Midnight Stroll

Posted: July 27, 2011 in Uncategorized

There was something about that night that made his feet wander farther from home; perhaps the winds had shifted and delivered a scent of curiosity across the valley, perhaps wanderlust was kicking into high drive through his veins and out his workboots. The empty streets and the “closed” signs lining the shop windows made the town a wholly different world from the tourist trap it was in the sunlit hours.
His clothes were dark and easy to move in, making him feel invisible and shady on the dark sidewalks. Just out of sight of a streetlamp’s watchful eye he stashed his bike, tires worn thin from the daily traversal he made for his handful of dimes. Careful to skirt the edges of the light and trot out into the street, he cast his gaze around, looking for a place to play.
A back alley leading behind a Thai restaurant caught his eye, for he had never looked beyond his avenue of perspective beyond its glazed veneer of shops and milling crowds. He moved towards it, gliding past the restaurant without much care for it, instead heading towards the dark center of the alley where a strip of glinting metal running up the side of a large, warehouse-looking type of building caught his eye.
A sizable amount of broken-down cardboard boxes, damp and gray with age, lay cast askew at the side of the warehouse, framing a second alley pinched between the parking lot of an adjacent thrift store and the edifice rising above. He moved toward the alley, pushing the rusted chainlink gate aside to step into the darkness. His foot connected with something, which bounced against the wall with a sloshing thump. Startled, he stopped, drawing his phone from his pocket. By the light of the screen, he examined the sports drink he had kicked into the wall; red liquid pumped out of it, staining the pavement black. He moved past it.
The glint that had caught his eye was a ladder secured to the side of the building by wires, cords and the wrapping vines of a kudzu plant spreading across the side of the building. He wrapped his fingers around its base and shook it slightly; it seemed steady. His feet hooked onto the steps easily, and as he ascended the metal structure his gaze was drawn to the sheer silence generated by the deserted road; he was well and truly alone.
He lifted himself onto the roof of the building with ease, casting a wary eye across the landscape of rotating fans and skylights. The bright moonlight illuminated the night sky, revealing his surroundings. It was an area in constant and varying states of repair; he had to watch his step and take care to avoid the various tools and materials scattered all around. A large air conditioning unit was the primary feature, big enough to obscure a third of what he could see.
Suspended under a pipe connecting the unit to the roof was a large, dangerous-looking black widow. It scurried away upon perception of the vibrations emanating from the footsteps, but he caught sight of it just before it vanished from sight. He shined the light from his phone under the unit, seeking the sight of the engorged body but finding nothing.
He stood and blinked. Sitting on top of the air conditioning unit was a plastic cup with something inside it. It looked like a spent lime squeezed of its juices from a distance, a cup taken from a bar and enjoyed in a less conventional location, but as he got closer he realized with confusion that there was a small amount of change, nickels and dimes and quarters, crowding the bottom. Frowning, he peered around the edge of the unit.
What looked like a piece of a blue duffel bag poked out into his sight, slowly rising and falling in rhythm to something he could not see. Squinting, he came closer to it, leaning in to look what the bag might contain.
Staring back at him were the letters C and A; around the A was a small halo. The logo embossed an ancient, greasy-looking baseball cap that sat above what was now clear to be a sleeping bag with a man inside of it. A snuffling and a cough announced the man’s return to consciousness, and he turned bloodshot eyes to his intruder.
“Get out of my house,” he croaked.


I Want To Recall

Posted: July 10, 2011 in Beauty, Love, Poetry, Women
Tags: , , , , ,

I want to recall that dangerous feeling,
of slick warm bodies moving, rubbing, twisting,
thrusting pleasures forbidden by stiff conventions and
banished to bedrooms; I want to be adventurous, for
moans to echo sibilant through midday corridors against
sunlit furniture or counters or bare floors, no reason
but lust, pure and animal and passionate; I want to feel
longing between open thighs begging for release, hot desire
flowing openly, fingers touching, legs, lips, mouths, hands
tangled and wrapped securely, inviting skin demanding pleasure that
I want so badly to be mine again; intertwined under sheets and quiet shade,
comfort awaits me, tempting in its voluptuous pose, craving soft caresses of skin
on skin; and I want, I want, I want.

