where everybody knows your name...

He slams back a shot of whiskey. And then another. And then another. And then another. In quick succession, in the wink of a hummingbirds eye, he burns through forty dollars worth of booze. He wipes his sleeve with a mischievous grin, looks up at me, "another."

I set down the bottle of Kentucky's finest and ask " And why shouldn't I cut you off? In a civilized world, you'd have been cut off a long time ago."

Without saying a word he whips out a wad of cash - I can only surmise a roll of hundreds - he carefully peals one off and gingerly sets it on the bar next to the half empty bottle and the row of empty shot glasses. He looks me square in the eye and replies: " Because the gravy train has rolled in... and I'm the conductor."

I match his gaze for a split second, feigning thought... feigning internal struggle... but it's for just but a second and it's just for show. I deftly snatch the bill off the counter like a coked-out stripper grabbing a five spot. " O.K, have it your way chief." I pour another shot.

I continue, " So what's your story? You've been sitting at my bar for several hours now pounding drink after drink with no end in sight. Let me guess... assisted suicide?"

He slams the shot of whiskey, pauses, then suddenly coughs... the dry, raspy cough of an unrepentant chain smoker. " Suicide? No." In a hoarse voice. " I died a long time ago. I'm a ghost. A whisper. An afterthought. I'm the cool breeze on the back of your neck. I'm the fading dream you hope to forget."

" Ooh, I love dramatics." I toss my dish-towel under the bar and lean forward, my chin thoughtfully propped up on my fist. " You have a name?"

" Do you have a name?"

I point at my chest. " Says so right here on my tag."

" Marvin? You don't look like no Marvin."

" And you don't look like no ghost."

I pour another shot. His pale eyes widen. " Uh-uh, this one's for me my friend."

Encapsulated

There was a time my emotions were turned inside out, when I’d selfishly air my dirty laundry, with an impetuous shake, for the entire world to read with just a few strokes - a litany of triumphs, a host of low notes, and cleverly disguised key players frozen in time, mid-pose, like characters in a Rembrandt. Never me, never mind, but leaving just enough clues hinting at what could be.

Wandering, machete in hand, through the capacious undergrowth of sticky vine - a jungle of unsorted, unfiltered, undiluted memories. Memories. Sweet yet at the same time bitter like a twist of lime and a dash of salt. Salvation comes in many forms. Such as shot after shot of cheap whiskey lined up in a neat little row, or the small mountain of Pabst cans chilling in a rusted tin washtub sweating in the noonday sun, or a syringe full of lethal, blissful, bittersweet junk. Salvation waiting but never appearing, eyeing the horizon, waiting and waning as wave after wave of tumultuous memories slap me across the face... and only turmoil remains. Failure to act. Failure to "see things through" as my daddy used to always say. A handsome young man, impetuous and brash, never realizing what he had until the day he awoke from life.

A dream. As phantasms… no not phantasms but headless voices, wander in and out through a revolving door. Characters in a play appearing as if on cue and then exeunt with a bright flurry or conversely, without speaking a word. I used to interact with these characters speaking in tongues like a Delphic oracle round and round together through the motions. But now I dumbly sit and cradle my arms, my emotions have now shifted outside in. And lately, only numb. Zoloft , Prozac, and Paxil cloud my thoughts like a gray curtain of dense fog.

tiny shard of kryptonite

Helpless. You are the one who haunts my waking dreams with racking visions of loss and death and regret. I arise in the night and peek over your bars and watch you sleep. I listen to the hypnotic beat of your breathing thump, thump, thump of your new heart. I'll rub your back and cradle your feet and pray you dream of play and fun and everything in between as you jump from star to star in the company of angels from afar. Quiet stolen moments in tranquil stillness just you and me and everyday I'm grateful your mine til the end of time. You and me and boy do I have big plans for us. I love you kid, so much, even when you fuss with kicking feet, pinches, and mouse bites.

" Have you talked to your cousin?"

" No, I haven't."

" Why not? You two were so close?"

" He's changed. Well, naw, not really - I guess I have. You see, once upon a time everything I ever did was for me. Now... well, everything I do is for someone else. Work. Traffic. Life's perpetual bullshit. It's all for someone else. Everything my cousin does is not."

