Too Many Memories That Won't Fade Away

"Take the wheel, go ahead take it I..."

"No way man, what the hell are you doing?"
















"I just need to do this thing. Grab the fucking wheel because I'm going to hit this whether you take the wheel or not."

"This is fucking ridiculous."

He reached over with his left hand and took over the steering wheel. Perhaps because of the open stretch of highway they were on and the late hour of night it wouldn't be too dangerous. Now that he thought about it, when he was a teenager, they used to do this kind of shit all the time. They weren't teenagers anymore and there was a difference between rolling a joint and hitting some dope.

Why couldn't they just enjoy this time? They were traveling north to play a show and wasn't that all they had ever really wanted to do; to travel playing music. Maybe not for the big money or the stardom, though that was all still a possibility, but more for just the desire to get out there and do it. They were doing it but maybe that wasn't enough anymore.

There was a rush of traffic coming from the opposing direction. The van swayed as the semi's wake buffeted it. He kept his eyes straight and his hand on the wheel, this was going to work out fine. What was he worrying about? They were alone on the road and he looked over and saw his friend pull the point from his arm and then lap at the residual blood.

"Got it. I'm cool now."

He let go the steering wheel and the driver was back in control of the vehicle.

"We should have pulled over."

"No use crying now what's done is done and I'm...oh shit...I'm really...holy fuck..."

The van jumped to the right and he reached over the best he could to grab the wheel but he was pitched up against the door and then the whole thing started to spin like being inside a washing machine. Metal scraped on concrete, sparks showered from every direction, glass exploded and rained upon everything. Then there was just black and darkness.
















There was feeling in his legs and there was a tightness in his throat. There was a tube extending out from his trachea and he couldn't speak. He was obviously in the hospital and the night's occurrences came rushing back to him.

"Hey man."

It was his friend sitting on the side of the bed.

"Don't try and talk. There was an accident. Fuck man I'm sorry. We rolled the van. That's bullshit, I nodded out and I rolled the van. Oh man I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, and fuck, I swear I would trade places with you if that were possible."

There was no trading places. He could have been angry but it was all too new for him to grasp the entirety of his predicament.

"I've been sitting here for weeks and I've run these words through my head over and over just waiting for the chance to speak them to you. Now that I can say them I realize that there really isn't anything to say but to tell you that I love you and that I'll always be there for you."

His friends words seemed true. The situation was bad but for some odd reason he had a sense that it would all turn out alright.

"I haven't gotten high since that night and I pray every night that I never get high again. I promise I'll do anything I can to make sure I never fuck up and hurt anyone ever again."
















He believed his friend. It would be okay. It had to be. Didn't it?

Mystical And Magical Show Show

Can you feel it? Can you feel that sharp pain in your lip? Don't pull on it for there are barbs in that hook and you don't want to make it worse for yourself now do you? If you think about it you have no one to blame but yourself. I didn't ask you here. You invited yourself. I have been here all this time and it is you, you, consumed with the fascination of yourself that found me.
















It is like the little mouse that ran loose in the kitchen. A small piece of cheese, the poison hidden within it, the trap set, the quarry landed. Don't think me devious or ill willed for I am not these things. I did not create the weakness in you, the weakness that caused you to seek me out here. If I were a mirror then you would have perhaps sought me out in this form as well. I am your mirror.

You might think to yourself what kind of being would create such a ruse as to play upon my human frailties in such a manner? To what end and embracing what eventuality was this plan set in motion? To what great achievement could one possibly hope to insure by using these means that at once seem sly and not entirely forthright. Fret not, fear not for unlike the mouse loose in the kitchen, there is no harm meant you.

Do not think that you have been duped by this gamble. You see your visit has been expected and though you may not believe so it can be assured that only the best intentions were behind any motive to land you here. It was obvious that you could not stay away. What was not as obvious was whether once here that you might stay long enough to realize that this is where you always belonged.

Don't feel ashamed that you need be tricked into this realization. One can not except blame when no blame is necessary. You are like a diamond that is fascinated by it's own brilliance. Is this diamond any less brilliant having this knowledge? I am your mirror. You are a diamond.
















If need be then this hook that has been so solidly set can be removed. All you must do is rid the hook of the barbs. Then swim free. Just know that this was not a trap at all. Once rid of the hook and then with a most sincere invitation you might choose to stay awhile.

You are invited to stay. You are free to stay. I wish you would stay.

I Want To Know About The Mystery Dance

Sometimes a suitcase can't say a thing. He sat and looked at the suitcase sitting by the front door and really couldn't tell anything about what it meant. His mind told him it was packed. It was packed for flight and he wouldn't be accompanying that bag in flight nor the owner of it.
















His mind told him that he was a failure and that he was unworthy of loving. The suitcase didn't move. He tried to gauge the heft of the bag but there were no signs to indicate whether it be barren or filled with sorrow.

He pondered going over and giving the handle a pull, a test, a test to see the weight of his future, of his world. With just the use of his smallest finger, with just his extended pinkie finger he could answer every question belaboring his disquieted soul. He could answer the question of her whereabouts on those nights that he still wondered about. He could find out if those really were wrong numbers and if that night she drank too much and slept at Anna's, well if she had really drunk too much and slept at Anna's.

He hadn't noticed the suitcase earlier and she hadn't mentioned going anywhere. He wasn't actually certain if it were her suitcase at all. All he had to do was walk over and just give a little tug. It seemed so simple; it wasn't. Was he really willing to open that door to pain? What if his worst fears were realized what then? Tears and accusations? Denials? Was he really ready to have his world cracked open like a rotten egg?
















All the signs were there but they had yet to be turned into solid evidence. She had given him every indication that there was something amiss in their relationship but he had become very practiced at the art of denial and so he remained faithful and hopeful. Every time she pulled away or claimed exhaustion, fell asleep on the couch or opted to go out drinking with her friends, he chose to believe.

