Rain coats the shit-hole
October comes coughing, cold
Woebegone Autumn


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Civilization as Toilet Haiku

Night howling street drunks
Cold as the tits of culture
All devolves of course


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

A Thing of Beauty

A thing of beauty is an awesome thing to see.
But where is the beauty, or the art, in hurting me?
You fancy you’re an artist, and you beautify the world;
But are these marks here, truly beautiful?

You’ve engraved your special signature forever on my soul;
And I’ll never be as pure, or as trusting as before.
And I sometimes hear you whisper, and I almost can believe,
That the pretty things you speak about
Aren’t really make-believe.

And it’s true, a thing of beauty is an awesome thing to see.
But where is the beauty, or the art, in hurting me?
Have I sacrificed my innocence in vain?
No, now I know:
Just because you make things pretty;
Doesn’t mean you’re beautiful.
Read more!

Sir John David Maccabes: On the Death of Thom Henry

With grief-laden hearts, did we drink of our sadness:
For the death of Thom Henry was a shock to us all!
For a lad so young, we believed death, so distant;
And the death of Thom Henry was a shock to us all!

With no stomach for talk, and no strength for remembering;
We attempted forgetting—but attempted in vain!
For the memory of one so impressed in our memories
Left a sorrow so piercing, only numbness remained.

With a heart filled with pain, filled with anger, and sadness
Did we curse our existence for the lives that remained!
For our lives, one and all, we'd have given up gladly,
In exchange for the one life, we could not have saved.

So, with grief-laden hearts, did we drink of our sadness:
For the death of Thom Henry was a shock to us all!
For a lad so young, we believed death, so distant;
And the death of Thom Henry was a shock to us all! Read more!

Thoughts of an Unhappy Camper: Planet Earth

Tucked within those little lives
Were all the joys,
And woes,
And possibilities.
Before them, the vastness of the years
That were to come to most,
But not to all...

The strange delights,
The awesome opportunities,
Crossroads, rebirths, the awful miseries
Came in their time, to those who owned that season
And touched their lives,
And made them what they were...

But time does teach the stubborn to be different.
And time proves every prophet, right or wrong.
Time heals some wounds,
And fertilizes others;
Time mocks all men,
And shows them life is hard!

Still some press on,
While others bind to suffering,
And some pour water
On others while they drown—
And some forsake their lives to save another,
While some seek out of body, out of mind...

But with our lives, we men only acknowledge
That we can be whatever we become:

Our habits, when we die,
Reveal their cost—
We have no way
To measure what was lost. Read more!

Two paths taken...one is lost

A tribute to family



Slowly, I accept this role,
This role of negotiator, keeper of peace,
For I have slowly become the middle man,
Of this life that is not mine.

Their pretense is to argue,
To fight and not speak,
To actually do nothing about anything,
And I must push them just to get by.

What life is this that I must fill in voids,
Fill in the blanks for their future,
which seems bleak at best,
And certainly, at worst, not fruitful.

As Our life is pushed ahead,
Not by one but two, aggressively
Their life is stagnation at its purest
And this in turn brings me down too.

For how can two people be together
And be so nothing, except for "around"
How can these two have hope,
When all that sprints rapidly ahead
Is their continued nothingness...

And my drive to push ahead
With or without them.

Read more!

Smell the Ink

everything herein is based in truth.


Flexcar parked outside a bar. makes a strange kind of sense when you think about it, but don't think too long.
you're cool
you're still cool
said the bridge in green paint, one on the west side and one on the east. I imagine
"you're lame" is etched on the riverbed, which is the last thing a suicide victim needs to hear. and I suppose the last thing they will.
do you want coffee or a drink? sadly not directed at me, but it puts me in mind of if it's possible to...
SMELL THE INK!
...process coffee beans like coco beans. it would change coffee cake forever.
Smell the ink!
taste the crayon!
feel the lead!
and by god, emote chalk! Read more!

Read more!

A Poem for Fall

Persephone doesn't die, she just goes underground




God, I wanna go,
when skies grow gray,
and drown all hope at all,
I'm Hades bound,
to dine on pomegranate seeds, drink wine,
and be well in a pleasant place.

leave me alone with ghosts,
where the satellites won't see,
where I can spread my legs,
and fear no reproach.

God, what a wicked world in Fall.
Persephone doesn't die; she just goes underground.



Read more!

...

I was thinking of writing a poem. Read more!

Cool shadows lengthen
We drink cider and cuddle
Intimate autumn


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Purple Colored Manicotta

the rhythm is gonna get ya.


Purple colored manicotta
Many colored mason jar-a
Down the street and Turn the corna
What’d you say? Why I oughtta!
Give a shit? Not one iota
If you don’t sink then you’re a floata
Calling all your sons and daughta’s
Step inside, the machine needs fodda
Sunk into a glass containa
Not a sculpta, but a painta
Not a sinna but a sainta
‘cept for the times that he ain’t-a
Don’t ask me, I won’t exlpaina
Just another good thing down the draina
Her name is Flora, his is Faina
Wishes he could go insana
Don’t speak up, she’s no complaina
He’s Up all night, oh not againa
Used ta play a grand piayna
He just had a really good traina
Some folks like their yogurt plaina
Some folks like their peaches and crema
Expert at being a beginna
Which is why he never was a winna
It’s getting late and I need dinna
So to end this I think I’ll just say

fin-a

Read more!

WCI represents at Tony's Open Mic Night!

