A Monarch in the Prison Yard

Walking around the prison yard,
I spied along the twelve foot fence, a Monarch Butterfly.
Fluttering along in Grace and Beauty,
A metaphor for Deliciously Sweet Liberty,
The Monarch Butterfly.
So incongruous with the razor wire on atop the cruel metal barrier meant to stop,
No Monarch Butterfly.
The barrier is dead and solidly vile,
But Freedom is fragile, yet so very alive,
A Monarch Butterfly.

Red White and Blow

Revolution is all around us,
like spring air spinning
tornado like, kicking up
old uncomfortable dust that’s
tucked this land to sleep
and scratched the lens
we see another side through

For some of us older it’s
a Maoist moment, and younger
it’s the millennium a few days late
but for that handful whom
love to burn us all at the stake,
it’s the end of times all over again,
the coming apocalypse and hell’s
a-popping getting all uppity

Minds have opened but
so have the caves and
all the darkly things are creeping
out, past the centuries of
wrought iron rust that kept
a candled eye upon the musing

And now such as it may be,
tis hard for even this hard core
to call against the one percent
as they lead the ghastly rising,
those afraid of fading
because as it was written,
“we say we want a
revolution”, “and in a
way it’s here”

An Escape

a good place to find many customers,
a bidding war is made
between Avon᾿s products.
Prices range from five to twenty dollars
on lipstick, nail polish, perfumes, and shampoos.

Another bidding war is made
between my products
of various poisons:
$50 on nightshade berry spray—one whiff starts a high fever,
$25 on wild mushroom spray—one whiff develops high thirst and fatigue,
$15 on poison oak powder—direct contact to the skin causes irritation,
$65 on Christmas rose spray—one whiff to make someone vomit blood,
$30 on milky mangrove—one squirt on the eyes produces temporary blindness,
$70 on Daphne spray—to put someone into a coma,
$100 on Wolfsbane spray—one whiff to stop a heart,
$85 on Dieffenbachia spray—one whiff to block breathing,
$55 on Giant hogweed spray— direct contact to the skin leaves long lasting scars,
$95 on White baneberry spray—one whiff creates cardiac arrest,
$45 on Hyacinth spray—one whiff puts the body in a convulsion,
and $60 on Conium spray—one whiff paralyzes the body.

“I also put poison in darts,”
“Now who wants to get their revenge?”
“Who wants an escape from their social and job inequalities?”

If only these poisons can help me
with my escape from the cops.

Shot Out of a Cannon

Inside the barrel of a revolver,
still dark from the holster,
it᾿s too tight to bend my arms,
too dark to see
the small hole I᾿m pointed at.

My wielder insists I come out;
he needs to threaten someone
into giving up his wallet.
He stalks the crowd,
finding his first victim.

He pulls the gun from the holster,
light passes through the barrel,
and I᾿m pointed at a walking couple,
who moved from the crowd into an alley.
The husband though wouldn᾿t submit.

Fire ignites below
and I pierce the husband᾿s breast,
another pierces the woman᾿s breast.
I sink into his flesh and feel his blood loss.
Why couldn᾿t I feel the blood and not the wound?

Dinner Reservations

Are you aware you are now
Only a dull object to divert my anger?
A fluent vessel for all my miniature hatreds
Because obviously
There must be some love left
Maybe more, maybe less
To fill this vacuous pyre
Posing as a person
Who shuffles sore feet
To someday straighten up
To stretch both crooked legs
Like a formal dining table
To comfortably seat our guests
As they wait to be served
The hors d’oeuvres
Of all of my
Upturned & burnt
Obsession.

I now can change every you to I & I to you

I now can change every you to I & I to you
& what’s eating me is stuck on the end of your fork
& I won’t let the past drop onto my plate
Even if four of my five fingers
Point back at who is truly to blame
& while I dribble & chew
I won’t ask for forgiveness for what
I can’t correctly direct but I’ll take
A photograph of the reasons why I
Should wear a bib while
Passing judgments & chewing
Myself out for not changing into
The magnificent costume you laid out on the bed
Where I couldn’t get it up & often refused sex &
Ignorantly took all your impressionist prints
Off the walls I rented to support us
When all we had was
A sleeping bag, two cats & food stamps
& an extended adopted family because your
Biological clan was a whisper of
Untimely death & religious tongue twisters
& it was a Revelation when
I learned you laid Genesis
& I wonder if it was before or after
The electricity was turned off that I came to believe
I did everything I could to hang on to our dreams
But I just anesthetized myself straight up with tonic & torment
& even though you walked away
Right when I thought I could find a path back
To normality-                    It just wouldn’t be-
& while you worked retail
& stole & sold clothes to travel across Europe
I was comatose in a snow bank
With a specter of a kiss & a wrecked watch slapped across my wrist
While you found another man to put a
A shinier ring on your finger
But I knew that you would always remember
How I solely provided appalling nights of gin & terror
& all the pathetic alibis for my misanthropic mind
& now all I can do is write down
My countless mistakes I ultimately know
My pencils can never erase.

Old Farts Who Die In Office
(Our Judicial Branch)

One gets the impression they
Interpret ’n reinterpret ’n
Play around with the parchment
Like they’re Christopher Walken
Impossible-ing to the music of
Fat Boy Big Boy Po’ Boy Hoagie
Slimfast Beer Gut Anorexia Ner-rap-sa
Diverticulitis,
Ancient shits bopping ala barn swallows
Vampire, around the room,
“It-a means-a this-a, and it-a means-a that-a...”
Submoronic as it seems,
The extremes are too extreme, the
“throw out all restrictions and
P.S. Be Nice To Someone Today”
Just doesn’t work, Ayn
(watch Demolition Man, it’s true)
The “‘NO’ To Everything”, no one’s buying,
Or, we’d still have an 18th Amendment
So, it’s Gray Blob City, and the
Vampires flit, wrinkled, about
“NAIR-nuhnuhnuhnuh, nuhNAIRnuhnuhnuh---!!”
Three card monte for your freedom
I mean, it’s either That, or
Wesley Snipes kills you or Hitler kills you
Capitalism, you at least get to exist
Find The Lady

Think About It...How Do We Really Know?

Of course, we only have paintings of Shakespeare
To go by
Maybe him and his bacon, didn’t exist
Maybe nothing did
Maybe it’s Fractured Fairy Tales of another kind
Maybe the Daguerreotype is Genesis, Chapter One
And that scary, dark thing of old Andy Jackson
Is Adam
After the Fall

Crispy Christians
(aka Fundamentalists)

Deep batter fried in religion
but still half baked.

I Had So Much Faith

I had so much faith
In the politicians that
I voted into office.
I followed them
Listened to all they said
Believed in them.
I truly thought with
All my heart that they
Were the long awaited
Change needed.
Now that they’re in office
And everything remains the same
Do they get the same
Unconditional faith as God
When He doesn’t answer?

Finger On The Trigger

is it time to stop squeezing the trigger/
just a slight little pressure of the index finger/
such an easy impulse to just pull/
it is not just a few people that are involved/
collectively, we are all pulling the trigger/
as long as society condones the actions and says
that it’s okay to squeeze then nothing will change /
we all have powder burns on our fingers/
we will act appalled when someone is gunned down/
the typical conversation is initiated to create the politically
correct scenario to satiate the bothered masses/
we all pretend that this time things will change/
but the trigger has just been around too long/
men worship the trigger and adore its power/
the result of a small projectile piercing the tissue/
it almost seems magic when we think of it/
it is so damn easy to do/
the only obstacle in its way is our conscience /
but we have all learned how to quiet down that rambunctious child/

Summer Short Poetry

your sail gleams
a silver cloud
beyond the seawall—
Aristotle’s universe
is still

Wounded Fruit

This fruit cries, mourning lost comfort;
severed from her vines. Bitter about life,
as fallen seedlings sprout into tainted potential.
The roots whistle, their harmonic rhymes souring the soil.
Hidden bones moan, awaken from temporary graves.
Roses die by the blade, hearts rot as un-wed slaves;
chained by a lovers heated gaze. Dry near a running eye,
caught in the moonlight trying to survive. We fly as the pedals
fall from the sky, broken from the impact of one life spilling into the after.

Are You Receiving Me?

Duane

Whose house is this? he asks.
Whose clocks, whose tables, whose chairs?
His feet sink deep into carpet
where he was sure there’d be hardwood floor.
And strangers are everywhere.
They’ve even their own odd yapping dogs.

Why are you holding my hand,
he inquires of the one with the grayest hair.
And who ordered these ceramics
for the mantel over the fire-place?
Not that I ever had a fireplace.

He scratches his bare head,
wondering why everyone lies about
the time, the year, the place,
even the name of the president.

They show him photo albums...
mmm....hieroglyphics.
A child points and says, this is you.
No, he protests, I would not have
stood for that..
And then a woman hums a melody
that poses as his favorite song.
But he won’t have a bar of it.

Every day, they shunt him
out to the veranda
so he can sit in something
they call the sun.
Well of course he knows
that great yellow blazing orb
in the sky.
Didn’t a balloon slip once
through a child’s awkward fingers?

Dis-Content

In this city
I live a cramped existence.
My life present only in books and papers,
endless piles muddled on the floor,
a slippery patchwork rug
thick under my heels.

I know it is not home
because the light does not come
into my window, for more than
one glorious moment.
Back from my first trip
to the bathroom, it is dark again.

My life is in reverse.
During vacations I go home,
for a few days or weeks
I am myself again, I walk sharply
down the street, certain
of where I am going.

Somehow, even my clothes
fit better, the sexy leather vest
rests just enough weight on my
shoulders, the snowflake pajamas
leave just enough room for my
skin to breathe.
My body loose inside
whatever I am wearing.

And in this place
that is supposed to be home
I always feel like I am waiting.
Latent hope or fear rigid under my skin.
I go to timed meeting and classes.
Conversations with limits.

At the end of the day there is no one
anticipating my arrival, not even
a meowing cat. At dinner the television
is my companion, and later I will force
my girlfriend to stay awake a little longer
holding the phone like an anchor.

Not Getting Better

Tired of lighting
            candles.
Think I will
        sit in the dark for a while
            cursing.

At Arby’s

Sheila’s uniform fits badly.
When she sweeps
The broom-handle bangs against
Iron table legs.
Next she churns mop in bucket,
Half-heartedly pressing on the wringer’s handle,
Squeezing gray water into gray water.
The strings slink along the floor,
Dragging bits of bread scattered
Like the sesame seeds that covered their tops.

She wants to talk.
She always wants to talk.
As she sweeps carelessly
Under another cantilevered table,
Her job coach finds her, hands her a rag,
Tells her to wipe the gray Formica tabletops.
“My mom wants me to move to a group home.
I think I will, too. I have a boyfriend there.”
What’s his name, Sheila?” I ask.
“We like to kiss.”
I forgot this is not a conversation.
“Would you like a refill?”
“No, thanks,” I say.
She likes getting refills better than sweeping.

I wonder, does Sheila know
Thousands of people die every day
In wars, from starvation?
Do the headlines haunt her?
Does she feel the helplessness of realizing
How few of us are like Mother Teresa,
Or Ghandi, or Reverend King?
Compassion fatigue:
Too much to feel for.
Starving strays on the rural route,
Fleeing from offered help,
Mrs. Ross, bent over in the rain
Coughing, thin sweater over thin body,
Hoping for the check
That will pay for heat again.
The three-year-old that lies in ICU
Burned by her mother’s boyfriend
Because she cried too much.

Sheila has tired of sweeping.
She is at my table again.
“Do you want a sack for your sandwich?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
As I get up to leave,
She must notice the sadness on my face.
Laying a hand on my shoulder,
She pats me, a little too hard.
“Don’t worry. It will be alright.”

She knows.
Enough.

I am Alone

I am alone
as the loud mall music distracts my ears
I am alone
as I make my way through the food court
I am alone
walking past the bored kiosk operator
I am alone
past the group of teenage girls talking loudly while they take turns twirling their hair
I am alone
past the older couple holding hands as they sit on an indoor bench
I am alone
past the fat man getting a massage
I am alone
as the stores blur and I make my way back to the car
I am alone
as I enter my home
I am alone
as I walk the dog
I am alone
as I step over toys left by my toddler
I am alone
as I spread peanut butter on bread for my nine year old
I am alone
as I talk sports with my teenager
I am alone
as my wife walks by, too distracted to look me in the eye
but focused enough to tell me what I did wrong
I am alone
in the den, in front of the television, my wife and I alone at last
I am alone
as my wife’s tiredness relaxes her body and her eyes close in bed
I am alone
alone with my thoughts
I am alone
tossing and turning
I am alone

I Can’t Wait to Get to Work

I can’t wait to get to work
so I can put to use all of that after-hours stress anticipating the next work day

I can’t wait to get to work
so I can sit in a chair under fluorescent lights for eight hours

I can’t wait to get to work
so I can sublimate my true desires and spend another day on God’s earth
doing something I genuinely have no interest in doing

I can’t wait to get to work
to see people I don’t really care for more than I see my kids

I can’t wait to get to work
so at lunchtime I can check the internet and lose myself in the exploits
of real achievers who have earned the public spotlight

I can’t wait to get to work
to play the mental rationalization game with adult phrases like
    1.    Life is a trade-off
    2.    You do what you have to do
    3.    No one said it would be easy
    4.    Everyone is in the same boat
    5.    You have to appreciate what you have

I can’t wait to get to work
so I am one day closer to earning enough money to retire

Everything Human is Ruined

The path I follow between the road and the fences
is overgrown with weeds and litter.
I walk through trash, breathing in the smell of wild lilies,
wade through chest-high stalks of joe-pye weed,
pushing the stems aside. I stop and stare
at the brown eye of a grasshopper
clinging to the stem of a giant thistle.
The rough boards of the fences age immediately
to a weathered gray, and white paper
bags and cups, blown by wind, pile up at the bases.
Everything human is ruined.

Even the weeds are faded, sprouts of yellowed grasses
pushing up between asphalt, sidewalk cracks.
Poison ivy, Virginia creeper, trumpet vine
crawling over fences, tearing them down with their weight.
From green vines, bees roar,
crawling over orange and pink blossoms.
I step carefully around red ant mounds high as my knee,
dodge spiders large as my hand
hanging from webs one thousand times stronger than steel.

The human world is nothing
but hissing tires from road,
two second snatch of music,
catch of paper bag in weeds.
I walk on, following the old power lines,
the old leaning poles coated with creosote
leaning away from civilization,
leading away from the ruins.

Watch Out For Sparklers

A good rule of thumb for me
has always been to never trust a man
wearing a bow tie. He’s probably trying
to sell you something. Or sporting a beard
that requires meticulous attention to detail.
Watch out for sparkling eyes.

I’m thinking of E. Gordon Gee,
Mehmet Oz, Geraldo Rivera, David Letterman.
A cousin by marriage
spent twenty six thousand dollars
on dental work last month.
You ought to see him smile,
aiming it at anyone within striking distance,
desperate to get his money’s worth.

A Piece of Him

People who lose a leg to a battle
or disease often describe the feeling
of having a phantom appendage,
experiencing the sensation
of still feeling the absent limb.

When I lost you, I lost a piece
of myself. I haven’t felt whole
since that day. It’s not that I can’t
go on; I can. It’s not that I can’t
think straight; I can. It’s not that
I can’t focus; I can. It’s that the
future is now incomplete. It’s
that with your radical vanishing,
the dignity of infinity is diminished.

“A Piece of Him” was first published in A-Minor.
It appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).

Before the Door

You just can’t believe your key
won’t open the front door anymore.
Determined to prove reality wrong,
you board a flight to Budapest
and walk wet streets in search of
a keyhole you’re convinced exists.
And when you find it on the side door
of the Nicolae Bakery, your wry heart,
rapt with vindication, laughs heartily.
The key works! It really works!
But you don’t enter. You don’t dare.
Time passes. The seasons alter.
The world gives birth to triplets.
People drop hot pennies into your hat.

“A Piece of Him” was first published in Atticus Review.
It appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).

Trees

1.

The sylvan
limbs
of the whispering
willow
bend
against the wind,
scratching at my window,
wide closed
to the approaching
storm.

 
2.

Beneath
the silver maple,
the tin pitcher
rests
weathering in the shade.

Ignore The Media Circus,
Here’s The Real Story About
The Death of Osama Bin Laden

Just finished with another night of Poetry
and I was in the mood for something to drink
so I happened upon the 7-Eleven and walked inside.

My first thought was to go to the fountain section,
but I saw a couple of ladies walking to the counter
each with a Jolt Blue Bolt Raspberry can. I smiled,
knowing what I wanted, so I walked to the cooler
and opened the door to reach for a can.

“Women, why do you advertise your shame?”
I heard the man at the counter ask, then suddenly
came the crash of busted glass and shouts of
“Get down on the floor. Get down on the floor.”
I dropped, letting the can slide away,
then felt the gun barrels on my head and back
and a shot rang out, followed by the words
“Got the bastard in the left eye.”

I don’t remember much after that,
and from what I remember I know
I’m glad that I forgot most of it.
Questions shouted at me point-blank
and sitting in a chilly room without clothes
are not memories one wishes to hold onto.
Eventually I was let go with a warning
that I’d better not do anything “funny.”
Needless to say, I drove straight home
and drank water from the sink that night.

You, of course, know what the rest of the story
is supposed to be: Found in a Pakistan military town,
killed there and dumped into the sea.
Well, I can tell you that story is false,
just...don’t give me any Jolt Blue Bolt Raspberry pop...

Jumping from
the Skyline
to the Clouds

Joining commuters
driving
toward the Chicago Loop,

I watched
majestic skyscrapers
frame the skyline,

as I witnessed
over Lake Michigan
early morning clouds —

thin at the top
each cloud looked like
a snow-capped mountain,

framing this flat-land city,
surrounding the skyscraper skyline
with that sun-kissed stratosphere.

The clouds almost looked
like shadowed drawings,
touched by the hand of God.

Eyes are Blurred
to the Battlefield

On the Indonesian island Jawa
large turtle skeletons
litter the plains,

because after they come in
from the ocean
to lay their eggs,

swarms of wild dogs there
all got together
and pounced.

Those wild dogs flip the turtles over,
and strip them all
from their shells

before they eat them alive.

So if you go to the plains on Jawa,
you’ll see what looks like
skeletal remains —

and if your eyes are blurred,
you’ll swear you’re seeing
a battlefield.