Now there was a suitcase staring him down from across the room. All he had do was but to walk over to it and proclaim his lot. He never voiced these doubts that he carried about, this burden that he wore like a sad sack. Was it her that he needed so or was it the idea that she represented? This was a conundrum he was ill equipped to sort out. What kind of man was he? Could he possibly stand by as the woman he thought he loved gave herself to another? Could he still love her even armed with such a frightful knowledge?

He walked across the room and stood before the suitcase. In it was his life and so he did what he feared he had to. He reached down and slowly wrapped his hand around the handle and gave it a little tug. Just as he did the phone rang. He let the handle loose and went over and answered the phone. Something had come up and she wouldn't be home until late. He wanted to ask about the suitcase. He wanted to know if there was someone else. He wanted to tell her he loved her.
















He needed to say goodbye.

All That Gushes Isn't Gold

Z "What's the deal?"

There were three of them, good friends with nary a secret between them. The two guys were just that, guys, and the girl well she was a girl's girl. It was a bit confusing to follow but it seemed that guy 'Y' had just dropped a load on girl 'X', befuddling guy 'Z'.
















X "Girl trouble."

Z "What's the trouble?"

Y "I told the girlfriend that I had a lot to do and that maybe we should just
mellow out a bit."

Z "When was this?"

Y "Saturday. You know we have been hanging super tight on the way to moving in, but not moving in, you know, and there is just a lot of things I need to be doing and I've been spending all my time with her so I just told her I needed some time to take care of things."

Z "Sounds fair."

X "Tell him what you did."

Y "I didn't call her yesterday."

Z "Uh oh."

Y "She just texted me and asked if we were broken up."

Z "Someone's overreacting."

X "You didn't mention that she was sick."

Z "And you didn't call for two days and she's sick."

Y "I called her on Sunday."

Z "Break up with her."

X "Why would he do that they are so good together?"

Z "All I'm saying is that if you don't call a girl you're supposed to be deep with for a few days running, to at least check on them and tell them hey, then you don't really care too much about them and that you should just move on."

Y "I don't want to do that. I mean I guess I fucked up not calling her."

Z "Plan B. Go over there right now and drill her."

X "That's disgusting."
















Z "What?"

X "Drilling her. That sounds horrible."

Y "If you mean go over and...you know, drill just sounds so...I don't know."

Z "I know. Go drill her one."

X "Maybe she doesn't want to. I mean she is sick."

Z "Listen our boy is in the shat house real good right now. He has to go over there this minute and whether she thinks its a good idea or not, he's got to stick it to her."

Y "I think I know what you mean."

Z "Of course you're a guy."

X "Oh great."

Z "You go over there and you tell her you can't be without her and that you need to drill her, you have to or you will go insane. And she'll say she doesn't want to and that she feels ugly and all that and you let her know that you are a man consumed of a passion for her and that you will not be denied for one second her sweet love, dammit."

Y "You're right I have to get manly on the subject."

Z "Either that or bail the hell out of the whole thing."

X "All I know is if I'm sick I don't want anyone touching me. Do you?"

Z "Are you kidding, of course; I'm a guy. When I'm sick I get to just lay there and take it if you know what I mean."

X "That's gross. But I guess you are right. When I'm sick I just, you know, myself."

Z "You mean pull the hand release?"

X "Yeah, you know fifteen seconds and I feel better."

Y "Fifteen seconds?"

X "I know my body pretty good by now."

Z "I'm jealous."

Y "Me too."

X "So what are you going to do?"

Y "I guess go over there and see to it."

X "And what if she says no?"

Y "I just tell her I'm the man and my needs come first."

Z "That's you alright, you'll come first for sure. Everybody knows you have to take care of her first so that you can be free to do your thing."
















Y "Do you think you could give me some hints on that fifteen seconds thing?"

X "He was right. Break up with her."

It Stopped On A Dime And Asked For Change

What was Mom doing here? It just didn't make any sense. Mom was back in Los Angeles and though he didn't quite know exactly where he was, Erich was sure he was nowhere near Los Angeles.
















His mother appeared to be sitting on a short red stool, the walls shone white and brilliant blinding him, it was hard to focus but Erich instinctively sensed it was his mother. The light haloed about her and then it seemed she was floating a few feet above the stool. Erich heard his mother's voice but he couldn't make out what she was saying. It was if she were talking to him from down a long corridor, the sound reverberating and losing shape before he could discern her words. It was like a bad dream and it probably could have been save for the fact that Erich hadn't slept in a long while.

Erich couldn't say how long or how many days he had been awake for he had no way to gauge time. They saw to that. Just the brilliant, blinding, never changing white light. There were no windows for him to see the days change and there were no clocks on the wall. His watch was smashed open and examined those first few hours of his confinement so Erich, after some time, just gave up the desire to count hours or days. He had been strapped to a chair facing a blank white wall a short time after his transport had been completed. At first he hadn't minded the white wall, anything, Erich thought, was better then the blackness he had been ensconced in after his arrest. From the moment they had captured him a black hood had been placed over his head and there it remained until he was seated, and then strapped, to the chair facing the white wall.

It had been an arduous journey to the place he was being held. Erich counted three vans and two planes only broken up by a barrage of questions he had no answers for. Men's voices, women's voices, all demanding of him to tell them what they knew he knew. Erich knew nothing so had nothing they wanted. Erich hoped that this would suffice, his assurances of his innocence, but the more he pleaded ignorance the more his captors pushed. They let it be known that they would indeed break him, that they had broken harder cases. Erich insisted that he was not a hard case and that he in fact was already broken and they needn't break him anymore but to no avail. They continued their methodical and systematic destruction of his will.
















So Erich sat strapped to the chair, in the white room with no windows. After some time he became tired and just as he was drifting off he felt a poke in his ribs. Someone he could not see was standing behind him and every time he would begin to nod off he was poked. If he would just tell them what they wanted to know then they would let him sleep. Erich didn't know what to tell them, he would have told them everything they had wanted to know, if only for a few moments of rest, but he had no idea what they wanted him to say and the longer he stayed awake the harder it became to even understand where he was or why he was there.