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Joel Earl, Kelly King and yours truly received thunderous applause after reading our verses at Tony’s Tavern, perhaps Portland’s best weekly hangout for poets. I read first with stentorian bombast updated versions of “Palmer,” “Christ on the Bench,” and Ambition.” Humbly stated, my best reading ever! Next Joel “freakin’” Earl took the lectern--no microphone last night--and did a great job reading “Global Jihad Against Pancakes,” a hilarious piece he wrote on the bus, and “Stream of Television Consciousness,” a May post I believe. Kelly read her Bukowski poem (and I’m on her ass to post it to the blog!) and “Tough Bitch with an Iron.” (sp?) For all of us it was a gratifying evening of sharing our work, representing the blog admirably, and meeting new and established poets on the local reading circuit. Hell, Tommy, the MC, comes into my grocery store for smokes. It’s a kick ass, small world, tight community. Vive Writers Club Internationale! Read more!

The Strange Odyssey of Flight 49 Out of Kellogg International Airport

is this the one you were talking about, mike? it's only saved as a draft cause I was using an already-opened WCI tab to do a quick edit on something from my old myspace blog I was sending to an old high school buddy in china. now here it is for all of you to read:



In this true story dating back to the dark days of early august 2005, when armies of genetically modified cybernetic marsupials roamed the streets in order to secure earth for it's eventual enslavement by interdimensional CHUDs (has it really been seven months already?), our hero (me) is drawn into a harrowing journey due to events beyond his control. in a way it's not unlike The Count of Monte Cristo, except considerably shorter and very much unlike that. anyway, to provide greater context for whats going on in this piece, it was written the morning that the space shuttle discovery safely landed despite fears that it might blow up on re-entry. also, people back then used to eat these strange flakes made out of corn that they would pour milk on. for reals.






The Strange Odyssey of Flight 49 Out of Kellogg International Airport
or
Somebody had to crash today, might as well have been me

okay, so I had just finished the best oil painting I've ever done (tentatively entitled "Impatient Red-headed Nude with Trippy Oversized Right Arm), and I was starved. so I go and pour myself a heaping bowl of Corn Flakes, and headed downstairs to eat them while I browse the interentaglement, as I am want to do. well, I lost my footing on the carpeted steps, and Corn Flakes and milk go flying EVERYWHERE! I land on my back, but in such a way that I am unscathed (in fact, my back was a little sore before, and now is a little LESS sore). also, the bowl and spoon never left my hand. the bulk of the payload lands in my leather shoes however, and other breakfast fragments soak a pile of clothes that had just been laundered. further milk droplets can be seen as far away as ten feet from ground zero. amazingly though, my record collection -which was near the worst part of the danger zone- didn't get any of the impact! you know how when something like that happens, it happens in super-slow-mo? well this was no exception. I actually remember thinking as it was happening that if I can move fast enough, I might just be able to catch the airborne cereal in the bowl from whence it launched. I suppose I did not have enough time to realize that I am not Neo. but the good news is, I might just be in the next Guinness Book Of World Record for most swears uttered in a one-second time period!
Read more!

Global Jihad Against Pancakes

premiered at Tony's last night.


slap the flapjacks
burn the hotcakes
batter the batter
if that's what it takes

we'll fight them on the griddles
we'll fight them on the plates
we'll stab them in their blueberry hearts
if any of them retaliates

in dinning rooms and dinning halls
they won't know when we'll strike
anticipating our attack they'll baste in buttermilk sweat
and then one breakfast
or lunch
or dinner
the sink will run amber with their syrup

nothing will be left but dirty dishes
nothing will be left but fluffy carrion
it's a global jihad against pancakes
we may waffle, but out will is iron!

Read more!

Dali Lama

* * *
* *
**** *
* * *
* * *


*

don't know why I want
to pinch cheeks of revered ones
and hold them tightly.

Read more!

pax to you my brother-

Celebrate the International Day of Peace Friday, September 21st 2007









how are we going to
achieve peace in this lifetime
when we can't even get along with ourselves?



Read more!

Palmer

Slightly confessional


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Palmer

Going to work his small dreams die
Strangled in senseless morning cries
He aches for friends he hasn’t called
Quickens his pace for boss’ sake
Thinks of father and squandered time
Unlocks the door, punches the clock
Regrets the lips he could’ve warmed
And blessed are none says Palmer
Deals all day with fuckers and worse.
Shrugs as radio rants for wars
And rent goes up by twenty bucks
Fears the boss who prays to Jesus
Lover’s a chain he cannot break
Two jobs maintain his bind to time
They shake his faith in humankind
And blessed are none says Palmer
Night is laced with starlight and drink
Faces, voices, he cannot think
But dreams arise from gripe and grope
Visions of days he has not lost
Lips touch his and carry him off
Nude he wakes in an angel’s bed
Hails the morning and floats to work
And blessed are all says Palmer

Read more!

Structure to Disctract From the Fact That I'm Dying

It sucks that inspiration only hits me at the end of my emotional rope...

Once,
I could sleep,
secure in the knowledge
that you loved me.

Now
it's what keeps
me awake, eyes open,
breathing too fast,

dreams
far away,
only the nightmares real
when I'm alone.

This
was a choice,
I keep telling myself--
simple, not easy,

made
in the throws
of reason, of logic,
not emotions,

but
it's so hard
to keep hold of reasons,
my sanity

in
the face of
how much I love you still,
how much it hurts.

I
seek comfort
in something of structure--
in a rhythm,

when
usually
there's only my heartbeat
to set a pace.

