front where the lovely waitress in short skirt and high heels and pearls hands me a warm chocolate chip cookie with a stepford wife grin and an implied suggestion of consummate cock worship service in the forward toilet

and i slip into a cannabis coma whilst watching the latest action super hero summer blockbuster and drift off thinking of german deserts deep nebraska pineapple upside down cake lip smacking goodness twirling of dreams and tongue dozing in out eyes open closed

whilst witnessing the setting sun cast a glow across the western skies I am my own sunset

i gaze upon all that i can see from here to there and back again and i know that it is good and i know that it is all that

Jesup, part the twentieth

well into the evening atlanta evening maybe midnightish early summer late spring this sky these clouds these wispy shadows that hang between the stars like marionettish buzzards waiting to feast on our rotting carrion dreams their puppeteers our gods sighing deeply a resigned june heaviness

whispering hoarsely

a sultry weight refusing to move ignoring the slight barely noticeable breeze that flutters the fresh newly born green oak leaves

under which gathered ron johnson and his friends his cohorts his partners in crime sitting about in begged borrowed stolen chairs from the dorm from dobbs hall sitting about in chairs in the little courtyard beneath the ancient oak dripping with spanish moss all stereotypically southern in its setting before and above the slabs of weather worn italian marble itself peppered with speckles and freckles of moss and shoots of crabgrass

slapping at the gnats and mosquitos and moths that flitted in out about the two lamplights at the edge and in either corner of the courtyard rubbing at eyes ears and nostrils when one of the little fuckers manages to find its way through the defenses

fists to the air middle fingers pointed to the lamplight that is their sun the center of their universe screaming drat you red baron as they kamikaze into human orifices

it is the last night of school the last night of their first year their freshman year at that fine institution of higher learning that is emory university that sits up on its hill among all its ivy-clad libraries and coca cola finery

idyllic

the moon large and bright over the far buildings a cocktease of summer hope and expectation crushed like the dewless lawn twixt their toes

amidst the quiet of the evening

an occasional hey the train that was fucking funny as hell

what the fuck were you thinking

hey pass that over here

hey whoa hey whoa hey wow

hey saw you sneaking out of suzanne’s room last night you better hope that fucking es aa ee of a boyfriend don’t find out

hey what you doing this summer well me and steve we’re going to europe going to bang around how about you dunno i think i got a job downtown wall street my dad’s firm

amidst the quiet of the evening

occasionally someone would go walking by from the sidewalk into the dorm or out of the dorm onto the sidewalk a giggle a chuckle once a sob from a sweet coed walking away from dobbs arms crossed beneath her breasts suspended in the gentle sling formed by her halter top her chin down bobbing between caught breaths long straight hair hanging low hiding her face

the glow of a joint passes around the circle of chairs an inadvertent ring surrounding an imaginary firepit a gravitational pull sufficient enough to keep them tight the centrifugal force of their spinning heads keeping them from falling away into the nighttime confusion

that chaos that upon the morrow will be their world

Jesup, part the nineteenth, courthouse

the click the clack of high heels against marble floor echoed up through the stairwell and down the hallway love and rockets in any other world but this morning as all three heads turn ron johnson’s his momma’s his daddy’s their heads all turn at once they know it is their aunt betty and his lawyer the only woman lawyer in jesup aunt betty she plays bridge with her on wednesday evenings over at the country club

aunt betty wearing that purple dress suit matching little bitty perched on hat the outfit she’s been wearing to church this summer ron johnson he wonders like he always wonders just where in sam hill his aunt betty finds these things

probably the same place his attorney finds hers she miss wilma watkins a graduate of mercer university and mercer university law school over in macon back before otis redding back before duane allman maybe back when ray charles miss wilma watkins she who is all done up in this post retro marlo thomas that girl break loose be free in a man’s world bright blue with black trim and ron johnson he swears to god that same fucking hat that she that girl tossed to the wind on her tee eve show

and she carries a brief case and is listening to aunt betty go on about something she miss wilma she has a pensive look on her face she isn’t really saying anything and they walk up to the bench and ron johnson and his momma and his daddy they stand up to greet them and there’s the niceties the how do you do yes it’s warm out how’s your father miss wilma he’s fine thank you but listen

we need to talk

and there’s this scene change the music it changes maybe it had been changing all along just too subtly for ron johnson to notice but now there’s a harp moaning long and slow and the hooting of an owl

where’s the owl

it’s morning the sun it shines

fuck

how can it be so bright on such a day

and the camera it swings wide and slowly it pans circling the five of them as they come together they talk miss wilma she talks she’s talking to ron johnson’s daddy to ron johnson’s momma she’s telling them things judge’s decision judge’s offer she’s answering questions aunt betty she’s asking maybe she’s saying aunt betty she says