It seemed like forever and for as much as Erich knew it had been forever. His head would bob and then the poke in the ribs and then the insistent questioning. More pleading, more nodding, more pain. Then when he least expected it his mother.

She was now floating in the air just before him. There was an aura about her, bright and blinding like the light and the wall. Her words bounced and fluttered and Erich pleaded with his captors to let him hear her.

Mom, why won't they let me hear you? What have I done? Mom, take me home with you. Tell them I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed. I don't know what to tell them Mom so can you please tell them for me? I just want to go home Mom and sleep in my own bed.
















There was a sharp pain in his ribs.

Hiya Chum

^^65**perspective blue:;^89* high contrast8/ dossier Erich Von Stroheim-classX/strong

Dear Mom,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wish I could say the same for myself. Hopefully by the time you receive this letter everything will have settled down. Please don't tell Dad about this because he would never understand. He would just say it was all my fault. Mom, really, I hope you can believe me, it wasn't my fault, I wasn't doing anything wrong. I just realized that you might have no idea what I'm talking about but then again I bet they have contacted you and made up all sorts of lies about me.
















Mom they are lies. I probably shouldn't tell you the things I'm about to say but I want you to know the truth just in case. I know that they don't want you to know the truth and I think that is how this all got started. Again I get ahead of myself. Oh, one last thing before I tell you what happened. I sent this letter to Aunt Susie's because they are probably watching your mail box and if they found this letter then you probably would have never received this. I've included some pictures. After you look at them hide them somewhere safe and not at the house. I won't suggest anywhere because if they find this letter those pictures might be my only insurance policy.

Okay here goes. First I'm okay. I'm with friends somewhere and it is better if you don't know where so they can't trick you into telling them. The post mark on the letter won't help them. I have met some people who know how to do all this stuff and they are making sure that I am safe. I am scared but mostly I'm afraid of what they might do to you.

I was having dinner two weeks ago with my friend. I won't say who so he doesn't get in trouble too. It was no big deal we were at Pizza Buono and ate and just talked until around eleven thirty. Now that I think about it, it was a strange night. I think the moon was full or pretty darn near to it. I remember there being an awful lot of police cars racing through the streets with their lights flashing and sirens and all. So I get on my scooter to go home. I was going home to do some writing and maybe watch a movie. I wasn't going to stay up too late because I had to wake up early in the morning to play tennis.
















Just a block away from the pizza place and right across the street from the fire station they were working on the street. It was odd the hook and ladder was parked next to the construction site and not across the street inside the firehouse. As I passed I noticed the firemen were all crowded around the work site and there was a dump truck about to unload a bunch of hot asphalt on to the street. Mom you know how I love to see that kind of stuff. I mean asphalt being dumped is cool but with all the firemen around, it seemed even more of an event, so I pulled over to watch.

At first the firemen ignored me but when I took out my camera a firemen, I can remember his face as if he were in front of me right now, came over with a flashlight. He started yelling at me to move away. He said I had to go fifty yards away for my own safety and I told him that I was just going to get my scooter and then go away. He told me he was going to call L.A.P.D. but I just got on my scooter and went fifty yards away maybe even more. He came up the street and started yelling at me again. I tried to say that I was more then fifty yards away and he said I had to move for my own safety and that he was calling the L.A.P.D.

I didn't want to get in trouble so I just rode up the street and decided to go home. The road went up the hill but then turned right and led me back down to the street where the asphalt truck and firemen were. I parked a ways up the street and because my camera has a real good zoom lens on it I stopped to take so more pictures. I shot a few when the firemen spotted me and started yelling at me. I couldn't hear what he was saying but he was shining a flashlight, a real powerful one, more powerful then I had ever seen before, right at me. I think he knew that I couldn't take pictures with the light shining at my camera. The the firetrucks at the firehouse left and I noticed that the hook and ladder from the firehouse left with them. Not the hook and ladder that was parked at the asphalt site. That one remained where it was.
















Mom, I don't think they were really firemen. The firemen with the flashlight started coming at me so I went further up the block to the 7/11 and parked there. I took out the camera and started taking more pictures. I could tell the fireman was still watching me because I zoomed in on him and he was looking right at me and he was talking into a radio. A man in a suit came over and then they both started talking and looking at me. The man in the suit went away and got into a car and then I left and rode in the other direction, west, away from them. I thought it was over.

About a block away I saw a whole mess of police cars coming up the street with their sirens and lights so I turned up the street away from them. Mom they followed me. I kept going and I realized they were after me. I was on the scooter so I pulled behind a house and waited as the police raced by. I was so scared. Mom I didn't do anything. When I got near my house I could see the police cars parked up and down my street. I couldn't go home so I went to a friend's house and told what had happened. They suggested I get out of town and they knew some people. They called these people and when they heard what had happened they seemed to not be too surprised. They said that the government was doing some pretty bad things and that I must have stumbled upon one of their projects. Mom I wish I had never stopped. Never took these pictures. I'm scared Mom. I want to come home but I don't think its safe.
















I was told not to call you because the NSA can find where the call came from and then they would come and get me. Mom don't tell Dad. Tell him anything but just don't tell him what I told you. Please. I just want to come home and have it be like it used to be. I love you Mom, and Dad too. I'm scared but I'll be okay. Don't tell them anything mom. I'll write again when I can.

Erich

COPY/ ORIGINAL MARK 7;/NSA proj. Sunset//protected

Night Time Time Night

No one was ever the wiser, in fact they were fools to believe, but with his smile they were anything but unwilling to accept his words and deeds as true. With a tongue made of molten silver he spun webs of deceit and theories of convenience for which no common wisdom would have reason to refute. If the moon were to rise at night he could sell you that it was day.
















There was never any great cause associated with his mendacity it was just that it was his natural state. It came so easy to him that most times he had no knowledge that he was indeed being anything but honest. There was a certain sense of purpose and softness to his prevarications that one chose not to see beyond the suspect reason he would offer.