At 1:52 I struggled to force a stubborn key into the broken lock of my front door, slamming my shoulder in futility against the oxidized copper in an attempt to loosen the lock from its nest. Nothing gave. To the front door I shambled without care for the irises, crushing a terracotta statue beneath my feet. The back door did not yield to my key; a different lock. I stumbled to the back gate, pushing it to the side without a care and scraping past the loose bits of free weights left behind by a forgetful housemate and a rusted out old bicycle; I rounded the cobbled-together stones of the walkway and jumped up the steps of the wooden deck. I tried to squeeze through the thin opening of the back sliding door left open a crack for the cat to come and go to no success. Contemplated the costs of a broken window.
No matter. Try and try again. The door gave way against brute force and my determined knee, smashing inward with a resounding crack that left me shocked and still for a moment, standing in the moonlit doorway without much thought for my next move. My uneasy steps guided me to the bedroom; my cat looped around my ankles in a somewhat delightful figure eight as I removed my clothes.
Naked, I attached myself to the greasy leather of the chair with all the ease of velcro, edging the shuffle button on my iTunes to start a Rolling Stones song. Honky Tonk Women, I think. I left the whimsical button on; I love to live dangerously.
My browser started in a fever, flickering onto a porn site. Curious as to my stamina under alcohol’s numbing hand, I reached for my penis and clicked a particularly promising link marked “fucked HARD” with no other guide. I tugged at my cock for several minutes to no avail; iTunes gives me Gogol Bordello. I start to fantasize about previous sexual conquests, soon noticing a scab-covered wound on my arm. Taking advantage of my numbed nerve endings I claw the wound open until it gapes and yawns at me, blood welling up as generously as oil.
The video’s getting into full swing. Sex floods my mind as the wound pumps more platelets out of my system. Music resounding is Cream; it ends suddenly and returns to the Stones. Mick sings along to the beat of my hand as my eyes roll heavenward to the sound of a faceless woman moaning.
The blood tips down my arm, snapping over my eyes and drawing my tongue to the spill. I know I am affixed permanently to this chair. I lap the copper red onto my tongue, focusing on the bent form on my computer screen.
I come without much sensation thanks to the vodka, yet I feel a sense of accomplishment; I beat the drug at it’s own tricks. No whiskey dick here.
My hand wipes itself sullenly on a tissue, reluctant to part with its achievement. I flick the tissue into the trash can and am startled by the sudden furry feeling around my legs; the cat is back.
Modest Mouse, what the fuck? No. Switch.
Sublime, Slow Ride. Yes.
“She takes her time when it’s time to get ready…”
I am naked and soaked in sweat and semen, epoxied to a chair and clearing the vestiges of Russian ice from my head. The drums drill themselves into my head like burrowing insects searching for protein.
“Maybe just the way you move so slow…”
Lady Gaga.
The White Stripes. Okay.
This is what I sleep to.