Because we cannot forget
that life is a constant
avoidance of death:

because many of those wild dogs
who killed the turtles
are prey to the tiger,

who later pounses up on them.
This is the cycle of life,
because every birth

is a prelude to death.
Remember this.
Don’t forget.

When people are young, they’re sure
they’re invincible, only because
the beat the odds.

But everyone gambles, we call it life,
but you have to remember,
the house always wins.

Everybody thinks they’re ahead,
and they forget to
cut their losses —

because most of the time, even if
someone’s lived a long life,
are they still happy?

Really?

Just Cave In

I hear
there is so much
oil underground

that
what we humans
have used

is just a
drop
in the bucket.

and we could get
all of that oil
if we wanted to,

but
if we did,
then the earth

would be hollow
and it would just
cave in.

knew what he
was talking about

I heard a guy say
that all the oil
that exists under the earth
came from
all the plants
and animals
that were once here

because the earth
sucked them in

and they decayed
to form that oil

and after he said
this, I thought,
“the earth sucked them in?”

but then again,
I just saw on television
a bunch of trees
that instantly sunk
into a sink hole

so maybe this guy
knew what he was talking about

Under
Constant
Supervision

I kept them trapped
for so many years

I’d go to church,
no one suspected

when they got out
they persecuted me

and now I sit here,
square room, metal bars

I suppose now I’m
the one that’s trapped

the single light above
glares down at me

if I get as far as I can
from that one white light,

my long shadow
stretches toward infinity

that shadow of my life
seems so long

but I can still see
the end, as clear as today

#

I won’t complain to them
they’ll never know

what it’s like to be
persecuted like this

they keep me in
protective custody

they check on me
every thirty minutes

but I’m not on
suicide watch

if I was, I’d be
under constant supervision

I know they won’t
give me a rope

I’ll have to be careful
so they won’t see

that a bed sheet’ll do
even if they only give me

thirty minutes

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
    Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, and the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# cc& hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me and Under the Sea (photo book). Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

Rewriter

    The rewriter position is one of the more influential assignments in the New United States Department of Education. One of its priorities of the government is the restructuring of the educational systems both public and private. Clarity of the history of the American founders, builders and others is essential so that all citizens regardless of intellectual capacity can comprehend. The History Simplification Committee system will reach all segments of the population for generations. Therefore rewriters are chosen from the elite of the educator population. Each rewriter will be a team leader with a team between two and four. The leader will make final decisions and take all responsibility for the proposed rewrite. The categories are many and should be chosen carefully to match the abilities, likes and dislikes, of the team. Make no mistake; the educating of the young on American history is paramount.

    Nelson Pong stared at that plaque. Rewrite history to make it simple, clearer and more meaningful. Why? From what he studied of American history, it seemed fine. His superiors in Beijing didn’t appreciate him asking, but answered anyway. “If the Americans want to alter their history to manipulate, uplift and demean future generations, so what. Repayment of our money is our only concern.” He accepted that explanation and kept his mouth shut. The Elitist Americans changed or ignored basic freedoms in the New World Order of the mid-twenty first century. Invest in America, they said, join in our political process, and that’s what the rest of the world did. Fear, greed and contempt for others that looked different from the status-quo helped dull the American’s competitive educational edge.
    But, that’s their business, remember that Pong.
    The History Simplification Committee welcomed him, but the opposition to rewriting hated him.
    Pong kicked up his heals and waited to read the proposals of two team leaders he knew nothing about. However, he heard rumors one was favored by cliques; the other a retired person. A young retired guy by their standards, but both had high rejection to acceptance ratios and in their fifties. That group resented Pong’s thirtyish members and didn’t mind showing it.

    Dr. Javier Sims, former English Literature Professor walked on a narrow cobblestone path through the giant leaves of tropical plants. He loved the enclosed botanical garden that circled the Federal Plaza Complex.
    The leaves of giant tropical plants fluttered when they whizzed past the serene foliage on the cobble stone path. At the end his favorite seat should be empty awaiting him to take a breather. Good, it was unoccupied. He sat and retracted his cane. The humidity and heat felt good. The chatter of multi-colored birds jumping and flying from branch to branch seemed chaotic, but he loved the confusion. He leaned back, closed his eyes and waited for the marathon runners to fill the main path. He’d forgotten about the annual event for breast cancer research. How could he do that, it was on the anniversary of his father’s death? Old age, Javier.
    He smiled when he recalled the family joke. “Do your friends still think you’re from India or Pakistan, Javier?”
    “No dad, my newer friends think I’m Brazilian.” They laughed until it hurt. Javier’s mom was Ethiopian and Arab, his dad, African-American and Seminole. Both sides of the family had thick, straight black hair, flawless complexions, high cheek bones and keen features. “We’re black people,” they said. “No, you aren’t, but that’s alright we still like you.” The Sims accepted the good and bad of that dilemma. Decades pasted since his father’s death, but he remembered after all his years of work when they privatized Social Security, he lost half his contribution to that system. It broke his heart and as far as Javier was concerned, it helped kill him. But, at 17 Javier got accepted to an Ivy League school and told his dad on his death bed. He beamed with pride and closed his eyes forever. That made 2025 the year he’d never forget. His mom died soon thereafter. The politicians lied why the people lost almost everything and that unleashed the subversives. Javier admired them, but joining went against his plans. They won’t take his pension.
    You will not screw me!
    And, at 55, he retired, unheard of, except for the rich and well connected. The new system virtually outlawed that, but Javier did it. He took good care of himself, no medical problems. That really pissed them off. Investigation’s found him clean; no threat, no subversive tendencies. He could hear them now. OK smart guy, we’ll let you retire in peace if you help us with a project a writer like you might find interesting.
    Interesting wasn’t the word, ludicrous was more like it.
    They drafted Dr. Javier Sims to the History Simplification System Committee or Rewrite.
    Javier’s eyelids parted when he heard the rubble of the approaching runner. He blinked and a herd of athletes rounded the corner. He remembered those days; cutting through the humidity, being sprinkled by the scattered rays of sunshine that penetrated the skylights. The exhilaration of reaching the finish line; gone forever. A tall pale female with sunglasses, a long blonde ponytail stopped and flopped down next to him. The wrinkles on her neck and around her lipless mouth told him she was in his age group. A gap in her off white teeth suggested to Javier anything she said other then hello might be a lie. A silly rumor he’d heard since childhood.
    “Your nemesis, Dr. Donald Pearson is at the end of the pack, Javier,” she said. He could feel the intensity in her eyes through the opaque spectacles.
    “What...who are you?”
    “A friend, you can sit there and look at me like I’m crazy or you can get out of here. Your friend’s got a data-eraser and he plans on using it. You don’t want it to hit your data-belt. Now move will you!” The strange woman jumped up and Javier followed. They jogged at a brisk pace. He looked awkward in khakis, polo shirt with a cane, which was more psychological support because of a trick hip, and a small case. What are you doing? They’d run a few hundred feet when he grabbed her arm and stopped her.
    “Data-erasers will get you twenty to life if you get caught with one.” In Asia they executed the people who developed that technology. That beam of light did more damage than any software or EMP could. Computers worldwide were hardened against them. Their signal was unique and law enforcement scanned for them continuously.
    “Keep going Dr. Sims, this isn’t a joke.” She snatched away and resumed running. Javier caught up gasping for breath. She slowed, grabbed his arm and pulled him into a narrow service corridor. They ducked behind a row of smelly dumpsters. “You think like us about the system and don’t ask me how I know, just protect yourself.”
    “I’m not falling for the trap; I’m not an Anonymous sympathizer.”
    A pack of runner stormed pass. “Good bye, Dr. Sims.” The woman ran and blended into the crowd.
    He stepped to the edge, peeked down the street and ducked back.
    Pearson...she was right!
    But that didn’t mean he had a data-eraser.
    He peeked again; Pearson stopped and adjusted something that appeared to be a box. He’s crazy, but determined to sabotage Javier’s proposal. How did he get one? Both of them were in trouble with the Simplification Committee. They’d rejected their work for months.
    Javier ran across the street. He walked past a closed souvenir shop and dropped to adjust his shoe laces. Another cluster of runners should block Pearson’s view. Pearson stood between some people with his hands in his pockets. A hundred feet further another path lead to the other segment of the botanical garden.
    Don’t let him get a shot at you, Javier.
    The thick trees and plants were perfect cover. He called his wife. “Samantha, guess what just happened.” Pearson stopped and stared.
    “What...are you alright? I meant to call you about something...”
    “I’ll call back,” he whispered. Javier started to lay flat in the undergrowth; that thought made him mad. To hell with that fool, grab him and kick his ass. He strained to hear him on the cobble stone. He heard nothing; the best way to deal with this, head on. If he’s there, charge him, snatch the DE or make him drop it.
    One, two, three!
    Javier stepped out and took a giant step to run and stopped. Where did he go? He scanned the trees and ducked back. Now what? You cannot stay here. Run out into the street and blend in with the marathoners. He did it, got tripped up and fell. Several people stopped and helped him to his feet. An embarrassed Javier thanked them while he brushed off his torn khaki’s. He made sure he wasn’t too exposed while he insisted the concerned young folks continued to run. He moved along a store front window.
    Where did Pearson go?
    Javier sighed; he didn’t have to take this crap from his competitor or the committee. They sat in judgment and none of them were writers. A bunch of foreigners who invested in the future of America, when in reality they were hell bent on screwing it up. But, simplification of history to a dumbed down educational system made sense to the politicians. They’d never know the difference nor would they care.
    Pearson’s desperation showed. Both of them had the same problem: today was the deadline, miss it and you forfeit.
    Why would a stranger warn him about Pearson? And, if she cared so much why not turn him in? It might be a trick. Either way, Javier had a simple plan.

    Donald Pearson blended into the shadows of several large trees. Where’s Javier? He couldn’t be far and if he managed to get away he’d still catch him. Standing under trees always got him christened. He hated birds; that’s all they did besides make noise. He wiped his forehead, sunlight beamed through the skylight and it felt like he was under a magnifying glass. He pulled the DE out of his pocket and switched it to tracker. If he didn’t see Javier he’d still find him. He saw a blip and then a glob of bird crap hit the screen. He wiped the device on his pants leg without thinking. That was stupid. He pulled down the brim of his cap, dashed away from the trees across a path to a water fountain and rinsed it. It smeared worse. What do they feed those things? Forget it. He ran to the main street and headed for the central food court.
    Pearson sat at a table that overlooked the area Javier would have to past through. Vendors and shop owners scurried around polishing tables, igniting grills and preparing fresh fruit and veggies. In an hour or so the place will be a madhouse with runners and shoppers converge on the area. Their lives seemed simple compared to his, at least for the time being, but if his team’s rewrite was approved life will be good. The university backed him in whatever he pursued; his devotion to students with limited financial resources made him the person to see for grants and scholarships.
    He guarded the less fortunate students; he used to be one. Javier could care less. At fifty he had years before retirement; he needed this. His promotion would leave Javier in disgrace. He’ll be back with the other ‘inferiors.’ He recalled his first impression of him; not so smart. He should stay retired, why try to join the elite? Pearson resented the accusations he envied Dr. Sims.
    Envy my ass! Envy, the emotion of fools with inferior IQs.
    Well Dr. Sims, my proposal will be accepted and he couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.
    Yeah Javier, you’re handsome, but his personality made up for his short stature, bad skin and slight obesity. All the Greek letter organizations respected him. A few committee members favored those American academic organizations. Rumor had it his group’s rewrite would be accepted. But, he needed some insurance; he reached in his pocket to get it for a final check and waited for his nemesis.

    Javier rounded a corner and startled a squirrel at a water fountain. He sat at a nearby rusted table and waited for an elderly custodian to remove a ‘closed for cleaning’ sign from the entrance to the restrooms. He walked down the disinfectant smelling hallway to the men’s room. He held his breath while he relieved himself. He peeked out; the old timer rung out his mop by a cracked door with an authorized personnel only sign on it. Curiosity got the best of him. He pushed it open. “Does that led to the other side of the garden?” The old guy nodded. “Here’s fifty bucks, you didn’t see me.” He snatched the money, smiled and turned his back. Javier stood on a metal mesh landing and descended down the stairs. His hand slipped on the damp railing. The humidity was terrible. Down the hall huge metal canisters huge from the sub-floor joist and ran the length of the hall. The paint on the dingy gray walls buckled from the condensation. Large cobwebs drooped from the pipes and antiquated light fixtures. The hall narrowed and turned right, ahead an exit sign flickered. He climbed the stairs and opened a door to a hall and more restrooms on the opposite side of the botanical garden.
    Good, he avoided Pearson. He figured he’d be at the food court.
    He rode the escalator to the fifth floor and caught the maglev. Ten minutes later he stepped off the train at his apartment complex. He hurried to the scanner and didn’t acknowledge the android doorman. “Good morning, Doctor Sims,” the machine said, softly.
    “Go to hell, robot.” Today the thing looked like a man and sounded like a woman; tomorrow no telling. Disgusting. He told management a thousand times, but nobody listened.
    Javier unbuckled his data belt, threw it on the bed and knocked on the shower door. “Samantha, I’m back... Samantha.”
    The door flew open, his wife of thirty years massaged shampoo in her scalp and short blonde streaked hair. He loved her bronze tan and sculptured features. “Yeah...what are you doing here?” She frowned. “You smell like a crawl space.”
    “You won’t believe what happened.” Javier peeled off his clothes. “Move over I got to get this smell off me.” He gave her a peck on the lips. They rinsed and dried each other. “A lady I never saw before told me Pearson was after me with a Data-Eraser.”
    “What?”
    He nodded, “That’s right; at first I didn’t believe her until I saw him with something in his hand. It’s a long story I’ll finish later.’ He fumbled with a change of clothes. “I think I got away before he could zap my computer. Damn, I forgot to check.” He hit a button on the belt and info projected on a wall mounted 3D. “It’s still there...Remember hard copy?” She nodded. “Since what might be a guardian angel that tipped me off, that reminded me of the last big meeting with the committee. I e-mailed my proposal and, of course, it got lost or didn’t come through. Now I bring it with me and that’s what Pearson figured, zap my hard drive’ but that sneaky bastard missed.” Javier went in his office and connected an old desk top system. “The solution to a data-eraser is simple; a hard copy.” He slipped his hand under Samantha’s towel and pinched her bottom. “I love the smell of lilacs.”
    “Stop, don’t get distracted.” She tapped the top of his head.
    “This system isn’t connected to the internet and the copier isn’t wireless. I put the good stuff in here first.” He hit a key and it printed.
    “Will they accept it? They have all but eliminated paper documentation.”
    He leaned back and exhaled, “The submission protocols didn’t mention hard copy one way or the other. And, if they want it digital I’ll get it, but Pearson won’t be able to use a DE.”
    “Man he’s desperate, why risk jail time?”
    “Pure ambition...he wants me out. It’s an obsession. He loves it.”
    Samantha shook her head. “I’ve met a lot of people who hate that simplification crap. You’d be surprised.”
    “I would?”
    “Yes, you would.’ She didn’t blink. “I know how important this is for you...us, so you better get back.”
    “I’m good; you know...I still wonder why that lady would help me. What do you think?”
    Samantha shrugged, but that didn’t convince Javier she didn’t have a theory. He kissed her and gathered the papers. “Wish me luck.”
    “Good luck.”
    “Thanks.” He grabbed an apple off the fruit bowl and left.

    Javier checked the time; 11:15. He looked up at twenty floors of the plaza atrium illuminated by the skylights. Wind chime like sculptures dangled from cables, rotated and displayed colorful patterns along the walls. The array of transparent escalators snaked up the mezzanine eating area. He walked the perimeter before getting on the escalator. Several elevators descended in glass tubes and unloaded their passengers. Lunchtime; the aroma of all types of cuisine filled the air. He had time to get a burger and head for the meeting. He stepped into the crowd and headed for the vendor. He happened to look up.
    Donald Pearson sat at a table by the middle escalator. He sized up a couple of young women and followed their movements. Javier moved back in the shadows. Pearson didn’t know he was on to him. Despite his nervousness, Javier had to act normal; smile, speak and be his usual nice-nasty self toward Pearson.
    He hated the man; he hated the fact a bourgeois buffoon thought he was stupid.
    He bought his food. Pearson had to see him. He held his order so his data-belt could be seen.
    There’s your target butthole. Go for it.
    He rode the escalator to the mezzanine, looked and acted surprised to see his enemy. The oval shaped bastard smirked. His nose, eyes, ears and lips looked pinned on his pimplely face.
    Pearson fumbled with his device, acted frustrated and pointed it at Javier. He smiled as if embarrassed, “Javier, small world.” He slipped the DE in his pocket. “Damn battery charger is acting up...Didn’t I see you earlier?”
    “Maybe, I bumped into a runner and took a bad spill. I went home and changed clothes. Can I sit here or are you expecting someone?”
    “No, have a seat.” Pearson moved his things to the side.
    Javier ate in silence and avoided eye contact with Pearson. He felt Pearson’s confidence he’d sabotaged Javier’s proposal. He tried to shake the fantasy of ringing his neck and balled up his garbage. “See you at the meeting.”
    “We should walk in together.”
    “Not necessary...I have a stop to make.” Javier said.
    Pearson sighed. “We need to arrive together.”
    “We married now, Donald? As long as we...I get there by the close of business, I’m fine.” Javier stared then cracked a phony smile.
    “I don’t like you, Dr. Sims.”
    “No shit, Dr. Pearson.”
    “Only one of us will be left standing, when you’re rejected you will not be missed.”
    Javier slammed his chair against the table without taking his eyes off Pearson and left.