" That's too bad."

" Not really."

Scared. My mind is flooded with "what if's." What if something happened how would I cope? Could I cope? It's a gray morning and I play "Tears in Heaven" over and over and I'm wondering why. I'm really fucking scared something might happen to you and this is really no way to live life continuously dreading what may pass or regretting what has already passed and completely ignoring or failing to pause and relish the "now." Every day you're growing up. I flip though photos really fast like a flip book and watch months pass in a matter of seconds and isn't that what it really is... seconds? The mind, memory, is a master illusionist. Time is a sneaky fucker. And again, more what if's? What if it was all a dream and one day I'll wake up in my bed and you never existed? How would I cope? Could I cope?

My life can be summed up in seconds. Twenty eight years of memories neatly packaged in a can complete with a label. Your life, reads volumes, and I love you for that. Your infinite, quiet, shy wisdom and a dreamy glint in your eye suggesting so much fucking more than this. You are my immortality. You are my totality.

You are my morality.

this girl I know...

She loves to cook, often experimenting with exotic dishes. She paints her apartment bi-yearly in bright shades of tan and red and re-arranges her furniture every month on the dot. She loves court TV and documentaries about Tsunami’s. In fact, she’s convinced a killer wave will take her life some day, or even more far-fetched, one took it previously… thus the utter fascination I would think. She loves all animals except roaches and spiders, which she claims are evil. Sometimes she’ll wake up at night screaming like a banshee, swearing a gigantic arachnid is clinging to the ceiling. She owns a spoiled, black cat with yellow eyes, his name is Dorian Gray. He looks like the cat from the Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen painting. She says they’re probably related. She’s addicted to cigarettes, gossip mags, and ‘Sex in the City.’ She loves cocktails, salsa dancing, and drama. She never drives at night, insisting she suffers from ‘night blindness.’ Or it’s probably the two previous DUI’s and she’s being really cautious… or possibly it’s the fuzzy navels tucked away in her pocket. She’s quick-witted, creative, and well-read. Her comedic timing is impeccable, always dead on, and she’s caustically blunt. She always says the right things at the wrong time and truly doesn’t give a fuck. She has a gay best friend named Nathan and they constantly bicker about fashion. And I always tell her she needs to stop stealing my oversized Willy Wonka sunglasses. She’s the most brilliant writer I’ve ever red, yet she’s unable to add basic fractions in her head or follow simple driving directions. She’s always late, her bed is never made, and at night she sits on the sink and picks at her face. She claims she suffers from ADD, OCD as well as a multitude of other abnormalities, if you ask me she’s a classic hypochondriac. She’s a tiny girl with beautiful features. She has the most amazing, fitness-model body but somehow puts away more meals than I do. She throws hysterical fits if I slurp my food. She claims she hates all "mouth noises" great and small. She’s a ditz, drives like shit, and nitpicks the way I do dishes. She gets really annoyed at my two-hour bowel movements.

However… despite our differences, similarities, bickering, and infighting... despite our mutual adulation, adoration, and her host of bizarre eccentricities... we both could not, nor would not, picture life without the other. We go together like ‘peas and carrots,' 'Peanut butter and jelly,' 'Batman and Robin,' or 'Tom and Jerry.'

raison une

“ All right, let’s do this again. So… why do you write?”

“ I don’t. I haven’t, no, not for awhile now.”

“ Why not?”

“ Well… how can I explain this… uh, well, o.k you know that television commercial where the guy is sitting at his computer? He’s sitting there surfing along and all of a sudden he gets an error message saying he’s reached the end of the internet? Well that’s me. I’ve reached the end of my memories. The end of imagination…”

“ That’s absurd.”

“ Is it? Is it too difficult to believe there’s nothing left?"

" Yes."

" Or, let’s put it this way: there’s been a hostile takeover in my head, and the right side of my brain has assumed control. I've completely lost all of my creativity.”

“ What about all of this bullshit you used to spout about blogging being the ‘new new?’ About how you loved to interact with other writers and anonymously and instantly exchange ideas/compliments/mutual dick sucking? What happened to all of that?”

“ It’s got old. Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve got so much other shit to worry about these days."