that’s it

ron johnson’s daddy he’s nodding his head

miss wilma she talks she answers questions but she’s looking at ron johnson but she is answering ron johnson’s momma’s question yes i know it’s just ron he’s eighteen sally well she’s seventeen yes i know no i don’t know why the judge is so upset well yes ok yes you’re right i guess i do know why the judge is so upset but

it’s georgia law

ron johnson hell he has always wanted to be a lawyer he has always wanted to be clarence darrow he has always been so fucking ready to inherit the wind to lift the sword of righteousness like scout’s daddy

yeah just like scout’s daddy mister atticus finch

an’ i asked her what and she said to jus' step on the chair yonder an' git that box down from on top of the chifforobe

she said she'd never kissed a grown man before an' she might as well kiss me she says for me to kiss her back

the camera it slowly spins mouths move tongues tatter eyes lift lips go to tight smiles the heads nod the shoulders shrug a tear runs down his momma’s cheek ron johnson’s daddy his face turns angry red

an angry red

grabbing his shotgun out of the closet red his momma trying to reason with him aubrey now aubrey the shell pumping into the chamber ron johnson he’s standing in the doorway shorts and tee shirt his face fresh from a good cry curious now earlier

that dog had coming running through the yard just when ron johnson all of four years old had coming bursting out the screen door wearing his brand new pee eff flyers soaring off the porch like the kid in the cartoon landing right in front of where that unlucky fucking dog was running scaring the hell out of both ron johnson and the mangy mutt that didn’t really belong in the neighborhood he belonged to one of the black boys who cut the grass

mangy mutt snapped at ron johnson getting him a piece of ron johnson’s ass cheek right when ron johnson’s daddy was pulling up into the driveway and ron johnson he kept running over toward his daddy the mangy mutt snapping at him running behind and ron johnson his daddy he stepped in front of that dog and yelled and that mangy mutt he high tailed it back the other direction with a yelp and a scream and ron johnson he grabbed his daddy’s leg and ron johnson his daddy picked him up and brought him inside ron johnson moaning and crying and sobbing like only his four year old self knew how and ron johnson his daddy he handed him to his momma and walked back to the bedroom and ron johnson his momma she put him down with a pat on the head and followed her husband and ron johnson he followed his momma

and watched in the doorway as his momma looked up at his daddy her hands lightly touching his arm that held the shotgun she saying please aubrey

and the angry red it drained from ron johnson’s daddy’s face it slowly went back to his ruddy tanned puss with the afternoon shadow and he pumped the shell out of the gun and put them both back into the closet closed the door and his momma she took ron johnson’s hand led him back to the bathroom to look him over

teeth didn’t go through his shorts

and ron johnson his daddy’s face turns an angry red and his eyes they glare down and through at miss wilma he’s not looking at miss wilma he’s looking through miss wilma he’s looking through miss wilma and on into his dark place and his arms are crossed and tight and ron johnson his momma with the tear running down her cheek places her hand on his daddy’s arm

the one closest to her

lightly

and ron johnson his daddy he looks down and ron johnson his momma she looks up she gently she softly tops him from the bottom the blood it drains it slowly drains his face it slowly goes back to that tanned ruddy stoicism he puts the shotgun back in the closet

and the music it’s not there and the owl he’s gone and the voices they fade and the silence numbs him slowly suffocates ron johnson

he can’t breathe but he’s breathing fine he’s underwater and he can’t breathe and he’s breathing fine

and floating about are choices two choices weaving into one ear out the other bits leaving his mouth his mother his father his lawyer and for once his aunt betty she ain’t saying nothing she his aunt betty she’s just looking at him his father ron johnson his daddy he saying ron

son

there is no choice you just gotta go

his lawyer trying to lay it out all facts and figures she saying the judge no it’s not judge hopkins but you have to know that he is not a stranger to judge hopkins the judge he says you can either take three years in reidsville or you can join the army go down to the local induction center and join the army that’s three years too

or we can try to go to trial

and ron johnson the only bits really coming out of his mouth from his stomach deep down in his stomach burning a path up his esophagus his throat acidic verbiage of whoa whoa whoa bubbling up tres gravelly coarse river sand suspended sickly sour right behind the back of his tongue

the roman soldiers they gave him wine to drink mingled with gall and after tasting it he was unwilling to drink

and ron johnson his lawyer miss wilma she put a piece of paper on the bench there was a red ex at the bottom she gave ron johnson a pen and he leaned over

pen in hand

the paper it blurred it wiggled in the air like a gilligan island dream scene and ron johnson his eyes they watered heavy tears forming

but he did not blink

he did not blink and the tears they stayed until the dusty air floated by and took them away

and he took a deep breath and he signed his name his adult name right next to the red ex ronald samuel johnson