    “Rejection, rejection, several of them over the past several months, that’s why you’re being interviewed. Rewrite team leaders with an acceptance-to-rejection ratio like yours warrant a discussion.” Mr. Pong said.
    “Discussion?” Javier asked. “I thought we’re here to submit our proposals.” He rubbed the bulging veins on his forehead. It was bad enough he sat in a dingy room with mirrored walls next to his enemy. But, he didn’t get the respect a senior rewriter deserved.
    “That’s right; we want to make sure you gentlemen know what’s at stake.”
    “We know...we know, somebody will be out of a job,” They said.
    “Who are we talking too?” Pearson asked.
    “Mr. Pong, Dr. Pearson.”
    “Drop the security screen,” Javier demanded. “I will not jump you, I don’t know about Pearson.” Pearson shot Javier a dirty look that made him smile. “The previous fiction-filter’s didn’t need a screen.”
    “Don’t call me that,” Pong snapped. “I’m a censor of sorts.” The screen lightened and three men and women in their mid thirties wore dark glasses and sat at the table behind several 3Ds. All races were represented with Mr. Pong in the middle. He wore a chopped military hair cut and his tightly spaced eyes were mere slits. “Is that better, Dr. Sims?” Javier nodded and the screen descended into the table.
    “Good, we didn’t need all the cloak and dagger.”
    “The what, Dr. Sims?”
    “Nothing.” Javier noticed the motionless people on each side of Pong.
    “Your sarcasm is not going to upset this proceeding. Step forward and plug in your proposals.” Javier smiled when Pearson plugged in; the committee focused on their screens. “Dr. Sims.” Javier felt Pearson grin. He knew he had him. The committee looked puzzled. “Where’s your proposal?”
    “It...it should be there.” Javier said. Pearson successfully zapped his hard drive. Good, now he hoped the surprise worked.
    “Well, it’s not Dr. Sims; you know a rejection could jeopardize your position.” Pong said.
    Javier stared past the panel of so-called experts. He opened his shoulder bag. “Well, Mr. Pong, I do have a hard copy of my proposal.” He fanned the pages and cut his eyes at Pearson. “Will this be acceptable? I didn’t see in the submission requirements where it isn’t.” Pong and his colleagues exchanged looks.
    “Well, Dr. Sims...”
    “I thought ‘electronic submission only’ was the rule.” Pearson interrupted. “Deviation means rejection.”
    “Mind your business, Pearson!” Javier shouted. The brunette on Pong’s right leaned over and whispered in his ear. He nodded in agreement and the other members chatted amongst themselves. They looked at their screens and nodded at Pong.
    “Technically both of you can be rejected. You were supposed to be here by noon; that by the close of business rule was amended. Obviously, you didn’t hear, it went into effect yesterday, so we’ll ignore it.” Pong frowned at Pearson. “If it were you, Pearson, you’d want consideration, right?”
    Pearson grit his teeth and nodded. “I guess so.”
    “Dr. Sims, your proposal will be considered.” Javier handed it to him and he went to a scanner and waited. “OK, it scanned.”
    Javier turned and grinned. The planned worked; now the hard part.
    Pong took his seat and the rest of the History Simplification Committee resumed their lifeless expressions. “Well gentlemen, who wants to go first?”
    Dr. Donald Pearson oozed with confidence. He smiled at each member. Javier marveled at the conceited bastard. Everybody loved Dr. Pearson some said, but Javier got a different vibe from the committee. Pearson cut his eyes at Javier and shot out his seat. His sleeve got caught on the arm; he shook his arm and the chair landed with a light thud. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen.” He fumbled with his sleeve and pushed it back. He mumbled an obscenity and started to button his jacket. A black device slipped from under his jacket and hit the floor.
    The lights blinked; the committee’s screens went blank.
    “What is that?” Mr. Pong said, and tapped his terminal.
    “I don’t know,” the members replied in unison. Pearson scooped up the black box and shoved it in his pants pocket.
    “It might me a data-eraser.” Javier said and gazed at the cherry red Pearson.
    “A what? I know you didn’t say a DE!” Pong shouted and shot an icy look at Pearson. “Why did you look at Dr. Pearson, Dr. Sims?” Pong’s nostrils flared like a bull’s.
    Javier shrugged and remained silent.
    “Dr. Pearson would be crazy to have that,” interrupted the middle age African-American woman. “It must be something else...just a glitch. The system rebooted itself.” Javier noticed Pearson’s guilt flowed off him like water in a shower. “Mr. Pong let’s proceed.”
    Pong took a deep breath and exhaled. “OK...we’ll check it out later.”
    Now seize this opportunity, Javier. “Uh...Mr. Pong.” Javier raised his hand. “Maybe that’s what happened to my data belt.”
    Pong nodded slightly and keyed something in his terminal. “Proceed, Dr. Pearson.”
    Pearson’s weak smile and sweaty forehead said it all. The committee’s eerie silence and frigid looks made Javier’s nemesis open his presentation with a stutter.

    “LA...la, ladies and gentlemen, I...” Pearson stammered. The blonde Anglo woman leaned over and whispered in Pong’s ear. He held up a finger.
    “Just a minute, doctor.” Pong gave his colleague a nod. “Proceed...again Doctor Pearson.”
    He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, the early twentieth century south western United States interested my team especially since the declassification of intelligence documents became available, particularly those involving the states that border Mexico.” The bearded Latino member looked up and gave Pearson a hard look. Javier watched for any resentment, but there wasn’t any, yet. “President Woodrow Wilson ordered army intelligence to concentrate its efforts on the American border with Mexico. Unrest in that country could prove difficult due to other efforts to start a war in Europe were in the works. Several of these agents posed as industrialists, adventurers and soldiers of fortune. It had been said the Germans tried to assist in the revolutionary spirit churning in Mexico, but it was the French and Russians. The latter still being denied to this day. Foreign agents favored a group of revolutionaries led by a General Pancho Villa. They knew the Americans would be the main suppliers, but a small group of the French and Russians shipped a onetime supply of Mauser rifles to Pancho Villa. The Germans were furious and a naval battle ensued in the Gulf of Mexico. The battle only consisted of two medium sized warships, but the Germans sank the Russian vessel. The Mexican Revolution continued for several years with the main supplier of weapons being the United States. But, the small group of industrialist who were to benefit from that sunken ship never forgave the Germans. It wasn’t until WWII they got even with them. General Pancho Villa managed to settle with his former enemies and retire to a lavish lifestyle. However, his envious associates didn’t benefit from his relationship with the French and Russians. They demanded compensation; he refused and soon thereafter General Pancho Villa was killed in a brutal ambush. They said that the Americans, as a gesture of good will to its post war allies and enemies, coordinated the attack.” Pearson hesitated and scanned the panel. “Thank you.” He smiled and sat.
    Javier felt a smirk on his face and tried to look pleasant, if not nonchalant. Pearson, you’re a real pompous bastard. They weren’t impressed. Acting wasn’t Pearson’s strong point; manipulation was his specialty. He couldn’t shake the nervousness that made sweat trickle down his face. He wiped his forehead and the committee members mumbled amongst themselves.
    That was unheard of; they never showed emotions one way or the other.
    “Dr. Pearson, are you OK? You look worried...Are you worried, Doctor?” Pong asked, in a suspicious tone.
    “No...no, Mr. Pong I have to use the restroom, excuse me.” He started for the back.
    “Dr. Pearson,” Pong pointed to the entrance. “Those are closed; go get the key from the receptionist, she’ll direct you to the washroom down the hall.”
    “Certainly, Mr. Pong,” Pearson tried to hurry, but his legs wobbled. The committee eyes followed him out the door. He made a right turn and several figures surrounded him. Javier couldn’t make them out through the heavy smoked partitioned glass, but it had to be the authorities.
    They knew Pearson had a DE.
    Well, Mr. Popularity let’s see how many friends you have now!
    Ten minutes passed; all eyes focused on Javier. “Both team leaders witness each other’s presentations as you know, but Dr. Pearson won’t be back, proceed Dr. Sims,” Pong ordered.
    All the members wore dark glasses; Javier imagined their reactions by watching their lips. The blonde Anglo’s lips curved downward. She was bored. The Latino, Indian, African-American frowned. They were angry.
    You can do this Javier, it’s show time.

    “As you know the period in history you suggested and I accepted was the pre-Civil War era. I concentrated my analysis on the slavery problem. The Underground Railroad is quite intriguing. I suggested bringing to light the unsung heroics of several abolitionist; Harriet Tubman, William Still and others.” Javier coughed in his hand and excused himself. “Between 1850 and 1860 The Underground Railroad blossomed and an estimated 100,000 slaves escaped the United States. The location of the secret routes and safe houses became an obsession with the authorities. They passed the Fugitive Slave Act, but it didn’t stop anything. Tubman and her associates continued to be a thorn in the slave owner’s side. Several member of the American Colonization Society suggested infiltration of the network would lead to its downfall. The members of the ACS had vast resources at their disposal to relocate Blacks. Some of the ship owners of ACS were involved in transporting opium and cocaine into the country and to the country of Liberia. They devised a plan to use slaves in the Underground Railroad to transport and distribute the drugs to the slaves. The ACS became the world’s first drug cartel. Once they synthesized cocaine in 1855 it spread rapidly.”
    The committee eyes were focused on Javier. He had their undivided attention. Good. They’ll love this part.
    “A ‘William Still’ was the father of the Underground Railroad. He had a home in Philadelphia and kept records of the railroad. He heard rumors of sickness amongst the ‘passengers’ or ‘cargo’ and certain elixirs would cure them. Doctors and others came to the conclusion these people were addicted to the elixirs. Alcohol became the least of their worries. The word spread fast, ‘find and destroy the elixirs.’ Now the railroad had multiple problems; spies, opium, cocaine, heroin and slave-catchers. The conductors and stationmaster searched all passengers for the elixirs. Anybody who wanted to go back was threatened with execution.”
    Javier sighed and turned the page. “Harriet Tubman had a route from Bucktown to Camden to Wilmington, Delaware and finally to Philadelphia. She had a close associate named ‘Philadelphia Redkin’, but they called her ‘Philly Red’. She was highly intelligent and she could read. Tubman found out she was also a spy and drug mule. Tubman allegedly shot her between the eyes and burned her drugs in front of the other passengers. Before her death Tubman beat the names of the others out of her who aided her at certain ‘depots’ or ‘resting spots’...ladies and gentlemen, members of the Underground Railroad waged the first war on drugs.”
    The members gave him the same blank stare when he first entered the room. Dr. Javier Sims sighed and continued.
    “You’ll find in my proposal the plans for the educational system lesson plans that are from the elementary ‘see dick run’ level to the higher echelon of our society’s academia. We’ve covered the topic thoroughly and although some documentation to these facts and theories isn’t available, it cannot be entirely ruled out. Thank you.”
    Those lifeless faces remained the same. Were they convinced his rewrite and addition to history deserve acceptance or were their interest negated by Pearson’s stupid move?
    Javier and the committee stared at each other. What the hell are they looking at?
    Pong shattered the silence. “Thank you, Dr. Sims, we’ll be in touch.”

    Javier swore he wouldn’t worry about the committee’s decision. If it got accepted fine, if not then the team would work elsewhere. He told himself that lie a lot, either way he still gets a check monthly. And, every time he returned home from making a submission he stood in the musty staircase in his building and counted the stairs to their apartment. Every step had a different scenario for acceptance or rejection.
    Stop this practice Javier, it doesn’t relieve the worry.
    He never listened and started up the steps.
    Javier hung his cane and shoulder bag on the coat rack. Samantha had polished the foyer floor to a mirror shine. He fingered the junk mail. A lively conversation came from the living room. It didn’t sound like the 3D. He wasn’t in the mood for company, but he put on a smile and walked in the room.
    “Hi honey,” Samantha said.
    “Hey beautiful, how are you?” Next to his wife a pale woman with a long blonde ponytail wearing a blue jogging suit turned and smiled. Her oversized sunglasses didn’t hide all the wrinkles or crow’s feet; he estimated her to be fifty or so. A pot of coffee sat on the glass top table; both cups have full next to a half smoked joint in an ashtray.
    Jesus! Javier’s jaw dropped. That was the woman who warned him about Pearson.
    “This is Angela, Javier.” She stood and extended her hand.
    He waved her down. “Don’t stand, sit down, Angela,” he smiled and they shook. “Nice meeting you. Did I interrupt?”
    “No, we’re waiting for you.” Samantha said.
    He sat and poured coffee. “Haven’t we met, Angela?” He didn’t know what else to say.
    She nodded, “Yes, we have, Dr. Sims. I tipped you about Donald’s Data-Eraser.”
    Donald...she must know him well. His silence said it all. He was confused. “Well. I’m a little...”
    “I know,” Angela interrupted. “You see Donald’s my husband.”
    “Husband?” The Sims’s said in unison and giggled.
    “We’re sorry, but I don’t understand.”
    “Well, we’re estranged...that’s the best way to put it. Long story short Dr. Sims, he’s a fake. He helps under privileged students get in, but he and his team belittle them through rewrite or that BS they call Simplification.”
    “You sound like ‘Anonymous’, Angela.”
    She smiled. “Simplification is another facet of the gradual foreign occupation of the United States by traitors high in the government. I’ve heard about your proposals in rewrite, they’re uplifting...more so then other teams. And, I know Donald hates your guts. He’s an asshole.” She paused and tapped her glasses. “Excuse me a minute.” She walked over towards the balcony. “What! OK, I’m on my way.” Angela sighed. “I’m sorry, something came up I have to go.” She squeezed Samantha’s hand and smiled at Javier. Samantha walked her to the door and let her out. She turned and her husband was right behind her.
    “OK, let me have it.”
    “I don’t know where to start,’ Javier said. “How long have you known her?”
    “For several months...I don’t see her that often and this is the first time she’s been over. I never thought to ask her last name. Hell, who cares anyway. Don’t look at me like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like I’m lying, Javier.”
    “Well, obviously she likes you, us so that’s cool. What do you all talk about?” Javier giggled. “Dumb question...other than girl talk.”
    “Girl talk,” Samantha snapped.
    “Sorry, don’t get upset,” he said. I’d love to know how much of her concern is idealistic or a woman scorned.”
    Samantha laughed. “Both.”
    “I bet that call was about Pearson getting busted,” he said. “I hope she doesn’t think I didn’t appreciate her help. She might be scorned, but I bet she doesn’t want to see him get twenty years.’
    “Right, but when it’s over some kind of way his fan club will swear,” she pointed and laughed. “It’s all your fault.”
    Javier laughed. “But, he’ll be the one in jail. You’re right though denial is a big thing with people. You’d think he would’ve got rid of the evidence. A hole in the pocket, and my DE revelation, brought down the mighty Dr. Donald Pearson.”
    Samantha wrapped her arms around her husband. “It’s nice to know your spouse’s abilities are so intimidating that his enemy risked everything to stop him.” She kissed him and his hand cupped her behind. “I’m ready when you are.”
    The 3D popped on. “Dr. Sims, it’s the committee calling.”
    “This is Sims.”
    “Sims...Mr. Pong here, we haven’t accepted or rejected your proposal and either way your status won’t change for a while. Enjoy your evening.” The screen went blank.
    Javier flipped it the bird. “Now that my wife is an ‘Anonymous’ sympathizer, I think I’ll tell the committee I’ll be leaving, harass me if you have too, I’m sick of your crap.” They wouldn’t starve and he would still get a check. Javier led his wife into the bedroom.

It’s Understandable

    So this guy is walking downtown and he sees his friend. Only his friend has this big, round, orange head.
    So he goes up to him and he says, “Hey, Bill?”
    And his friend goes, “Hey, man. What’s up?”
    And he’s like, “Yeah, uh, what is up? What’s with the big, round, orange head?”

    It is 1996. Sunday, in fact. And as far as Iscot Glivin¹ can tell, as he walks from his bedroom, across the living room, and into the kitchen, this Sunday is as common and unremarkable as any other Sunday morning.
    Maggie² is standing in the kitchen with her pink apron pulled tight around her white nightgown, cooking breakfast. Iscot sits down at the table to the smell of sausage and the pop and sizzle of frying bacon. The standard smells and sounds of early morning marriage. The Sunday edition of the local paper is waiting for him at the table, as usual, and his Ziggy coffee cup is filled with still-steaming black coffee, poured lovingly by Maggie only minutes before he was due to awake.
    Iscot sits down and opens the paper and takes a sip of coffee from his mug. He can hear the droning of a lawnmower and the intermittent barking of a dog and the occasional chirping of the neighborhood birds. The standard sounds of a suburban dawn. Indeed, this Sunday could easily be confused with any other Sunday morning.
    Until the phone rings.
    Iscot, still holding the paper, glances first at the phone and then at Maggie, still stationed at the stove, and she in turn looks at Iscot, the phone, Iscot again, and then shrugs and begins to wipe her hands on her apron. Iscot shakes his head and holds up one hand to tell Maggie not to bother, that he will attend to this interruption.
    Iscot sets down the paper, presses both hands on the table, and stands up. He walks over to the wall and picks up the receiver.
    “Hello.”
    “Hello, Mr. Glivin? This is Doctor Carver³. How are you?”
    “I’m fine,” Iscot says holding the phone against his ear and looking at Maggie, shrugging this time his shoulders.
    “Good, good. Listen, Iscot, I have some unfortunate news. Your father has passed,” the doctor says in an official, almost nonchalant tone that would normally be reserved for announcing some trivial piece of information such as the arrival of the mail. The kind of tone a waiter might use when asking for your drink order. The standard tone of the health care profession.
    “It’s understandable,” Iscot says, nodding his head a few times.
    And a low static hum continues the conversation for a minute or two.
    “Iscot, he fought hard. And long. With the kind of cancer he had, it’s amazing he held on as long as he did.”
    Iscot stands holding the phone, glancing at Maggie and the paper and his not-so-steaming cup of coffee, as if each were a place he would rather be. But however desiring his glances, they are brief, lingering on each object only momentarily, as if he is unsure or incapable of deciding where, if anywhere, he should be.
    “Iscot, are you there?”
    “I am.”
    “Well, listen, if you need anything, anything at all, you let me know. Just give me a call or stop by the hospital. Take care, Iscot. I’m...I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Iscot hangs up the phone and sits back down at the table. He begins to flip through the paper, turning the pages with a slow, resigned flick of his wrist. He stops when he reaches the comics section and notices a Ziggy cartoon. He looks at the paper and cocks his head and then looks at his coffee mug. Iscot picks up the coffee mug and stares at it and begins to smile. The comic strip and his coffee mug have the same caption.
    “Iscot, who was that on the phone?”

    “Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I swear it’s true,” the guy’s friend says. “I found this lamp on the beach the other day. I rubbed it and out pops this genie, right. And he grants me three wishes. So for the first wish, I wished for more money than I could ever spend in my life. And that’s how I got that car over there and this nice suit and, well, that’s what I’m doing downtown today. Shopping.”