He had convinced his way into good jobs and good girls. He gave the impression of a man fully evolved and up to any task. The landlord needn't check his references and if they just had to then the poor credit report was easily explained. He had been a victim, he was always at the will of circumstance well beyond the control of any mere mortal and there was that look in his eye that made you believe this too.

There were colleges graduated and overseas trips to discuss. There were no diplomas, he was only a credit away, nor photographic evidence of his stay in Paris, sadly lost in a flood. He had been in burning buildings and floated on sea going freighters. He had loved heiress' and his father had been in the diplomatic corp and a higher up in the C.I.A.. His mother a Native American princess and if not for a bureaucratic error he would be privy to a piece of the tribe's gaming fortune.

The car was in the shop now for three months. It was worth it, the mechanic being a retired NASCAR crew chief and his work was well worth the wait. The cell phone was off only because his boss was getting them all iPhones and the contract was still in negotaition, a negotiation his boss had requested he help oversee.

He was an athlete, he had to be, juggling so many stories at once. Every room he entered was a challenge, a possible land-mine in every face. He was good but no one could ever be that good at the game he played.

"Oh, hey Erich."

He looked for an out. He tried to remember what he had said and if there was any way to continue the ruse. He was trapped, there was no convenient out and so he set his heels and attempted to dig himself out.
















"Oh, hi, Suzanne, what a pleasure to see you. I trust you have been well. I'm so sorry I haven't been by to see you but what with work and of course all the travel involved well though you were foremost in my thoughts sadly the world has conspired to keep us apart."

"I thought it was something like that."

"That's so great, I mean I really appreciate your understanding. You are such a wonderful friend."

"Really? You think so?"

"Of course. You are very special to me."

His mind clicked from one scenario to another looking for a fit. What had he told Suzanne and how could he extract something of value from this meeting or at the least excuse himself with the most expediency.

"My goodness Suzanne how rude of me. Have you eaten anything?"

"Yes Erich, I've already eaten."

"Oh that's too bad. I would have loved to buy you dinner."

"I'm sure you would have Erich."

"So tell me Suzanne are you free tomorrow?"

"Why?"

"I just thought we could go out tomorrow."

"Day or night?"

"What ever is best for you."

Erich sensed that perhaps Suzanne was not altogether happy with him. Her tone was not as ebullient as he thought he remembered it to be. This encounter had the possibility of going sour and he needed some of the old magic and quick.

Suzanne waited a long moment before she answered.

"That's what you said last time I saw you."

"Really."

"Yes."

"So what do you say?"

"Well last time I said night and I waited forever but you never called."

"I'm sorry if I can't remember that right now the let lag is killing me. I'm almost half brain dead I'm so tired. I'm sure there was a good reason. Oh, now I remember. My mother was ill and I flew off to D.C. to be with her."

"Is she okay?"

Maybe this wasn't going as badly as he thought. Suzanne was a nice girl and she had a good job.

"Oh yes she's fine now. It was only a minor surgery after all that. She gave us quite a scare."

"Thank god."
















Yes, thank god, thought Erich.

"So what do you say. How about tomorrow night?"

And Still The Reigning Champion

She didn't want to talk about it but then again why would anyone want to talk about something like this.
















It wasn't just the embarrassment, though that was pretty awful, it was more the self realization of not only what had happened but even more importantly how she had come to this place and even more frightfully, how she would extract herself from her condition.

The routine had become fairly normal, at least as normal a routine as was possible for a fashion model with a habit could make it. They had gotten wise early on. No shots near any body area that might be seen by the camera or if possible the make-up girl. Any hits in the obvious places needed a day or so for the bruising to die down so the arms were automatically out. Her feet were just about used up and they weren't that good to start with in the first place but they made do and worked together until they found a willing vein. She no longer felt pain at the needles jab, in fact she almost came to like it so connected to that sharp prick was the rush that was sure to follow.

The job was for Missoula, Montana. She was glad to book it. The work had slowed somewhat but she still plied the catalogue game well enough to keep the two of them in rent and drugs well beyond his greatest wishes. She had been on top in her late teens and now at twenty-three she could still pull 2500 to 3000 a day, a fair rate, and she booked most jobs she went out for.
















The agency was slightly suspicious of her, what with her boyfriend coming by to pick up her checks, always preceded by her phoned in approval, just as soon as they were available. But she was an earner and as far as they were concerned as long as the money flowed there was no need to inquire any further.

As the day of her departure neared they again moved away from her arms. He was always warning her, reminding her, to keep it together on these trips. Not to do too much, just enough not to be sick. She was the meal ticket and until his band started to actually sell records her income was paramount to their survival. She listened and gave him every assurance that she appreciated his concern and that she would never do anything to jeopardize her career. The night before her flight he parceled out four chips, each enough to get her by. She was to do one in the morning before her flight, one the night before the shoot, one the morning of and one before getting on the plane that night to return home; simple.

The phone rang and rang. The door was banged upon and still no answer. It was ten o'clock in the morning before she had heard the bell. It was too late she was four hours late to the shoot. When she answered the phone she had no good answer for the livid producer on the other end of the line. She made every promise to report to the location, she would pay her own cab fare, anything but...she was fired. How could she explain it to the agency? How could she tell him what had transpired? Worst of all she had nothing left for the trip home and the flight was still eight hours away.
















She didn't want to talk about it but then again why would anyone want to talk about something like this. It wasn't just the embarrassment, though that was pretty awful, it was more the self realization of not only what had happened but even more importantly how she had come to this place and even more frightfully, how she would extract herself from her condition.

Saito Gives Up The Season But Makes Great Dinner

"I just don't get it."

"Get what?"
















"I don't get why girls are all of sudden wearing those big insect style sunglasses."

"Oh like Paris Olsen or Ashley Spears?"

"Yeah just like that."

"Oh that's fashion."

"What kind of fashion is that? You can't even see their eyes. Not only can you not see their eyes you can't even get a fix on their cheek structure and cheek structure is very important to the mating process in fact one study claims that cheek structure is the most important thing when determining a woman's desirability."

"I think its the ass."

"Hey I'm not saying the ass aint important, I'm just saying that this study said it was cheek structure that whether you knew it or not was number one on the list."