I
count seconds,
and footsteps, keeping track
of the numbers,

to
distract me
from how empty I feel
in the face of

you
being gone,
somewhere else, not with me,
a hollow place

where,
once, you were...

but I'm
breaking free,
look at that,
almost there,
a few more words,
I'll be
back in my head,
back on my feet,
finding my kilter,
no longer skewed.
If I
can only
keep
from
rhyming or
any predictable pattern
I have this illusion
I can prove I'm
not broken
anymore...
Read more!

Lick it at your peril haiku

Razorblade’s honey
That’s the short and shit of it
Love’s complications


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

(Untitled, as of yet)

Argh...it's always better once it's over...


When you are
nothing
but letters on a page
and a voice in the back of my mind--
memories of better days,
with all the fights forgotten,
when your suffocating absence
is just one more whitened scar
and the phantom pains
of my amputated love for you
only twinge on rainy days--
I'll still think of you,
with a smile of regret
and a rueful pain
somewhere the other side
of logic,
and love that I knew you then,
and know that I love you still.
Read more!

Sandwichland 4

don't worry. much, much more to come


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Eric, wiping tears from his eyes. “Shit, boss. I’m gonna get sick with giggles. Your new name is Mr. Giggly! My grandma used to say, gigglin' was good for the soul. Your a riot, boss!”
Todd pounded his fists on the table, spilling his coke onto the floor. “America the beautiful! America the beautiful! America the beautiful! Love it or leave it! Love it or leave it!”
Gilbert couldn‘t take any more. “I think what has everyone in stitches here, boss, is the ridiculousness of your rant. Kind of a stretch to link Sandwich Land to the war effort, don't you think? And then there's the matter of your first-grade spelling level. You've missed your calling. You should've been a comedian. No worries though. Maybe in your next incarnation. I will say this though on behalf of all of us: we are good human beings; America has nothing to do with that!” Gilbert winked then whispered. “And neither has Israel.”
Todd's face darkened to purple. His green-coated tongue lolled around mutely in his mouth for several seconds. An ice cube slid across the tabletop and plopped onto the floor. Todd crushed it with a violent stomp of his brown Birkenstock. “What! Isra-” Todd gasped.
“What up, Mr. Boss Man?” Eric said. “My grandma used to say, if you got something to say in life, you better spit it out now. Not good to bury all them evil words deep down in that soul of yours. Ya got a soul, boss? Sometimes I worry 'bout you, you know. Include you in my prayers at night. Yes sir, I do.” Eric reached a hand compassionately towards Todd's shoulder which Todd swatted away before contact could be made.
“Wha-what are you, Gilbert!? Some kind of terrorist!? Just last week I reported my postman, and he was replaced the very next day. Sneaky and cocky-looking he was. Just like you! And . . .” Todd paused for breath, face darkening to deeper purple, sweaty hands quivering on the table, goosebumps rising on both white arms. “And just like you he was a smart-mouth. Ain't no good can come from smart-mouths. Why, why I oughtta--”
“Stop right there, Captain America!” Gilbert barked while sliding a sandwich to Sam. “My record is clean, and once cleared I'll file a counter complaint, and they'll redirect their investigation to you. Any skeletons you hidin' in your closet, Todd? Your web surfing history? Your taxes? Your voting record? Your wife? They'll dig hard. These are hard working men. You want that ton of bricks labeled 'USA' coming down on your head? Cry USA! USA! all you want. If you call the goons on me, they may bring me down, but who gives a shit? I don't have wife and kids. But I do know how to talk, and talk fast about you I will if I have to. Think of your family the next time you want to make threats against me. I'm your best worker and you know it! You wanna fire me, go for it! I'll take my sweet work ethic elsewhere.” No fear, he thought. I've thrown down the gauntlet.
“Now, now, let's not let the stress of the workplace get us off mission. I, I uh, I'm not makin' no threats. It's just. It's just that we all need to do our best, and it's my job to coach and motivate you all to do that. I, I--”
“I don't need a coach and I always do my best at whatever I do. And by definition I can’t do better.” Gilbert sized up the little man, smiled. “Good. I see your face is gradually lightening in degrees to pink. I think we understand each other now.”
“Fine, Gilbert,” Todd winced with chest pain. His face, completely beaded with sweat. “But there is the little matter of these complaints I've gotten about you. Why don't you trade places with Eric here, and try to explain your way out of this?”
The front door emitted a series of beeps as customers poured in. Gilbert thought of Peggy and what a good story this would make over beers tonight. Let's see what this petty little man has up his sleeve now. I'm gonna make you proud, Mayor. I'm gonna live like you do, and not look back with regret and take no thought for tomorrow. Eric rose from the seat, exchanging a high-five with Gilbert, after which Gilbert sat, folding his hands, chin up and looking unflinchingly into Todd's darting eyes. Seven complaint cards were fanned in Todd's trembling fingers like a poker hand.
“I opened the complaint box this morning, Gilbert, and as you know I'm the only one who has the key, and” (Todd huffed and crinkled his forehead) “what I found greatly disturbs me. Before I send these off to headquarters which would take the termination process out of my hands, I would appreciate your comments upon perusal.” Todd smiled proudly, and splayed the cards in front of Gilbert. “Well? Take a look. A good look.” Sarcastically, Todd added: “I'd hate to lose my best worker over this.”
Before looking at the comment cards, Gilbert shot a glance at the growing, grumbling queue of fidgeting, gluttonous customers. Some young. Some middle-aged. Some old. Gilbert sized up the lot of them. Pudgy. Paunchy. Pot-bellied. Soft and susceptible to marketing's easy mind control, feeding their weakened brains through the air waves and the glitzy printed page. For an instant Gilbert thought of writing a book called, 'Consuming For Dummies.' It would consist of a single word: Don't. Gilbert looked at the customers' eyes. Beady and greedy. Lives lived according to instinct. Chakra one lives, devoid of spirit. Stupidity bursting at the seams.
A stern woman in a red dress raised her voice at Sam, who was furiously and desperately banging the near-empty mayo container on the counter in a futile attempt to get enough out. “That's all the mayo I get! Squeeze the damn bottle!” The woman was well-coiffed and her lavender-based perfume had the smell of money.
Poor Sam, the ultimate whipping boy, thought Gilbert as he scooped up the complaints. I pray you get your day in the sun, my friend. And it would nice if you could stand tall and thin when that day comes. Gilbert fell into reverie, closing his eyes: he imagined a worldwide Eden without concrete. Palm trees lined beaches where buildings once sliced the sky like phallic-shaped knives. And laughing and dancing about the sand and the grass and the forests and the campfires of this future utopia were naked men and women, boys and girls, nymph-like and satyr-like, all beautiful and bronze and thin. Thin like the Gods, he thought.
