    It is 2001. Tuesday, in fact. Iscot sits in his boss’ office in a metal fold-out chair. His boss sits behind a desk in front of him. Stacks of paper, a computer, and a telephone populate the surface of the desk and metal file cabinets line the walls. A placard on the desk displays the name Michael Guyer.⁴ There are no pictures anywhere and there is a window behind the desk, from which the parking lot can be seen.
    “Iscot, this is not easy for me. You’ve been here how long now? 20 years?”
    Michael Guyer looks at him expectantly.
    Iscot blinks.
    Three times.
    “Well,” Michael Guyer says and takes a deep breath, “Iscot, we have to let you go. It’s true that you’ve never missed a day, never called in sick, and you’re always the first to arrive and one of the last to leave. It’s the extensions you grant to these people, Iscot. You have the highest approval percentage of any welfare officer we have working here. It’s not only that it’s the highest. It’s that...it’s a hundred percent, Iscot. And that’s exactly the problem. We’ve been evaluating you for some time now, monitoring you, in hopes that this would change. But it hasn’t. It’s been unfortunately consistent. I’m sorry, Iscot. But we have to let you go.”
    “It’s understandable,” Iscot says, nodding his head a few times.
    “Well, I’m...I’m glad you see it that way, Iscot,” the boss says, his brow furrowed, one eye squinted, the tone of his voice the undulating pitch of incredulity. “You have until the end of the day to clear your desk. There will be a severance package as well. Again, I am sorry.”
    Iscot stands and shakes his boss’ hand and leaves the office. He walks past the rows and rows of cubicles and desks and papers and computers and doors which lead to more hallways and more rooms just like this one. The standard scenery of business. He walks past his own desk and into the elevator.
    Iscot stands inside and the door closes slowly and mechanically and with a sound as if the elevator itself just sighed.
    Iscot pushes the button for the ground floor lobby and notices a piece of paper someone has taped to the wall and he smiles. It is a Ziggy comic cut from a newspaper. It has the same caption as his coffee mug.

    “And for my second wish, I wished for a beautiful woman to share all of my newfound fortune. And that’s how I met Charlene over there and we were married a few weeks ago and I’m pretty happy with everything.”

    It is 2013. Thursday, in fact. It is most assuredly unlike any other Thursday Iscot has ever experienced. He has never been in the hospital before, not once in all his life. But for the past few days, he has been bedridden, confined to a small, windowless room. The resort of the infirm. Maggie has not left his side.
    The door opens and Doctor Carver walks into the room and Maggie quickly looks up, her eyes are worn red and weary from the worry of the past few days, but now seem to coruscate; perhaps it is the tears, perhaps it is the hope kindled from the first sign of someone other than a nurse.
    “Hello, Iscot. Maggie,” Doctor Carver says, holding a grey, metal clipboard in his hands, at which he repeatedly glances. “How are you both?”
    “We’re fine,” Maggie says, clutching Iscot’s hand with hers so tight her knuckles are white and his hand a shade of red. “We’re worried. I’m worried. What’s...what’s...”
    Doctor Carver takes a deep breath and takes off his glasses and slowly taps the clipboard against his leg. “It’s cancer.”
    Maggie lets loose Iscot’s hand and covers her face with both of her hands and begins to sob slow, wrenching, intermittent sobs that shake and wrack her entire body, her hair shrouding her face in red curls.
    “It’s the same cancer your father had, Iscot. Genetics may be a factor. We don’t know.”
    “It’s understandable,” Iscot says, nodding his head a few times.
    “We’ll do everything we can. We’ll start chemo tomorrow. I’m not going to lie to you, Iscot. Early detection is crucial and we don’t have that luxury on our side this time. But your father was a fighter and I know you are too. I’ll stop by later on today to see if you need anything.”
    Doctor Carver turns and opens the door and Maggie jumps from the chair and runs to him, one hand still covering her face. He puts his arm around her shoulder and they walk out of the room, Doctor Carver issuing quiet condolences.
    Iscot reaches over and grabs his coffee mug that Maggie brought from home and looks at the caption and starts to smile.

    “And for my third wish, and this is where I think I went horribly, horribly wrong...”

    It is 2015. Saturday, in fact. Iscot is still in the same room at the hospital. The cancer that consumed and claimed his father has metastasized and the chemo stopped some time ago. He is a frail and small man now, as if a mighty redwood had grown in reverse, shrunk to a thin sapling.
    Maggie is by his bed. The machines around him beep and breathe and the nurses walk the hall and enter occasionally to check the tubes which deliver precious nourishment and morphine to his voracious veins. The scenery of the end.
    “Iscot...” Maggie says.
    Iscot lost his voice some time ago, silenced by cancer and morphine and pain. He has no words left. But he looks at Maggie and ends her sentence before it begins, silences her with a smile sympathetic and warm and understanding. The standard Ziggy coffee cup smile.
    The machines around him cease beeping and breathing, silenced by inevitability, and the footsteps of a nurse stop abruptly as the sound of a coffee cup connecting with hard floor echoes through the room.

    “...I wished for a big, round, orange, head.”

    ¹th 1950 at 10:37 am at a hospital in New York to loving parents Martha and Gary Glivin. Iscot’s birthing is remarkable because it set the new world record for shortest time in labor, previously held at 14 minutes and 33 seconds. It was a close call, though, and if births were viewed and contested in the same manner as the Kentucky Derby, Iscot’s would have been a neck and neck finish. An official team was ready and willing to review the tapes and make an official ruling, thereby settling any future debates before they began. Martha and Gary Glivin declined. They were happy enough to have brought a bustling, healthy baby boy into the world. Martha more so perhaps, glad to have the whole ordeal over and done with, and so quick at that.
    ²nd 1951 at 9:07 am to loving parents Denise and Darren MacGuffin. A pretty routine event as far as the birth of a child is concerned. At first squeal from baby Maggie, Father Darren MacGuffin promptly shoved a pink, it’s-a-girl cigar into his newborn baby daughter’s mouth and lit it, much to the horror and disapproval of all parties present. Denise and Darren were divorced shortly after. Darren always regretted his decision.
    ³rd 1943 at 3:45 pm to loving parents Jill and James Winston Carver, Junior. James Winston Carver, Junior was a doctor; James Winston Carver, Senior was a doctor, and his father before him and his father before him, and so on ad infinitum. Jill Carver was a hairstylist and owned her own salon, which she inherited from her mother, who inherited it from her mother, and so on ad infinitum. James Winston Carver III chose to follow his father’s profession.
    ²th1948 at 7:38 am to indifferent mother Anna Guyer. Relegated to the states care promptly after birth. Michael was raised in numerous foster homes by numerous foster parents. And rather atypically, he turned out just fine. Well-adjusted and purposed, he chose to enter the public service profession in an attempt to better the lives of those less fortunate, those whom he easily identified with. After many years, however, the inevitable and viral apathy so often cultivated from abundant bureaucracy set in. He goes through the motions, pantomiming himself, dreaming an idyllic retirement. In his spare time, he plays golf.

I want the impossible, always

    My poor little broken heart, I don’t know how many more fractures it can stand. I just want to be happy, to be so in love with you again, for you to love me again. Yet that won’t happen will it? You’re too wounded a man to love or be loved — you use your silence as a sword to cut off the limbs of love until the only thing left is melancholy and void. Once I flew so happily to your side now, wolf, you can cut your own trek through the forest. I’ll never join you again. Feast on the entrails of your prey alone, you need not share with me anymore. This conversation was dead before it began, like our love unraveling it’s tale into the breath of stars. Romance is overrated, anyway, you only ever wanted my sex. Stupidly I gave it to you, and now I’m stumbling on the threadbare wisps of myself remembered before you came stealing into my life. A drunken hobo cursing every waking hour.

Tunnel Vision (1998)

     “If you ask me, it’s a little creepy that he’s even here,” Maggie yells from the sink, no doubt reapplying some blood-red lipstick or black mascara to her purposely—obsessively—pale face. I can barely hear what she’s screaming over New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle,” which they play like 17 times a night. It’s so, so loud, and I don’t even think the music’s technically piped in here, into the gentlemen’s lounge. I stand up from being hunched over the toilet, palming the vomit from my chin and smearing it across the stall wall. Gross. I feel better, though. I tilt my head up to scan the ceiling: no speaker. I bend back down and inspect what came up. All I’ve had all night is water, and I see no sign of the two pink heart-shaped pills from almost an hour ago, thank God. I’m starting to roll pretty hard, so I don’t know why I expect them to be floating there. About five minutes ago, everything began to shimmer a little. But that was before Adam showed up and I was overcome with expulsion compulsion.
    I make a mental note to tell Adam at some future point that the sight of him literally made me puke tonight. I need to breathe.
    Maggie says, “Kurfew is a college-age party. Doesn’t he know that?” I refrain from replying that’s it’s also a boys’ party. As I de-stall, the guy waiting at the head of the line shoots me a dirty look. “It’s about time,” he says.
    “Go fuck yourself, OK?” I tell him sweetly as he squeezes past me. Joining Maggie at the mirror, I inspect myself with a lean-and-squint. “Of course he knows that,” I say. “That’s exactly why he’s here. Probably thought I’d be here, too.” This whole scenario is starting to look like a scene from Less Than Zero, except with better music and less hair. Bumping into Adam (and I mean that literally—our heads actually knocked together mid-crowd) was the last thing I needed tonight. I know for a fact he’s not working right now, so it’s not all that bizarre that he’d be in New York. But usually someone from LA tips me off when he’s coming in so that I can avoid all the usual suspects: the Boiler Room, Wonder Bar, Phoenix, and now I guess Kurfew. It’s a necessary measure: I decided after our summer blowout that it’s just better I not see Adam at all... the pull is just too strong, our chemical reaction too combustible.
    But one thing’s definite: I’m not leaving this fucking club. This is my city not his, and I think I’m about to start tripping through it pretty heavily. I just want to dance. “I want to dance,” I yell after Maggie, following her out of the cramped bathroom. Once back in the club’s throes, I’m immediately on tippy-toe and giraffing my neck, scanning the hundreds of crazed faces. I’m relieved to see no sign of Adam anywhere, but then realize I’ve also lost Maggie in the crush of bodies.
    Kurfew is a Friday-night gay ’80s party held in a velvet-roped-off section of Manhattan’s mammoth Tunnel, and it’s just as packed as the main, straight dance floor down the corridor—maybe even more so. It’s a tighter space, anyhow. But different entrance, and definitely a different crowd. 18 to get in and 21 to drink, though no one’s drinking alcohol in here. E is for Everything right now. The bouncers frisk you at the entrance ever since the feds came down on Peter Gatien a couple of years ago, but it’s really easy to bring it in yourself. Drop whatever in a condom, tie it off and shove it up your ass—not that it’s necessary: Each of the 10 or so wasted drag queens gliding around keeps treats down her cleavage. Supplied by Gatien himself, rumor has it.
    It’s about 3 o’clock now and I’m waiting for Miss Asia’s pills to kick way in. She makes me pay for, like, every fourth one, as long as I hang out with her for a good part of the night and let her rub my ass and squeeze my biceps. Her dose tonight seems nice and mellow. Not too speedy, thank God. I need something to dull my anxiety, not sharpen it. I reach into my pocket and pop a vitamin C lozenge into my mouth. A gentle frisson shudders through me pleasantly, and I start to decide her pinkhearts might just be incredible. Still folded into the crowd, the beat changes and I move right into it... I can’t place the song at first but then it registers as “Fascination Street” right before I feel a freefall coming on, Adam a distant memory as the high takes hold and I think that maybe I should’ve just started with one pill but oh well....
    And then I’m flying. Cut the conversation, just pull on your pout.
    The flow of people surges me toward the epicenter and I let it—I let go of everything. I move with the current and close my eyes, tilt my head back... it floats to one side and the other. The strobes are Japanese-cartoon heavy and the music deafening and beautiful and black and perfect and I’m swaying, spinning, circling in the thick airless heat, sweat dripping down my face and from my armpits, down the small of my back. Bodies press up close, I feel strong hands on my shoulders and in my hair and stroking the back of my thighs, groping my crotch. I flow farther into the crowd, and the music is coming from inside my body, my veins are burning and my eyes are vibrating and they’re about to pop out or explode and drip down my face. I close them tight and the club goes black and disappears and I’m completely alone and it’s exactly what I want, the bodies recede leaving me soaked and shaken and I’ve never felt this aware of myself. My heart is swelling and I love love love love everything so much it’s about to burst and then it does and I’m covered in thick warm sticky liquid and life finally makes sense and there’s a gigantic crushing rushing wave of relief when the tide comes back so fast I catch my breath and exhale long and slow and the moment keeps stretching and I’m back in the humid throng and every faceless body is beautiful and wet with sweat. My head drops back again and my mouth gapes open and I’m lost again in the flash and beat and my blood is boiling and coming up through my pores and evaporating, coating the ceiling and dripping back down. I’m breathing heavy to stay conscious, my eyelids fluttering and tears welling and I let them spill over and streak down my cheeks. My breath comes faster, faster, faster and I’m gasping and crying sort of hard now because I’m so happy.
    Thick arms reach around from behind and encircle my abdomen and his breath and lips and tongue are hot on the back of my neck and he’s squeezing me and we’re moving together. I feel his dick pressed up hard against me and then his hands are under my soaked T-shirt, up my tummy to my chest, pulling me back. I lean into it and let him hold me, and then he turns me around and wipes at the wet under my right eye with his thumb before moving in to kiss me hard, his tongue pressing slowly into my slack mouth and his left hand cradling the back of my head and his fingers in my hair and I think suddenly of Kim Gordon singing I love you, I love you, I love you, what’s your name?
    He says, “Let’s leave,” and I wonder, Could Adam be further from my thoughts?—so I guess the answer is no. He was here, right? Or did I conjure him into my night? Is he watching me now?

    The cab speeds fast and my eyes are pinwheeling from the long rails of light that time-warp us through the Lincoln Tunnel. They’re streaming by on either side of the car and it feels just like USA Up All Night science fiction: I was totally still and the zillion stars all around and above me were Lite Brite pinpoints and then—ZOOM—they’re rushing past me in thin, blurry streaks. Beam me up to north Jersey, Scotty.
    The show ends as the car breaks the surface and we’re out of the Tunnel. It’s that hazy time between really late and really early but still dark, thank God, because I’m still pretty high and don’t want it to end or anything to change at all. Story of my life, clinging to something until my fingernails rip off and I plummet down to hard pavement. I’m splayed rather awkwardly on a diagonal across the back seat, cradled by “Fascination Street” guy like some nightclub infant, head lolling back and practically sucking my thumb—his back against one door and his legs spread open wide around me. He’s thick all over, and handsome and masculine and warm—all meaty chest and clean face and baseball cap and contrived blasé attitude. Kurfew often attracts ostensibly straight guys with elastic sexualities; they wander in from the main part of the club when pussy proves elusive.
    There are two full-proof sartorial litmus tests for assessing a man’s sexual orientation: shoes and watch. With mall-flavored Skechers and a digital G-Shock, he handily passes both—the clinging Drakkar Noir cloud an added, noxious assurance. He has not told me his name. Or if he did I’ve forgotten it. It seems like hours and hours since he found me dancing, tripping my face off to the Cure, but it’s probably been more like 40 minutes. Hazily I remember a couch in a dark corner, fondling a Poland Spring he gallantly brought me from the bar. Making out for a few songs and then shambling behind him out the door and into the street like some slopped-out zombie puppy with low self-esteem. I didn’t even try to find Maggie, and I’m still trying to decide if Adam was actually there or not.
    I glance at my own watch (sleek silver Fossil, brown leather strap, lighted blue face): it’s just past 4. Jersey boy is silent and breathing heavy and slow. Peering back I see his eyes are closed under the brim of his cap. I nudge him awake and he startles for a second, then smiles and chins the top of my head. “You know where we’re going here?” I ask.
    “Yeah, yeah, for sure.” He grunts and shuffles up straighter, adjusting me. It seems like we’ve driven kind of far. A spark of anxiety flares in me, but I smother it as he tells the driver, “This exit, please... yep, to the right, then a left at the light, then another quick left.”
    It registers that I’m definitely on my way down now, the high is fading, and I wonder how the hell I’m gonna get back to the city tomorrow. I have no idea where we are. I didn’t even know cabs drove people this far into New Jersey. We take a few more turns, driving slower now on the city roads, another mile or so. Wherever we are, it sure isn’t pretty. We’re creeping through a quasi-industrial neighborhood: vast concrete fields bordered by chain-link fences, squat blond-brick buildings that look like small factories or warehouses, broken up here and there by clusters of desolate tenement buildings that look decidedly subsidized; then a row of identical duplexes, miniscule front yards dotted with Virgin Mary statues and Mylar windmills. There’s zero sign of civilization and even less foliage. What an ugly, sad landscape. Maybe this is Secaucus?
    Finally he tells the driver to stop, but I think we’ve traveled too far from the highway because the dude at the wheel seems like he’s getting agitated. It’s likely he doesn’t know where he is, either. He’s muttering in Arabic and then all of a sudden his voice rises and he’s gesturing wildly, looking left and right over his shoulders out the windows at the environmental void on all sides. The vibe is killing me in here so I decide to let baseball cap deal with it; he’s covering the fare, I assume. (Don’t straight guys pay for stuff?) His leg slides around me and he leans up toward the cloudy plastic partition, both their voices now rising steadily. I reach for the handle and shoulder the door open. The cold air slaps me cruelly, singing dry the rivulets that sprang instantly from the corners of my eyes to the corners of my mouth. I heave the door shut and lean against it, hugging myself for warmth. If I’d foreseen tonight’s little adventure I’d have worn a heavier coat for sure. Lighting a Camel from my coat pocket I survey my bleak surroundings again. God, what a fucking shitpit. I gaze out into the distance, my unfocused eyes puddling out at the nothingness.
    Nothing, nothing, nothing.
    I take a drag and slowly exhale, then cock my head and sharpen my eyes in comprehension, because right then my neocortex practically short-circuits: There isn’t a single house or apartment building or even tree in sight. Just asphalt and chain link, and a railyard way off to the left that I can barely make out in the ebbing darkness—the edges of things now starting to frost with a cold glow from the horizon. There aren’t even any streetlights here. What the fuck is going on? I begin to formulate a reaction, words of protest or a maybe a move back into the double embrace of the warm taxi that I’m still leaning up against, when abruptly the car shoots out from under me like a rocket, wheels screeching and kicking up gravel: zero to 60 as my heart plunges into my gonads. I thrust myself forward in shock, off the moving car, and then spin on my heel, staggering backward into the space it had just occupied, the displaced air swirling and flapping my open jacket behind me like wings.
    The cab and the nameless man who brought me here are flying off down the street away from me. Still half-high, with one hand smacked against my forehead and the other clutching my still-burning cigarette, I stand there frozen, slack-jawed and stupid, my spiral eyes glazing over at the diminishing taillights, which look like two sizzle-red sparkler eyes, spinning and shooting wildly off into the distance.

