Can You Hide Your Love Away?

"You sure do write some hateful shit sometimes."

"You think so?"














"My god yes. That time you wrote about the pervert at Starbucks, that shit was horrible."

"Fiction man, only fiction."

"That is such a load of bullshit. That's what your type always says, you write something hurtful and mean then you take the position that you were only telling a story."

"I'm a type? Well alright, but I guess we say it because we feel its the truth."

"No way. You just disguise your real motives behind the cloak of fiction. Its so obvious."

"I think you're wrong and I'm not afraid to say it."

"Really, I'm wrong then go ahead and explain it and don't try to get out of it by saying that you're an 'artist' or some such hooey and that you don't have to explain you're 'art'.













"First off I never claimed to be an 'artist', in fact I am far from it, I just write because it is something to do. When I write I tend to write about what ever is foremost on my mind at that time and that's that."

"So you just happened to have a pervert at Starbucks on your mind?"

"I must have. I don't claim to be one of these 'types' that say they are just channeling some vision through me like you hear musicians say all the time. I'm much too simple a person for all that, I just sit down and whatever is there goes down on the paper. If I feel like writing from the point of view of a pervert at Starbucks then I do it, never give it a second thought "

"You're full of shit."

"So be it but that's the way it is."

"You mean you don't consider the effect your words are going to have on people?"

"No why should I?"

"Because you say some hurtful fucked up things."

"I don't mean to come off high falutin' or anything because lord knows I'm not but I just can't worry about such things. I mean its not that what I write is so pure or true or holy or some such shit but I just think that censoring that voice, however unacceptable it might be to some, would be the antithesis of what writing is all about."

"Regardless of the outcome?"

"Listen if you think I am what I write then you are sadly mistaken. I reserve the right to put down anything I want. If you want to judge me the person by the words I write then so be it, judge away, I can't worry about that, but if you want to know the truth then the reality is that I just write words that I think will make a statement one way or another and not necessarily a statement I ascribe to personally."

"Sounds like a bunch of bullet dodging bullshit to me."

"Oh I'm not bullet dodging, fire away, if it hits me I'll feel it meaning if you make a valid point then it will resonate and affect me but if I think you're off the mark with your judgment then it will just whizz on by."

"I think you're just a pompous little man."

"Sometimes I have that fear myself but I know I'm not so I let that shit drift right on by."

"Maybe you should be just a little more careful with the things you write about?"

"Maybe I should but I'm not going to be."
















"Asshole."

"Again so be it. I've never claimed to be anything that I'm not."

A Grand Moment For Recompense

Oh what sorrow walking those long black steps back up to that apartment. I'd been living up on The Hill, well close to The Hill, the Hill was for folks that could afford to pony up the prices they fetched up there, but I was Hill adjacent and it sure felt that way. I guess I was near The Hill, but in reality I was next to nothing. Those damn steps up to that little single on Grace, son of a bitch is all I can say when I remember those days, son of a bitch.














The neighbor Marky was a real son of a bitch too. Started out an okay sort I guess, I mean we really didn't pass too many words, a simple 'what say' every now and then, but over time I got to know Marky, well I think I got to know him but really Marky hadn't a clue to who he really was himself, so let's just say I got an impression of the guy, just an impression. That time up on Grace near The Hill, nearly killed me and in retrospect it damn near killed all of us, especially Marky.

I'm not going to go into too much detail about how fucked I was but then the fuckedness is never in the details, its in the overall weight of the state of being fucked, let's just say a general air of fuckedness enveloped me and I enjoyed that state to my unrelenting detriment. You might think to yourself, 'well how bad could it be the guy had a place of his own that was Hill adjacent?', so call me an ingrate, what the hell do you know? I'm telling you I was assed out and whether you take that to heart, well I don't give a flying fuck. Now Marky on the other hand.

Marky was the worst kind of fucked. You see I knew I was done out. I was a shirker and a liar, I was alone and black all on the inside and no good to anyone not even myself but I knew this like I knew the apartment was Hill adjacent and not anywhere near to really being close to The Hill. Marky on the other hand got it into his head that he was square. Said he didn't care that he was Hill adjacent or that he didn't really amount to a hill of shit, you see Marky got his ass saved, straight up dipped in the baptismal waters and now chosen like a motherfucker by the lord himself Mr. Jesus H. Christ he was right. Now I could really give two fucks that Marky was in this blissful state of denial concerning his total and obvious state of fuckedness. I mean why should I care that this stranger, known only to me by his close proximity to the shit hole that I stayed in that was not so near to The Hill, had filled himself so full of the good teaching as to blind himself to his sad reality? For fuck's sake, really, why should I care?

Well I'm not afraid to say why, I tell you I'm not. You see you may be fucked and living in a constant state of fuckedness and I say well too bad for you buddy but you get yourself in real deep, I mean eyebrow high, then you go and find that good book and start flapping at me trying to yank me out of my fuckedness, well then we got ourselves a little problem. Marky, a punk I hadn't said ten words to, all the sudden started to gnaw my ear off to the scalp. It was alright at first I don't begrudge someone the right to spiel a little if it so moves them but it got to be that Monsignor Marky just couldn't let shit be. I abided his proselytizing at first, thought the kid was just weathering a rough patch but he came at me unabated, frenzied and with such caustic sincerity that he began to rouse a response from me.















What gets me is self deception. I don't knock a guy for being a sleazeball, you know some folks are trash, no sweat, just as long as that same lump of human waste knows what a piece of filth he is and accepts it, god bless right? But if that same loser has it in him that he's just a swell Jake then I say fuck 'em but good. Same thing for a chump like Marky. Don't tell me you read a few verse and chapters, eat a little biscuit and sip a thimble of dank Muskatel and now you aren't what you so obviously are, you got to be joking me, that level of misguided masquerading, that supposed metamorphosing into a human being, well it just don't wash with me. In reality I would have a problem with it, sure, but I might not, and I mean, might, not let you know what I think but you step to me with that shit more then once and you have just made yourself someone, that in your wildest dreams, the word friend will never, even in your supposed hell fire afterlife, be a term we can share.

Marky wore that fervor of The Book like a mask and come one day, much to my relief he was gone. Never did see him up on Grace near The Hill again. Not quite sure what happened to him but there was tell that he gave up the cloak and just returned to the world of normal everyday fuckedness. To tell the truth I could care less if he had actually rolled to Rome and snatched up the papacy just as long as he didn't come back to tell me about it. One thing I know is that you can never be certain of anything, any man claims he knows for certain anything and I have my doubts about him. Marky was that kind of sure, absolute and unwavering. But you see that kind of sucks for me too. I mean there is the one in a billion chance that crazy fucking Marky was right, I mean probably one in a trillion is closer odds to the truth, but as long as there is a chance I was wrong about that shit, well, that puts a little chill on me. Poor fucking Marky. Poor fucking me for that matter.


















What gets me is fervor.

What gets me is belief.

It Looks So Real I Can See it

There was a nursery at the end of the block where he grew up. He never cared to know the names of the plants or trees growing within but he did enjoy their verdant lushness as he would pass by each day on his way to grade school. He understood that some of the trees were fruit baring and this amazed him.














He somehow could not comprehend with his young mind that fruit did not come from a store but from a living tree. He had seen evidence of fruit growing in trees but he always feared if he were to eat that fruit that it would sicken him.

'And it tastes so real I can taste it'


He knew it was her before she had rounded the corner. Her voice echoed off the concrete footpath that had been smoothed to a shiny slickness by the feet a thousand other grade schooler's that had come before them. It was a wonderful sound and he couldn't believe that such beauty could emanate from any one person. He heard her voice at night in his dreams and then again as he awoke.

'And it seems so real I can hear it'














All through junior high he saw this girl. He saw her as she grew to be gangly and awkward towering over him and then later as she turned the corner toward womanhood. He watched her blossom into the most amazing beau ideal and once again defy any logic that his young mind could manufacture. He could not believe that such pulchritude might belong to anyone of this earth.

'And it feels so real I can feel it'

As they entered their last year of high school they cam to know one another as friends. She was more then he could have imagined. She was kind and courteous and filled with fire and excitement. She was a good girl but also wise to the ways of the world and made him feel an accomplice to her secret doings and rebellious thoughts. They became close as friends can be and he knew himself to be in love however unreciprocated that love may have been.