"I also like the rack."

"The rack is good but silly rabbit tits are for kids."

"I guess eyes are pretty good too."

"I like some neck too, necks are really important."

"Legs, legs are really sweet."

"They all got legs accept the ones who don't but if you mean long legs then I can agree there."

"I still like the ass."

"Ass is good true but if you think about it the cheeks are what they call facial bone structure is pretty important."

"Who looks at the face I mean..."

"Right, I know you said, ass and rack, good for you. But this sunglasses fashion with the bug eye sunglasses has got to stop. Also have you noticed how tight pants have gotten."

"Are they made of elastic or something they don't look at all natural I mean how do they get into those things?"

"I feel sorry for the ones with the big asses who have to wear those super tight pants. It looks pretty silly if you ask me."

"I like the big asses."

"I know, I don't have anything against them but when the ass doesn't stop until somewhere halfway down the thigh those tight pants can look dumb as all hell."

"Girls have to wear what's in style its a rule."

"I know, but have you seen dudes wear those pants, bloody ridiculous. There is no rule that says a guy has to follow fashion."
















"Fashion is dumb."

"Agreed. I guess the whole tight pants thing is the anti hip-hop baggy pants jail house look response, I mean that style was damn foolish as well."

"Pants hanging off your ass and all that's just more fashion."

"I just don't get it, all this fashion shit."

"I like the ass."

"I know congratulations. All I'm saying is that I wish girls would stop wearing those bug eye sunglasses."

"I like the tight pants, good for the ass."

"I mean how can you check a girl if you can't see the cheekbone structure?"

"By the ass."

"I know besides that?"

"The rack."
















"Jesus..."

"I like the ass."

Authorization For Uses And Disclosures

"So do you think you can make it to my opening?"
















She shuffled back a step as she said this. She tried to keep her head up, erect and strong, but try as she might she once again averted her eyes downward and bit hard on her lip. Without looking up she stuck her hand out and hoped that the printed card she held that served as an invitation to her art opening would be accepted. Her first instinct told her that her offer would be snubbed but she was fighting against these insecurities and her every effort was being sapped trying to overcome her fears of rejection.

She had been painting most of her life but it was only in the very recent past that she had amassed enough confused confidence to attempt to show her work. She was now painting in oils and what few real friends she had rained encouragement upon her with grand claims concerning the validity of her work. Canvasses large and small containing highly detailed images of hands and feet. Always hands and feet. Beautiful hands, feminine hands with long fingers, rugged peasant hands, gnarled and ruddy. Feet with nails painted elegantly, and then club feet deformed by birth. Always hands and feet.

It was a calculated series of serendipitous events that led to this first showing. Chance meetings at all the wrong places but at the right times. It was of course the art world and word had circulated about the girl that painted hands and feet. Word had also made it's way around as to how the artist, the girl, was not entirely all there, but instead of sounding a warning it only served to add to her allure. She was indeed the tortured artist but this torture was only from the self doubt that controlled her every moment. It was precisely her lack of self promotion that caused the offer of a showing. It took her two months to finally return the galleries call and then another two to accept the offer.
















As she had her hand out she looked down at her feet. She wore a low heeled flat green suede pedal pusher. If only people could see her feet, she thought. If only they knew the perfection of my feet then perhaps they would have no need to see my painting. Then too her hands, long slim fingers with perfectly groomed nails, not too short nor too long. And my hands, these hands that I paint with these are my real gifts. She raised her eyes and looked about her.

Art hung with symmetrical perfection on the galleries white washed walls. Pools of light caused the paintings to raise from the single dimension and attack one's senses. She wondered at the skill and bravado shown by the artist's fine work. I could never have this effect on people. I'm a charlatan and my work is inferior. I don't belong in this gallery and should cancel my opening. It was still a month off so perhaps the gallery owner wouldn't be too put off if she withdrew. How inane of me to think that I could come here and shamelessly promote myself. Hands and feet, hands and feet.

She felt the invitation leaving her hand. She looked at her hand and feared to move it lest she be forced to meet eyes with the person who had taken it from her. She looked at the hand before her, her invitation in hand. She looked down at the person's feet. Adidas, colorful and clean. What kind of feet were under those shoes? Were they perfect like the shoe or was the shoe being used to hide some imperfection?
Hands and feet. Hands and feet.
















"I'd love to come."

How Many More Times

She took his money and and his loving too. He woke up that morning and had no idea what to do. Maybe he should make some coffee and shower like a regular joe might do? Maybe he should just lay there and wait for the day to change? Maybe he should just tell his brain to shut the fuck up and get on with it? No chance. Go down to my baby's house and ask for my clothes.
















The car was no good she'd seen to that. First there were the tickets, wasn't it cute how she would park the damn thing anywhere she so choosed, wasn't so cute when it got the boot. Wasn't so cute when there was no money in the account to get the damn thing off; she'd seen to that too. Wasn't so endearing when the damn thing got towed off never to return. It would be romantic, we don't need a car we have each other.

So the whole no car romantic thing didn't play out so well. You need two to be romantic about these things and she's seen to that as well. He pulled on some clothes, it didn't really fucking matter which ones he just stepped into them and left for god's sake. It was oppressively bright out and for once there was something wrong in his day that he couldn't attribute to her but he knew if she could have she probably would have. Oh that's right she stole his sunglasses, fuck it go to my baby's and get my clothes.

She said it was nothing she was just going to Burning Man, she wanted to be free, run in the desert, take drugs, act a fool, and so with a kiss on the lips so she went. Go to the desert to see a burning man, god damn she could have stayed in town there was a burning man on every corner. He was a burning man now maybe she'll want to run around him, take drugs and act a fool. Oh that's right she already did.

The trannies were congregated on the corner as usual. Looking good baby, you want to love me a little baby, come to momma baby, I'm the best baby. What the fuck about him made them think him a baby. Couldn't they see he was a burning man. He was a burning man on the way to get his clothes back from his baby. She was the baby. He was the man. Fuck this world can be backwards sometimes. God dammit. God damn those trannies.