Read more!

good morning ex-wife haiku

Cold September dawn
Like your lips when last we kissed
Sun’s sad roses bleed


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

The Strange Odyssey of Flight 49 Out of Kellogg International Airport

is this the one you were talking about, mike? it's only saved as a draft cause I was using an already-opened WCI tab to do a quick edit on something from my old myspace blog I was sending to an old high school buddy in china. now here it is for all of you to read:


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE


In this true story dating back to the dark days of early august 2005, when armies of genetically modified cybernetic marsupials roamed the streets in order to secure earth for it's eventual enslavement by interdimensional CHUDs (has it really been seven months already?), our hero (me) is drawn into a harrowing journey due to events beyond his control. in a way it's not unlike The Count of Monte Cristo, except considerably shorter and very much unlike that. anyway, to provide greater context for whats going on in this piece, it was written the morning that the space shuttle discovery safely landed despite fears that it might blow up on re-entry. also, people back then used to eat these strange flakes made out of corn that they would pour milk on. for reals.






The Strange Odyssey of Flight 49 Out of Kellogg International Airport
or
Somebody had to crash today, might as well have been me

okay, so I had just finished the best oil painting I've ever done (tentatively entitled "Impatient Red-headed Nude with Trippy Oversized Right Arm), and I was starved. so I go and pour myself a heaping bowl of Corn Flakes, and headed downstairs to eat them while I browse the interentaglement, as I am want to do. well, I lost my footing on the carpeted steps, and Corn Flakes and milk go flying EVERYWHERE! I land on my back, but in such a way that I am unscathed (in fact, my back was a little sore before, and now is a little LESS sore). also, the bowl and spoon never left my hand. the bulk of the payload lands in my leather shoes however, and other breakfast fragments soak a pile of clothes that had just been laundered. further milk droplets can be seen as far away as ten feet from ground zero. amazingly though, my record collection -which was near the worst part of the danger zone- didn't get any of the impact! you know how when something like that happens, it happens in super-slow-mo? well this was no exception. I actually remember thinking as it was happening that if I can move fast enough, I might just be able to catch the airborne cereal in the bowl from whence it launched. I suppose I did not have enough time to realize that I am not Neo. but the good news is, I might just be in the next Guinness Book Of World Record for most swears uttered in a one-second time period! Read more!

Haiku Clerihew

Douglas Harglebleu
abandoned the art of haiku.
on this he didn't bet:
twas was a decision he came to regret



Read more!

Clerihew Haiku

enough haiku games
clerihew: the hip new thing
haiku is passe




Read more!

ahh that's better ...

July 10: Clerihew Day (unofficial).

The birthday of Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956),

inventor of the clerihew, has been designated "Clerihew Day" by the man's many followers.

The clerihew, a wholly frivolous poetic form,

is a four-line verse adhering to the rhyme scheme AABB.

The first line consists of a personal name,

while those that follow traditionally are, or purport to be, biographical in nature.

Little, if any, attention is paid to meter.

example:

Dr. Allardyce Hurlbutt
Gave clerihews a whirl, but
The result was only madness
And unutterable badness.

Read more!

nothing here

some thing is whack, a miss even i'll try this again... please stand by-

Read more!

O Trespass Sweetly Urged, Give Me My Sin Again

Ah, new love...


I tremble
[like leaves
in the softest of breezes]
when I hear your voice,
and recall how you touched me--
as if you know
exactly what I want.

Let me transform your world
with images
of beauty and light,
with moments of life
as it should be--

because I know how to laugh,
how to cry, how to feel,
because I know how to live
with everything I am.

Treasure me,
hold me gently--
like cupping starlight,
like mending a butterfly's wings--
and you'll see
how brightly I shine.
Read more!

When We Are Trees

Based on a story I read, set years in the future...people turn into trees...good story...


Can we still stretch
our wasted limbs
to empty skies
that once were warm
and full of light?
Can we still dance
when there's no sound
to mark the beat?
And years from now
when we are trees
will we still know
how laughter feels,
what children say,
how flowers smell
on summer days--
will songs still fill our hearts?
Read more!

Rome At Night

Flights of fancy...


I was
climbing stairs
in a yellow dress,
a crown on my head,
and red roses
that dripped and splashed
with the sound of bells.
Ambient light
turned out to be
a sky of fire and brimstone
as the topless towers burned
and the stars winked out,
one by one.
Beauty was smeared
with ashes
and every pleading face
concealed a knife.
We were poised
on the brink of greatness,
speaking of achievement
and progress,
ignoring history's urgent warning
until Nature disgorged us
once more.
Flower child,
your words went unheeded,
condemned,
even as we damned ourselves.
Read more!

