Reaching

Johnnie Walker
The Glass is completely not full

Where did the way go

taking with it my fine steel?
I used to
I could
cut you a picture of a kiss
with my words
and a little dancing town
with my lines.

I knew who I wanted to be
and didn’t keep track of the bodies.
Now I just wrote that sentence
like what the fuck
blundering through this
catching on the line breaks
like they were discount clothes carousels.
Here comes an old man
he thinks I work here.
Who would let a bearded fucker
like me work here?
No español
he says everyone in hialeah knows it
and haha
how can he help me?

Dimelo, viejo
como llegaste aqui
con una sonrisa
con cachetes rojo.
Templaste en el fitting room?
Sucio.

Ah. Name tag.

Dimelo, Orestes
Cuentamelo, consorte
hasere
pipo
broder
o te tiro
con el cuello sangrando
en el monte
con los otros.

Ah, there you are
blue blade wet with whisky
and the right song playing at the right time.

That Blank Page Stare

tryin ta figger out what ta write
National Novel Writing Beard Month

I should’ve done a little bit more work on plotting. I really should’ve figured my ending out, which I never did and so there’s just all these disjointed scenes I have digital index cards for. I should be writing anywhere but here. But, NOW, of course, I want to go catch up on sketches. Or write poetry.

What I need is a year long reason to not write a novel so I can be creative elsewhere. But no, today I’m gonna get four pages down, even if they suck a big typewritery dick. I have no idea what that penis or typewriter would even look like.

One of those times bedtime changed

getting kicked and woken up
Blurry sleepy time

There’s a thing we do every time I put you to bed, (even when you’re not at my place and I have to say goodnight over Facetime) after I’ve done the Optimus Prime voice and the roaring car sound while hugging you, and I nuzzle your nose and rub my facial hair all over your cheeks to make them red, I say, “Sweet dreams of people” and you finish it with, “driving vehicles.”

But tonight you did not finish my sentence.

You rolled over inside your tent on the bed and cuddled against your Pocoyo, Shaun the Sheep, and Peelow and then the call was over.

Because Casey

I got home and I sat in the bathroom, my baggy pants around my ankles and when I was done, I was like, man, I really just want to put on some shorts. But you can’t just shuffle like the fucking Penguin to where the shorts are from the bathroom. You put the pants on. You do the belt a lil, maybe not all the way. Then you go and change into the shorts. But you don’t just leave the pants in the bathroom at the base of the toilet and shamble ass nekkid to the shorts drawer. There’s a WAY to do things, dammit. One foot in front of the other, motherfucker.

Thinking about that made me want to write for some reason. Probably because I’m good and crazy. And I haven’t written in forever. But I think it was mostly because of my uncle.

I was talking to him tonight and I swear it started with us talking about Camaros and Chevelles and Chevy Novas but it ended with him calling me a socialist and us arguing about the flag on top of the Dukes of Hazzard’s General Lee not being racist, except, you know, everyone thinks it is, so it is. Perception is reality and all that.

He’s always been on this philosophy kick about how humans have a reason for existing in the universe and that we don’t do what we want because we’re afraid. And I told him that I fear writing because I don’t want to write something stupid. But beyond that, what I didn’t say, is that I don’t know what value I could ever add to the ongoing conversation that humanity has with itself. And why would humanity even care? I mean, there’s ebola, people. EBOLA!

The answer to that, from people pushing the writing thing, is that at least you’ll always be the best writer there is that can write from your own head sapce. So if I see, oh, another sunrise, let me come up with a way to describe it that no one has used before because sunrises are pretty, you know? And sure, shitfuck tons of people have described them and that doesn’t make them any less prettier. I guess. But each way is somewhat unique. Maybe. But I don’t buy it. Not usually.

I read this article about the first space walk, the one the Russians did. Dude said he felt like a grain of sand out there, holding on to a cord of some kind, floating some feet away from his craft out in the big bad nothing while his suit was puffing up for some reason. “Grain of sand,” you’re so original dude, I thought at first. But you gotta give that guy his “grain of sand” description. That’s the truth. Give it to that 80 year old former cosmonaut who had to release oxygen from his suit through a valve because the suit was puffing up for some reason and he wasn’t going to be able to get back in his craft. Ain’t nobody Yeatsing it up when floating in space takes your breath from you. When the vast comes to kill you, you can have your “grain of sand,” bro. You earned it, like the eyepatch that comes with a lost eye.

I think, in that way, in the way that stories like that can immortalize you, it’s easy being a hero.