Oh shit that was where he used to work. Oh c'mon baby you don't have to go in today they'll understand let's just stay in bed. Later they went to eat and then he bought her pretty things. Then they went back to bed, then ate again and then they went out and bought pretty things then went to bed, and then they ate, and then, and then, and then he didn't go to work anymore at all.

This is so romantic. The trannies weren't so romantic. The whole thing stunk. Go to my baby's and get my clothes. Get my clothes back. Get something back. Hey baby what you gonna give me if I love you baby. Fuck you tranny. C'mon baby, I'll love you buy me something. Shit.
















She wasn't his baby anymore. Those weren't his clothes he was going back to his baby's to get. You can't get back the money you pay. You can't get back the price of love. Caveat Emptor. Hey tranny you got a car. Let's ride.

Wouldn't You If You Could

"It's my lady's story."

"And I suppose she's sticking to it?"
















"And why wouldn't she?"

"I don't know, maybe because it is so fantastical?"

"Restless beauty."

"That could be the best reason I have ever heard for anything in my entire life."

"Sometimes when logic doesn't suffice then poetry must intercede."

"Funny you should say that I had that very same conversation with a fourteen year old girl today."

"What conversation?"

"You know about how poetry must intercede when logic fails."

"Sounds like quite the coincidence. I mean that is not a topic often broached in normal daily conversation."

"Perhaps you are right but facts are facts."

"So tell me what on earth brought this up whilst talking with a fourteen year old girl?"

"Simple...homework."

"Homework?"

"Sure, she had an assignment. The teacher had asked her to write two pages about a sense attached to a memory."
















"Like smell or taste?"

"Those are indeed two of the five acknowledged senses."

"Alright I get it but how does this relate to poetry interceding?"

"Well this girl was in a new class at a new school and it being the start of the school year she didn't feel comfortable sharing any memories with her classmates. Seemed she was to make a copy of her paper for each student in the class and then they would be asked to read them aloud. She was stuck, unable to write a word and she's a really bright kid."

"School kids can be harsh."

"No doubt. Now I know this little girl pretty well and she's had a pretty tough go of it. Family tragedies and the like, so I can see where she wouldn't feel entirely free to want to divulge any dark memories to her new classmates."

"Granted."

"So here is where the story winds back to the topic at hand."

"About time."

"I know patience is a virtue but you haven't got the time but listen, so I tell her that she had to leave logic and reality behind and..."

"I know, intercede with poetry."

"Well I may not have put it in those exact terms but the point was the same. I gave her an example of someone considering the donut sitting before them. What kind of donut, why they were to eat it all that."

"So she wrote about taste. That's a sense. What memory did she attach to it?"

"Actually I don't know what she wrote about."

"Huh?"

"She just looked at me and said, I got it, it was like a light went on, she closed the door and that was the last I saw of her."

"Bet it was going to be a great story."
















"Restless beauty."

"Restless beauty."

An Apple For The Honey

'My god is a pauper. My god is an imitation. My god is a wheat field sun burnt and fallow. My god does not sit upon a jewel encrusted throne of gold waiting high in the heavens to make himself known. My god is a fraud and the truth.'
















The coffee cup sat idle. It had been a while since it had been lifted and the small pool of liquid left in the bottom had become tepid and not worth the effort it would take to retrieve it. There were a few other customers sat at the counter, not unusual for the early hour of the day, but why was he there? He loosed the tie he wore around his neck and ran his hand over a face roughened by a day's growth.

'I have no need to wait for kingdom come. The kingdom came and never left. What am I to make of all this around me or is there even reason for me to make anything of it?

At the far end of the counter sat a young woman. He found her handsome enough and on most days he might have entertained a mild fantasy, more of a male reflex thought, but on this day he pondered. What was the story behind this person? A person, one of god's own people. What might have brought her here, at this time, at this place, just as he had been brought here? Perhaps like himself there was no cognizant reason, no great plan, but for one reason or another they had both been brought to this place at this time.

'My god doesn't manage my days. He doesn't sit on high and pull the strings of my every action and to know every thought and motivation behind them, for everything that is done is done by my god.'

And too so the waitress who now stood before him, coffee pot in hand, threatening to fill his cup but just this one more time if only he might nod his head in assent. It seemed that his god preferred that the cup be filled again and so it was. That same god saw to it that when he would leave the diner that he would tip more then was customary and think none the more of it. The waitress gave him nary another thought as she flitted from customer to customer and emptied the coffee pot.

'It is not for me to take in to account what is and what isn't of my god's doing for either it is all his doing or none of it is. I needn't look for the godliness of another for though I am godly I can take no providence over this claim.'
















He sat in wonder at the machinations of his mind. It wasn't if he was always so mired in thought to speak so much truth to himself but for some reason on this day he felt no need to look any further into why he could be; he just was. A car tire screeched from the street beyond the diner yet he didn't move to see. If he were to see, if he were to take in what might have happened, would that change anything. A car tire screeching just was, as was everything else.

'My god is the pavement under that tire and the screech. My god is the turn of the other's heads and the coffee cup I chose to raise to my lips. My god walks up and down the counter filling the cups and then is the grounds the are put in the bin.

The coffee made him to remove himself and go to the restroom. He unzipped, then, and though he did not want to consider it, his god was the urinal. The water that flowed from the spigot and the paper towel he crumpled in his hands. They were the hand's of god. The urinal of god. God's restroom.

'My god does not fill me with joy and raise my spirit with a promise of glory. It is for me to acknowledge his glory and to wonder in his misery. It is for me to not care and be, for my god has no memory nor a conscience.'

He sat back down at the counter and the saw that the young woman had left. He should have spoken to her, perhaps chatted her up. The waitress came over and stood before him. She leaned toward him and with teeth clenched and scowl set...

"You gonna make a career of this buddy?"

He looked up to her and thought how awful a person she was. Couldn't she just let him be and fill the cup just the one more time? He was just about to tell her this in just so many words. He was going to tear into her, the bitch.
