Christ on the Bench

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Christ on the Bench
Sometimes I pass by a person crying on a bench
In the middle of the afternoon of the busy city
Of course no one tries to console this person
Or even ask what’s the matter or if they can help
I follow suit, got things to do and people to see
But the sun is gold, the sky is blue and most of us
Are too polite to break down in public spaces
Are too afraid to seem weak before the others
This inconsolable Christ on the bench has sinned
Against the peace of we the busy, we the sane
What right does this wretch have to trouble us
With the evidence of difference and melted mask,
To be human and troubled in the age of machines Read more!

Ars Poetica

Ars Poetica
Night sheds her gown for good and stays
Pen shapes her secret face and ways
Divines the sound of sacred sigh.
Poems are wings that pine to fly
Poets are eyes who dream to dry.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Sandwich Land, 3

"There is no I in America! There is no ME in America! And there sure as hell ain't no ERIC in America either!"


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Eric's jaws opened to their fullest extent in a long, languid yawn. He didn't bother to cover his mouth. With red eyes watering, he gazed with fascination at a place slightly above Todd's slick-backed head. With sleepy voice Eric spoke: “I work good, Todd. I'm real friendly. The customers tell me so every day. You da man. You should know.” Todd kept a stern gaze. “I'm a good workhorse for you and your little business.” Eric smiled.
“Is that marijuana I smell on your breath son?”
“Apple raspberry gum, boss.”
“ I noticed you took your break at 4:20. You don't think I know what 4:20 means? Take it from an old gridiron warrior: I know bullshit when I smell it. And whose business you callin' 'little?' I own three stores. You'd do well to follow my example.” Todd rapped his knuckles on the table, his upper lip glazed with sweat and twitching. “The business of America is business.”
“Yeah, man, I hear ya,” Eric sniffled, wiping at his nasal drainage with an index finger. “But the business of Eric is good-naturedness, and that's gotta be good for business which's gotta be good for the Todd. See, man? I think good, and by the way, I only smoke plain ol’ tobacco at work. I roll my own, but it’s legal. Eric loves freedom. Yes sir!”
Gilbert remained within ear-shod, handing sandwiches over to Sam in assembly-line fashion after placing cheese and meat on them. Sam assumed the role of vegetable architect, but paused intermittently to wipe at his eyes with mustard-stained gloved hands. He realized he was falling behind and flailed desperately at the lettuce and tomato bins, slopping on the produce as quick as he could. Sarah squirted condiments and attended to the wrapping and bagging. She kept hissing at Sam, 'C'mon!', 'Hurry up!' Andy stood nonchalantly by the cash register, bouncing a basketball, occasionally yawning or staring at his underlings with a mixture of disgust and pity.
Todd continued. “Eric loves 'freedom,' huh? Well you know what freedom means to me, Eric?”
Eric shrugged, his chin still cupped in his hand.
“Freedom means work harder. Work harder and the American Dream is within reach. You do believe in the American Dream, don't you, Eric?” Todd huffed, inflating his hard chest, sculpted by years of weight lifting. His gaze, orange-tanned. His smile, smug. Beady brown eyes reflected harsh white interior light as he scrawled carefully and slowly on a piece of official 'Sandwich Land' stationary. Todd set the fountain pen down and gazed proudly at the singular word he had written: AMERICA. He peered questioningly into Eric's eyes, awaiting comment.
“You should be awfully proud of yerself, boss. You got vision, yes sir. But I think it was my grandma who used to say, work smarter not harder. That's what I live by. I think we’re here to be smart human beings who think and have fun, don't you, boss?” Eric raised his right hand expecting a high five. Didn’t get it.
“You know what I think, Eric? I think what we do here at good ol' Goose Hollow Sandwich Land is more important than just providing quality food in a speedy manner. I think what we do is a little bigger than that. These are war times, ya know, and what we do in a small way aids and abets a greater cause.” Todd pawed at his hair's slickness, straightened his posture in his seat and continued. “We all gotta be at are best, ya know? We gotta be all we can be for America's sake. That includes lawyers and police officers and judges and news reporters and homeland security agents, as well as small business owners and sandwich artisans. We all serve our part for the greater whole, Eric, and all I ask from you is that you do your part for America in her time of need.”
“I'm a good American, boss. I try. I’m a good guy, a good worker, a good friend, and if ya ask, Latoya, my little cherry pop-tart, she'll tell ya: I’m a good lover. Yes sir, Mr. Todd. That‘s what she says.”
“Well, what I'm hearin' here, Eric is a bunch of 'I‘m this and I‘m that‘, when the 'I's should be subordinate to 'America.' Now c'mon son, I know from football the benefit of yielding before a greater good, a greater goal, a goal infinitely larger than petty self interest. We are part of team 'America' and now at the conclusion of my address, I put it to you, Eric.” Todd pressed an index finger to his pursed lips, pausing in contemplation.
“What, boss?” Eric had taken Todd's pen in hand, and taken the stationary with 'America' written on it, and proceeded to draw artful roses with voluptuous naked women dancing in the midst. Along the edges he wrote in beautiful, looping cursive script the words, 'free love free amerika free love free amerika . . .' till the entire page was framed with it. He set the pen down, yawned, and smiled at the ceiling. “Like my drawin', boss?”
“Let's get back to business, Eric. You must realize, that in these times of trouble, self sacrifice is required for the good of the country. You must realize that you are a cog in the greatest machine in history. That as a cog you must function at your best. That there is no reward, no gold, no blond-haired nymphs spread out on the bed at the end of the rainbow, no 'I' to rake in the glory. You must realize, Eric, that there is no 'I' in 'America.' There is no 'me' in 'America.' And there sure as Hell ain't no 'Eric' in 'America.' Do you understand?”
Eric bent over in his seat, clutching his stomach with both hands, belching in guffawed laughter which resounded musically in echoes off the walls of the sandwich shop. Gilbert was in the middle of asking a squirrelly business man what kind of bread he wanted, tried to contain himself, but couldn't. The sobering pent-up pressures of the day yielded to high-pitched squeals. Sam likewise lost it. Sarah didn't get it. Andy dribbled the basketball while grinning at his watch.
“What?! What?!” Todd yelled out to everyone. “You guys think that's funny?” Read more!