The Whistlers

    I lived in Los Angeles, trying to make a living writing screenplays. Soon I was three months late on my rent. I called my brother back in Athens, Georgia. He said he could lend me a few hundred, but after that I was on my own. And my mom and dad were through sending me money. So I packed up my things and moved to Las Vegas, where I could live cheaply. I put my belongings in A1 Storage in Korea town before I left. I moved into one of the cheap motels that are fifty dollars a week: The Harley Motel.
    My first few days there I saw him, wandering the motel parking lot, which the motel squared on all four sides. For a skirt she wore a striped shirt that went high up over his thighs. He was black, made up with dark eye shadow and bubblegum lipstick. The thing had the thousand, the ten thousand, the gazillion yard stare, and he kept wandering around the motel Laundromat, stepping through a dreamy slush, looking for johns. And it looked ever so skinny, as if there were no skin, just naked bone. If you hugged her, she’d crack and collapse and break in your arms. Late one day I got in my car and stopped at the motel exit, waiting to pull into traffic. The skinny hooker approached my car. He kept trying to make eye contact, but I avoided him.
    Did it carry a cinderblock in its purse? I don’t know, but when he swung his purse at my driver’s side window, the glass shattered and splintered into my face. Through my one working eye I saw it stare at me with a white hot hatred, someone who’s chance at life had long passed, someone too blind even for tunnel vision.
    I drove to Southwest Medical, and sat in their waiting room fucking forever. This made the people around me mad. They told me to be assertive, that with my injury I shouldn’t have to wait. Slivers of window were ground into my face and right eye. The ER Tech called, “Gonzales, Edward,” but Edward told them to take my first. So they did.
    It was unbelievable. I had outraged the nurse. She anesthetized my face with a hypodermic needle, all the while hollering at me. I heard a baby cry and scream in the other room. “Go fuck yourself,” I yelled at the nurse.
    The security asked her if she wanted to call PD on me for disturbing the peace.
    “Yes, please do,” She said.
    I pulled up my shirt and exposed by four AA batteries duct taped to my breast plate. “See this? If the cops Taze me, they blow my heart out, and I die, lots of paperwork for you and them. So they’ll be forced to strong arm me, and that’ll be a free-for-all in here, a wrestling match, with all this expensive equipment around.” The nurse changed her mind.
    I asked her, “How could you be so angry with me? I didn’t get beat up because I wanted to.” The baby stopped crying. As the nurse finished wiping off my face a tear ran down her cheek.
    They were going to discharge me and then I’d return in a few days for eye surgery, but the ophthalmologist said it’d be safer if we did it right then and there. So I breathed in the anesthetic, counted backwards from twenty, and woke up. For a few days I was an inpatient and wore gauze over my right eye, and then they took it off and gave me special eye drops to use for two weeks. But I wasn’t thinking of that. Like a commercial that never ends, all I could think of was “it,” that hooker. He was going down.
    They told me not to drive but screw them. After discharge I left to the auto shop on Tropicana and spent half my measly cash supply on fixing the window. And they couldn’t get it done that day. But I could not leave it in the motel lot; the darkies would be all over it like monkey bars if they saw it had a broken window. So a company car drove me back to the motel, picked me up the next day and drove me to the shop. The car was ready, I paid, got behind the wheel, and left. Now for the hooker.
    On my way back to the hotel I stopped at a 7-11 and bought lip balm and a little black canister of tear gas spray. I parked at the motel. Got up to my room, and spent the days and nights chugging bottles of Kochs beer and just watching the lot through my window, just waiting for it and its striped shirt barely covering its crotch. For a few days I just watched, then...he stumbled in, wandering, zombie eyed, each step bringing with it the unkept promise that there will never have to be another. Keep away from the trajectory of that purse.
    I waited until her back was to me before I left my room, so he wouldn’t see where I lived, and pay me a visit at a later date via karma. So I walked out my room chugging a Kochs. I held my TG canister in my front pocket. I walked towards him, across the lot.
    It spotted me. He grabbed his purse and wound up, ready to swing. Just out of his reach I pulled out the TG and sprayed the queen like I had the Raid and she was the insect. It grabbed its eyes and scratched and coughed helplessly and clawed at its face and throat with long, rainbow colored fingernails. Blood from his face and neck ran down his chin onto his shirt. Then I cracked my beer bottle over its forehead. The cloud of TG hit me before I could back away, and as a kind of rear guard action I rubbed the lip balm in my eyes, neutralizing the TG. I walked back to my room and at my doorway I turned around for a final look. The hooker was swinging its purse around aimlessly and shrieking like the queen that it was...
    My days I spent doing nothing. The Harley Motel had no cable or AC. All my TV picked up was a Latino station and a Christian station. I subscribed to the magazine DOMAI (Dirty Old Man’s Association International), jerking off was ever so important, it calmed me down. But I had trouble getting it up. And I was running out of money.
    I had graduated from Athens U, majored in Writing. The problem is, you cannot teach writing in a classroom. It’s all about rewriting, the same story, over and over, not first drafts. All my classes only asked for first or second drafts. You winced when your Prof lied to you, “This is first rate work. Find a home for it.” And they should have classes that center around getting rejected repeatedly. There in Vegas I spent two or three hours a day at the Arlington Library, writing away on their computers.
    Most of the publishing out there is written by, for, pansies. Yes, I do think I’m better than them and their moonlit garden fiction. If you want to write a story on, say, sexual predation in jail, The Atlantic Monthly would reject it so their readers would not have to put on their monocles and grunt, “Harrumph!” Same with the New Yorker. And no, I am not a fan of Bukowski. Too misogynistic. He was a wife beater, and the theme showed up in his stories. Same with Hunter S and Burroughs. Well, Burroughs didn’t exactly beat his wife, but he shot her in the head, so that kind of counts.
    When Sylvia Plath finished her last batch of poems, Ariel, no major mag would except them, her work was too “extreme.” The New Yorker rejected her—though they had accepted her previous, “safer” poems that sounded like an asexual schoolgirl, and with lots of asides about Greek and Roman mythology. A few years after her suicide, Plath won the Pulitzer. To appreciate human nature as a whole one has to study both sides of the prism spectrum, from red to purple.
    I called my sister from payphone at the Rainbow Inn. “Bec. This is serious. I’m running out of money.”
    “We’ve been over this before. Get a job. And keep it. Don’t get fired.”
    “It’s not my fault. I fuck it up. Every time.”
    “Okay, I’ll wire you the two hundred, and then THE PINCH IS OFF!”
    I began screwing a lady cabbie who lived in 140. Her name was Shelly. “I’m the last white cabbie left,” she said. She looked butch. Was she bi?
    And I’d always screw up the sex. I’d be inside her, going limp, and she would ask, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
    “My money situation. I worry.”
    “Are you supposed to be worrying about this now?”
    “I can’t help it.”
    “Get out of me.” she grabbed the condom and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a Splat! Thus consigning me to a “Cunt Tease.”
    “If it’s any consolation,” I told her, “I can’t jerk off to my DOMAI mags. It’s not just the money situation. This motel is a rough place to stay. I looked at some girl in the lot yesterday, and her boyfriend, some big fat oaf with a mullet, looked at me like he was going to kill me. Maybe I’ll end up at the Covenant House. But it’s like I keep falling, grabbing, and falling more. I don’t have money any more to pay for my storage in LA.”
    Shelly sighed and lit a cigarette. “Look at it this way. I’m forty years old and have kept this job despite all the Patels. I’ve driven a cab now for seven years, and I don’t fuck up, so they can’t fire me. That must mean this is what is meant for me, driving a cab in Las Vegas at night. There are just some things you are meant to be. It’s a square peg in a round hole story. You jam it in and hammer it in and eventually it fits. There’s no other way. Yeah, you’re falling, but you’ll land when you reach what you were born for. Your final destination may be panhandling and living at Covenant House. Who knows?”
    I think I unconsciously annoyed a lot of people since I’m in a constant, sea sick mood, eyeballing everyone. One day the short kid—around twenty years old—in room 104 yelled to me, “Hey brother, come in here for a second!” Usually I’m careful about such invitations, but I thought about driving around many a night and sleeping through the day and Shelly yelling at me, and how all that bored me. So I walked in.
    I smelled meth making equipment. Some dude was piping up in the bathroom, behind a screen. Hard Core porn played on the TV. A luck-empty burn out sat there watching it. “Suck it, bitch,” he said. The short, scrawny kid told me to have a seat on his bed. He brought over a fold out table and was very solicitous overall. He opened up a Tool CD cover, flattened it on the table, and poured a line of meth out the dime bag. The cover showed a guy sucking his own dick. “Man,” the dealer said, “If I could do that I’d never leave the house.” He handed me a section of straw.
    But I had my own stash in my room above. I kept it in a Tool CD too. The CD I kept it in was called Undertow. The Tool CD the dealer kept his meth in was called Animae. I felt nauseated and unfriendly. “I can’t do this man. I just can’t.” he peered at me and frowned.
    The next day I saw him hang jump off the second floor walkway. I lit up, “Hey, what’s up man!” I chimed.
    He said right away, “You fucked up, dude. You missed out. Someone else bought it. With that he walked to his room and slammed the door in my face. I went to my room and did a few lines, but the hangovers were getting worse and worse.
    Every time I saw the dealer I’d yell hello to him, and eventually we were on better terms. One night the dealer and I were both in the lot, there was a motel security guard down the way, and the dealer yelled to me, “Hey Hank, see that guy down there! Don’t trust him! He’s really not security! He’s a meth dealer!” And the dealer and the security laughed. Of course the guard wasn’t a meth dealer. This was a joke between the two. So the hotel knew the dealer dealt out of the hotel. Some of the dealer’s profit must go to the hotel, and in turn they allowed him to work there.
    I’d listen to the radio a lot at night, if I wasn’t driving around. I listened to the heavy metal station. The DJ who worked nights would constantly complain he had a cold. Every night: “Man, is my nose runnin’ or what?” one night I called up to request Black Flowers by The Offspring. The DJ asked, “Does it sound like I got the sniffles?”
    One night, as I left the Playhouse Movie Theater, a guy approached me. He was well dressed, a bit erudite and geeky. He asked me, “Sir, can you tell me what you do for a living?”
    “Nothing. I write, but I can’t make a living off it.”
    He guffawed in a regal, bejeweled way. “Ah, a student of life.”
    That made me mad. I felt my eyeballs bulge, like my head was in a vice. “I could break your leg in four places!” I wanted to scream.
    Instead: “You could say that,” I said.
    He went on, “I’m handing out tickets to a movie here at The Playhouse on the 13^th, five days from now. It’s free to get in, here’s your ticket. All you have to do is fill out a survey after the movie.”
    Why not? It’d get me out more. So I took the ticket and he left.
    Then some kid comes barreling up the street, his arms inked with tattoos. He looked panicky, like he was about to shit himself. The kid had jungle crazy eyes, pupils like pinballs bouncing round the whites. He said to me, frantically, “Hey sir, I’m not dangerous, I’m a runaway. I just got here a few days ago. I haven’t eaten or slept in two days, and stores aren’t letting me in to use their water fountains. I need a little bit of money! Anything!”
    A crew of around five or six blacks lounged around up ahead at a 7-11. They had an empty grocery cart with them. I pointed, “Look man, do you see those jungle brothers up there? You go up to them, and ask to do a favor for them in exchange for chow money. There’s your ticket.”
    I watched him hustle up there. As he talked with them, he gesticulated and thrashed like he was falling off a skyscraper. They pushed the cart over to him, and he took off. He ran so fast you could hear the accompanying din of the cart over the sidewalk.
    So I showed up at The Playhouse Movie Theater five days later. The line was at least two blocks long. And it went nowhere, it didn’t move. After a circa two hour wait I saw a woman with assistants walk from person to person, asking them questions, which the assistants duly recorded. The lady was in her fifties and in perfect shape. Only in LA, New York, and Vegas do you find women at that age in shape. Finally she and her gaggle of note takers arrived to me. She asked me my name, my age, my job, what kind of movies I liked. Then she asked if I went to college.
    “Yes.”
    “What was your major?”
    “Writing.”
    She winced. “Sorry sir, we don’t allow writers into these showings.” Her assistants glared at me.
    “Look ma’am,” I said. “You got to be kidding me. I’ve waited over two hours. I will not leave. I am not going anywhere. Trust me. I won’t steal any ideas off your movie.”
    “Sir, please don’t turn this into a scene.”
    I stayed silent. She said to an assistant, “Kelly, call security.” Kelly backed up a few steps and made the call on her cell phone.
    The crowd shouted, “Let him stay! What’s the big deal?!”
    Two average built brothers straight out of the first episode of 2001 swagger up to us. They weren’t especially big. That means they carried Tasers. The lady told them I refused to leave.
    Then they both tried to lightly push me away from the line. But I held my ground.
    “Look sir, we are asking you to leave. Rules are rules.”
    “Don’t ‘sir’ me.”
    One pulled out a Taser and pointed it at me. “Do you know what it feels like to get zapped,” he said. “You shit yourself.” Like a wave, the crowd moved away from me.
    I pulled up my shirt to show the AA batteries duct taped to my breast plate. “I’m prepared to die,” I said. “You zap me, you’ll have a crime scene on your hands.”
    He put his Taser away. It was like I interrupted the script of a bully. Neither the two security guards knew what to say.
    “Jesus Christ,” the lady said. ‘Let him stay.”
    The crowd applauded.
    One of the orangutans asked the lady, “We can call more security and remove him by force?” The crowd booed. “You want me to make the call?”
    I said, “You know what? I don’t want to see your crappy movie. What’s it called?” I looked at the ticket. “The Blair Witch Project. Sounds like a dud to me.” Everyone around me relaxed.
    I left back to my room and picked up the book How We Die, a book written by a doctor on how to deal with death by disease. Problem is, the author was an atheist. Who the hell wants to read a book like that? I bought the book because I thought it’d be about getting into heaven, not, “When you die, there’s nothing, no butterfly, no blank screen, just an empty theater.” Jess Franco, the French Intellectual, carried the book around after the death of his wife. Don Edmunds, the British Philosopher, carried it around before he died of throat cancer.
    I hate atheists. They dance around you in a circle, taunting you: “You are weak and such a wuss! You’re afraid of a life without an afterlife! You’re feeble! We, however, have the balls to live a life with no heaven or hell when we die! Not like you, we are not weak, puny and pusillanimous.” And if that’s not bad enough—I finished the book tonight—for the last sentence of the book the author wrote that suicide was evolution’s logical way of thinning the herd. What an asshole. I ripped my smoke alarm off the wall, took the batteries out, threw the book in the sink, and with my cig lighter set it on fire.
    One night as I walked from my car to my room the meth dealer grabbed me by the shoulder and gently corralled me into his room. “So you run out of money soon, right?” he asked.
    “Yes. Real soon, too.”
    “I can promise you double zeros if you mule for me.”
    I had no reason to trust this midget. But a hundred would keep me off the streets another week.
    He showed me four dime bags. “See these? Take them and shove them up your ass. Though not too far, or you’ll absorb them like suppositories and go ape shit. Here are the directions to the place.” He handed me a lined sheet of paper with writing.
    He said, “Don’t go keeping all the money for yourself. I know exactly what the buyer will pay. I know where you live, and I know your car. Have you ever been arrested?”
    “I’ve never been convicted.”
    “There you go. They can’t touch you. I’ll do you fifty-fifty, zero-zero for me, same for you.” He put his hand under my chin and moved it up so we were eye to eye. “I may not be big,” he said, “But I know guys who are. So are up for it?”
    I paused. Eh...it’d be writing experience. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
    He handed me four dime bags. I went into his bathroom and did the deed—it was work—and walked in a weeble wobble out to my car. Driving in Vegas can be impossible if you don’t know exactly where you’re going. Drivers honked at me, one called me a “fucking cock” and another asked, “What are you looking at, faggot?” but once I got out to the suburbs I was good to go.
    I found the house. A row of palm trees lined the front yard walkway. There was a second floor balcony, and under that a Cupid fountain. The columns of the porch, I’m pretty sure, were Corinthian. By the walkway up to the door sat two sculpted lions, taller than humans. Ready to attack.
    The guy who answered the door was built. Nothing bad in or of itself, but he was stiff necked, like he had military and LE training. He also had the direct diction of a police officer. Bad start.
    “Relax,” he told me. We made some small talk, more coppish linguistics, then he asked, “Where’s the powder, bro?” behind him was a huge blue fish tank. A Hammerhead swam by.
    He pulled out a roll of cash. I said, “If you show me to the bathroom I’ll get it for you.” He pointed to the bathroom. I opened the door and turned on the light and Bam! Someone grabbed me by the throat and shoved me up against the wall.
    “Sheriff’s Office! Keep your hands where I can see them!” he felt me down. “Nothing that’s going to cut me?!”
    “No sir.”
    He felt down my chest, yanked up my shirt, and saw the duct taped AA batteries. He ripped them off and said, “Don’t go giving other people that idea.”
    He hit me on the back of my head and screamed in my face. I felt the spit: “Where’s the powder! Where’s the powder! Where’s the powder!”
    I saw where this was going. It’s up my ass. If you give me a chance I’ll get it.”
    But there was no such doing. He ripped off my jeans and boxers, shoved his hand up a surgeon’s glove, stuck a baton up my ass and maneuvered it around a bit, then reached in and pulled out the four dime bags. “Ta Da,” he said.
    I saw the cop outside talking Latino over the phone: “Sure, but I need the meth purple, you got that? Mule it over here. Is it cooked and ready to go? Okay, here are the directions. Are you writing this down?...”
    I saw a cop herd four other unlucky mules—who had been held somewhere else in the house—out into the entry hall. All looked depressed, all were cuffed behind their backs. A cop said to us, “Okay boys, you’re off to jail.” The cop cuffed me, shuffled us all into a paddy wagon, and it took off. “This is bad,” one off the mules said. “We’re going upstairs on this one.”
    I was about to exclaim, on a positive note, that I would not snitch on my dealer. But then I remembered the cop who searched me took the sheet with the directions on it, so all the LE had to do was follow the directions in reverse.
    I waited all night in a holding cell with a herd of other bottom feeders, all waiting to see the judge at nine a.m. I felt so down and I wanted to sleep so badly, but other inmates used the benches to sit and talk. Come morning they called us out, one by one, to see the judge, who was on a monitor. And I saw myself on one of their monitors. I pled Guilty. “Custodial Sentence,” he said to me. “You will not go home. Ten days. Jeannie, will you get us all some coffee?” The stenographer got up and left. The judge banged his gavel with machine-grade boredom.
     A guard cuffed my wrists to my waist and walked me across the walkway over The Strip into County. He looked at me and said, “You’re a first timer, huh?”
    “In a big city jail, yeah. Why?”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-three.”
    “In there, do what you have to do to survive, got it?”
    “Got it.”
    “What did I just say?”
    “Do what I have to do to survive.”
    They gave me an orange suit to wear. I had a single cell. Someone down the hall screamed like the devil shoved a red hot poker up his ass. The shrieks were incoherent, but accentuated with animalistic pain and agony. One of the inmates with Kool Ade lipstick told me, “They arrested a nigger crack dealer, and he swallowed his stash. They tried charcoal on him but it was already digested. He kept us up last night. He’s strapped into a chair in seclusion.
    He was dying, this was his final song and dance. I saw a guard walk up to the seclusion room and stomp his foot and clap his hands as if he was listening to music. That afternoon the crack dealer calmed down. They took him out on a stretcher, dead or almost dead. He looked about fifteen.
    Later, I saw someone had left their con suit in my room. I kicked it out into the hall. Around dinner time all the cons are pushing me to take a shower: “Come on, cuz, you’ll stink if you don’t shower.” You could see the forest fire in their eyes. That was my first day there. I stayed awake all night, digging my nails into my arm and biting my tongue to stay awake, expecting a blanket party. But it never came. I let myself sleep after breakfast.
    That afternoon I woke up to “Gimme all your whites!” I opened my eyes. It was the squirt meth dealer, from the motel, pushing a laundry bin. He said to me, “Hey, jackass, you act like your shit don’t stink. They’re going to be tossing suits and whites in your cell for a wash, and if you don’t do it, they’ll come down on you like the rent.” I was scared. I wish that I didn’t look so young, that I had grown a beard and shaved head.
    I approached the house guard. “Look. I’m not safe here. I want to go into PC.”
    He guffawed. “We all got to start being a man some time. Just kick ‘em in the balls.”
    So I tried a different angle. “I want to die. I have a long history of suicide attempts. Of real attempts, not just half assed attempts.”
    “Aw come on,” he said. “Look at all you got to live for. You don’t need PC. Just don’t rock the boat. This is a system. The best of all possible worlds. Don’t screw it up.” He sighed. “ Level with me: How hard is it to collect dirty laundry? Do you know what will happen to you, what we will allow to happen to you, if you cop out on laundry detail? There was some guy here bout a year ago. He decided to fight it out, and by the end of a few days, they had him brushing his teeth with Clorox.”
    “I’ll shank myself.”
    “Good luck. Don’t hurt anyone else.”
    Later in the day, I woke up to find a pile of smelly undershirts and underwear and suits on my floor. I kicked them out into the hall. All the cons on the cube began to bellow, “Do your share, bitch! Do our laundry! You’re on laundry detail!”
    The meth dealer approached me. “Dude,” he said, “Use your head. If you don’t do it, they’ll break you in. it’s not worth it. Soon all the queens will be, “Why does he get off, and we don’t?”
    I walked out my cell and saw the Latino inmates bouncing around the hall. I had an idea that I did not think would work. I looked at the house guard. He was watching. He saluted me and laughed. I walked up to the smallest of the inmates, they guy had tattooed tear drops, and was about five-foot-one. I threw a round house that landed on his right temple. He went down and I backed away like ten feet. The inmates helped him to his feet and began to close in on me.
    “What’s the matter?” I screamed. “Is he that much of a pussy that he needs you to protect him? So he can’t defend himself?” That stopped them.
    The short guy pulled out a shank from his left sleeve and began to walk towards me. “Please stab me to death!” I yelped. “Don’t pussy out on me now! I’d be dead rather than wash your bacon stripped underwear! Please, I can’t take it here, I beg you to stab me!”
    “Shank him, Angelino,” one of his buddies yelled, patting him on the shoulder.
    “Please kill me!”
    He walked up to me.
    “Get him A!” One of his cohorts yelled.
    I screamed and danced all around the house. “Angelino is a punk! He’s a jailgirl! He’s just standing there! What are you afraid of?!”
    Finally the guard acted. He made his presence known. He pulled a Taser and ordered a block lock. Everyone walked into their cells and the doors shut and locked. I had agitated him. “Get in your cell,” he yelled at me. “You don’t need no boxes for the move. The PC crew will be here in a few hours.” So I thought I had escaped gen pop.
    Not yet. I had to wait for the escorts. What scared me was that they ended lockdown and the inmates were free to wander again. They made a beeline to my cell, which was locked, and told me, “You see this broom handle here? We’re going to pop your cell.” I’m sure the house guard saw, but let it happen. They kept fiddling with the lock, shoving in the broom handle. They shouted, “We are going to fuck you and send you home in a body bag!” Time just slowed down. Like a tape player losing battery power. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours. Praying would do no good. Day turned into night. “Where’s the fucking PC crew!” I screamed. The meth dealer walked by and shook his head. Finally two escorts came, handcuffed my wrists to my belt, and escorted me to PC, Protective Custody, Punk City.
    The cell was small, but it was like someone opened up a little sliver of heaven for me. I was safe, though there were minor drawbacks. It always smelled like shit, the toilets always stopped up, but the worst was at night. Whenever anyone flushed the toilets, it made a huge metallic roar, and woke the whole cube up. All day long the PC inmates would lie down on the floor, their feet to the door, and bang away against it all day, the act beautiful in its pointlessness and minimalism. I got ” too. It was like a primitive prayer.
Word got back that the guards who let the fifteen-year-old crack dealer die would not be in any type of trouble.
    After five days I was out. A life that includes short stints in jail was not for me. I found out from my court papers the address of the house that fucked me. I called Shelly. She picked me up and drove me to the house. I picked up my car and thought, “Covenant House! Covenant House! Covenant House! I don’t have much cash left!” So I checked up on them. It was made up of fifteen rooms with futons to roll out at night. There was a vending machine, but no real meals. If you wanted to use their laundry services you had to live there at least a week. If they catch you with tricks they expel you. Same with drugs. Daily church attendance was mandatory. And...I had read that the founder, Father Bruce Ritter, was A Number One against pornography. All pornography, according to him, Andrea Dworkin, Kitty Mackinnon, and Peter Bogdanovich, was rape. Hard-core, soft-core, gay, straight, Lesbian, water sports, B&D, S&M, Bukake, it was all evil.
    re a lousy lay. I can get me one of the strippers off The Strip. You are a cunt tease. Sorry kiddo, you can’t stay here. Can’t you run home to mommy and daddy?”
“Nope. Not with my job record.”
I drove across country with gas money from Shelly to Jackson, Tennes
    ee. I had been there in a loony bin, once:
    I drove across country with gas money from Shelly to Jackson, Tennessee. I had been there in a loony bin, once: Pathways. The city had a hell of a lot of churches, and they could put you up for the night on a sofa. Problem was, I found out that if they put you up for the night, they expected you to come in for services. Yawn. I hadn’t known that was the deal. Sometimes you could also go to them for gas money. The city wasn’t that big, it had a mall, two main streets, and a bus system. I worked with a counselor at Pathways to have my conviction nullified, cause once I got two more, it’s strike one, two, three, you’re outta here!
    I’d spend my time there at The Madison County Library. One day a patron approached me. My growling stomach annoyed the other readers. The patron looked mid-fifties, had a red beard that was tied in knots at its tip. He was really tan, and because he was bald on top, the exposed area of his scalp was tan too. He had horn rimmed glasses and spoke quietly but with a pent up rage, like a lion pacing its cage. He spoke in spondees, accenting every syllable. Much later, I came to see him as someone God granted a telescope to, but instead of pointing it to the stars and the planets, he turned it earthwards, and trained it on our planet, on us.
    ke praying to the Lord?”
“No, it’s a pain in the ass. But you got to put in an appearance if you want a place to sleep. It
    17;s one of the reasons I kept away from Covenant House in Vegas.”
“Sir, you must forgive my bluntness, but I preach in a church, and we teach a totally different approach t
    an the regular churches, one that I think you would appreciate. And we would be more than happy to welcome you to our fold. At least, I believe, you should give it a try.”
“Could you muster up gas money occasionally?”
“I’m sure we could muster up some gas mone
    . Be at 1305 Hollywood Street tonight at nine. We welcome
    you.”
“What type of religion is this? I don’t want to slit no goat’s throats.”
“You have
    to be there to take it all in. You’ll see when you get there. We’re called ‘Th
     Church of the Whistler,’ as in ‘Whistleblower.’ It’s in a church that caught fire about five years ago. We’ve held sermons there ever since. Oh, and bring a case of beer bottles, not cans. You okay with drinking?”
“You know it.”
At nine I showed up. The place reeked of charred wood. The fire had melted the colore
     glass into multicolored m
    At nine I showed up. The place reeked of charred wood. The fire had melted the colored glass into multicolored mush. Parts of the ceiling were caved in. Beams and girders had fallen across the violet pews. Rain and bad weather had desaturated and worn down the seats. Candles burned everywhere. I counted nine people there. All brought cases of beer bottles (I managed to collect from a church on Highland enough money for a case of Koch’s Beer. I said it was for food). A life-sized crucifix with a Jesus attached to it leaned on the wall behind the podium. Part of his head was gored out, his nose was gone, puncture marks covered his bony chest, shattered beer bottles littered the carpet around him.
    York introduced me all around. I cracked open a Kochs Beer, lounged on the pews with my legs spread, and the ceremony began. York walked up to the podium with a bottle of Coors, the candle light flickered in his face. I guess he spoke through a megaphone cause there was no electricity for a microphone. “Where to start. Hey Jesus. They say you healed the sick. My grandfather has abdominal cancer—yes, you’ve heard this before, I know—and he’s in tremendous pain, and he has to shout and pout to get pain meds. And you let it all happen. What a phony. You and your dad.” York cracked open his bottle of Coors, chugged it in one gulp, and like a baseball pitcher, wound up and hurled it at Christ. It exploded against the naked ribs, spraying glass everywhere. Applause rang. Cat calls. York took a seat.
    Amy walked up to the podium and picked up the megaphone. “Hey Jesus, we appear to have different priorities. You do not care that North Korea tortures the shit out of its citizens. It’s all over You Tube. They’re thrown in work camps and experimentation camps, like Camp 66. Children are stoned in front of their parents, and vice versa. JC, is this the way you treat your people?” she walked to the Christ, her boots squashing the broken glass like chimes, and hit Christ over the head with a full bottle of Miller Light. Then she sat down.
    No problem at all.” Reggie looked like a biker, with black l
    ather pants, a jean jacket, a baseball cap turned backwards, and he walked with a gut-first swagger. He grabbed the megaphone: “Oh Ye Holy Christ, why can I not keep a job? If you were a real savior, you would help me find employment.” He cleared his throat. The megaphone crackled.
“You are a whiney, slimy, phony piece of shit. ‘Oh Father,’ you blathered, ‘Forgive them
    “You are a whiney, slimy, phony piece of shit. ‘Oh Father,’ you blathered, ‘Forgive them. They know not what they do.’ Jesus, look at the reality shows. If someone is kicked off, or leaves, they go out with BANG!” he slammed the podium. “Here you, the son of God, go out like whimpey jackass. ‘Father why have you forsaken me!’ Puhlease.” He hit Christ across the face with a bottle of Boston Lager. Then he dropped the bottle and lost his temper and began to punch the ribs like a professional boxer, over and over, until he began to cry. He cracked a hole in its sternum. York had to walk up and calm him down and slowly escort him back to his seat.
    o me, “Hank! You’re up to bat!”
I walked up to the podium, a Kochs beer in one hand, and with the other I picked up the megaphone. “So Chr
    I walked up to the podium, a Kochs beer in one hand, and with the other I picked up the megaphone. “So Christ, those who practice iniquity get what they deserve, huh? In jail, I listened to a fifteen year old dealer die a slow, miserable, painful death, puking his guts out, while guards sat around and laughed. Later, during my stay there, word got to me no one would be in trouble for his death. He was a child. Just because he dealt crack, he did not deserve to die that death. Why, I ask you, did you let that happen? Here’s to you, Jesus. I chugged my bottle of Kochs until it was empty and bashed him with it in the crotch, denting it.
    family and me, Hank? You won’t have to pay for room and board. My wife can fix you up a good meal, and we have a computer room you can sleep in. We got sleeping bags.”
“That’d be great York. I’d really appreciate it.”
“We have a box of Playboys dated
    “That’d be great York. I’d really appreciate it.”
“We have a box of Playboys dated from 69 to 7
    . In 71 they went below the pubic line. Anyways, it’s the way we pray. You’re okay with that?”
    “Sure.”
    “The women have Playgirl.” He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “And finally, all this is on one condition. You come to our church twice a week.”
    “No problem. No problem at all.”