"Ah, fuck it."

He got up from his stool and threw the price of a cup of coffee on the counter. Screw the tip.

You Miss My Friends More Then You Ever Missed Me

There are curses and then there are hexes. The are spells and incantations, zodiac charts, omens and prayers. There are unseen forces at work and Gershwin felt under the spectre of them all. He couldn't be sure which of these elements were specifically undermining his days but there was most definitely something afoot.
















It was no longer a sneaking suspicion it was more like a fleeting thought that is there then gone before it can be recognized or a word that won't come to one's lips but circles in the mind trying to break free. It was there but Gershwin just couldn't place his finger upon it.

Gershwin had a cat as a child, a black cat and he loved it dearly. The cat would sit on the window sill waiting for Gershwin to return from school each day and then upon the first sound of the door opening run to him and rub against his leg, arching it's black back as if posing for a Halloween poster. This cat crossed his path each day and as far as Gershwin could tell, never brought him any bad luck that he was aware of. Same goes for the mirrors he broke. Seven years of bad luck, hardly.

Gershwin knew it had to be something but he discounted any common superstitions. Gershwin knew himself to be cut of a different cloth and no common, easily identifiable agent could be at the root of this misery. Gershwin would have gladly accepted some run of the mill hoodoo or juju, for a simple chicken sacrifice or counter spell might end those maladies. No this was something altogether unique and Gershwin was near the noose's end.

It had become so bad that Gershwin no longer cared to remove himself from his home. He had lost the zest to even seek remedy. He spurned his astrological forecast and no longer bowed to his knee in deference to any deity, pious or otherwise. Gershwin's world had shrunk as if a mummified head from Africa. The strange thing was that Gershwin had yet to be the recipient of any bad tidings. Oh the potential was there for sure but as far as any cataclysms actually befalling him, there were none.
















And so this was the culmination of all evil spirits visited upon him. It was their cruel joke on his soul. The evil hoodoo, the miscast stars, the hexes, the spells and incantations, it all amounted to a benign fear. To a paralysis. Gershwin had given up on the one thing no hex or spell had power over and that was hope. No astrological chart had sway and even the worst of superstitious bad luck paled in the face of earnest hope and belief. The one thing Gershwin could do without had been stolen from him.

Gershwin sat looking from his window, moribund and zombie-like, unable to consider venturing out of doors when he saw a black cat on the street outside. The cat was rubbing up against a jagged broken piece of mirror and was toying with what appeared to be a fresh chicken carcass. Suddenly it became dark as the moon threw the earth into to the shadow of a solar eclipse. Lightning shot down through the cloudless sky and a raven soared down past the window.

Gershwin adjusted himself on the sill and felt a small tingle in his foot. Perhaps this was a sign he thought. Perhaps this was the end or the beginning of everything. And then Gershwin felt a wind inside him and stood erect. He hoped it was the end of everything. He hoped beyond reason that everything was at an end. A few minutes passed and then the moon began to recede and the sun's light began to return. The cat rushed off and Gershwin concluded that the end of everything was not as near as he had hoped and then it struck him. He had hope. He may have hoped for the worst but he had hope at last.
















Gershwin ran from the house and down the street with a hope, a hope to find that black cat. A hope to end all hopes.

If Breakfast Could Only Speak

"I'm sorry."

"What about?"

"I don't know. Just the little things I suppose."

"You don't have to be."
















"I know I don't and it is nice of you to say so but that doesn't change the fact that I'm sorry."

"I guess I would accept your apology if I knew what you were sorry about."

"Can't you just accept the fact that I'm sorry and leave it at that?"

"What and give you carte-blanche to apply my acceptance to any wrong doings that you may have visited upon me whether I had knowledge of them or not?"

"What do you think I'm sorry about?"

"I don't know, there are a few things that pop into mind, nothing too spectacular."

"If they aren't too spectacular then why would I need to apologize for them?"

"I told you before that you needn't apologize but you couldn't leave well enough alone now could you?"

"So what? Do you want me to enumerate all that I want to say I'm sorry for?"

"That would be a start."

"A start? What else could you want?"

"How about an amends if the indiscretion so warrants it?"

"Does not telling you where I was going warrant an amends?"

"Are you sorry?"

"Yes."

"Apology accepted."

"Thanks. How about making up stories about people I don't know?"

"Why apologize to me? Shouldn't you apologize to them?"

"Well I told you the story and maybe you thought I was telling you the truth so therefore I owe you an apology for not being entirely forthright."

"Okay. I'm cool with that no amends necessary but you could try and be a little more, how you say, forthright from now on."

"Is that an amends?"

"I suppose it is. What else?"

"You tell me. You said there were a few things, none too spectacular, that were on your mind."

"How about apologizing for not feeling better about yourself or for your lack of faith? Perhaps you might want to make amends for not trying harder at your work or apologizing to me for some obscure reason only so that my approval, my acceptance of your apology, would make you feel better?"
















"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too."

"Apology accepted."

Wheel Of Fortune

The weebles waddled, wobbled, and fell down. There was a sucking sound that was inescapable as was the lurid overbearing musical underscoring.
















Lights flashed on the tops of one armed dream breakers and over and over the dealer stung twenty-one. There was pussy for a price every ten feet and an overall air of desperation. The rabbits were chasing the carrots and were too blinded to know that the carrot was made of broken promises. A refuse pile for the American dream. The lie in literal construct.

Illusion in a town built upon illusion. Nightly the bill of goods was sold to a crowd in need of magic so ready were they not to believe what they saw. The magician coiffed and tanned and surrounded by a legion of younger prettier assistants was fighting an ever diminishing audience. It was no longer enough to saw a girl in half, to make a light bulb float or produce fire from thin air. The hotel was nervous as we he. They needed ever more suckers to feed the money vacuum and it was his job to land the fish.
















Her star was on the ebb. It had been years since she ran the Baywatch beach and leaked the tape of her mouth full of rock star cock. She needed money for the surgeries were expensive and the habit was full priced when the dealers charged a premium for privacy. The agent was informed to entertain all offers and so the call went out. The magician called. The hotel primed the till. The deal was done.