I’m no hero. Just a dude. Along the way, I’ve become a bunch of other things, too. A bad person. A father. It’s nice to have this gift, though. The weird ability to fill an empty page with words and it usually make some sort of fucking sense. And if I’m honest about it, there are times I will write in my head. I’ll get an idea and write a scene or a line in my head. The astronaut needed to leak some O2. I sometimes need to leak words. I’ve been doing this for an hour now and I don’t even feel it. Well, maybe in my neck, from craning down over the screen, but the whisky will make me forget.

I asked my uncle what he wanted to be growing up or what he’d do right now if money wasn’t an issue and he didn’t have to make sure he kept a roof over his head in case his kids ever need a place to go. Were the great big anvil of parental burden not placed over his coyote head by the road runner, what would he do? He said he’d try to find the truth about why we’re here. Who put us here? What is our purpose? What was HIS purpose?

I laughed because I don’t believe there is a truth. Maybe there’s an explanation to the system but it doesn’t mean we’re free of the system. We can’t all be Neo, if any of us can even do that. You gotta put your pants on and walk out of the bathroom because damn it, there is a smell and there are places in the house that smell better. And you want to put on shorts. If we could see beyond the barrier of this universe into the place beyond, we could never go there and survive. I’m certain.

I’ve found that the truth is more about what you do after you find out whatever the fuck it is than the thing itself. Like the act that crystallizes a man into the vision of a hero instead of a casualty. Grain of sand instead of dead in space.

My uncle influenced me in a way no one else in my life ever did. I don’t know if he did it on purpose. I think some of it was me. I’m just naturally a cynical “nah” sorta dude. Out of all the people in my family who were brainwashed by the religion, I was dense enough to resist the Jaysis waves. My uncle’s slight influence tweaked me just so, too. He let me watch Reservoir Dogs when I was way too young. Heavy Metal. Ghostbusters. National Lampoon’s Vacation. I’m pretty sure the first tit I ever saw was because of him. That’s no small thing. I mean, I think it was a pretty regular sized boob, but you know what I mean.

And he was right about me liking beer more than soda one day. Eventually. Though soda can kick a headache’s ass and beer just brings ‘em sometimes.

And classic rock. Classic rock is awesome. All music is, really. It all turns into classic rock at some point. Ask Nirvana. They were alternative at one point.

One time, my uncle told me he had this book about a dude who knows the truth about the way things in the world are put together physically and he can walk through walls and he can take a bullet out of a person. I asked him if it was magic stuff and he said, no, not really, it’s about the way the world works. I wanted to read this book and he said, I really shouldn’t because your aunt and your dad and all these people are gonna be mad because these things kinda go against the religious stuff you learn and I don’t want to get in trouble.

I already didn’t really believe in the faith based bullshit machine I had to sit through multiple times a week with drool sliding down my neck, but he wasn’t gonna give me the book so I just let it go. Many years later, while in Portland, Oregon, I found that fucking book in a used book store. I knew it was the book just from the description.

I was happy to feel like in this cold hard universe I’d found something magical or that it found me. It chose me, that little hunnert or so page novella about the dude with the plane that never wore down. And the other dude who learned from him. I felt a little vindicated at the time. Like my choice to ignore the churchy stuff was right and here was the proof. The thing my uncle tried to keep from me ended up being mine anyway, three thousand miles away. I left it all behind and won. I ran so far away.

I only now realize that whatever I was looking for in that book, it’s the same shit people look for in a bible. The truth is it was just a fun book and it made me try to move things with my mind just like every fucking comic book I’ve ever read. Now it’s just another book on the shelf.

This is a long one. I don’t know what got into me. And I’ve come back to it over and over because it kinda doesn’t make sense. But it does to me and I guess that’s ok because sometimes it’s just about getting it down. Maybe it will make more sense later.

Three Ghostes

3 Ghostes

Went for a walk this evening. Put Jack on my shoulders. It was nice. Sorta cool out. Cool for Miami, you know? Mosquitoes were sorta out sorta not. Sliver of a banana moon out. We out. We about. We no fighting tonight. We no shout.

I like the look of my shadow with my little man riding up high. He grabs on like a monkey, hugging against my head, running his fingers along the slow returning hair on my ears. Gotta shave that tomorrow morning. But he likes it right now.

His mother walks slow, looking at Halloween decorations in people’s yards. I need to go faster. Overweight as I am, I want to go on to the next house, the next corner, the next block. I walk ahead of her into the street to avoid some sprinklers. She falls behind a bit in the dark street. She’s on the other side of the street now for some reason, popping in and out of tree shadows.

I don’t know shit about Halloween, thanks Jehovah’s Witnesses. I only know that summer is dying and running is funner. I want to take off with my boy up there in the saddle of my shoulders. I want to be a stallion for him. I want him to bounce and hold on for his life and giggle, the pealing laughs bouncing off walls and trees, up into a sky with no rain finally summer’s going away.