'And it is so real I can be it'

He had hoped they would both go off to college together and at graduation they made a tight pact to attend the same school. Over that summer she left for a trip abroad and he looked forward to the day she might return to him. He busied himself with plans to go to the out of state school and the months passed quickly in eager anticipation. At the end of the summer he received her phone call. She had met a boy in France and would not be coming home opting to study in Europe instead of the States. He did his best to show support but inside he was torn and hurt. She looked so good he could see her. She smelled so good he could smell her. She sounded so good he could hear her.














'So why can't I touch it?
So why can't I touch it?'

There's Somone On The Signal Wire

The forbidden book sat unopened at the front door of the government hall. Brown boot leather marched over marble floors, their heavy weighted thudding reverberated to the vaulted rafters obscuring the silence of the men who wore them. It was near midnight and the rally had yet to begin. Row after row of seats filled in orderly precision, the clothing all brown, all worn with the same precision, all of a kind, all in order.
















Erica Veigh waited under the lamp by the cafe just as they had agreed to and wondered where he could be. The night was cold and the gray mist had returned, her breath turning to steam as it left her freshly painted lips. She knew so little about him as she stood in the chill. Erica had seen him and his gregarious group of friends over the summer when they would come to the small grocers off the square where she worked. They would come by regularly and buy beers and laugh about the store and one time she thought she saw him filch an orange but she said nothing of it. They were a rough group but to her he seemed to be the soft one and she was drawn to him. Then they stopped coming. She didn't see them the entire fall, they had just disappeared. It wasn't until the previous week when as she was restocking some flour sacks that the little bell above the front door rang and he entered alone.

Erica and the boy made small talk and it was decided that they would meet on this night under the lamp by the cafe at eleven. Erica had dressed early for the night and the anticipation waiting for the hour to come filled her a nervous electricity. As she left her home and walked the empty streets in to the center of town she noticed how incredibly empty the streets were. Her long coat covered her but her legs chilled and her cheeks pinked as the dampness and chill and dark surrounded her. When she saw the cafe and the lamp before it her pulse quickened and her pace picked up.

The hour came and went and Erica waited. It never entered her mind to leave for it was destiny she was waiting for and she had a faith, a deep faith that she was meant for this, to be here, to be with him and so she waited on with only her steamy breath in the night for company.














There was another destiny at work that dark night. He took his seat in the third row near the center aisle and felt purpose. The light was muted and seemed not to emanate from any particular place in the hall. He looked up to the ceiling high above and was amazed at the immensity. Turning behind him he saw row upon row of boys dressed as he was, their faces still in a quiet determination. Before him was a podium, a beam of harsh light bearing down on it. His jacket felt tight on his chest and he breathed deep and slow.

There was a time when he thought this was all so dumb and so funny. He thought this way until one night at academy he happened upon a class in the back room of the history hall. He was beckoned in by a friend and then heard things that both angered him and filled him full of passion. At the end of the class they rose and then a song was sung. The next day after gymnasium he was in the showers and heard that song being sung again. He returned to the night classes and now he was here at the night rally. It didn't seem so dumb and funny anymore.

They all stood and placed their hands over their hearts and sang that song. The beam over the podium was filled by a man with a voice stentorian and authoritative. There were names being entered in the forbidden book. There were admonitions about deeds done in the darkest hours and of retribution and of duty. There were hails of unity and commitment and that song. The song sung with earnest declaration and sincerity. He didn't need lamp posts or cafes. The song, the rally, the purpose was all he needed now.















Erica found a new job in a new country. She never saw the boy again. The breath she left in that cold night sky was all she left behind. She left her faith in that square in that night. She left her destiny there in that square on that night. She left all hope behind in that night in that square under the lamp in front of the cafe.

I can give you anything but time...

No Sleep Till Los Feliz

"What's the big idea?"

"That's a loaded question if you know what I mean."

"I just meant to say where've you been?"















"Just another miner."

"I get it, like working in a coal mine going down, down, down."

"You're pretty darn quick old pal o'mine."

"I like to think so."

"Well that's the whole magillicutty in a proverbial nut shell."

"The magilliwhatty?"

"The magillicutty."

"You sure aren't shy about taking liberties with the English language."

"And you think I should be?"

"No I think you're flowery way with the word to be a great source of amusement."

"I'm glad someone likes it."

"What do you mean?"

"It just seems that when ever I get creative in speech..."

"You mean when you make up bullshit words?"

"If you want to put it that way but as I was trying to say until you interjected most unexpectedly is that most folks act like I'm some sort of freak or something when I bust with a little verbal hijinks ."

"How's that?"














"You know when you order from a waitress and and say I want a tuna melt well I'll ask for a delicious tuna melt, I mean I am only moderately altering what would normally be said in such a situation but you wouldn't believe the shock I'm met with."

"Maybe you are just being a jerk?"

"Thanks a lot. I actually think that by using the words at our disposal..."

"Whether they be real words or not."

"So I go with the flow sue me, but yes be they real or imagined, what I'm trying to say is that when I use my gift for the gab I think that I am actually respecting the other person by giving them the benefit of the doubt that they would rather have someone respect their intelligence enough to believe that they might enjoy some nonconformist dialogue rather then what they would normally expect."

"In other words there aint no rules when it comes to the flapping of your gums."

"Respect, that is the only rule I abide."

"Sounds like you haven't been sleeping much."

"Thanks a lot."

"The coal mine huh?"

"That's the big idea."

"Get some rest now that's a big idea."















"I'll do that and maybe next time we speak I'll be a little more coherent."

"I doubt it."

And You Put The Weight Right On Me

There wasn't much but kindling left so we had to make do with what sturdy things that we much rather not have sacrificed. Priscilla wanted to burn Granny's cedar chest, said she never liked the old woman anyways but the cedar chest might be worth something to someone so we held out and threw the swing porch in the stove. There would be another summer and another day to build a swing porch but the stove needed feeding and so we went ahead with the hatchet.















It was good and warm for awhile it was but if I had my druthers I'd not burnt up that swing porch. I kissed Sara on that swing porch and I hoped to do it come spring time again. I suppose I could kiss Sara someplace besides that swing porch but I know if we were to be on it in the springtime there wouldn't be much thinking about it, Sara would know and so would I and I think maybe if its springtime and we're not on the swing porch Sara might not know and I don't care to like that idea all too much.

I said that we could burn the guitar and though it wouldn't give up all that much heat, being slight as it is, with the swing porch gone I probably wouldn't have too much use for it so even though it was slight the burning of it wouldn't set me off much. Priscilla wouldn't let me feed the guitar to the stove saying that she had liked when I would sing her songs when she was a little girl on it and that she wanted me to sing more songs to her on that guitar. She wanted me to sing her a song right then but it was too cold to want to play any songs on that guitar. I wouldn't even had sang a song for Sara, not even for a kiss it was so cold.















The rocking chair fed the stove pretty good. We didn't need it now that Granny wasn't around anymore. She would creak back in forth in that chair like nobodies business but she didn't creak back and forth now that she passed on. No one else felt much like creaking in that chair after she had passed, don't know why, just didn't seem right now did it. Granny wouldn't be none too pleased to know that the rocker made it's way into the stove but if she knew how cold it was she probably wouldn't have stayed riled at us for too long. Priscilla didn't like Granny much but I'm older and I have a better grasp of these things but I must admit seeing that creaky chair go didn't move me much, it was that cold.

I've heard that on the other side of the world it is already spring. I love my home but right now I might just want to be on that other side of the world, for just a while, just to see the spring time, I'd want Sara there, and the porch swing and the guitar too. I might want to be there for a little while but not long enough to miss spring time at home. There is nothing like spring time at home, on the porch swing with Sara and the guitar. The spring time almost makes the cold worth it, almost. The stove is still hungry and Jimmy says not to worry about the kitchen table because once the frost goes he can fix up a new one. I don't think Jimmy is much at making up kitchen tables I think he's just cold like the rest of us.















The kitchen table burnt up real good and then it wasn't so that cold. There would be it's legs to warm the morning so since the room was not so cold we all went on to get our rest. I laid myself down with one of the quilts Granny had made and wasn't really that too cold at all. It was almost warm like being on the swing porch in the spring time with Sara and that guitar. In the spring time Sara would kiss me on that porch swing. In the spring time on the porch swing.

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"Hey what's up?"

"Oh nothing 'cept the world is conspiring against me."















"That's all?"

"Well yeah, as if that isn't enough."

"Oh I'm sure it's enough."

"You wouldn't believe the half of it."

"Try me."

"You got a couple of hours?"

"How about the Cliff's Notes version."