It was a marriage of illusion. She would 'perform' three nights a week and the magician would carry her. The contract was tight, full control over her dressing room and all she and her friends could drink. A private entrance so the dealer would go unnoticed and the Presidential Suite.

A few minor celebrities showed up for opening night and the press made as much of the event as they could; not much. For fifteen minutes she was sawed in half, flew through the air and disappeared into the abyss. As she sat on that magical chair, the par lights brilliant in her eyes, she attempted to wonder how it had come to this. A second rate hotel, a third rate magician and the weight of synthetic breasts impeding her dissent into the abyss. Snap, the trick chair swallowed her and she was thrust ten feet below under the stage. Magic, hardly. Her breast ticked the edge of the contraption and she felt pain.
















The music blasted tawdry and melodramatic and that voice, the magician's foreign voice repeating, night after night, the same tired platitudes to the same tired audiences. There were no more celebrities left only the putrid effluvium left by their departure. Though she was only on stage for fifteen minutes it was the other hours spent under the yoke of that evil town that wore her down so. That white smile, frozen over sprayed hair, his tan and black clothes, filthy dirty when not under the stage lights. The cheap gimmicks and bad tricks she'd had of it much too much.

By the third week the hotel and the magician wondered if it had all been worth while. There was a fear that she might hurt herself, that she might fall down or much worse be damaged beyond showcasing. The drinks and the pills, the powders and hangers on. She flew on the wires above the ever diminishing crowds. It was a filthy enterprise and she was filthy for living it. She was filthy for living her life. She was filthy for chasing the lie. And so she drank and she flew.

The magician couldn't make her ruined life disappear. He couldn't teach her to fly for real and if he could really saw her in half then she would just have twice as many problems.
















Her life was an illusion, a sad trick and now she had taken it to the dirtiest place on earth. She was in need of magic, real magic but there is no such thing as magic for magic is but an illusion.

But Can't They Keep The Lights On For A Day

Six little sutures placed just below the crook of the arm. Just a little mark but the world wanted more. Helicopters followed and lenses popped from bushes as the world, sick of war and poverty, needed something to fix on. Something to equal the playing field. Watch how far they fall and then maybe being down so low won't seem so intolerable. Anything to point at and scowl. Look at how they, the ungrateful, the talented, the wealthy, look at how they fall.
















The headlines screamed, the unthinkable had happened. Another star, another in-crowder buckles under the weight. How could such a thing happen? Presumed experts and ill mannered pundits piled on. A large bounty was offered if only there were some photo evidence. Positions were taken, staked out, as the vultures swarmed to pick from the carcass. Was there no safe quarter?

The heat came as scheduled. Labor Day in a country now at odds with the labor movement. As if on cue the mercury skyrocketed. Triple digits in Beverly Hills. You see not even the rich could escape this one. The damn rich, they have it all. What troubles could they possibly have. Fuck the rich, those unfeeling, uncaring bastards, they get what they deserve. Watch them fall. Dance on their misery.

The paper piled on. The rich had a stretch of beach, prime Pacific Ocean coastline, and the public had little or no access. The Times talked of Eisner and Geffen, they didn't care about the people, just their, as if it were their, beach. It wouldn't be much longer until it was our beach. Watch the rich fall.
















A mile south on a stretch of beach, the sutures, the sutures the world was abuzz about sat with friends and family. It was a lonely stretch of beach, nearly solitary on any other day but the mercury and the holiday conspired to place just a few more souls oceanside. The sutures looked warily around, a helicopter buzzed overhead, just the police, a stranger walked by, still unnoticed, and then the ocean.

The water was cool, good cool, soul replenishing cool and the waves, the waves, robust and powerful for the first time all summer. They swam and laughed. Laughter, it had been so long, too long. His brothers swam and laughed with him, and so did the friends. They stayed in that water anonymous as long as they could stand it. The water, the briny water healed the sutures, the waves worked on the soul and the friends and family on the heart.
















But they aren't just rich and talented. They are us and we them. There is no special dispensation for the rich that relieves them of life. We all must participate. And the water can heal us all. The water, the waves, the water, the waves. It'll be alright. It'll be alright.

A City Is Weighted By The Heat Of A Thunderhead

He didn't leave a note. He didn't say anything. He was just gone. Where he had gone she didn't know and it made her wonder. Wonder why he was such an unfeeling prick? Why he he didn't even take a second to let her know that he was going much less where or why he had to go. Her mind flooded and then like a tide that ebbed and flowed it spun around on itself. How could she hate so much? How could she love so much? Why him? Why such a horrible bastard like him? There had to be an answer but her question was unanswerable for there was no one to ask it of.
















It had been just the night before when they were having a discussion. She didn't want anything from him but his love and because she couldn't speak that aloud he had said that he didn't have anything to give her. She didn't want anything but he was assured that she wanted something and that although she wouldn't say what it was that she wanted he was sure they he didn't have it to give. He had said if he had it to give then he would but since she wouldn't say what it was that she wanted then he was sure that he didn't have it. He had told her he could give her anything but time for he was a man out of time.

And now he was gone. Just like that. He was there and then he wasn't. Like so many things that disappear he was now a remembrance relegated to the past. How something could be so real one day and then without warning be taken away and then to exist merely in memory confounded her. If he had left a note, some evidence of a future or a definitive accounting of the past she might have borne the emptiness of the present with greater calm.

The telephone was archaic now and of no use. The bed a relic of bygone times. The doorknob a lock on a prison cell. At least he might have given some warning so that she be able to prepare herself. He was evil and she hated him for it. He was an angel sent from heaven and she cursed god for taking him back. Just a note. Just a call. Just a reason for his disappearance.
















They had been talking and he had told her he had nothing to give. All she wanted was a little something, the usual, just a taste but he couldn't give it to her. All he need do was give her a little but he couldn't. He was a man out of time. Just a note from the evil angel to quell the need in her. She hated to hate him. He was just gone.