I think about how fast 3 years old is going and how he lies sometimes now and can say please and thank you and you’re welcome. He bargains. He likes it when I drive over train tracks fast. He tells me he loves me too when I put him to sleep. He cries a little more than I like.

I think about my sore lower back and put the Kentucky Derby on slow mo. The other footsteps catch up behind me.

We reach our front yard and look at the inflated pacman pumpkin chasing 3 blinking ghosts: blue, green, red.

“It’s three ghostes, dada.”

First Day of School

first day of school

Today was your first day of school.

You knew off the bat we were not going to the babysitter. On the road, when we turned right instead of continuing South, you said, “This way! This way!”

We’d been telling you for a week that you were going to school. That you’d be playing with kids. That you’d be learning.

As with most things, you ignored us because you had better things to do. Lightning McQueen and Towmater and Mack truck and such. So important because now your life of nine to five has begun and this is the cage, welcome and sorry.

When we pulled up and put you on the sidewalk so you could walk on your own, you rooted your feet to the dirty concrete. I gotta be honest. I couldn’t look you in the eye.

Your mom and I each grabbed one of your hands and hopped you along the sidewalk, yanking you into the air and dropping you slowly back to the ground. I could tell you were not buying the hoppitty bullshit. You were tense, my boy. Like you were taking one of your bad shits. A seizure of suspicion. The blue wooden fence was  an unfamiliar sight early in the morning. The old lady who greeted us was not the dark smiling woman who smells of curry and lets dogs lick you every day.

You did not want to cross the concrete courtyard to where the kids were having breakfast. I picked you up and carried you. I saw a rocking chair and put you in it.

Because rocking chairs comfort me.

You sat there and looked around from beneath your furrowed brow and slightly lowered head.  You seemed to be checking the place out.

I told your mom we were leaving and she asked if we should say bye to you. I told her no.

I checked with one of the women who worked there, this was the right thing to do, right? Not make life difficult for everyone else by allowing our son to see our sadness and to share in it, to bring us to the point of saying fuck this, it’s pretty expensive anyway, we can wait another year or two or three or fuck preschool altogether, if we could figure out a way to win the Powerball, we would never have to educate you, you could avoid difficulty forever, you could grow up to be a super wealthy mongoloid asshole. But always happy.

She told me that yes, it was best if we just departed. So we did.

In the car, as we drove back home, I could see your mother’s head get lower and lower. Not bowed down, but a complete vertical drop, like ET is wont to do. An alien driving me around. Her shoulders twitched a little as we went and when we parked, she cried and her face was a green eyed question mark with ruddy cheeks. “We abandoned him.”

I said all the right things to comfort her.

I remember my first day of school: Kindergarten. 1982, I’m guessing. I never had any daycare or preschool or anything. Just always with my cousins. Four boys breaking things. Getting our ass beat a lot, though my aunts and uncles deny this shit the way escaped Nazis deny participating in war crimes. I remember being aware that this school thing was going to happen. And that WORK was being missed for this. For me.

I remember my father standing outside the low two door kindergarten building with his hands in his pocket. My god, he would’ve been 42.

I wrapped myself around his legs and apologized. I apologized for the universe, the big bang, for not reading the bible more, for talking back all the time, and for every horrible thing I would do after that day, just please don’t make me go to school. I did not look up at him. I buried my head in the stiff green of his pants legs and I could smell the dust of the polished metal that he fought every day and still does. My teacher pulled me away from him and into the classroom and he just stood there, his legs and the light of the sun and then the closing door.

Thirty years later, I saw my father’s face in my reflection in the bathroom mirror at work.

Jack’s First Wasp Sting

The wasps around here are territorial but they’ve never stung anyone. We have a silent agreement where I destroy their nests but generally leave the wasps themselves alone as long as they don’t come at me. I often walk right into a small group of them and they don’t do anything. I believe in not projecting fear when dealing with animals. Especially insects.

So, I didn’t think anything was wrong when Jack seemed a little scared of the wasp that was buzzing around him in his Little Tikes Cozy Coupe. Until he started to cry and said, “I sorry, I sorry.”

I pulled him out and eventually found a small sting on his toe. His little foot had swollen a tiny bit on top and on the toe.

From my chair, where I was sitting with Jack on my lap, I kicked the Cozy Coupe into the middle of the yard. Once Christie (who was visiting) and Christina took Jack inside to soothe him, I went and picked up the Cozy Coupe to see if there was a nest in it somewhere.