"Shortcuts will get you nowhere."

"I'll takes my chances."

"Okay, so I go to the doctor."

"Are you ill?"

"No, I'm there for a check up."

"Poor you."

"I got a doctor joke."

"Hit me."

"So the doctor says, Erich you don't look so good, I think we should run some tests, so I say fine and the doctor says, we'll need a blood sample, a urine sample and just to be safe a stool and semen sample, I said no problem and handed him my underwear."

"You told me this joke before."

"Yeah but what I didn't tell him was that it wasn't my semen."

"You're right the world is conspiring against you."

"Just thought I'd start off with a joke like the speaker at a Lion's Club lecture."

"Spare me. So I thought you had troubles."

"Right went to the doctor, the usual stethoscope action, a little head turn and cough, then he went knuckles deep right to the prostrate."

"Some people pay good money for that."

"That's the rub, I kinda enjoyed it."

"That's sick."

"No what's sick was that I had a spontaneous ejaculation when he did it."

"Surely you jest my good man."

"Like I said the world conspires to make a fool of me."

"You're doing a pretty good job of doing that for yourself."

"Mille moto bene."

"What the..."

"Italian for a thousand thanks, I think I'm being facetious."

"I think you're wasting my time."

"Perhaps but like I said I've been in the midst of some heavy sledding lately and I just need to be a jerk for a little bit."

"No harm in that I guess."

"Thanks, I appreciate you granting me the leeway of not having to be my usual dour and serious self."

"I don't think you're dour and serious, I usually find you very amusing."

"Even when I'm not making a blind stab at hilarity?"

"Oh that's when you are the funniest. Nothing like a train wreck to get me on the guffaw express."

"Geeze, maybe I'm not the messed up one here?"

"Just making a point my friend."

"And what's that if you don't mind me taking the liberty of asking."

"The point is, are you ready?"

"Level me with your insight."

"Okay. Stop taking everything so seriously, there are no big deals."

"So the world isn't conspiring against me?"

"Sorry to inform you but if you slow down, get a little closer to the moment, you'll realize that everything is perfect and so are you."















"Its a funny world."

"You should be so funny."

Alone Again Naturally

I started a joke which started the whole world crying
but I didn't see that the joke was on me, oh no.
I started to cry which started the whole world laughing,
oh If I'd only seen that the joke was on me.

I looked at the skies running my hands over my eyes
and I fell out of bed hurting my head from things that I said.
'Till I finally died which started the whole world living,
oh If I'd only seen that the joke was on me.














It happened again and there was no reason behind it. Jeremy Rogers was at a loss for words. It was not the usual slow dissipation of his vocabulary rather an abrupt halt to his facility to form words and then to speak them.

He prayed that this time the situation would be brief and soon he would be his usual well spoken self, like the way the malady had righted itself in earlier episodes when it had materialized, but this time he had a creeping feeling that this might be the big one, the one he could not return from.

He sat in the dark and looked for a reason, there had to be some trigger he could latch onto that would explain this gap in his ability to function verbally. There were no girl problems, no financial worries, there were no outstanding resentments against man, god, or nature, what could it be?

Then it came to him in a bolt of realization, of clarity. The reason he had lost his capability to speak was that he had no one to speak to. There was no one there to listen. His words had been cast into a void for so long that he had lost the desire to communicate.














I started a joke which started the whole world crying
but I didn't see that the joke was on me, oh no.
I started to cry which started the whole world laughing,
oh If I'd only seen that the joke was on me.

I looked at the skies running my hands over my eyes
and I fell out of bed hurting my head from things that I said.
'Till I finally died which started the whole world living,
oh If I'd only seen that the joke was on me.

You Keep A Knocking But You Can't Come In

"Goddammit Annie get your ass over here and sing that fucking song already."















It was cold out, January cold, but he didn't know it. A number of beers and more then that many many shots under his whistle and he wasn't aware of the temperature in Los Angeles or China for that matter.

"I don't want to tell you again woman. Just get your ass over here and start a singing or else."

Not a small woman, and in no way anywhere near those button cute girlish years of yore, Annie smoothed down her cheaply dyed black hair, her red roots showing at the part, and drew a stern breath.

"Fuck you Eddie, you fat drunken bastard."

"I may be fat and drunk but I aint no bastard. You're sure one to talk. Now sing goddammit, sing."

"If I told you once I must have told you a thousand times I don't sing that song anymore. Not for you, not for anyone."

"Jesus, Annie woman, you just have to sing that song, the way I'm feeling babe I need it, I tell you I just have to hear it."

Annie walked into the room and surveyed the scene. There he was, her fat husband Eddie seated on the couch, the television played but the sound didn't work anymore and so the nightly news played scene after horrible scene in a muted horror. There he was, her man, braying like a little baby and all she could think was 'how the hell did I get here from there?'.

"I'll do what ever you want little girl if you only sing the song."

"What I want is for you not to be a fat drunken slob anymore. Can you do that for me? If you can do that then maybe, and I mean maybe, I'll sing the song."

"So you can still sing it. I knew you could. You might hide the fact but woman you brought so much joy and hope to the world with that song. Just go ahead and sing it."

"That was a long time ago when I was a little girl."

"I know babe but I need some hope and joy right now. Won't you do it for dear old Eddie."















Annie had always wanted a family of her own. Not having had any parents of her own, from her earliest memory all she had ever desired was a family she could call hers, and now she had Eddie. How could have it all gone so wrong? She walked to the mirror and looked at her reflection. Crows feet ran from her puffy eyes and the creases that moved down the corners of her mouth gave her a look of sad helplessness. She turned back to Eddie...

"Dear old Eddie my ass. You were supposed to take care of me, give me children, what about that?"

"I know, I know, but I hurt inside woman. I'm just so sad. Sing the damn song for me. Just a little bit, you don't have to sing the whole thing, just a little."

"Oh so you're sad? Maybe if you hadn't drunk up the rent you might not be so hurting on the inside. God damn Eddie, just god damn."

"Hey babe, remember how you used to be sweet to me when we first got together. You told me if I got you out to California and away from those rich folks that you'd love me forever, remember that babe."

Annie paused for a moment and she did remember. She was in her late teens and she was tired of being the trained monkey, forced to smile and sing and dance and act like life was just a bowl of cherries. It was anything but a bowl of cherries for Annie it was a living hell. Then Eddie came along and he was sweet to her and he was rough with dreams to spare and together they ran all the way to California. He had kept his promise to her, granted life was not how she imagined it would be but Eddie, if nothing else, kept his promise.

"Yeah I remember Eddie, I remember."

"Sing the song for me Annie. Just this once sing the song. I know you swore that when we left Gotham that you would never sing it again but just this once, cause babe, I really need for you to sing the song."

Annie walked to the television and turned it off, then to the light switch and the room was totally dark. The mirror was dark and in her mind Eddie was that young rough kid with a promise of California. The Annie began to sing...















"The sun'll come out tomorrow,
bet your bottom dollar,
that tomorrow there'll be sun!

Just thinkin' about tomorrow
clears away the cobwebs, and the sorrow
'til there's none!

When I'm stuck a day that's gray, and lonely,
I just stick out my chin and Grin,
and say, Oh!

The sun'll come out tomorrow
so ya gotta hang on
'til tomorrow come what may
tomorrow! tomorrow!
I love ya tomorrow!
You're always a day away."

To Sir (Michael) With Love

The sun set today. Another son set today. Everybody had tried their damnedest to keep it from happening but try as they did they just couldn't forestall the inevitable. The sun was one of many stars. He left two little stars behind. The sun set today.















The gravity pulled hard today. It pulled so hard that it pulled the sun down. It pulled on all of us today, it pulled hard. Another son set today. The sun set today. We wished we could spin the earth back on it's axis and turn back time and then the sun would still be here but try as we might we can't turn back time. The gravity pulled hard today.

There were no questions today. All the questions were answered today as the gravity pulled and the sun set. Another son set. The little stars did not comprehend the gravity of the day they only knew that the sun had set. The stars that begat the sun crumbled under the pull of the gravity. Those stars could only question but all questions had been answered today and their son had set.

It was dark today after the sun had set. The son had brought light but now that that light was no more there was darkness. The gravity magnified the darkness that took us over as the sun set. The son would never rise again. The darkness may recede but the sun set today and the gravity that pulled us left darkness in it's wake.

The stars above shown brilliant in the crisp night air tonight. The darkness that the son had left only made their brilliance that more intense. There are so many stars and the sun was a star but the son had set and was not in the night the gravity had seen to that. We still looked to that dark sky and to the sun, to the son.















