On the way to Maldred

The muddy water hit my windshield so hard that it made me jump back in my seat. I reached for the wiper lever and gripped the wheel a little tighter. Work, dammit! The steering wheel adjusted slightly upward and I fumbled for the next lever, thinking I should brake, but knowing I didn't want to be late. In the moment before the wipers moved, right when my mind is beginning to freak because I'm blindly manipulating  two tons of future scrap metal that holds a very special cargo (me) and I have no idea of which direction I'm going or what lies in the road ahead, the image struck me again. The brownish water formed a series of small veins as the surface tensions tried their best to resist gravity’s unavoidable downward pull or dent in the fabric or whatever it is that is moving objects together these days. Small chunks of white ice crystals followed the trails built by the faster-moving streams of dark liquid creating a tie-dye web of brown, white, and blue sky shining through. Brown rivers rambled across one another, sometimes rushing a flood of energy earthward. Ice chunks joined to make dams that turned brown and glued themselves to the glass. A map. A snap shot of a map. The rubber blades streaked across the canvas, making art school expressionism out of the Pittsburgh Glass Pollock, revealing the blue background and the bright red brake lights of the truck that had driven through the mud in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and skidded toward the big steel bumper. If I had waited another second we’d have collided for sure. Some times a complete stop is the only way to proceed safely.

Terry from Gainesville

Once inside I went straight to the bar and asked how to get to Gainesville.

“Take the train.” 

“Yes I know. I’m looking for Terry.” 

“That’s me.” 

Terry was ragged and kind of homeless and crazy looking. Like someone who just sniffed too much lighter fluid and thought he had become the roadrunner after seeing the decal on the side of a car, but was trapped behind a bar and couldn’t run away. 

“We are driving, Terry. The old guy out front said you had just come back from Gainesville and would be able to tell us a way there.”

“I can. Take the train.”

“Well, we’re not leaving our car and I know there must be some way there via road.”

“There is a road here that goes straight there. Across the mountains. The big highway is closed. I know this is the old highway that runs past the brewery. You get to the train station by turning around and heading back about 5 miles. Flight.” 

OK. He’s fucking insane. This should be interesting. 

“How about a couple of IPAs and a Coke, Terry?”

“I can’t tell you the right directions. It is so much easier to go back to the train station. That’s all.” 

“No problem, Terry.” 

He went to get our drinks. 

“This guy’s a piece of work, whatever directions he tells us, we better listen!” I said to Dave and Jason. They agreed, about him being a piece of work anyhow. And we discussed that he probably needed more meds or less alcohol. 

Soon Terry was back with the drinks and as I paid him I said, “Do you have family in Gainesville?”

“You mean like Al Qaeda? Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, Charles Manson, the Devil, Adolph Hitler, Jack the Ripper, Stalin. I hope I didn’t leave anyone out. There’s a place. There’s an exact location and a point where all that bad comes from. I know I was there once and wish I had taken a picture of it. I can’t prove it to you, but I can see it.”

Koestler

My carpets were steam-clean spotless the last time I came to your house.

It felt weird being there without you.

Somebody was trying to cook something on your stove and it smelled wrong.

Every button told a story, every marble brought a memory.

We had to count and clean all of them because we weren’t selling dirt after all.

I brought home the suitcase that you used to teach us how to play music.

We sang Your Cheatin’ Heart and played Heart and Soul together.

You made the keyboard big enough for four hands.

I put it on the living room floor next to my piano.

I would open it up and play along when one of my friends felt like striking a few chords on the old upright.

Now the dogs get quiet and stare in surprise when I play for them.

I picked up your suitcase and wiped off the dust.

There is a clean spot on the carpet underneath.

West German air blows out of both holes when you open up the stops.

The fan is squeaking and I think it won’t be long till it stops spinning altogether.

There’s no Bach or hymns left in my empty head tonight.

Just A Love That Will Never Grow Old.

I love that it smells like a musty suitcase and sounds like the biggest harmonica in the world.

The keys are so tiny that I can almost get two octaves with my left hand.

You can still see the fading letters that were taped on C, F, and G for the kids.

It sure has been a long time.

Coop

Lunchtime is loud at my office. It sounds like a chicken coop in here. Like a bunch of squeaking and cackling with intermittent, mostly indecipherable words of English and Spanish and a couple of small dog yelps mixed in. It’s kind of embarrassing on the professional level for them to act like that, but at the same time it’s an interesting slice of human behavior that we have for lunch each day here. I lay my head down on the desk and wish I was outside smoking.

It kinda makes me feel like I’m tripping if I let the sounds flow in my head without trying to really understand what they’re talking about. Just appreciating the timbre and resonance of the laughter, screams, and whispers as they happen. One of the girls sounds like a muted trombone. Like Charlie Brown’s teacher after two packs of Camels. When she hits a real belly laugh it shakes the floor and I can feel my desk vibrating. There must be something very funny that one of them said.

I head up to the main office to find out what’s caused all the commotion and there sits half a dozen huge turnips, intermittently typing and eating soup. One of them says, “Do you want some?”

Of course, the answer is, “No.” I think it might be turnip soup or alphabet soup with turnips in it.

#31Endless Self-promotion 11:13

While a place can make anything you could ever imagine,
you are going to have to pay.
Warren was a pervert but a pervert excellent at his job.
This was printed in my social justice magazine this quarter.
So, I pull my coat back and real slow I rest my hand by the Smith.
I am glad that I am not alone on this!


Eating (or preferably, not eating) a lot of bad bar food,
Upon the Rotted Request Carcass did we CACOPHONY Feast
“I work for the #1 peanut butter distributor in the world.”
I guess persistence pays off!
Later in life he saved NYC from bankruptcy and then returned to France as US ambassador.


And again.
It isn't easy, as many of us were brought up to believe
One should never be self-seeking.
We do not allow commercial advertisements.
The second you get your back up you do yourself a massive disservice.
Nevermind.

In A Pickle

I was beside myself
When our eyes met
You let your hair down

In a pickle
On my heels
I put my foot in it
I threw myself down at your feet

I died laughing

#30/ Murder Is a Horse Race/ 5:1

Murder in the first degree
suitable for any occasion and anywhere
don’t do this justice
vengeful glee

an unprecedented lasting wave
turned public attention on the closed world 
so desperate to locate
that savage beast on the left
who was gunned down 

Now I cannot in truth object
I've crapped out over the years
``I've got an angel on my side.''
casting an even darker shadow over the future