The Girl Next Door

    “I think I heard the thud when they cut his body down.” I hadn’t really, but I couldn’t help dishing out that scrap for Susan to sink her teeth into on the other end of the line. “Of course it’s weird,” I said. “Having it happen on the other side of my wall. I was probably home.” The living room around me was populated with gunky metal tubes, cratered where I had squeezed gobs out of them, and colored over canvases whose scenes seemed to fade further with each passing day they sat propped against my wall unviewed by the world. I didn’t even dare look at them for fear of what they’d become since yesterday. “Maybe I was painting. Maybe I could’ve stopped him.” There were more maybes, but the maybes could bury you.
    I plucked at a curl in my hair while outside my window college kids straggled by on the sidewalk dragging along in their ratty sweats, regretting their hangovers, and looking no better than the lost souls who climbed out of the alleyways in the morning and sought out the dumpsters behind restaurants to see where their next meal was coming from. These were the hope for tomorrow.
    Susan asked a question, but I went on with what I was saying. “I knew him a little. He came over here maybe a dozen times.” I went to the door and looked out the peephole. Nothing but a bubbled out section of empty hallway. “I never went over there. He gave me two hundred dollars on the first day we met. He saw me staring into my empty mailbox where my financial aid check should’ve been. I mean, two weeks into the semester, and I didn’t have any books, was down to a couple of boxes of rice in the cupboard. We started talking in the hall, and I was telling him about my parents so far away in New Zealand, how I couldn’t ask them for money because the currency exchange made it cost them double to send. That’s when he offered.” Another question. “No, I wasn’t hinting. I tried to refuse. I knew he couldn’t have much more money than I did, but he kept insisting, said it was hard enough not having family close by, without having to worry about money on top of it. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it. Maybe he did need it.”
    The phone cord was stretched as far as it would go. Back in high school, Jimmy Benson blew his head off with his father’s shotgun, did it inside his bedroom closet with a blanket wrapped around his head like he wanted to hold in the mess. Nobody had two words to say to Jimmy while he was clunking down the halls in overalls and boots still muddy from working on the farm, but after he was gone, everybody knew him, sharing stories about him from as far back as the third grade, some people claiming they saw it coming while others insisting he showed no indication, but everybody competing to be the one who knew him best of all.
    And here I was latching onto every last detail and shoving it at Susan who’d never even met him. Maybe this time I was that person who knew him best. “He used to write stories,” I said. “He was so clumsy when he talked to me, couldn’t put three words together without tripping over them, but his writing was different.”
    No sleep last night. I should’ve put on make-up this morning, but I hadn’t felt up to it. In the shadow of the mirror, my cheeks were cavernous black holes like overused ashtrays in a bingo hall, emptied of their butts but forever caked with the stubbed out ash of a million cigarettes. “He had a new story every time he popped over, always wanted me to read it, waited there while I did, leaning against the wall, never daring to sit down even when I insisted.
    “No, he didn’t write about it. There was one about a little kid who got mad at his parents because they wouldn’t let him go to a traveling carnival in town, so he ran away from home and got a job there helping cook corn dogs and cleaning off the cars when somebody got sick in one. He got to eat as much junk food and ride as many rides as he wanted. It was a funny story. At the end, the parents are driving around looking for him, and they see him riding away in the front of the Ferris wheel truck. They never caught up to him.”
    I could remember other stories, like the guy who ran his cheating girlfriend down with his car and waited for the other guy to leave for work, broke into his apartment, and propped her mangled corpse up onto the couch. He turned on the TV and poured her a soda from the fridge, even added ice, so she could be comfortable while she waited for her lover to get home. That’s where it ended. Susan would’ve feasted on that one, but suddenly I had to hold back.
    “I used to hear him talking over there, when I knew he was by himself. He just talked to himself as casually as you talk to the guy next to you in class.” I found the wall of my apartment, the wall I shared with him, and I fell back against it, couldn’t move. Susan hadn’t spoken for over a minute. I didn’t even know if she was still there, or if I was just spilling things to a dead line. “Last week, he came over looking like he hadn’t slept or showered in a week. He had a story for me to read, but it didn’t make any sense. I kept reading, tried to figure it out, but he was standing there, watching me. I couldn’t. I ended up handing it back to him, saying it was good, that I liked it. He went back to his place without saying anything. That was the last time-” The receiver dropped from my fingers and clattered against the wood floor, swiveling on the end of the unwinding cord. I left it.
    He used to always fumble around trying to find something in what I painted, some detail or image from each one that spoke something to him, not like the kids in my class who pretended that they knew everything about my work, made it all about declaring their own genius by identifying the transparency in what I’d I done. He just wanted to make me appreciate what I’d created, because he knew that it took more than saying it was good, more than saying you really liked it. Those were just kiss offs, coming from people who didn’t care enough to take the time to really consider it.
    The painting on the easel was almost finished after over a month working on it, putting it aside, and picking it up again. It was of a girl sitting down next to a freshly laid sidewalk and dragging an S with her fingers through the wet concrete. He had seen it when it was only three quarters done, had been the only one yet to see it, told me it reminded him of being young and not having to worry so much about messing up, or about what other people thought of you. In a couple days, I would take the painting to my art class where the others would tell me every stroke that was too heavy, too obvious, too vague, too tired, too scattered, or too much like the paint by numbers produced by assembly line hacks in the back room of the mall art store.
    There were other paintings in here that I hadn’t shared with anyone else. My family was too far away, and Susan was a biology major only interested in art if it involved nude models and finding out if they ever went hard while we drew them. Some of my paintings were just for him, like his stories were written only for me, the ones I had become tired of always being expected to read, wondering why he couldn’t ever just come over empty-handed.
    The vacancy on the other side sucked through the wall, and I could hear the crackle of the oils solidifying inside all the tubes scattered over the coffee table. The next time I squeezed one, it would produce nothing but rocks. I could see the color draining from all the canvases I’d painted over the past two years of going to school here. By tomorrow the entire collection would be nothing but a whole lot of empty space.
    I had hung up on Susan before getting to the point of the call. It was the money. I had received my financial aid check a couple days before and had the two hundred dollars tucked in a jar in my kitchen ready to give him the next time he came over. I should’ve delivered it, but had just never been to his place before, figured he’d come over sooner or later. Now what? I could find his parents at the funeral or when they came to clean out his apartment. Should I give it to them? Did I still owe him? Did it matter?