The sun set today. Another son set today. We watch the gravity pull hard on us all and we hold tight to those that we have. We look into the night sky and remember the sun, the son, the son set today. In the night sky the stars shine brilliant. In the night sky. In the night sky the son shines bright.

You Said You Still Loved Me

It was a filthy cold morning at the MTA lot at Seventh and Alameda. The McDonalds next door was filled with travelers relegated to riding Greyhounds, too poor to fly, and in the MTA yard city buses came and went picking up or ending their daily routes. Even with the crisp blue skies and frigid winter chill there was a coat of gray soot over everything. It was Los Angeles painted bleak and this was where Abigail Simpson found herself. Steeled against the wheel of a large MTA bus Abigail made herself ready for another day on the 368 line.














Abigail didn't so much dislike her job, on some days it was in fact a joy to run people, so many people, cross town up and back along Sunset Blvd., but this wasn't one of those days. Abigail had seen a lot from behind the wheel of the bus. The people who rode the bus in Los Angeles, though some were there by choice, were most often made to ride the bus because of a lack of funds to travel any other way. They were the poor, the indigent and the desperate. Abigail tried to treat them with compassion but she had become somewhat shell shocked over time and this inured her to the plight of most of her passengers.

The bus roared to life and she spun the big wheel and left the yard. It would be a few miles before her first stop and Abigail took this time to pray, however begrudgingly, for the willingness to express love for her fellow man. She knew it wouldn't work, the praying, but it had become routine and so she went about it with little conviction. She pulled to her first stop at Alameda and Cesar Chavez and a group of kids piled on. There were the rude remarks, the kid with the bogus pass, and a derelict. The day was on and Abigail was powerless over the sadness that overtook her.

Miriam Sanfors stood outside the 7/11 at the corner of Sunset and Rosemont near Echo Park. She had nowhere to go and nothing to do. She hadn't a home and her government check was long gone and it wouldn't be for days before she would get the next one. She wasn't bothering anyone, she was too sad and beat to panhandle but the clerk tired of her presence and came out to shoo her away. She wasn't old but then again she was well past the age of the girls who worked the neighborhood but that didn't stop the constant harassment she got when loitering on the street.

With very little options Miriam sat on the bus bench. Maybe if she pretended to be waiting for a bus they would leave her alone. All she wanted was to be left alone. A young mother, baby in arms sat beside her. The woman proudly showed the baby to Miriam and all Miriam could do was turn away. Couldn't they all just leave her alone.
A bus pulled to the stop and the mother and child boarded. Miriam stood up and pretended that she was waiting for another bus then sat back down. They day turned to afternoon and Miriam's bus still hadn't arrived.












Abigail's bus filled and emptied along her route. It was nearing the end of her shift and the passengers were thinning out in number. Over the course of the day Abigail had seen the flotsam and jetsam of society in all their unruly splendor and this only deepened her sadness, her sense of isolation and separation. All she wanted was some sort of connection, some human contact. The riders on her route looked right through her. At times they offered a vague salutation upon entering or exiting but it was unfelt and routine at best. Abigail wanted to feel something, anything, but her sadness.

The big bus belched to a stop at Marathon and the last of her passengers exited from the rear door. She was alone for real now and she felt it. The rows of empty seats trailed behind her as the bus once again rolled onto Sunset Blvd. Abigail looked at the cars that traveled beside the bus, she saw families, friends, lovers, people happy to be alone singing to their radios. She crept deeper into the void that encapsulated her in her big MTA bubble.

Her second to last stop was at Rosemont and as she approached she saw a woman seated on the bus bench. She slowed the bus and pulled over directly in front of the woman and activated the door. The door opened with a hydraulic whoosh but then the lady didn't stand from the bench. Abigail so wanted a passenger, one who would sit up front and ask her questions about her route, or about the city, or about how she was feeling. Abigail needed to be held if only in her mind.

Miriam saw the bus pull over and as the door opened again saw as the bus driver looked to her.

"You coming on board miss?"

It had been a long time since Miriam had been called miss.

"No", said Miriam, "This isn't my line".

"Where are you going?"

"East, I'm going east."

"I'm going east get on."

"No that's alright", lied Miriam.

"Listen miss, if you haven't got the fare that's okay, just get on."

Miriam detected something in the bus driver's voice, a sadness, a desperation and she identified with that feeling. Was she imagining things? Was she projecting herself on to the bus driver? How could a bus driver be sad like her? The bus driver had a home and a job, what could she know of her troubles?

"It's not the fare its just that..."

"That's okay baby, you just get on and we can talk all about it."

Miriam rose from the bench and made a few tentative steps towards the bus.

"I really shouldn't, I mean my bus could be here any minute."

"Don't worry child, I'll take care of you, just get on."

Abigail didn't know what had come over her but she felt compelled to reach out to this woman and she didn't know why.

Miriam had just wanted to be left alone, that's all she had wanted. Why this? What was going on? She took a few more steps towards the bus and saw close into Abigail's face, there were tears. Miriam stepped on the bus and sat in the seat closest to Abigail's.















The bus door shut with a loud hydraulic whoosh and headed east down Sunset Blvd.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter

Of fairy tales and bloodbaths it was all in a day's work for Jerome Mankewiscz. He could have been anything he wanted to be as a boy, so complete was his parents devotion to him but through a series of circuitous roundabout ways rife with serendipity and circumstance he came to make his dollars slaving away as an art dog for serial television. It wasn't a bad way to make a buck but it didn't play too well at home and for this he was ever apologizing.












As a young man he was afforded every opportunity at higher education but being that the law didn't interest him, too much studying, and medicine, an equally daunting challenge, didn't excite him, he had basically passed on the life of a professional for any easier softer option. As a young man he had dreams of being a rock star, who didn't, and try as he might, the odds of making it in that game being what they are, found himself in need of some survival money. So when his music career had finally fizzled and died he moved to that graveyard of the music business, the art department.

At first it was simple. The drummer from Jerome's band was in a swing gang so he brought Jerome in as well and for the first year or so Jerome was happy to be a glorified furniture mover. The pay was probably equal to a mover but heck he was in show biz and even though it was at the bottom wrung it still had some cache where people drank and girl's asked what he did for a living. He liked the swagger of the art department, they were a wild group and for the most part left, on a daily basis, to do their thing in their own way, just as long as it was done on time and done right. All the art guys were ex-rockers to some degree or another and tattoos and piercings were not uncommon.

As the years began to mount the quality of the jobs escalated. Jerome moved from swing gang to props buyer and then to the on set art crew. He had an aptitude for the work and the jobs kept getting bigger and better. He began to make a good living and was part of a tight crew that always worked together. They were a merry band traveling together, working incredibly long hours, and partying through and after every job. He dated the Art Director for a while, she was talented but had trouble relating to the producers. Jerome stayed with her as the jobs became less and less regular and then when he tired of her neuroses and her unraveling work relations they split.















Jerome was easy to work with and this didn't go unnoticed by some of the producers he had worked under and so it wasn't long before they were calling him and asking him to art direct himself. He put together a crew, poaching a few cherries form his ex and started on his way. The jobs were smaller then what he was used to at first but he treated them with respect and in time he was back where he had been but now he was in charge.

Jerome worked on family dramas and sitcoms. He did commercials for every product known to man and then he got a real break. There was to be a new crime drama from the biggest producer in television. It was a can't miss premise with a major star moving from the screen to television for the first time. Jerome was ready for the challenge and began his preproduction with assured professionalism. The first scene on the first day was that of a crime scene, a bloody hotel room and it would be Jerome's vision to create it and see it to completion.

Jerome and his crew showed up the day before the shoot and started placing the motel room furniture around in a helter skelter manner. They dug holes, bullet holes, in the mattress and then extended red string to suggest bullet paths, they tore up clothes the room was a mess. The last thing to do was add the blood.

'Add the blood. Add the blood. Add the blood.'

As Jerome went to paint the room red with the dead girl's blood he became overwhelmed. It was all too real. Was this okay with him? Was he just doing a job or was he really part of something bigger? Was he part of the problem? Was he part of the numbing of society to the effects of violence? All of a sudden it just wasn't alright with him. He had always hated crime dramas, in fact he hated serial television but it was a job and he was paid well and so he had continued to delude himself. With the tubs of blood before him he was no longer delusional. To what end, to what end?












'Add the blood. Add the blood. Add the blood.'