Once summer starts (in May for Miami, pretty much), I tend to step up my wasp nest prevention patrols. I look under the railings on the deck and porch. I check in and around all the hurricane shutter frames. I even look under the damn Cozy Coupe. But, I never thought we had wasps who were trained as smugglers, because this time I found a nest underneath the dashboard of the Cozy Coupe. I didn’t even know there was an “underneath” FOR the dashboard! But there it was, a half formed comb of sorts. I pulled it out, stomped on it and flung it into the air, where it blew back at me.

I went inside and got the wasp spray. I drowned the crushed nest and kicked it under the deck. Then, I waited for the wasp to come back, and when it did, I bathed it in a nice firm chemical stream.

The thing that pissed me off the most wasn’t even that Jack got stung. I mean, shit’s going to happen. It was those sad, teary, “I sorry”s. It was like he thought he did something wrong and we were punishing him. And that’s so unfair.

For the wasps, too.20120610-232546.jpg

Sentence Assignment

This is the last sentence of the Sentence Assignment set of writings. I know this because my friend has informed me that his schooling will be done next week. So this is the last bit of this sort of gibberish you’ll be running into for a good while. Yes, smile, Invisible Reader. We are at the close, as they say. And by they, I mean nobody. Or them.

So here it is. Four minutes to write about: “Be true to your teeth or they’ll be false to you.”

Braces. I remember the fucking braces. My mother wanted me to have them. Made some kind of deal with my dad to split the cost. I’m sure he had his doubts about what she would actually do with the money. I know I learned that lesson.

I guess I should be thankful for the braces. I’ve kissed a lot of girls with these awesome teeth. I have to admit, that aside from a lil curve at the end of it, I don’t get a million compliments on my penis. But my teeth? All the time. Chicks with, “You shouldn’t hide your smile.” They have no idea that I used to be Dracula at Halloween with no need to purchase fangs. At one point in middle school, I had my two milk teeth above my regular canines.

I remember when the dentist took out a bunch of perfectly good teeth. The Life Saver taste of the sprayed on anesthetic. The giant needle with the two hoops at the end of it for deft fingers. I remember the crick-crick-crick-crick while the dentist pried out teeth, back and forth, back and forth, with PLIERS, because my mouth was apparently too small for all my teeth. ME! A small mouth! Somewhere at my old place, there is a small plastic cylinder with the teeth in it. If you open it, you will probably smell something similar to an Egyptian mummy’s cheese collection.

I also had oral surgery for removal of my wisdom teeth. Cavemen teeth with no real use in the present. And I had FIVE of them (four is normal!). I’m a lil extra caveman classic when I roll with my sarcastic.

I remember the pain from the braces. I could feel my gums sweating saliva. I could feel my heart beating in that pink rumply tissue that held my chompers in place.

At one point, I swore to my mother and father that I’d put them in a home one day for the pain they had brought upon me.

My mom and I would go to Checker’s after my dental appointments, usually. I couldn’t eat anything but fries and a shake. And none of it ever hid the taste of newly tightened metal. The ghost of aluminum. I remember thinking what a terrible price I had to pay to get out of school early.

I hid the braces well all through middle school. Only a couple of people knew I had them. I think it was half learning to look hard and half knowing to hide things from the vultures known as children.

You dumb bastards didn’t know a thing about raising a boy. But thanks for the awesome teeth. Couldn’t have gotten laid without them.

Sentence Assignments

Late on my sentences as usual. You know the drill. One sentence. Four minutes. Always late. But often finished… This post’s sentence is: “I was trying so hard to be myself I was turning into somebody else.”

This will be the first straight up literal translation of this I’ll do. This sentence makes me think about me. About selfishness. About how when I want something, whether it’s shiny or I ascribe god knows whatever else to justify my desiring it, I become blind to logic and practicality and to other people’s needs and hearts and their right to breathe without having to endure my presence or blind path walking.

I mean, being selfish is an idealistic thing, you know? And I guess what I mean by that is that when I was young, I didn’t care about what people thought (and I still don’t, to a particular degree). Truth at all costs, and all that shit. Freedom of speech and fuck you.

And now that I have a kid, I’m better about that stuff. I understand people who don’t want others to cuss around their kids. Or to smoke. Or to have too much violence on tv.

I now understand about “almost” with kids. As in, that person almost let my kid bust his ass.

I get these big sucking ins of my breath sometimes when these almosts occur.

Last night, Jack was crying for someone to come get him. I went over there, with good intentions: to make him learn he has no power. So that we can sleep. Not because I’m an asshole. And he let out this great big crying Pleeeeeeaaaaase! And I couldn’t swat it aside with my logic and book readings. I picked him up and told him to stop crying. That it would be okay.

And he said, “Okaaaaaay,” and he put his little head on my shoulder.

Sometimes, I try so hard to be hard, that I forget I’ve become a dad.