    He set the pencil and yellow pad onto the coffee table. It was enough for one day. He’d been at it for two straight hours now, most of the time not writing but deciding how far to go.
    He stared at the last question until the words became something heavy sinking down into a deep lake and melting away out of reach. The answer was the last thing to know. He could’ve written down something, could’ve finished it off any way he wanted, but he wasn’t sure.
    He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes as the knock came at the door. He stayed fixated on that last question. It took a second knock for him to move from his spot to open the door.
    She’d never come to his door before. “My financial aid check finally came.” The first time he had ever heard her speak, he had guessed Australian, but she had quickly informed him of the difference. “I’ll deposit it, and then I can pay you.”
    Her fingerprints were embedded with blue paint. She’d been at it today, probably putting the finishing touches on that little girl’s dress. “I told you it’s no rush,” he said. “I’m getting on okay.”
    She must’ve seen the legal pad on the coffee table, maybe could read from there what he’d written. Maybe he would’ve invited her in, would’ve let her read it the whole way through if she was so curious. Sure, had she only asked, but all she said was a quick thanks again, she really appreciated it, he’d really saved her; before telling him she had to get back to what she was working on, was burning candles too, didn’t want to burn the whole building down. One too many excuses.
    She went back into her apartment, leaving him standing there. Before closing the door, he looked over her shoulder at the section of wallpaper in the hallway, the vine pattern vanishing from the sun shining on it all day through the front window. Soon all the color would be gone, and there was nothing anybody could do to stop it.

Joseph Kraus Bio

    Joseph Kraus earned a Bachelor of Arts from the University of Illinois in both Rhetoric and English literature. He graduated from the University of New Hampshire with a Masters of Arts in fiction writing where he was awarded both the Elizabeth Jones Scholarship and the Dick Shea Memorial Prize for his writing. He currently teachs creative writing and English at Portsmouth High School as well as teach an adult creative writing class.

The Heinous Penis Prescriptions

    Norman Vincent Schlemiel entered the drug store joining the buzzing, serpentine line slithering its way to the pharmacist. “I can’t believe this,” he mused. “How could this happen to me. Driven to such desperate straits over something so natural.” He paused for a moment. “Great! Wouldn’t you know it. Everyone in town’s here. Customers fore and aft. He cringed at the thought that some of his alpha neighbors would catch him in flagrante making such a purchase. “I’ll become a laughing stock.” And he did.
    Two teeners ahead of Norman brought him out of a troubled reverie.
    “Aren’t those sex ads in magazines and TV a hoot?” Edna exclaimed loudly to her buddy Crystal. She paused dramatically: “A look. A glance. A gesture. A sigh. Don’t let this precious moment pass you by. Oh yuck!”
    “They’re not exactly sex ads Edna. More than half of all men over 40 have some degree of erectile dysfunction. ED to us.”
    “ED! You mean they’re players with short bats,” Edna replied. “Not our problem. Were not dating 40 year old dudes.”
    “This is awful,” Norman said to himself. “I don’t need this now.”
    Crystal warmed to the task. “ED’s where the penis doesn’t fill with enough blood to produce an erection to do the deed. Some medications help increase blood flow to the penis providing an erection satisfactory for sexual activity.”
    “Serves these dudes right,” Crystal responded. “Been brow beating us with penis envy ever since.”
    Norman vainly wished for the teeners to go away. Disappear. “How do these kids know this stuff? Wasn’t that way years ago when they couldn’t even recognize a condom.” Norman suffered a momentary hot flash recalling a youthful Christmas drama festival.
    “The good news,” Crystal opined, “is that some form of sexual stimulation is needed for an erection to occur.”
    “That’s pretty hard Crystal,” Edna replied with an unintended play on words.
    “Be still my beating heart! We’re still players in the game,” Crystal fired back.
    By this time Norman was seriously considering leaving the pharmacy. Fortunately the girls stopped talking as they reached the pharmacist. Handing over their prescriptions they couldn’t wait to continue twittering. When their prescriptions were filled, they moved off to the side of the buzzing line.
    Norman finally came to the head of the line. The pharmacist Hector Cannabis boomed: “What can I do for you today Mr. Schlemiel?”
    Norman didn’t appreciate this extra attention. Still he depended heavily on Mr. Cannabis’s discretion for the days mission. Today was Norman’s and Sandra’s 20^th wedding anniversary.
    No one could fault Sandra’s get up and go. On the other hand Norman’s get up and go, had gone out and went, if there was ever any to be had. Sandra had been over heard saying: “Norman ain’t what he used to be.” In fact Norman had never been what he used to be except in his own mind. “Had to do some thing to make things right. He recalled that old saying: “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that zing.” Surely Sandy was looking for that zing.
    “Mr. Cannabis,” Norman softly addressed him. “Could we keep this down a bit. I feel kind of funny discussing this situation in front of strangers,” pointing to the terrible teeners and others behind him.
    “Certainly Mr. Schlemiel,” Hector softened his tone. “No one’s business but ours. What seems to be the trouble?”
    Plagued by a life time of embarrassing situations Norman managed to muster his resolve. “Last night Mrs. Schlemiel and I celebrated our 20^th wedding anniversary.”
    “Why that’s wonderful,” Hector effusively exclaimed. “Congratulations Mr. Schlemiel. An admirable and remarkable milestone on the challenging journey of life.”
    Norman was uncomfortable with Hector’s unsolicited praise because the anniversary hadn’t produced any notable high notes. “I couldn’t please Mrs. Schiemel the way I’d like to.”
    “Ah yes! Mr. Schiemiel. I’m sure we can put our fingers on the problem. Not to worry. More common than people realize or acknowledge. Sounds like. ED. Yes. Let me assure you, I’ll do anything I can to get you discretely through this medical challenge. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Norman was heartened to hear Hector’s reassurance about privacy.
    “Medical science is working for you, doing all it can supporting safe and sane sex,” Hector affirmed. The latter paused a moment. “Perhaps you’re trying too hard.
    Maybe a little Mary Jane might put both of you in a more relaxed and conducive mood.”
    “I thought you needed a doctor’s prescription to use that stuff for medical purposes,” Norman surprisingly rebutted.
     “I’m almost a doctor,” Hector confidently exclaimed. “I know more about drugs than they do. And this is a medical purpose. Your own peace of mind.”
    “But isn’t it against our state law?”
    “It will soon be legal,” Hector quickly reassured Norman. “It’s presently going through the state’s judiciary system.” Hector was blowing more than blow here. “Still several medications come to mind. But there are some matters we should discuss.”
    Some how Edna and Crystal overheard Hector’s comments which served as chum for their attention. Norman sensed the pressure of people behind him pushing up more closely to hear what Mr. Cannabis was going to say. He nearly dropped his teeth when he recognized Ms. Ana Conda and Ms. Schutz Staffel. “In all the pharmacies in all the land how could this be,” he lamented to himself. “What’s the probability that these two nemeses from the past would be in the same drug store in the same line and time as I was.”
    “Mr. Schlemiel these medications can not be purchased over the counter but require a physician’s prescription.” This from a guy who earlier was illegally pushing Mary Jane.
    Norman was unaware of this but wasn’t surprised. Nothing about this emerging nightmare was going to be easy. Bile gathered in his throat. He barely refrained from vomiting.
    Cannabis continued. “These medications do not cure ED. Nor are they hormones or aphrodisiacs.”
    “What’s an aphrodisiac?” Edna asked Crystal drawing more attention than Norman liked.
    “A drug or agent that heightens sexual desire,” the latter loudly replied.
    “How do these kids know this stuff,” Norman mused. “We barely managed to convince them to play spin the bottle.”
    “Ah! Mr. Schlemiel. Can I have your attention. A few more things you should know.”
    “Sorry Mr. Cannabis. I’m a little distracted with how things are going here.”
    “Ana. Can you believe this?” Ms. Staffel queried. “Norman Vincent Schiemiel’s in line ahead of us. Unless I misheard, he’s been diagnosed for ED and is seeking medication for his condition.”
    “Oh Schutz this is too good to be true. That dirty little boy became a dirty middle aged man. His poor wife. Imagine having your husband going to a druggist begging publicly for help with failure to perform. Serves him right. I’ll never forgive him for what he did at that Christmas drama festival.”
    “Give it up Ana. That was more than 20 years ago. Let’s enjoy today’s show care of Mr. Norman Schlemiel.” Ana reluctantly yielded to her friend’s admonition.
    “In some instances Mr. Schlemiel your physician may tell you not to engage in sexual activity because of other health related problems.” Hector was really enjoying this. “If this is the case, then these medications can not be prescribed.”
    “I don’t have other health problems,” Norman firmly asserted. “No reason why I can’t benefit from these medications.”
    Not so quietly Ana said to Schutz. “I’ll bet Sandra Schlemiel thinks so too.”
    “As if his name isn’t bad enough. She’s probably keeping her fingers crossed so that something can be done about her husband’s lame performances.”
    “You’re really bagging on old Norman here,” Schutz responded “No slack for that wicked boy.”
    “Edna did you hear what those two ladies said about Mr. Schlemiel? Must be some kind of history between these folks. Kind of hard imagining these dudes getting it on having a good time.”
    “God! I’m coming down with one of my legendary Exedrin headaches thinking about growing old as they are,” Crystal offered.
    “Mr. Schlemiel we have to address side effects from these medications,” Hector continued.
    “Side effects,” he gulped. “No one told me there’d be side effects. What kinds of side effects are we talking about here?”
    “With Cialis you may incur headache, indigestion, back pain, muscle aches, flushing and stuffy or runny nose.”
    “Well that doesn’t sound so bad,” Norman gamely allowed. “I can handle those.”
    “However, for completeness sake I’m obliged to caution you about allergic reactions,” Hector finished.
    “Allergic reactions like what?” Norman uncharacteristically challenged.
    “Rash, hives, swelling of the lips, tongue or throat, breathing or swallowing.”
    “Well I’ve always heard that the next breath you take is the most important one.”
    Cannabis looked at Norman with some concern. This non-sequitur almost stopped him in his tracks. “The ones I cited are possible side effects,” Hector hastened to inform Norman. “There’s a whole host of uncommon but serious side effects.”
    “Serious side effects. You did say serious?”
    “Yes indeed,” Hector calmly offered since he wasn’t the one considering the medications.
    “Just what-serious-side-effects-would that be?” Norman firmly asked.
    “A sudden decrease or loss of vision or hearing, sometimes with ringing in the ears and dizziness.”
    “Cialis doesn’t seem to be the right fit for me. Do you have anything else which might do the job?’
    “Oh! Silly me of course Viagra.”
    “That’s the one they advertise with two people sitting naked side by side in their own bath tub.”
    “The very same,” Hector confirmed.
    “Kind of a strange setting of togetherness if you ask me,” Norman opined. “So anything I should know about Viagra?”
    “Common side effects are headache, feeling flushed, upset stomach, blurred vision, eyes more sensitive to light, sudden decrease or loss of hearing.”
    “Mr. Cannibis the list of side effects for Viagra sounds very similar to Cialis.”
    “Now that you mention it. Yes they do. Don’t they though.”
    Norman’s confidence with his druggist was flagging. “Let me get this straight. In order to correct and manage ED there are two medications I can choose from. Cialis and Viagra. But the side effects for both are very similar and down right serious with loss of vision or hearing. Frankly Mr. Cannabis this is not very encouraging. The cure’s worse than the disease. Would you risk these side effects?”
    “Well Mr. Schlemiel. You’re not me,” Hector smugly said. “I don’t have trouble in this area, if you know what I mean. The decision’s entirely yours. Balls in your court. Oops! Bad metaphor. Either a lifetime of frustrating ED or experiencing some potential mild discomfort associated with either medication.”
    “One side effect I omitted to cite is that having an erection lasting more than four hours could lead to long-term loss of potency.” To himself. “Schlemiel’s probably
    lucky to last four good minutes. Annual trips to Lourdes wouldn’t help him.”
    “You think swelling of the throat, breathing or swallowing is mild discomfort? Sounds life threatening to me.”
    “No one said anything about life threatening side effects associated with these medications. I’m sure Mrs. Schlemiel would appreciate your consideration here.”
    Ana Conda had been hovering over this exchange. “Schutz this is better than the soaps.” “Will Norman Schlemiel take the ED treatment and rush home to passionately pleasure his wife or will he elect to decline the magic pill, finding peace with the world and himself in a celibate life?”
    “Ana you’re scaring me,” Schutz seriously stated. “You know. I think you’ve got a thing about Schlemiel. You never got over that Trojan incident.” Ana just glared back at Staffel.
    Edna turned to Crystal. “Did you hear what that lady just said to her friend?’
    “Yeah. Something about a giant Trojan,” Crystal said. “Maybe this ED business is more serious than we thought. Anyway. Don’t really care about Mr. Schlemiel’s ED problem or possible deformed penis. I’m more concerned about Mrs. Schlemiel who’s stuck with her limp wrist husband.”
    Crystal grinned mischievously. “I know. She should go on one of those adult fantasy cruise lines. That’s where passengers assume the roles of famous people living out their fantasies. I hear the Italian and Greek Euro-tours are the hottest ones with nymphs and satyrs, gods and goddesses running amuck.”
    “Better reconsider the Italian line. Their GPS systems don’t work so well. And stay away from the Carefree Cruise Line. Their toilets don’t work well either.
    “Still some cordial, lively male companionship might perk Mrs. S. up,” Crystal persisted. “Then if Mr. S. fails to perform. Dump him.”
    “Cold Crystal. Cold.”
    The cacophony of conversations about his ED swarmed around Schlemiel. Images of talking heads – Cannabis, Conda, Crystal, Edna, and Staffel, flashed in front of him. Never in his wildest dreams had he anticipated a day like this exclusively featuring his inability to have an erection. The sins of the father visited on the son. He mused. “Who in their right mind would trade a whole host of side effects and some uncommon serious ones for a few moments of bliss? If I had known now what I’ve learned about ED, I’d spared myself this unholy odyssey. Wonder what Sandy’s going to make of all this?”

Jesoo, King of the Jews

    Jesoo, King of the Jews, hears the news that Syria is about to explode & be another Iraq, not that Iraq has stopped being Iraq/ after our surge to solve all problems there’s been more sectarian violence than ever with Sunnis killing Shihas & Shihas killing Sunnis, Assad of Syria has just immolated hundreds of his own people in an act unparallelled since Hitler to get the upper hand on Syria’s rebels. The American people don’t want another military fiasco like we’ve just experienced in Iraq & Afghanistan. Let the Syrians get out of their own drec, & Ragmop is curled in front of the tv watching a football game as I drink my chocolate milk contemplating the tire around my middle.
    “Ragmop, the world is going to Hell.”
    “The world’s been in Hell, Fred, since its inception.”
    “But it’s worse.”
    “U’d rather have a flood with Noah shoving animals in an ark?”
    “Yes.”
    “To each his own, Fred. The Bears are losing to Detroit, & all U care about is another carnage in the East & a flood.”
    “& the fact that U’ve eaten most of the pizza, Ragmop.”
    “Well, I need it more, Fred, even if U bought it. Thanks for the anchovies. Has Cutler thrown another interception while I was reaching for another piece?”
    “That’s all the piece we’re gonna get, Ragmop.”
    Jesoo wearily rises from against the wailing wall & climbs back onto the cross, cause who gives a shit?

Ragmop carries a bag of heads into the manger

    Ragmop carries a bag of heads into the manger & finds Jesoo all grown up, with a yellow beard down to his bellybutton.
    “I’m glad to see U’ve outgrown yr little bed, Jesoo. U might consider shaving yr yellow beard. They could make another shroud of Turin, but a yellow one.”
    “Good to see U, Ragmop. The last time U were carrying a bag of nails.”
    “& U the cross.”
    “Saladin arrived just in time before they crucified me. They were actually going to nail my hands & feet to that silly cross & leave me there in the hot sun. Saladin lifted me onto the back of my horse & spirited me away. I became a small time businessman in India, selling India ink for a ridiculous price, gouging the muslims. They damn near put me in the coliseum with the lions.”
    “In India?”
    “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
    “So U became a sleazy capitalist.”
    “Is there another kind of capitalist?”
    “That’s a long way from ‘Love thy neighbor like thyself’.”
    “Well, I had to grow up someday.”
    “They started a cult around yr name. They call it Christianity.”
    “Tell them to watch their back.”

the river of gore

    The river of gore breaks from my nostrils in two streams of filth & redemption. I drink the filth & am redeemed to die slowly, miserably from ecclesiastical joy & horror. All my pores are screaming thru the strains of the holy choir spitting blood over the congregation of sadists & fools, tearing their flesh off to bare their shattering bones. Their hearts are shit out in howling pieces into the cups of virgins who quaff it down. Their pores squirt diarrheas of guilt & shame into the mouths of their foul mamas, as their dad’s fuck the maids in the outhouse feculence. The devil Himself looks down with satisfaction & regurgitates over everything while fornicating with the placentas of the newborn.
    “Ragmop, stop!”
    “Stop what, Fred?”
    “Stop playing this horrible game.”
    “But it’s nothing but the truth, so help me God!”
    “Ragmop, the world can’t accept the truth. It’s far too horrible, like watching your mother raped & torn apart in front of your eyes.”
    “What’s wrong with that, Fred?”
    “The very fact that you ask, Ragmop, is proof that U don’t belong on the face of the earth.”
    “But who does, Fred?”
    “Nobody, Ragmop, it’s all too painful. See that giant, red rose growing out of the garbage can?”
    “Yes, I do, Fred.”
    “& you see the drops clinging to her petals?.”
    “Yes, Fred, I do.”
    “Those are tears, Ragmop.”
    “Why is she crying, Fred?”
    “Because God is pissing on her head while filling the garbage can with human virtue.”