It was three in the morning when Alex finally finished cleaning up the bar and stepped out the door, flipping the “open” sign to “closed”; he was always making sure that any poor sonofabitch roaming the streets at 3 AM would have a place to stumble into until he headed home. I flicked the cherry of my cigarette to the street where my foot found it trodden in my stride as I walked across the way to catch Alex before he left my sight.
His shoulders were hunched, his demeanor defeated. A black cap pulled down hard over his face, he sure as hell didn’t want to be bothered. For a moment I hesitated. Maybe tonight was a bad night. I could see the burden heavy in his eyes and drooping back, and I knew that talking to me would hurt him. But maybe it would relieve some of that tension running rampant cross his body.
“Alex!” I called, jogging slightly on the street to catch up with him. He ignored me, increasing his shuffle speed down into an alley devoid of any streetlights.
“Alex,” I called again, letting the exasperation show in my voice, “you know that I hate this as much as you do. But you can’t run from it.”
No answer from him. I couldn’t see down the alley, dark as it was. Muttering under my breath, I advanced slowly, keeping a hand inside my jacket. Squinting down into that yawning blackness, it worried me that I couldn’t see the lights of the street opposite it.
“Alex? Don’t give me any shit.” There was a slight crackle, like a foot impacting a dry leaf. My hand crawled slowly into my jacket pocket
“I’m just here to talk.”
From within the dark of the alley I saw the barest flash of blue and instinctively ducked, just barely missing the blue crackle of electricity arcing over my head. From my jacket I ripped out a small illuminator and smashed it against the wall to my left, grabbing my pistol from my shoulder holster as the alleyway was suddenly bathed in fiery light.
Spotting Alex crouched uselessly behind an overturned trash can, hands outstretched, I yelled out “Silver in this gun, Alex! Put your hands down!”
We locked eyes for a moment, neither of us moving, both holding our weapons trained on each other. Slowly, ever so slowly, Alex lowered his hands, standing up and scowling at me.
“You’re a persistent bastard, you know that?” Alex hissed at me as I approached him slowly. “I just wanna go home.”
“People who just wanna go home don’t throw lightning spells at people who just want to talk, Alex,” I smirked at him. “Thank God I dodged that one. I hate it when my hair gets frizzy.”
“Jerry’s the one with the natural family talent,” Alex said grudgingly as I shoved my gun back in its holster, “I got just enough to keep the lights on when we can’t pay rent.”
“That’s who I’m here to talk about, Alex,” I said, walking towards the old bartender. “A girl named Hannah Grayson was found dead last night. Want to hazard a guess at how it happened?”
Alex pursed his lips.
“She was strangled. Electrical burns found on her neck.”
Alex swallowed. My eyes narrowed.
“I know you don’t have the stomach for that, Alex,” I stared at him, “But I’m wondering if you know who does.”
“My son isn’t a killer,” he spat at me, sudden fury rising up in his eyes. The hairs on my arms started to prickle and I resisted the urge to pull the silver from my jacket again.
“Settle, Alex. I never said that. You did.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Is there a reason for that?”
I could see the doubt pooling in his eyes like blood on a coroner’s floor. His upper lip lost its curl, his shoulders drooped. He looked down to the ground.
“Jerry ran off about a week ago,” Alex muttered, “He’d joined some gang that hangs around Coney Island about a month before that. We got in an argument about registration. He broke a window, called me a Merlin and stormed out.”
“You didn’t report him missing?”
“He came to see Katie two days after he left, at her school. She told me he was all right. But…” He inhaled deeply, like the alley was tightening around him and squeezing the air from his lungs. “This norm that owns another bar in Brighton Beach, friend of mine named Dimitri, said he saw Jerry at that registration riot night before last.”
I crossed my arms. “Hannah Grayson was found in the aftermath of that one.”
“Shit,” Alex dropped his head into his hands. “And…you think…”
“I’ve never seen such a strong lightning spell cast this side of Brooklyn before I tested your son, Alex,” I nodded reluctantly. “He’s a suspect at the very least.”
He slumped against the wall of the alley, looking at me, scared. He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”
I shrugged. “Thanks for your time, Alex. I’ll be coming in to talk to Katie in the morning. You two go to church?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, “ten o’clock service.”
“You gotta get more sleep, Alex. No wonder you can’t throw lightning worth a damn.”
He tried to smile halfheartedly.
“I’ll stop by at eight to talk to your daughter. Thanks for cooperating, Alex.”
“No, uh…no problem.”
I started to walk off, then turned back to look at the old man, still crumpled against the wall.
“That norm friend of yours. How late does he stay open?”
Alex shrugged. “If you hurry, you might catch him. His place is just before the boardwalk.”
I headed back towards my car, tossing back “By the way, you owe me another illuminator. Those little bastards ain’t cheap.”
He didn’t say anything.
I drew my pack from my pocket and snapped the fingers of my left hand, holding the tiny cone of flame jetting out of my fingertip up to my new cigarette. Inhaling deep and pushing the smoke out in a strong breath to extinguish my fire, I opened the car door and settled in, cigarette clamped tight between my lips. I stuck my finger into the ashtray in the door, starting the car to the sound of the tight sizzle. To Brighton Beach.

Tuesday Afternoon

Posted: April 30, 2011 in Uncategorized

I flickered in and
out of existence for
three hours this afternoon,
stopping and starting in my sleep,
drifting back and forth restless
in my dreams. I dreamed of a
great lake filled with chunks of
ice floes floating white across
a calm glass surface.
I tried to jump in the water and broke
the surface, shattered it into great
green stabbing shards slicing
my legs and I pedaled desperately
for some sort of purchase
on a liquid, but
there was none. I then
gave up, accepting the pain
and sinking, flipping straight onto
my back, and I bumped gently
into a floe. The ice turned
crimson as I scrabbled
onto it, breathing hard, waking up.
I searched frantic for
the clock; there was an hour
before class began.