It just wasn't alright with him.

It Must Be Smoke Or Dust Gets In My Eyes

"I want to show you something."

"Sure, that would be great."















"I mean, I want to show you something but that doesn't mean I am going to."

"That isn't very cool. First you offer to show me something then you say you're not going to, not cool bro, not very righteous at all."

"Its not a matter of being righteous or not."

"Then what is it?"

"I do want to show you something but, you see, I can't."

"You can't or won't?"

"A bit of both. Follow me on this. I want to show you something, that is true, but I can't therefore I won't."















"But you do have the desire to show it to me?"

"That is correct I do have the desire but not the means."

"So what's the hang up?"

"Electronics."

"What has electronics to do with it?"

"I used a digital camera to take photographs."

"That would be a problem right there. I don't like digital cameras. I don't like the digital era at all. It used to be you took a photograph on film then you would process the film and make a print from the negative. There was a physicality to it, a magic, something concrete to hold on to. There was a wonder to whether the image was captured or not and only after the development would you know, there was an anticipation. With digital cameras it is instant gratification like so much of society today. I want my pictures and I want to see them now."

"I hate to say I agree and on some levels I do, you're right but with digital cameras you don't have to buy film and that saves a lot of money."















"True but what you save in money you lose in depth. I mean with a digital camera anyone can, given the amount of photos you can take, get a good image. It really takes very little real talent to get a good image."

"I would think that would be a good thing."

"On an egalitarian level its pretty cool but as far as art is concerned its a fairly base concept as far as I'm concerned."

"I suppose I see you're point but for a novice like me it is a godsend."

"Okay so show me your photos."

"That's just it. I have all these great shots I took but I can not get them to load into my computer."

"Then show me a print."

"You win I get the gist. If I were to have taken these photos on film then there would be a physical record but electronic photos don't really exist."

"Precisely. If your computer takes a shit then all your work is gone."

"So I want to show you these pictures they are incredibly beautiful."

"I'll have to take your word on it."

"I did take a few with my cell phone camera."

"Spare me, that concept is utterly ridiculous."

"Maybe but I always have my phone with me and that can not be said of my camera."

"Sacrilege."

"Perhaps but you wanted me to show you something and so I will."

"Okay. Shoot."















"And I promise to get my camera fixed so I can show you all the pretty pictures I took."

"Digital cameras; bah humbug."

"I get it you don't like the digital age."

"Makes me see red sometimes."

They've Stolen My Eyes

'Hey this is me. Sorry I can't get to the phone, just leave a message at the tone and I'll call you back. Wow that sorta rhymed, oh well bye...leave a mesage...'

Beeeeeeeeeeep













"Hey I just called to say hi. I didn't want to leave you hanging because somehow, well, I don't know, I guess that just wouldn't be fair. I meant to call yesterday but , I don't know, well I just didn't that's all. Damn I hate talking to these answering machines, is that the correct term for a cell phone message taker thing? Do you remember that Replacements song called Answering Machine, that was a really great song, that line that goes...'how do you say I miss you to an answering machine, how do you say I'm okay to an answering machine?' How come Paul Westerberg doesn't write songs that good anymore? Shit I'm asking your answering machine questions now, I must be an idiot or something but really I was thinking how a person can create such amazing art then just lose it. I'm okay I suppose nothing really great to report but like I said I just wanted to call and let you know that I'm still here, I haven't gone anywhere and I don't plan to. I really hope your doing okay. I couldn't tell from your message what was going on, like are you mad at me, it kind of sounded that way, but then again what is there for you to be made at me about? I saw Rudy the other day, he said to say hi to you so I guess I'm saying hi from Rudy, he says to call him, I don't know if you have his number but I do so just ask me if you need it. I really don't know what else to say it is pretty hard talking to these machines, you know I wonder what actually records this because there is no machine per se, I mean the phone company has one somewhere, there is probably someone listening to this and thinking what an idiot I am for going on so long about nothing. I don't know I just needed to talk to you but of course you're not there, I mean that is why I'm talking to this virtual machine and...well, I don't know. Call me back I guess, yeah, call me back I really want to talk to you and again I'm sorry if you're mad at me. Whatever it is you know I didn't mean it, alright, I guess that's it. See ya, miss you...bye, oh one last thing, if you ever need to talk you know I'm always here for you no matter what, okay, alright I think I said what I needed to say...oh shit someone is ringing through right now, I have to hang up. Oh it's you on the other line, that's weird. Okay so don't listen to this message, or I mean I'm going to tell you not to listen to this message so I guess you'll never hear me telling you not to listen to this message because I am going to tell you in person, or live over the phone or whatever. Okay bye, hmmm why am I saying bye when you're not even going to hear this? I'm hanging up now. You know I want to say something to you and I'm only saying it because I know you'll never hear it in the first place and that is that I love you. Okay I'm hanging up now. I'll talk to you right now."

Is Fiction Too Strong A Word?

His gut strained at the waistline of his trousers and threatened to spill over it if something wasn't done soon. He sat at his desk and looked down to his hairy belly and wondered how he had let things slip as far as they had. He had been an athletic youth and thought he would be so for all his days. His youthful physic was trim on sturdy legs and even as he made his way past his thirties and became ever more sedentary he still was modestly responsive to remarks made to his fine fettle. He would deceive time and gravity forever or so he thought.














He was bulletproof, he needn't exercise or eat right, no he only needed to continue on his way and nature and his good genes would see to the rest. When he quit smoking, at the doctor's assured behest, he never figured himself to be among those who might add pounds and inches as a result. Of course he was under the assumption that he could smoke all he wanted, that he was different, that he, unlike his fellow man, was immune to the vagaries and smoking related consequences that so struck the common man. Even after he was told to stop the cigarettes he really didn't believe the doctor, he didn't really believe that he would die one day, he was unique, he was bulletproof.

He continued to eat from the same diet but in greater proportions then he had in the past. His diet was rich in red meats, breads and cheeses and he displayed little fear when sitting before a pint of ice cream. The weight didn't just appear it came incrementally with the resultant evidence only showing itself in one ignominious moment after he had stepped form his shower. There were breasts, hair covered breasts and his stomach had not only unflattened but widened over the hips. He was indeed pear like and surprisingly it came as a shock to him. Had he been in denial all this time? Wasn't he bulletproof?

The desk was further from him then it had once been; that space now taken by his distended belly. As he contemplated the growth he was taken by the awful specter that he now was. He was one of them now, a statistic, there was a possibility that he was human after all. Perhaps this meant that he might have to reconsider his mortality as well. The doctor's urgings on the smokes might not have been so much dancing with your sister as he had wanted to believe. There was consequence to his actions and this and the proof that had attached itself to his midriff made all this imminently clear to him.














As he struggled to come to a reason to strike the keys that would place the words before him he had trouble considering what he might write. Before, bulletproof as he was, he pounded the keys with a fearlessness that let truth spring from his fingers in an unrestricted fury but now there was a hesitation. He reached for the bourbon and slugged deep from the bottle. The doctor warned him about this as well and as the thought entered him the booze turned sour in his mouth. He froze and looked down again at the belly, the hair, the man breasts and the lie he had been forever believing.

Was it too late to change? Did a future of health food and jogging loom just ahead? Must he give it all up? One thing he now knew was that he had been lucky thus far, though even if his luck held, he too, one day, would face an eventual end. He was scared and panicked briefly. At that moment he came to the realization that he was indeed mortal, just another number, but by accepting this lot he also realized that as there was for others, there was too a way out from him as well.














The keys smacked hard on the paper and the words tumbled forth. He looked at his ever thinning body and then banged harder. There were a lot of words he needed to birth and the time to do it was not open ended but finite. This gave him great purpose and clarity and so he wrote.

You Get A Lucky Strike You Smoke It

There was a problem with heaven. He had been worrying on the topic for slipped on months and too fast shed years. Ruminations and the parse of all that the lofty might entail tore and festered mind deep as he sought some defined resolution to this quandary. Be it a place then so then be it but to him that place was not to be found in the afterlife for that was not assured, for him he needed to claim it in the day and so he toiled.














Need he rise high in death to be nearest the Deity, rise to the firmament freed of his earthly being, succumb to the vision of the other? His goal was to plan his trip well and do so as man for only this world was one he thought he knew to be real. The idea, to make heaven, had first taken root when he was but able to read his first words and hadn't lessened as his time mounted, it only gained velocity. He devoured every page of every type of scripture and poetry in his quest and in so was only left with an even greater thirst.