The Valve

a cautionary tale of lust and environmental catastrophe.
inspired by a true story. really. only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. and the story itself. but apparently there is a valve, and apparantly some idiot turned it. this is probably fairly close to how it happened.


"okay rookie, you're new here, so let me show you around. this is the breakroom. there's a vending machine, and shitty coffee. over here are the bathrooms, and to your left is the catwalk, from which you'll be expected to test the PH twice daily."
Cam looked in awe at the beauty and majesty of it all and started to think he was maybe in over his head.
"oh," added Terry before ending the orientation tour, "and this here is the valve that dumps raw sewage directly into the river. you should never, ever, under any circumstances turn the that valve, no matter how seductively it beckons you to do it's bidding with it's tight red rubberized handle and threading that goes all the way up..."
"why'd they install it" Cam asked.
"...glistening beads of moisture dripping down it's-- oh, why'd they install it you ask? well, no ones really sure, but in accordance with federal regulations we put up this here sign:" Terry pointed to a piece of corrugated cardboard with the words 'DO NOT TOUCH! BAD! NO NO!' scrawled upon it in blue Bic ballpoint just above a childlike rendering of a skull and crossbones.
"so," Cam openly surmised, "that must've been installed decades ago before the environmental risks hadn't been considered."
"no, actually they put it in just last year, the day after the sign went up." Terry corrected. "yeah, we got a guy that comes in twice a week to perform routine maintenance on it and polish it's sweet, supple curves..."
"wow terry, you sure know alot about the job around here!" said Cam admiringly.
"well, when you've put in as much time as I have you get to know the place pretty well." strutted Terry.
"wow, how long is that?"
"well, they originally hired me to put up the sign."
"wow!"

two weeks passed, and Cam was still learning the ropes. but he was getting the hang of it. each morning he would go to the breakroom to drink some bad coffee and consume twinkies from the vending machine. then he would go use the bathroom. then he would go and check the PH twice. then it was time to clock out and go home. only once did he get the order of operations confused, much to the frustration of the vending machine companies service rep. so he was doing all right. then one day after his daily check of the PH he leaned back against the wall to sip his bad coffee. out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the valve. it's sweet red rubber gave a come-hither look. "no," cam said aloud, "you're charms won't work on me, I read the sign."
"come to meee"
"what was that?"
"what're'ya, deaf of sumthin?!"
"no, bad valve! I shall not listen to you anymore, nosireebob!" said Cam indignantly, and walked away to use the bathroom.

the next day cam repeated his daily routine as normal. he knew he shouldn't, but he took a gander at the valve anyway. this time it looked rather different. it seemed to be wearing fishnet stockings for some reason.
"c'mon big boy, gimme a whirl", and then it somehow winked at him.
"you're barking up the wrong tree," Cam assured the valve, "I have a circuit breaker box at home that I'm committed to."
"oh pshaw, it never has to know about us."
"you lie!" we both know that if I come home smelling of valve the breaker will know what's been going on, and shut off all my appliances!"
"hey baby, what's life without a little risk, right?"
Cam put his fingers in his ears and ran away shouting "I CAN'T HEAR YOU, I CAN'T HEAR YOU, NA NA NA!"

the following day Cam made sure not to make eye contact with the valve, which was difficult since it didn't have eyes. nevertheless, he heard it's sirens call whispering "cammy baby, I'm all wet over here. could you come and towel me off with that greasy rag you have hanging off your belt? pwetty pwease?"
"okay, I guess, but only because a slippery valve is a safety hazard"
"oh, of course honeycakes..."
Cam caressed it's supple features with his greasy rag. "no, I shouldn't" cam said to himself. "it's so wrong, but it feels oh so right!"
"that's it, baby, get all of that wetness dried up" cooed the valve "oh look, now I'm all greasy. I guess you're just gonna have to do something about that, right?"
"yeah baby!" succumbed Cam. but at that very moment the valve maintenance person grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him back. he turned around and wagged his finger back and forth sternly.

when Cam came in to work the next day his hair was combed neatly, and a clip-on bow tie graced the collar of his coveralls. cradled in his arms was a dozen roses. he passed right by the break room, past the bathroom, and straight into the arms of his beloved valve. "okay baby, let's do this thing!"
"yes, take me you animal!"
and with that he turned the handle of the valve

AOOOOGAAH! AOOOOGAAH!

the alarms didn't phase Cam as he cuddled with the valve in post-turning bliss. terry rushed down the catwalk as fast as he could. "what did you do?! what the fuck did you do?!"
"ah..but..but..the valve was calling out to me!" exclaimed Cam in shrinking defense.
"do you have any idea what this means?! you just flooded the river with raw sewage!"
"but I didn't mean to, honest!"
"no excuses! current federal regulations are very strict on this issue: two weeks suspension with pay, and may god have mercy on your soul!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

the end.

or is it?

yeah, it is.
Read more!