I just woke up from a bizarre and very lengthy dream.
It started out at a lake, though I have a suspicion that it started before the lake and I just can’t remember before that point. For some reason I have a faint recollection of fast cars and street races.
Anyway, it was as if I was part of a paranormal detective agency tasked with the removal of dangerous supernatural objects from the mortal world. Joseph Gordon-Levitt was involved for some reason, but I digress.
As part of a prank of sorts, fraternities were dumping their bros in this lake asleep as an initiation rite, only to have the bros run out of the lake screaming and psychologically damaged. Curious, I examined the lake with Joseph and a sassy Latina sidekick that had turned up (it was kinda like Psych and the X Files with a cliche installed). There were many students there taking a hike, presumably there for another initiation-type deal (bros aplenty). Shortly after arriving at the lake, the path split and Joseph and I split from the sassy Latina girl to cover more ground. Never heard from her again.
I noticed from the cliffs above the lake a strangely glowing metallic crab with a chain attached to it, like some sort of underwater bling. Soon after noticing it, a very leggy blonde woman modeled after a crush from my elementary school appeared on the path with us, claiming to have raced a crab (on a gigantic friendly seahorse). Suspicious, I believed the crab was the source of all the problems. I found no problem withe the seahorse, however.
It was at this point that the dream shifted strangely, and it was as if I was in a dorm room (one much larger and nicer than mine with great swinging balcony doors) amidst a torrential downpour (sadly lacking Joseph Gordon-Levitt). I asked my roommate (Logan, an awesome roommate who I might add has no interest in alcohol until he is of legal age to have such interest) to procure some liquor for me, which, after much complaining, he set out to do. I watched him go to a liquor store down the hall (?) and retired into my chambers, satisfied that he would be back soon. After a half hour, he was not back, and I then noticed him entering his girlfriend’s place.
Cursing his libido, I withdrew into my room and soon a knock came at my door. It should be noted at this point that I was apparently still in a relationship with my ex-girlfriend in the dream, rather than my current and wonderful girlfriend.
At the door was a girl from my freshman year who I remember as being very tiny and with an unhealthy obsession for a certain Disney-related actor with more muscles than acting ability. She came inside and started unabashedly hitting on me, causing me to take pity on her and deliver an apologetic kiss onto her cheek. She apparently took this to be foreplay, stripping off her clothes and masturbating furiously. At this point I fled the room, yelling over my shoulder that I had a girlfriend.
Suddenly I was in Target. I saw my mom picking out a basketball (?) and went to talk to her. She was expressing concern that I hadn’t called lately. I assured her that I was all right and just being crushed under the weight of my classes. Nevertheless she insisted that I show her my room, just to make her feel better. I complied, against my better judgment.
When we arrived back from the room, I noticed several things:
One, Logan had returned with the liquor at some point, which was on my bed.
Two, the tiny girl was still there but accompanied by two bleached-blonde slutbunnies who were apparently getting ready for a party.
Three, there was a small adorable Weimaraner puppy there.
Guess which one my mom noticed first?
As she played with the puppy I literally dived across the room, knocking a slutbunny out of my way and shoving the liquor bottle under my bed. My mom diverted her attention from the dog to cleaning the rest of my room, clucking like an old Jewish hen the whole way.
At this point, a manager from my place of work in real life appeared in our full uniform (visor included) and announced that she was looking for illegal alcohol (though why she was there in housing was baffling). Confident that she wouldn’t find anything, I was crestfallen when she picked up a bottle of Patron that the slutbunnies had apparently brought (I praise their taste) and placed on the table, which I somehow missed in my mad dash. The tiny girl and the slutbunnies immediately fled.
Saying “That’s not mine” over and over again like I was in some sort of college student purgatory, I soon woke up in a terror.
Then I remembered, my dorm room doesn’t have a balcony, I’m not with my ex anymore, and my manager definitely doesn’t work for housing. So here I am.
I miss Joseph.


Posted: April 11, 2011 in Anger, Dark, Life, Musings, Rant, Slam, Thoughts, Ugly

Don’t you dare fucking think
for a moment that I’ll take
self-pity street! I drink
criticism straight, no chaser; fake
ME out, you say? You can try and fail,
overly polite disrespecting sonofabitch!
I’m resplendent with skill to nail
words deep into your brain, invisible itch!
Ain’t no reason I should be rejected thrice,
you hardly even know me! Your unfeelin’
collection of faceless masks ice
cold left your souls reelin’
deep in a snowfall that left you numb
to the plainest spoken word.
Now nurse your broken jaw makin’ you dumb,
maybe you should’ve taken a second or third
look at the letters so carelessly tossed aside,
makin’ a nice guy turn mean!
I’m a reject and it hurts my pride deep inside
that place kept clean
by creative construction that let me function
day to day with my failures adorned on my chest
as body armor for the fools hidin’ at every junction!
I accept I ain’t perfect but as for all the rest
you’re damn morons unable to see my vision!
And it won’t be long again before the pen hits paper
and again my faithful words will be arisen,
I’ll turn your fill-in-the-blank letter to vapor!
Don’t! for my own fucking sake
be the snake takin’ words out of my throat
before I can make a debut and slake
my thirst for written word, you can quote
me on it! And I say this for every time
I look on and smile at the red-pen pretender gods
making slashes through masterpieces sublime
when they never had the time to see through the facade
that they think is all bad but it ain’t, I know it’s good,
and I don’t give a FUCK if it ain’t understood!