To be aloft, to be in that expanse, to be in everlasting spiritual communion with the one, to achieve a condition of utmost happiness, he would settle for nothing less. If the possibility was proffered then he would be the one to ascend to that promise. His mortal tether was seen not as a shackle but as a starting point, a place of departure, a place that would afford him the heights and then cradle him past this realm into the next if there be one.

The angels, where were the angels? Were they only to be found when he be released of this terrestrial journey? Surely not. Could the domain of the next greedily withhold these seraph from the temporal? He sought these celestials his every waking moment to no satisfaction. His frustrations did not dim his pursuit they only enraged his ardor at identifying those that might walk amongst us.















As his days began to dwindle in number he shifted inwardly. It was on the occasion of his birth that he arrived at his destination. In one bold moment all he had sought became manifest and so he wrote down his discovery.

I, in all my days, sought a way to enter heaven before I so be called. In doing so my eyes were focused fast on things I could not see. I fought for the reason and it alluded me. What was beyond my grasp I now hold firmly to my heart. In so seeking to join the heavens, I lost the knowledge that rather then being the realm of those passed on, held by the one for only those to come to him, that in his wonder and benevolence he has reached down and extended this world to us. That the angels surround us and are us. That heaven be not exclusive but there for those who care to see it around them. Am I not a human on a spiritual journey or a spirit on a human journey? That answer I can choose but the truth is that the journey started well before I had need to know it existed. So to you the angels that share this plane with me know that the total be the heaven, the domain of all that we perceive.














As his eyes lost control, they fluttered for his last, then he slipped on to the next. In that last moment he had no expectations. The promise had been fulfilled. He had made real his quest and any thing that might lay beyond would only serve to shine light on his days lived amongst the angels he did know.

Free Pink Berry Now

She stood at the counter of the coffee shop and wondered aloud to no one at all, 'What kind of tea might be good?'.















If it were coffee she were ordering then it would be an easy choice, the stronger the bean the better. Whether that bean had come from Columbia or Senegal, she had no concern, just as long as it was strong and bitter, 'just like my last boyfriend' she would tell the coffee jockeys and when they would ask if her if she wanted cream and sugar she would reply 'black and sweet like my best girlfriend'. It was part of her ritual though most times her puns were met with the blank expressions of service employees not too receptive of her carefree buoyancy and not too thrilled at their unexpected station in life.

She loved coffee more then she loved any other thing, more then she loved cigarettes. She would drink it all day and when at night she would toss and turn in her bed she never wanted to believe the coffee was to blame, she just had a lot on her mind, she would say to herself. She always made the first cup at home using the old Krups espresso machine left behind by a long forgotten boyfriend. She would make a large cup, what they called a six shot at the local corporate coffee house she would visit numerous times during each day, and down it without pause. She was barely able to move until she had that first cup and even when she traveled the Krups and the bean grinder would be safely packed in her luggage well before any other item.

She didn't go to the coffee houses to hang out, meet people or read, she went for the coffee and the coffee only. It wasn't as if she were obsessed by coffee but every time she saw a place to buy it she would. She would drink it cold out of cans and even her ice cream favorite was coffee flavored. She never noticed the caffeine but she was known to be of a bubbly personality and full of an unbounded vim. She tended to ignore the rank smell that would sometimes emanate from her armpits feeling it to be her own particular fragrance and not especially untoward for that matter anyways. Without her knowing she had become pickled in coffee. Had she a boyfriend then he might have tasted it in her every pore.

The stomach aches started slowly. They didn't come at any particular time of day or after any certain activity, they would just appear then recede. She tried antacids but they were but a weak cover for the pain she felt. It was over a period of time the pains intensified and she never slowed her consumption of the coffee for that could never be the cause, she thought, any thing but that. Finally the pain got so bad she took herself to the clinic to see a physician.

It was bad news, the worst news. Stay off of coffee for a month and then come back if the pain persisted. She was in shock, her life unsettled beyond her wildest fears. How would she find the strength to leave the house each morning? Would she still be able to work? Would she need to start taking laxatives? Her mind was awash with grim outcomes and she did all she could do not to cry.

That night after the doctors she fell fast asleep. Her dreams were subtle and when she awoke she had no memory of ever getting in bed. She fumbled about her apartment and went to her kitchen. There was the Krups beckoning to her but she rebuked it and then took the last of her beans and clumsily marched outside to the dumpster and threw them in. The pain in her stomach had finally reached a point where she would do anything, even quit coffee, to end it. Having nothing else to drink in the house she got in her car and headed off for the short drive to one of the ubiquitous coffee emporiums. She could barely operate her car and had even more trouble trying to park it.

She could smell the coffee brewing from the parking lot and her stomach did a little flip at the first whiff. 'No coffee, no coffee...' she chanted mantra like as she attempted to navigate the stairs into the coffee house. She waited in line and watched as orders for cappuccinos and americanos were shouted out and made, it made her knees weak but she was resolute. When she finally made her way to the front of the line she was beside herself with anxiousness.

'What kind of tea might be good?', she wondered aloud to no one at all.

The clerk approached her and before she had even settled asked...

"The usual four shot double black eye?"

The moment was upon her. Her head pounded and a crack in her will started to move to her lips.

"Ummm... yes, I mean no."

"What will it be?"

"Ummm... can you recommend a tea?"

The coffee jockey pointed to a chalkboard then rattled off the names of upwards of twenty different teas. They went by in a blur but one stuck out. It sounded regal, dignified. She always wanted to be regal and dignified.















"I'll have an Earl Grey tea please."

"What size?"

"I'll have a large."

"Would you like that double bagged?"

"Excuse me?"

"Doubled bagged. If you want we can put two tea bags in it."

"Really, for the same price?"

"That's right", said the jockey just a little annoyed.

"Sure, double bag it please."

"Cream and sugar?"

"In tea?"

"That's how most people have Earl Grey."

"Well, okay I guess."

She sat down with her tea and took a slow hot sip. It tasted good, not coffee good but a different good. It was more refined and delicate but still had a certain strength. She began to enjoy the tea, and even to relish it. This was going to great she thought. This is a new beginning. She was going to be a lady. No more coffee, coffee was for tools, she was with the upper crust now, the elite. How could she had ever been such a slave to the coffee. A nice looking guy sat next to her and they began to chat. It was all going to be good now.

As the month went on she became more and more enthralled with her tea. She began to hang out in the coffee shops and also came to know English Breakfast teas and the many delicious varieties of the herbals. The only problem was that the pain in her stomach continued.

"Miss I guess you know by now it wasn't the coffee, I feel you can go back to it now if you like", the doctor said.














That night as she was downing a four shot double black eye she thought to herself, 'Really if tea be so great then why not a nation of tea stores. Make mine strong and bitter and while you're at it black like my next boyfriend'.

All Apologies

We are sorry to report but technical difficulties will preclude the publishing of Sufferword's ongoing works of 'fiction' until a remedy can be found.

We are having problems on both ends of production and let it be known that today's post is already well written and will be published in it's entirety at the soonest possible time.

Our humblest apologies be well assured.

With regrets.

E. Von Stroheim

Jury Duty On Five Dollars A Day

"I got some news for you, don't ever have parents and if you do don't ever let them get old."

"What on earth are you saying?"

"I've been screwed by my dad."













"That is some sick shit."

"Not like that, Jesus Christ what do you think I am?"

"Sorry, I was joking. So what happened?"

"Well I took the old man's car away last year. The old geezer had a mini stroke and couldn't barely get around, it was really a bummer."

"Smart move the old folks shouldn't drive I mean what about that old dude who plowed through the Santa Monica Mall and killed all those folks."

"Precisely, so he put up a fuss but finally gave in. I got his piece of shit car, he thought it was worth three grand, the tow guy gave me twenty five dollars, goned and I thought that was that."

"Good for you."

"Well the old guy, who is on government assistance, got a little nest egg cause his geezer buddy crashed a car he was in and the insurance company gave him like five g's."

"Fat city."

"So behind my back he goes and buys a car."

"Oh shit."

"It gets worse. So I'm giving the old man rides to the store and the doctor and he is sitting beside me in the car telling me how much he likes to ride the bus and all but he's lying to me, he had an old Caddie Seville stashed without me knowing."

"Sly dog. How'd you bust him?"

"Well to be smart I had my name on one of his bank accounts that way if anything happened to him I'd have access to his cash."

"Makes sense."