Turning On

The "Crowded House" show dragged on for 3 and a half hours.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Turned On

The moon’s blue cadaverous ass makes me happy
After all the show’s out and I’m free to smoke
Unclenching one by one the knotted honesties
From the mono-mask of service I’m forced to don

Like bugs to light the people swarm to the noise
I walk past faces and noises, not looking to stars
Because no one’s done that here in a hundred years
In this machine heaven I rush home to turn one on. Read more!

Dan, the Pink Vespa, and the Moon in the Shadow of Heracles, conclusion

a message in a bottle flung across the stars.


bands of yellow, brown, orange, and charcoal form a cliff wall, an erstwhile riverbed from a time before humans were even a glimmer in a paleolothic rodents eye. surely fascinating from a geological standpoint on it's own, but that is overshadowed by two pecular features the cause dan to jump and cheer and do a heel-clicking jig not unlike that of a toothless prospector in an old western upon striking a rich gold vein. or at least he would have don that were it not for the risk of severing or crimping the vital tubes and cables that make up his life support apparatus. upon this wall was embedded a round metal plate. and on this plate, in metals of differing colors, was etched a simple dilineation of landmasses and oceans. it looked like earth, but the continental configuration and shapes clearly read it as another world. by was of coincidence some of the landmasses bore vaguely similar shapes to those of some of earths own, but clearly this was a representation of a wholey different, yet amazingly earthlike world. this on it's own would be the discovery to best any previous discovery of humankind, and yet two feet down the wall from it, more modest in apearance but more intriguing in implication, was an artifact that made that plackard apear merely a token by comparison.

the rock, melted and fused into shape (by some chemical solvent if the strangle mineral flows were any indication), an archway. peeking through Dan spies a distant light at the end mirroring the archways shape. a tunnel with vaulted ceilings! it should not have surprised him that a distant alien race would come to many of the same basic conclusions about practical architecture as humans had, but it did. Dan mused for a moment about his first travel abroad, and how it wasn't the differences between cultures that had amazed and inspired him so, but rather the unexpected similarities. in a way, one expects different peoples to be different that oneself, but to find that thousand of miles away, and now billions at least, that even then people are the same, well, in strikes one with awe.

after estimating the width and height of the tunnel Dan mounted his pink steed and drove it onward down the chute. as he rode the forward lights of his helmet caught jewels embedded in the seamless solid stone of the corridor. the seemed to represent stars. perhaps a map of the distance traveled to create this feat. as he approached the tunnels end his map indicated that he was reaching the other side of the mountain that this tunnel had been drilled into. yet it opened into a room with large windows giving a breathtaking view of another lake. he could see that this mountain formed a sort of bay for the lake water. in a way, cupping the lake in. inside this room were two large columns, dusted white with some sort of chalk. he felt unqualified to venture a guess as to what it might mean, but supposed that the ultimate meaning was as a greeting to whomever might find it. on the walls and ceilings were painted images the equal of any renaissance chapel in Italy. they seemed to display various historical events, yet also seemed to express a primitive technological capacity. with haste, Dan pulled a small wheeled device not unlike a remote control car from a compartment in his vespa. setting it on the ground, the tiny machine roamed the room to catalog every square inch of it with a small camera and chemical sensors so that it could be thoroughly analyzed when it got back to earth. after it had finished dan took small scrapings of the paint and placed them in small ziplocks that he then placed into another plastic bag.

he pondered the images. the beings in them were bipedal, like humans, but had a strange 'S' shaped posture, as if leaning back but keeping the head straight. at rest, the characters seemed to recline on their hands, similar to a crab-walk. Dan presumed that perhaps they evolved from four legged creatures that walked on their backs. their skin came in different tones, but generally rooted in a pale blue. of course, not knowing how long this has been here, the colors had probably faded, making it impossible for him to gauge what the actual colors were.

Dan wandered through an archway that opened out into the shore of the bay. littered upon the ground were hundred of tiny mechanical devices, almost insect-like with legs and mandibles. some were embedded into the dirt which had melted around their carapaces into solid stone. these devices must have excavated the tunnel. others had dried paint clogging up nozzles on extra arms. those must have painted the room. before him a sea of dead machines, each with a specific function to create what he had seen. he picked up all he could in his bags, which barely scratched the surface.

as the day threatened to turn to night he got back on his now-maroon vespa and zipped back on through the tunnel. this time he turned on some brighter lights and saw that in fact the tunnel represented a timeline. it's words he could not read, but it's images showed a history as long and tragic and fascinating and hopeful as that of his own species. without the luxury of examining it more closely (but with the little photo recorder following behind to be picked up later by the copter) he took in as much as he could. the timeline ended without any apparent universal symbol of catastrophe, such as an explosion or the like, but end it did. finally, in black letters on the ceiling he only now could see. strangely it was the english alphabet, but in a bizarre permutation of an old script, as though they had learned it from transmissions hundreds of year prior and could not quite replicate it accurately. it was thus also rather misspelled, but the words were fairly clear: "IS WAS OF US. NOW IS FOR U"

he rushed back to his capsule, contemplating what he saw. to his best reckoning dan guessed that this civilization sent robots to record their history for those civilizations that may survive them. but what of "WAS"? were they gone? did they send this mission out with their civilizations dying breath so that they would not be forgotten? to live on in another's history? and what about the english? he stopped the vespa and brought up an image he took of the placard. the continents on it actually did look somewhat strange. he flipped the image upside down. it WAS earth! the continents were still somewhat malformed, but it was definitely earth! "FOR U", of course! this was for earth to know! they must have figured that one of these moons would likely be the first bodies beyond our solar system to be explored, so they planted this here. but the room had an ancient quality to it's art and design. it represented no post-electronic technology. maybe this was a facsimile of a great artifact of their civilization, reproduced for our eyes.

he got back to the capsule and frantically sent messages across the network. as an after thought he checked his inbox. FROM: Julie Pearson: "you'll never believe what I just found..."

perhaps another of their seven wonders? Dan waited with baited breath for the rest of the crew to log on.



authors note:
let me know if you think I got too "explainy" there at the end.