" Yeah, I check your website everyday for updates and everyday I find nothing."

" Let me ask you something... what happens when you overtap a maple tree? It fucking dies. Thats what happens. I don't want to force it.”

" Bullshit. According to you, when you actually do write anything nowadays, you're already dead. Give me a better reason."

" Boredom? Laziness? Lack of time? There's three. Who was it that said, 'it is what it is?' Well... it is what it is. There you have it."

“ Yeah... whatever. Hey, congrats on your new promotion by the way… You're playing in the big leagues now kid.”

“ Thanks. It's my time.”

" It is what it is."

Still life

" What do you see when you close your eyes?" She asks through creeping tears behind a veil of swirling smoke. I hold my breath, momentarily ignoring her. I exhale two white plumes through my nostrils as my entire body tenses. I remain erect with my back straightened and my eyes closed inhaling and exhaling with rising and falling shoulders fighting back waves of nausea. As the feeling to wretch subsides it’s replaced by growing numbness. It spreads through my body prompting my muscles to completely slacken. I rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth savoring the complete lack of feeling. My eyelids grow heavy. It feels as though weights are attached to my long lashes. I manage to hurriedly pass her the straw and the small square of foil moments before I collapse into my chair. I sit staring at the opposite wall, my hands firmly rested on the armrests with my slack mouth hung agape.

She repeats, " Baby, what do you see?"

I look over at her with squinted eyes, lick my dry lips, and reply: " Nothing. Gray matter lined with silver. Sparkling strobe-flashes of marvelous light - sparkly sand. Nothing…." I click my tongue as my head drops, my chin jockeying for position on my chest. I mutter, " Nothing, just feeling really good. Kinda’ tired, and good…."

Delusions of Grandeur

Corner booth ordering bottle after bottle of hot sake in a black suit and tie like some fucking big-shot as the rain pours down in cascading sheets pitter-patter timpani. Summer-cold nagging ear-ache throbs like a swollen red toe in a Looney Tunes cartoon or like a claymation Rudolph’s nose... what have you. Depressing day and I need to get fucked up nice and good.

A friend of mine described it as "sweet sake drunk." However, drinking shot after shot like a thirsty impetuous wino "sweet sake slow suicide" might be a more fitting metaphor… or would that be a simile?

Rushed thoughts flit from one topic to the next, from one person to the next, from one emotion to the next, in rapid spitfire succession. Unable to press pause or rewind consequently I’m unable to closely study or articulate one or the other instead I assimilate them all as one frenetic fucked up liquid cacophony. The interesting mix of Actifed, ephedrine, and alcohol result in delirious loopy paranoia. I’m reminded of my crack smoking days and all the fun shit that comes with: carpet diving, lying, and stealing out of grandma’s purse.

I remember once I hid from a cop under a hoopty car dripping hot oil on my bare back in the middle of winter. Pig prick shining his mag light in the trees and in dark corners ready to cuff me because I looked "suspicious." So I stashed my bag of rock deep in the frame, rolled out from underneath, and ran like Carl Lewis pumping my fists as my thighs burned with unholy pain. A block away cop’s partner tackles me, frisks me, and finds nothing except pocket lint and some pennies. I was ticketed for "criminal mischief."

As I sit in the corner slamming sake shots and Kirin I think back to this moment frozen in time. A half smile slight shadow flashes across my face for the briefest, imperceptible instant replaced by the usual scowl.

Got Karaoke?

Saturday night karaoke fever. Hole in the wall joint on the east side of town. I’m feeling good… feeling loose. I bought three methadones off of a junkie I know at three dollars per pill. Cool and clean buzz keeps me light on my feet like Fred Astaire. I’m flitting from table to table with a disingenious smile dispensing fake compliments like the condom machine in the shit-stained bathroom at a quarter a pop. Corona, painkillers, and prime-time cigars: the holy feel-good trifecta.