"So I go online and check his balance and I see where all the digitalis is gone, I look further and see all these weird withdrawals, so I figure his psycho girlfriend..."

"What he's got a psycho girlfriend?"















"He says she's bipolar, I never met her but the old man says she's in her forties so I'm figuring the broad is shaking him down and I call the old man out on it."

"What else would a forty year old broad be doing with an eighty-six year old man right?"

"I figure she's big as a house and a crazy as a loon but you know the old man says he's putting it in her, which is kinda comical considering that he has to wear adult diapers, anyways whatever makes him happy but after I bust him on the money thing he ups that he has a car."

"Danger bro."

"It gets worse. So he cops to it and I tell him he has to get a driver's license or I'm taking the car so he gets one, I still can't believe the DMV passed him."

"Never underestimate a government worker."

"True. Now here's the really fucked thing. Any car the old man gets is going to be a piece of shit and of course the Seville is, the old guy spends every cent on it and overdrafts the account we share paying Jimmy the world's worst mechanic."

"The guy on Santa Monica right? Dude ruined my Mustang, but he was cheap."

"Same guy. Here is the super fucked part. The bank seeing the old man overdrafted his account takes it upon themselves to go into my account and snatch the balance owed from me."

"What the..."

"So without me knowing it my bank account is empty and now I'm overdrafting like a freak."

"Suckagaweea. So what did you do?"

"I tried to bitch the bank out, you know, for not alerting me but they just said 'sorry bro'."

"What did you do to the old fart?"

"What can I do? He's my Pops. I'd probably kill him but then I'd miss him too much."














"Alright I get the point. Next time around no parents."

"Right. Next time no parents."

Is Sad The Answer Or The Reason?

The moving truck did what it did best, it moved. It moved her things to a place where she could be free. It moved her things from the house they shared and then left it empty. It moved his happiness away and left behind only sorrow. The movers did their best to get everything but they forgot to take her memory. What to do with her memory?















The movers didn't take the television, she thought that in her new life, her new exciting life, the one filled with exciting new friends and possibilities she wouldn't need a television. She claimed she was against television but that must have been part of her new and exciting life for whenever he had tried to talk to her about what was troubling her and why she had called the movers, she couldn't be bothered to turn off the television, the one she hated so, to speak with him.

The big house had been emptied by the movers. He had to arrange for the movers though she said that she would take care of it. She rarely took care of anything. She took care of cheating on him. Then she took care of it again after she swore it was a one time thing. She took care of breaking his heart just as she had broken her vow. She took care not to pack her things, she took care to watch as he did the work. She took care to be there when the movers loaded the boxes he had packed and she took care enough to start an argument before she left.















The movers lifted the boxes and the furniture out of the house. They didn't know they were moving dreams and hopes, promises and betrayals. The movers only knew that things had to be moved and so they did. He watched from the upstairs balcony, the one off the bedroom, the one the movers had taken her clothes from, and saw the mover's truck pull away. It was their house that she had moved from, the house he had bought her, the house where he had put all their hopes. The movers took those too.

"That's okay, I don't want to be around people tonight. I'm just going to pick up some food and go home."

Oscar Meyer Was A Hebrew

"Oh I just love ham sandwiches made with mayonnaise on Wonder Bread."

"You've got to be joking?"














"Nu-uh, I'm totally serious."

"Why do you think they named it Wonder Bread in the first place?"

"Maybe because it is wonderful?"

"No, its because once you tasted it you wonder if it is actually bread. And really what's with the mayo angle? Everyone knows that mustard is the preferred condiment for all pork deli meats."

"Whatever... I'm sticking with the mayonnaise; pure creamy goodness. You know it's kind of weird but I never consider ham to be a pork product."

"Pork product? What do you mean? Ham is the holy grail of all the swine cuts. I personally enjoy a ham on rye with good old yellow mustard, now that's a superior sandwich."

"You only like it that way because you're a Jew."

"Could be?"

"Hey come to think of it aren't you Jews forbidden to eat pork?"

"Muslims too."

"So how is it that you forget about being Jewish when it comes to ham sandwiches?"

"And pork chops, my god Cuban pork chops at El Conchinito, amazing."

"Okay and pork chops?"

"And bacon, oooh bacon, and sausage and..."

"Like I said, what's with the shelving of the Jew thing when you have the yen to desire the pork."

"I don't follow Jewish dietary laws that's all."

"Just like that?"

"Sure. You know why the Jews and Muslims don't eat pork?"

"Probably because Moses got a stomach ache once and G-d spoke unto him and said cancel your next order or I shall smote you or something."

"No exactly. They don't eat pigs because a pig will eat it's own shit."














"That is sick."

"Precisely. I believe in the days of yore people got sick from the pigs so they just made it part of Jewish law to protect the folks, kinda of like what the FDA does today only then they added G-d to the equation to really scare the people straight."

"Makes sense."

"The Jews also don't eat the shellfish."

"How's that?"

"Probably the same sort of thing as with the swine. You see shellfish, crustaceans as you might, are bottom dwellers. They eat the crap that settles on the bottom of the ocean. Think of it, even today you are always hearing of people going down from bad oysters or shrimps, clams and the like."

"Its true you have to eat that stuff fresh or you can die."

"There you go, so back before refrigeration it was doubly gnarly and these laws were put in place to keep the Jews from getting sick."

"Even so don't you get kicked out of the Jews if you break these dietary laws?"

"My understanding of the whole Jew thing is as such. When you are born a Jew then you are always a Jew. It doesn't really matter what you do or think after that. I mean you might not be an observant Jew but you are as Jewish as the most presumed holy Jewish rabbi. You can believe in Jesus or Buddha or whatever as long as you are born a Jew you will always be a Jew."

"That's pretty cool."

"It wasn't too cool in Germany."

"So you can't renounce your Judaism?"

"You can renounce it but it won't do you any good. When a Jew is born, especially the men when they get circumcised, they make a covenant with G-d and that covenant can never be broken, that's the whole point of circumcision, you know you can never go back from that no matter what you say or think, what's done is done."

"What about the women?"

"I'm not so sure but you know the whole thing about if you're mother is Jewish then you are Jewish, the father doesn't really matter."

"That's odd. The man gets the circumcision and is Jewish for life but the bloodline is passed down form the mother."

"Its just another common sense law."

"Okay, dazzle me again with the brilliance of Jewish law."

"I don't know about any dazzle, its a pretty simple concept. If the mother is Jewish then so is the kid and why you ask and so I will tell you, its because you always know who the mother is but you can never be sure who the father is."















"My mom would make me ham sandwiches on Wonder Bread."

"I rest my case."

What Would The Loved One Say?

Is it so wrong not to know? Little Jerry hadn't a clue and that wasn't okay. The red light snapped shut and Little Jerry rolled through oblivious. In line at the market he had twenty items, the express line only afforded those with fifteen or less. His shower ran hot for an hour long soak but his neighbor shivered under the unwelcoming spray that was left.















Little Jerry had a big mouth. He said the wrong thing at the wrong moment without fail. Little Jerry used his cell phone in the line at the bank at voluminous levels. He was not okay. There was nothing that Little Jerry did that was socially acceptable but he never knew it. It wasn't as if he were a bad guy, he never got socked but indeed was the recipient of many a raised eyebrow or anonymous snarl.

Little Jerry didn't have a girl, he used prostitutes. His social circle revolved around the patrons of the Living Room bar and they abided him though with much back handed discussion whenever he left the room. Little Jerry never tipped he didn't see why he should. His car was dented and never washed with trash rimming the floors threatening to overtake the seats as well.

It was an early Sunday morning at the beginning of the new year and Little Jerry left his filthy little single to get himself a donut or two. His car belched a cloud of noxious black smoke then rumbled down the street. He pulled into the lot at the corner of Fountain and Sunset and nearly caused a wreck as he did so. Even at this early hour the chess players crowded around the tables inside Tang's. Little Jerry walked up to the counter bypassing a patron who might have been a little slow in deciding on his order and shouted to the clerk...

"Two crullers, the ones with the chocolate, you got any fresh ones."

"There all fresh, just like every day you ask", the clerk replied having been through this exchange too many times over the years.

"Had to be sure I wouldn't want you to try and pass off any day olds."

The counter person returned with the crullers and Jerry counted out change enough to pay for them.














"Can I have a cup of water?"

"We can't give out cups how many times do I have to tell you?"

"Had to ask."