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Dan, the Pink Vespa, and the Moon in the Shadow of Heracles, chapter 1

on the routine scientific exploration of a moon of a planet of a far off star, astronaut Dan makes a startling discovery. inspired by a dream that was inspired by falling asleep while watching the Science Channel.


jettisoned from the pea-pod, the landing unit coasts toward the atmosphere. Dan sleeps soundly. buffeted by thermals, the tiny capsule shakes and rocks. Dan snorts and shifts his head to the other side, continuing his slumber. the chute deploys, jerking the capsule to a sudden slow. Dan dreams of driving his car into a rubber wall. as the vessel lands on three gangly legs and rights itself by adjusting leg heights in accordance with the data supplied by the electronic levels (making sure to cross reference with physical levels for additional safety), Dan looks like a blissful baby save for his ratty beard.

the computer checks and double checks all life support and essential functions. satisfied that everything is fully functional the computer initiates the wakeup cycle. stimulants pump into the IV to neutralize the narcotics that had given Dan the sleep of angels. the landing cycle is not completely automated, as the crew aboard the Peapod control some functions and checks manually, but without the need for Dans interaction at this point there's no sense in him being awake should something go terribly wrong. but now he must awaken. "GOOD DAY, SUNSHINE..." blares over the com at the precise moment the stimulants take effect, and micro-moments prior to Dan sitting bolt upright as though someone had inserted a cattle prod into his ass. he checks, just to be sure, then rubs his eyes and peers out the window. the landscape is desert, but Dan knows that there are patches of water scattered across this foreign globe. of course it cannot support human life. too much radiation from the gas giant it orbits. this is purely a mission of scientific research.

the good folks of the Peapod wish him the best as they shoot off to the next moon of Heracles to implant another researcher. they will be back in a week to pick up Dan. fully suited, Dan stands up and performs all the necessary checks to ensure that the computers confidence is justified. then with nothing better to do he opens the hatch and steps outside. opening another hatch on the side of his craft he removes and assembles the Personal Surface Conveyance Vehicle, Mark II. the PSCV, or "space chopper" as the guys in mission control lovingly call it. in testing it was decided that a motorcycle would give the astronauts the greatest maneuverability and adaptability to various terrain while also being light enough to be hefted over terrain that it cannot pass on it's own power. owing to the bulk of the space suits, however, a motorcycle in the strictest sense was impractical, so the engineers accounted for this in the final design. consequently it was really more of a scooter. though oversized compared to earthly motor-scooters, an astronaut in full suit cuts a silhouette of a gorilla riding it. thus Dans preferred alternative acronym, "Pretty, Sweet and Cuddly Vespa".

he rides his pretty Vespa due east, following the photographic map piped into his visor as an overlay. the sky is purple-pink (making his Vespa pick up a hint of the pink hue on it's white shell) as Dan heads towards a line of orange hills that his data assures him is shrouding a blue-green lake. this was the choicest of all the seven visitable moons as the turquoise water strongly suggested primitive life. the cuddly Vespa made good time and he was over the hill before he knew it. straight ahead he saw the water. it's emerald hue when viewed on the horizon confirmed the prevailing wisdom that the turquoise color was the result of a shallow lake bed rather than a calcium rich composition. he guns his sweet Vespa for the shoreline.

parked at the shore, dan pulls a plastic bag from a compartment on the Vespas left side and secures it to the ground with a stake. the stake has a built in beacon so that an automated helicopter which landed minutes prior to his own capsule can easily find it and pick it up to be hauled to the Material Extraction Container, a pilotless rocket designed to haul samples to the Peapod, thus sparing the astronauts the added risk of cargo. clumsily Dan kneels down by the shore, and with a small skimmer scrapes up loose silt and stones from the brine. if there is algae in this water, the stones will have collected a great deal of it. he places the skimmer and it's contents into the bag. he sees no fish, but should there be microscopic organisms he plunges a jar into the water and affixes a lid. this also is placed into the bag.

he gives himself a moment to take in the beauty of his surroundings. the crest of Heracles peeks out just over the horizon to the northwest, like a suspended sickle. and to the south misty clouds of vapor drift aimlessly over the landscape. though broad daylight, he sees Apollo (named, out of tradition, not for the god, but for the NASA program, as this was designated the first moon of this system to be visited) to the southeast, and wonders what his colleague Julia might be finding there. he waves at it, and imagines perhaps that she might be waving back at him too. he makes a mental note to tell her about it when he gets back to his capsule tonight and takes time to chat over the small network with his brothers and sisters of the seven moons.

on the horizon directly below the visage of Apollo Dan spies a strange glint, as if the sun were reflecting off a piece of glass or metal. confirming on his map that that is not in fact where the MEC landed, he mounts his pretty pink Vespa and heads along the shore around the lake for it.

continued in chapter 2
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