I’m here with my buddy, Bruce. He’s big in the karaoke scene, or so I hear. He’s wearing a 70’s style ringer tee and the front of it asks in small unassuming script: “got Karaoke?” The back, in very large, in-your-face, oriental-style font proclaims: “Karaoke Bruce!” He had it custom made at the t-shirt shop for twenty dollars. He has numerous versions of it and he asked me once if I wanted to buy one. I graciously declined. We’re sitting at a table with another karaoke fixture… “Rocker Joe.” He’s a throwback to the hair bands of yore - a living fossil. As far as Rocker Joe is concerned, it’s always 1985 and the beer is always cold and the chicks are bitchin’ and the bands are kickin'. Rocker Joe’s wearing a t-shirt that reads “I’m here about the blowjob.” I told him I really liked his shirt and I asked him where he got it, he refused to tell me. Instead he offered to hook me up with one if I gave him some cash, fucking wino. I declined and said I'd order one off the "internets." Also at our table sits Joe’s on-again off-again girlfriend/booty-call, Jill. She keeps giggling at my stupid jokes and inconspicuously placing her hand on my thigh.

The place is crawling with various sorts of white trash: cowboys, bikers, rockers, wiggers, strippers, and, of course, the Karaoke royals. Bruce keeps asking me what he should sing and I keep telling him to sing whatever he wants, just as long as it’s not Bon Jovi. I think that’s why he keeps asking me is because he WANTS to sing Bon Jovi and he’s hoping I’ll change my mind. I told him I honestly don’t give a fuck, it makes no difference to me. Bruce asks me if I’m going to sing.

“ Yeah, I think I am.”

“ Whoa. Really?!? What song?” He leans in closer, very intrigued, ready to base my entire existence off of my song selection.

“ Jill and I are going to sing a duet, isn't that right Jill?”

Jill absently nods, unable to hear a single word I just said over the loud music.

“ Oh, ‘Summer Loving'... Grease?" Bruce persists. " 'Photograph' by Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock?"

“ No... 'Me so Horny’ by 2 Live Crew.”

Brothel

I remember how red your scarf was that evening many years ago in Berlin. Each thread a dense implosion of fiery pigment gleaming in the candle-lit, jazzy, smooth snare-drum mood. Me and you alone in a booth as I scoot my ass inch by inch closer so I can get a whiff of your fragrant black hair teased back into place by a mess of bobby pins, loose strands and all. You smile and tell me to relax as you pour us a couple of glasses of cheap champagne. I straighten my shoulders and loosen my cravat three notches, if that's possible, acting cool like I know what the fuck. Low-tempo slow-mo slow-down every second ticks by like a still life vibrant Cezanne and your tan skin looks so exotic. Jimmy asked me how many fingers I'd give you and I replied my entire hand. He said he'd give you two fingers... he'd cut off two fingers to bang you for a week... well - never mind that, just macho posturing guy-talk. Growing nausea like cancer starts low in my stomach and works it's way up my throat as I raise the flute to my parched lips and drink in your striking eyes with one unsure gulp.

Wing and a prayer

If you could take the remaining half of what's left of me, and leave me there empty... Would I finally, somehow be complete?

It is rumored the Roman poet Catullus wrote over twelve thousand poems all devoted to one single woman. I think you've stolen twelve thousand thoughts. Twelve thousand hours. Twelve thousand regrets. Twelve thousand grams.

Regrets that finally fade away like invisible ink.

Thoughts. Come and go through a revolving door at a cruising altitude of 32,000 feet. Flying at night. What did you describe it as, with that sly half-smile? "Spurts of civilization?" I gaze out the porticullis searching down down and then up. Searching for stars. .. a star... a single one. One free wish and yet I see none. And what of heaven? I feel close but never close enough but never closer than I do now.

Spurts of civilization. Clusters of twinkling lights spread out among the rocky wilderness. Settlements. Small town Americana. And there's always one flashing light. Could this be a starry-eyed child? My son or maybe me... once upon a time... Beaming a flashlight toward heaven. Toward me.

Toward God.

Sending out an S.O.S

Is emptiness better than fullness? It's symptomatic of loss, yes that's true, but it can also signify hope. An empty vessel, patiently waiting to be filled again. The simple beginning of a marvelous journey... as I gaze toward heaven, or a lack thereof, at 32,000 feet shrink-wrapped in an ice-cold steel chrysalis. And the homefires burn. And a new life begins anew. Wow, what a trip it's been.