Little Jerry popped a cruller in his mouth and walked over to watch one of the chess games. There was a crowd of borderline indigents surrounding a table where a chess board and timer sat. Two men were seated in deep concentration. One man moved a pawn then slapped the timer the other countered quickly rooking his king.

"Bishop to queen seven", Little Jerry shouted.

The whole group turned to him as one their faces twisted in disgust. It hadn't mattered that Jerry had called out the right move, the fact was, unbeknownst to Little Jerry, it wasn't his game. Jerry looked around at the faces, chocolate smeared over his chin, and simply walked out of Tang's.

Later that afternoon after drinking at the Living Room, Little Jerry decided he needed some company and went to the Korean massage on Western. He disrobed and the girl began his massage.

"You like this?", she asked in a leading way.

"I guess its pretty good but do you think that you could take off your shirt while you do it?", Jerry said flatly.

"What do you want me to do?", she asked again with even less subtlety.

"What I want you to do is to stop messing around and get down to it."

"How much money do you want to spend?"

"I don't want to spend any and I won't spend anymore if you don't get busy."

"I am giving you the massage you paid for", the girl said starting to tire of his antics.

"Listen, I want the massage I came in for and I expect you to take off your shirt and finish me off for the money I've already paid."

"I'm sorry sir this isn't that kind of place," she said throwing ice all over Little Jerry.

Little Jerry rolled over and sat up facing the girl.

"How much for you to take your shirt off?"

"Fifteen dollars", she said matter of factly.

"How much for you to finish me off?"

"That's another thirty."

Little Jerry reached over and grabbed his pants then reached into his pocket and took out fifteen dollars.

"Okay, take off your shirt."

The girl took the money then removed her black tee shirt.

"You aint got much up there do you? I should have only giving you ten."

Little Jerry got an erection.

"You don't want me to finish you off?", she said warming to the occasion once again.

"No I'll take care of that myself."

And so he did.

That night at the Living Room, Little Jerry, well into his fifth scotch, had a rare moment of clarity. 'If five scotchs cost twenty dollars then if I just stayed home I could have a whole bottle for the same price'.















That was the last time Little Jerry went to the Living Room.


Swing batter, batter, batter, batter. Swing batter, batter, batter, swing. Strike three, you're out.

Is Everything Up For Grabs?

"Do you mind not looking over my shoulder?"

"Why so touchy? You don't have performance anxiety do you?"













"Performance anxiety, I don't think so. What do you think I am?"

"I was just wondering. There isn't anything wrong with it."

"Well there might not be anything wrong with it but that doesn't mean I suffer from it either."

"Geeze I didn't say you couldn't get it up or anything. You don't have to be so defensive."

"I'm not being defensive and for your information I don't have a problem getting it up."

"Do you think you could do porno movies, you know, perform in front of people like that?"

"I never thought of it."

"I have. I mean it isn't something I would want to do, I'm not an exhibitionist and I certainly don't need the money and thank god I don't have any daddy issues to work out but I have thought about what it would be like to do it in front of the cameras or even just... you know, other people."

"That would be easy for you, you would just have to lay back and take it."

"What you think just because you're a guy it would be harder?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"I disagree. You either feel comfortable doing it in front of other people or you don't. I mean if you are a girl and you are really private then it would be impossible to loosen up in front of people just like if you're a guy and you don't mind being seen then I doubt you'd have performance anxiety."

"You mean if I guy doesn't mind being watched then he would have no problem getting it up?"















"Right. I know there are a lot of people who get off being watched there are even those among us who need to be watched to get off."

"I know that I don't want to be watched but it is exciting when you think you might get caught like when you go to a girl's house and her parents are down the hall, now that's exciting."

"I don't know about that, obviously, but I have done it in public places."

"Really where?"

"Oh I don't know, a random drunk night in an alley or in the car, nothing really extreme but it was really hot."

"I know, I've done the same but it only works when it is a spur of the moment thing. We tried once, you know made a plan, like let's go to the park and do it in the bushes and it just seemed so forced and we felt pretty ridiculous afterwards."

"I think these days there is a pornification of everything going on. Its like everything is porno. It used to be a shaved, well you know a shaved... anyways that was like a big thing now it is just as common as a tattoo."

"I think the lack of pubic hair is all part of the youth worship thing that is going on."

"That's kinda sick."

"It might be sick in a lot of ways but it does have a few advantages."

"I know I'm not against it, I'm all for personal hygiene but like all this pornography, its for men, they are the ones who want the shaving thing. You think a girl wants to shave anything, I mean I do my arm pits and legs and even that is more of a chore then its worth."

"Ever try waxing?"

"Very funny."

"Well I am a man and I..."

"Nuff said. You know I'm kind of envious of those people that have their kinks all figured out, you know the exhibitionists and the leather folk the scats or whatever. I mean none of that appeals to me but it must be nice to know, like wow I just love to get on my knees in a public bathroom stall and glory hole away."

"That's pretty gross."

"I know to us it is but to some people it is just business as usual."

"I see what you mean. Like at what point do you decide you need a horse to mount you from behind?"

"Holy crap now that is interesting."















"Jesus I'm not saying that..."

"Talk about performance anxiety."

I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts

"Erich, Erich where are you? I've been calling for days, why don't you call me back? Come on man, jump on the positive train, its the new year and all; let's go. Enough with this bullshit. Call me. Later days buddy."














It was hard to hear the message on the cell phone against the din of the noisy diner. Erich thought how he must get a new cell phone just as soon as he could, the one he had being outdated and inferior. Everything in Erich's life felt outdated and inferior and he was having trouble in hearing everything as well. Trouble in hearing his friends, trouble in hearing reason, trouble in hearing warnings. Erich was in trouble and though he knew it he could not see the way out.

Erich hung up the phone and rejoined his friend Beatrice at the table.

"Sorry I had to check my messages."

Erich picked up his tuna melt and bit hard into it.

"Good news I hope?"

"Not really. It was Judah."

"How's he doing I haven't seen him in a while?"

"I suppose he's doing fine. He really didn't say in his message."

"Was he calling to check up on you?"

"I guess so. I've been getting a lot of those types of calls as of late."

Beatrice looked over at her friend. They had been through all this before. Each time she had tried to talk reason to him but it never seemed to take hold. She toyed with the straw in her milk shake and took a demure sip.

"At least no one's giving up hope on you."

"No one but me."

"You have to get over it."

"I know."

"What good is it being miserable? You know I've been pretty low myself but at some point I had to just let it go."

"I want to let it go but I just came seem to shake it."

"I hate to break it down to you but in reality there really isn't anything to be that upset about."

"How do you mean?"

"When Jacques left me I thought it was the end of the world. When I couldn't pay my rent and I was overdrawn at the bank I thought that it was over for me. You know those nights when you're lying there in bed and your mind just won't stop churning, every negative thought you ever had just swirling away and you're just paralyzed with fear?"

"Um, you mean like every night?"














"Well yeah, okay. So its every night for you. Well when I look back on all those nights of darkness and fear and how hopeless everything seemed at the time one thing comes clear."

"What?"

"Well every time I thought it was the end of the world it never was. I mean you get completely assed out and everything is just fucked beyond reason and then you make it through somehow. You just said you have had nights where the end was at hand, right?"

"Well yeah, I just said that."

"Well what happened? I mean you're still here. You're sitting there right in front of me. It couldn't have been that bad or you wouldn't be here."

"I know. I can understand intellectually what your saying but I..."

"I know you hear the words but you can't hear me."

"Something like that."

"You know after Jacques left me I thought I'd never find anyone ever again."

"But you're with Jerome."

"I know, but if you remember I was inconsolable beyond reason."

"What happened?"

"You really don't remember do you?"

"Remember what?"

"Well I was lower then low then a friend called me up and forced me to go to a New Year's day brunch where I met Jerome."

"I don't remember but I guess you're about to tell me that I was the one who called you."

"Precisely."

Erich's cell phone began to vibrate as it lay on the table and it started to magically slide towards him.

"Go ahead answer it."

Erich looked at Beatrice and made to put the phone away.

"Answer it Erich, Jesus Christ already."

Erich begrudgingly opened the flip phone and got up from the table. Beatrice thought how much she appreciated Erich's good manners as she watched him talk on the phone near the front door of the diner. A few moments later Erich was sliding back into his seat.

"Who was it?"

"Buster."

"And?"

"And he wants me to go to a brunch with him."

"And you said?"

"I said I was already eating with you."

"Erich!"

"He said you could come too."

Beatrice stood up from her seat and turned to Erich.

"You call him back..."
















"Check please!"