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

    Our son came home with a split lip and a shiner today, Chere, and I almost lost it. He walked in, dopey grin and all, lip practically cleft, drooling blood, and it was all I could do not to go on a rampage.
    I asked him what happened: some kid had pushed him down the slide. Had themselves a good, old-fashioned punch-up. The other kid landed a hit on him, and old Chip bit him. Even drew a fair amount of blood. Honestly, I’m expecting a knock on the door; your boy’s got a set of gnashers on him that’ll go the distance. There must have been blood and snot everywhere. God, Chere, they’re only four. Where could they have learned something like that? I never thought I’d say it, but that Kindergarten is a friggin’ moral cesspool. I had a bad feeling about enrolling him there, you’ll remember, but this exceeds anything I could have ever imagined. How do I know this other kid won’t show up tomorrow with a shiv? Or make a run at him with the safety scissors?
    Do you know what else? I cleaned him up and put some Neosporin on his lip, and not once did he cry. He just kept on trucking. Smiling. Even sang a little. The kid’s face looked like a ruptured sausage. I can only imagine what it must have felt like. Do you see why I always call him Chipper?
    But seriously. What’s the code on protecting your kid’s honor these days? I know some people just shrug and say unhelpful things like, “boys will be boys,” but Chere... I feel like I’ve got to do something. Confront the kid and quietly threaten to force-feed him dog shit. Berate his dad, ask him what the hell kind of hooligan he’s raising. I can’t just let this happen to our son, can I? I want him to know that this is not ok. But then again, I’ve seen the other kid’s dad. He looks like he discusses things with his fists. What if I go over there and the dad wants to have it out with me? What then? What will I have taught our son? That it’s ok to tuck tail and run? Because, though I am clearly a coward, I am no fool; the man could rearrange my face.
    I worry. You know that I worry. And I hate being given more reasons to worry. The kid’s in kindergarten, for God’s sake. He hasn’t even gotten to the nasty bits yet- the insecurity of middle school, or even the humiliation of an authentic high school experience. I worry that I can’t do this. That I don’t have it in me. The consoling, the talks. The talk! How will I have that conversation with him? That’ll be good and awkward. How do I talk to him about controlling his hormones, because if they’re anything like mine were, this kid’s going to have a miserable teenage existence? What about the importance of being the bigger person in a conflict? Who will speak to him of the perils of strippers and mango-scented infections? How do I impress upon him that his body is not a waste receptacle? Or initiate the conversation about drugs? Let’s face it, I’m no great authority on the subject. I can’t tell the kid the difference between smoking pot and shooting heroin. And I certainly can’t tell him why bad things happen to good people. I’m not ready, Chere. I’m just not ready.
    What else is new? The washing machine has survived Chip’s most recent attempt at doing the laundry. I have it on good authority (the Maytag man) that it will live. (Have I told you this already?) Chip, in a characteristic fit of good intentions, decided to do his part around the house a few days ago; he loaded up the washing machine with God-only-knows-what, and filled the soap dispenser with Meow Mix. The Long Program. I’m still picking kibble out of the kid’s socks. The cat, fat bastard, has caught on, and trails Chip around the house like a bad odor as he is getting dressed in the morning, daintily picking up whatever Chip shakes out of his pockets, socks, and mittens. I guess the pasty-soft kibble is easy on the cat’s teeth. Who knows? You know how I feel about that thing.
    Your parents took Chip to church yesterday; said church can be a great comfort. At what point do you think they’ll stop asking me to come, too? They’re great people, Chere, they really are. But they look old, like they, too, are not long for this world. Haggard. Defeated. Like people moving to a massive city seeking proximity to others, and then feeling spectacularly isolated. But I let Chip go. He likes it. Even came home with a happy-clappy Jesus coloring book and homework from bible class. Homework, Chere.
    Also. At long last: After years of dropping hints and threatening action, the neighbors have finally offered to set me up with their hideous, bedraggled relations. I try to explain that I am not interested, that you were all I ever wanted and needed, and they pretend to sympathize, tell me for the umpteenth time how sorry they are. It’s been three years, Chere, and random well-wishers still come up to me and stammer their awkward, inadequate condolences. Hell, some even try to tell me that they understand my loss. Their condolences be damned. They will never, NEVER understand my loss. And setting me up on a date with their dull-witted, one-eyed cousins isn’t doing anyone, least of all their cousins, a favor. You should have heard the description Jean gave me of her “favorite” niece (you remember Jean, don’t you? Three doors to the left, lots of birds, raggedy yard.): Sweet girl, has some good years left in her, never found the right man, cooks well. Meaning: a horse-faced girl with a harelip, 60 extra pounds, and a personality disorder. My God, Chere. They know no bounds.
    So while your parents pretend to have church as a comfort, I am far more honest with myself; I have none. Don’t get me wrong: I adore Chip. I can’t imagine my life without him. No, let me rephrase that: I don’t want to imagine my life without him. But he, in all his brave, 4 year-old glory, is a sorry replacement for you. For our life together. For the future we had planned together. My heart breaks 33,000 times a day when I look at him and see your smile, slightly lopsided, crammed full of teeth, your curious gold-speckled eyes staring back at me, when he sings a song that you used to love, always perfectly on pitch and in that sweet, ball-cracking little voice of his. And I fall in love with him just as many times a day for the exact same reasons. Love is a surgeon, Chere. It’ll cut your heart out in one masterful stroke and then suture it back in with gorgeous, invisible stitches. I’m always on edge, waiting for the next strike. I can’t take it.
    So, I’ve had better weeks, for sure. I wouldn’t exactly say that I’ve been throbbing with bonhomie lately, but Chip has been a help. Especially this week. He’s kept me on my toes. Just when I’m ready to lose myself in grief, he’ll pull a stunt so ridiculous that it distracts me from my thoughts. He’ll water my shoes, shave the cat, wash his hair with peanut butter, hide a package of ground beef in the hamper and forget about it for a few days, go streaking through the neighborhood on his tricycle... God, that kid. He enjoys being naked in public entirely too much. Is that a jab at my parenting? Is he destined to become a perv? What will your parents think of me then? That would give them permission to finally say out loud what they have been thinking for the past three years. That I’m failing. At parenting. At living. At pretty much everything. And they won’t hear any disagreement from me.
    So besides reporting the facts on Chip’s black eye and trying to imagine a smile on your face, now I’m back to the question that I ask myself every morning when I realize that I have no option but to face the day and kick the cat off the bed: What’s the point? Chip? Yes. But otherwise? I spend every day waiting to get home so that I can park Chip in front of the TV, walk into our room, and fall apart. I have no desire to be part of the mad throng of people determined to live life on their own terms. My terms went ignored, my prayers unanswered. This, of course, is not a conversation I care to have with your parents. One whiff of this little nugget of blasphemy, and I’ll get packed off to church with them and lectured by their pastor, who, coincidentally, hasn’t changed in all his eons there. Chip does an impression of him, marching up and down the hall like a self-righteous, emotionless yuck that has me laughing so hard I have to beg him to stop. Which only makes him march a little straighter and step a little higher. The kid is a clown. The poor guy doesn’t see me laughing enough, so I guess he feels he’s really gotta ham it up once he finally gets me going.
    All of this to say: Come back. Come back and visit me in my dreams like you used to. I used to see you nightly. Remember how we would sit on the swings out back and just talk like nothing had happened? Talk about random shit as if any of it mattered? You’d ask me to cook dinner, I’d balk; we’d discuss our finances; sometimes we would make love? Where did you go, Chere? The days were never good without you, but at least I had my nights. God, don’t go. I’m doing my best with Chip, I really am. But I don’t know how I’ll cope if I have to go it alone.

    Mandela died. His life, to me, represents such a strong pull towards origins. An original life. A life that - with whatever relativity or ignominy you want to paint the man - re-membered us all on a more original level, and therefore the (wrong) tendency to turn him into a semi-god. Fortunately Mandela is fully historic - autobiography included - so that there is enough to keep his character humanly grounded. At the same time, his story and person simply managed to transcend so much of our normal pettiness and divisions.
    Look “Khoisan” up in Metapedia and you’ll see Mandela referred to as carrying genes of this oldest human culture. In South Africa, we know the Khoisan descendants as “coloureds,” who interbred to quite an extent with Mandela’s ethnic nation - the Xhosa (amongst others). It is no chance that he (and his features) then carry both the emotive spark of this closest group to the original modern humans, as well as the cerebral strength and pride of the cattle-cultured Xhosa, besides of course all the other more specific aspects that formed the man.
    Mandela’s death, to me at least, calls forth the question of origins in a time when our collective future is at stake. The times for glorifying (our) origins in terms of some counter-natural impressive event or perfect act is over. That belongs to the era where each isolated clan vied to declare itself the best and the most original. What made Mandela great, was no godliness, but his ability to recognize his own (and others’) human smallness. What caused him to have such a lasting impact, was not one heroic deed or a miraculous feat. No, it was a long walk, evolving step by step, and an acute awareness that the value of the individual cannot be de-linked from the collaboration of the collective.
    His example challenges us to engage more deeply with our origins, to find in them the pain of trial and error (no big bang), the insecurity of an open future (no grand design) and especially the meeting point of a complex of strains and tendencies. It is this awareness and understanding that feeds the kind of transcendence Mandela was capable of. It is this kind of origin-ality that brings the individual in balance with the whole and can produce results beyond our fears and narrow imaginations.
    Mandela’s life has ended. Fortunately, he was just another human, so we can truly be inspired by it. For we too, are human. And we are the ones still alive.
    A meaningful 2014 to you all!

— Francois Le Roux

Coming to Peace after so much Distrust
Letter to the U.S. President about ’s distrust of their own government

    Hello there from one of the citizens of this great country (actually, I lived in the greater Chicago area before you started any career there, even before you went to Harvard; after you married Michelle you could find me in Andersonville and then Logan Square as you started your political career in Chicago — I only hung out in your stomping grounds of Hyde Park when you were an associate at the civil rights litigation and neighborhood economic development firm).
    Sorry, I wanted to try to touch base with you, to connect with you, because I’ve noticed that the biggest problem the federal government is now facing is that people who may seem different don’t try to find something in common first, to try to get along.
    Because you see, I had to write this letter to you today after I watched the news today and learned of the once President of South Africa’s Nelson Mandela passing away, I thought about politics, and I thought I would write to you... and this is what made me want to write about the political issues the U.S. is having now.
    People in your cabinet probably let you know of polls to get an idea of how people may be feeling here about politics (a part of me really gets the impression you are concerned with what people think of you, since you seemed to pull so many people in on your first Presidential election). As I said, I don’t know how often you notice U.S. polls, because whether or not it effects you, every news station really salivates over getting polls to guess how the people are thinking), but some poll companies are huge, and I’m sure you’re heard of them... But polls have been around since the Depression, I think, and they have been credible as a research company for just as many years. A recent Gallup poll wanted to find out what the most pressing issue was to Americans about their country. Now, the number one issue that bothered Americans the most right now was not about problems with the economy or lack of jobs (what I really assumed it would be), but the #1 issue was of the American people’s general mistrust of the U.S. Government. (Because I’m always the one to cite my sources, I even read about it in their article “Dysfunctional Gov’t Surpasses Economy as Top U.S. Problem”, with a poll showing it as the highest percentage citing dysfunctional government in history.)
    After the economy tanked in 2008, the economy was the biggest concern to American people (the stock market may go up, but that doesn’t really matter when the value of the U.S. dollar is so low), and jobs were always an issue (I haven’t held a full time job in years, and big companies don’t want to pay the exorbitant taxes from our government, so they ship their production to other countries, giving us fewer job to pay for any goods and services)... But the thing is, toward the end of 2013, what concerned Americans the most changed. The government shutdown and the debate over raising the debt ceiling (plus efforts and fights to raise the minimum wage) have focused Americans on issues — and problems — with their own government.
    This boils down to American’s views of government in general as well as government leaders and political parties. The vitriol and venom in the constant two party battles has grown even more violently in recent years. There are far right groups that still try to say that you as President aren’t even a citizen (the people called by the god-awful name of “birthers”). Some people actually believe that you, as our current President, are a practicing Muslim. (I know your father was one, so someone tell me the definitive answer on whether that forces his son to be one).
    And I’m sorry, but at the same time, the amount of left-swinging you as President has done has scared the life out of more than the conservative party — Obamacare even has only a minority of Democrats interested in enrolling in government health care. And speaking of polls, a new poll is showing that more uninsured Americans are rejecting Obamacare. Polls show that more than half of those 18 to 29 years olds (probably the same who rallied to get you into office twice) say they disapprove of Obamacare. (And I know you really need those young people to start paying those higher costs into the system, to help pay for older people wanting American medications and surgeries to help them live longer and longer than any previous generation.)
    You know, I seem to be on a poll thing in this letter, so I’m going to keep going with that idea... Because, when it comes to Rasmussen polls, Rasmussen even reported in December that “a majority of voters continue to believe the health care system will get worse under the new law”. A List of Rasmussen articles I found had titles like “55% Favor Repeal of Obamacare”, “48% Rate Obama Poorly on Economy”, and “61% Expect Health Care Costs to Go Up Under Obamacare”.
    So yeah, when it comes to political parties in the , both sides have issues with both sides. And when it comes to that “distrust of government” poll, the percentage of Americans mentioning government leadership as the nation’s top problem has doubled. Americans seeing the dysfunction in their government is at a record high. You may be focusing on many difficult global and national issues every day, but all that us Americans see now is that political leaders focus on narrow issues with hip-sounding talking points to avoid discussing issues that may actually help the nation. Politicians as a rule are continually posturing for position (so that they won’t lose their precious jobs in the next election, since the executive branch is the only branch of our government with term limits). So each side says inanities, hoping the other side will “cave in” and succumb to the other side’s will (which never happens).
    Now, I know we had a government shutdown during the Clinton years in the 1990s (I know how you love to have President Bill Clinton rally go get more Americans to support your platforms), and yeah, “dysfunctional government syndrome” was on the rise in the Clinton years too, but only about half as much as it is now.
    It seems that the branches of our government are in a constant state of battling to keep their own power in office, so they refuse to listen to the other side — and they don’t consider the country’s needs as a whole. Who suffers for this? We do, the people who voted them into office in the first place.
    If this distrust of the government has grown from its own citizens, some wonder that maybe Americans now are focusing more on problems with the process in government itself, I don’t know. The thing is, I’m not sure if showing distrust for your own government will make any difference in how the government works now. For the most part, all us Americans seem to show Congress or the Senate is that vague malaise (which is often all anyone shows now because nobody makes a concerted effort for change). Because of this, the process — and the dysfunctionality of the government — will remain the same — and continue to escalate into something worse.

    Mr. President, I do not mean to sound pushy when I write this to you. I wrote this letter to you hours after the newspapers reported that Nelson Mandela passed away. Although committed to non-violent protest in his fight against Apartheid, he was in a battle with other violent protesters, and he was sentenced to life imprisonment for it. It took international lobbying groups years to get his release, and he was released after 27 years in prison in 1990.
    I know you know these things, I know you spoke on television to the United States about Mandela’s passing, and I know you attended ceremonies for him (nice that you did a selfie there too; people can rip on you for seeming un-Presidential of not in mourning enough, but this was supposed to be a joyous time to remember Mandela, and it was good to remain friendly and think of good at a time like this). But the thing is, I know you know of these details I’m bringing up here, but in light of how this government is behaving now, I think it is necessary to point these thing out.
    Consider Nelson Mandela’s life then... After his assistance with the ending of Apartheid a few years after he was released, Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa. I think very shortly after he became president, he met with people who supported Apartheid — people he should hold the most violent grudge against — but he was a man of forgiveness. He even oversaw the formation of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to investigate crimes committed under apartheid, in order to, as he put it, “move away from the past to concentrate on the present and the future.”
    This is exactly what he had to do, to help get South Africa back on its feet. With a third of the population illiterate and unemployed (and nearly half the nation living below the poverty line), along with depleted government financial reserves, he made liberal changes to help people and restore the land. And although this non-violent man may have been soft against fighting the high crime, he didn’t plan on serving a second term, and retired — where he ended up creating his foundation to combat HIV/AIDS, help rural development and construct schools.
    I know you’ve studied him over the years, and I’m sure you could tell me more than any regular Joe in the States here knew about his life. (As a rule, most Americans know one language and live in a bubble of ignorance, right?) But I’m forced to reflect on his life today, this man of non-violence, this man who forgave, and this man who was able to persevere, and get some things done in a failing government. I’m sure you could say there are a lot of things that you think need to change in the U.S. government, but all I can think to say to people in our government now is that... Well, we may never find a man in our lifetimes with the forgiveness and internal strength of Nelson Mandela. But maybe we could learn from him, and know that getting along and understanding may lead to the greatest changes in our lives, as well as in our country, and our world.

— Janet Kuypers

Tea and Sympathy

    A significant erosion of public trust in the federal government has occurred in the last couple of years. This was reflected in a September 2013 Gallup Poll. The same anticipated greater dissonance if federal debates continued to generate heated and irreconcilable differences.
    Ensuing debates in October ran to form producing a government shutdown. The largest gridlock since 1996 during the Clinton Administration. Accordingly an October 2013 Gallup Poll indicated that the public considered problems with the process more important than a variety of hot topics (unemployment, tax reform. debt ceiling, Obamacare, Syria ...)
    As expected the party in the White House expressed a higher degree of frustration (36%) moving their agenda compared to the minority (23%). If the republicans were in the White House, the positions would’ve been reversed. The upshot of these disagreements has convinced the nation (democrats, republicans, independents) that its federal representatives have produced a dysfunctional condition struggling to attend to the business they were elected for. Future disagreements may even produce additional shut downs.
    The Gallup Polls are named after George Horace Gallup who initiated this practice in 1935. Because this poll is the longest continuous measure of public opinion it has considerable currency. These polls have been cited and applied to political issues ever since their origin.
    It is highly probable that if one’s opinion reflects the sense of a Gallup Poll, one would hasten to cite it to support their view. Conversely if one’s view does not reflect the poll, one might ignore the result or dismiss it as unscientific and unresponsive to their opinion. The September 2013 and October 2013 polls were based on 1028 and 1510 adult telephone interviews, respectively.
    The number (N) of experiments or measurements in a scientific study are near and dear to a scientist’s heart. A large N is always coveted. One should be wary of selling their soul or conviction to a Gallup Poll. Polls do not provide an infallible index. For example, in the 2012 election based on a Gallup Poll, 75% of the people favored Romney’s presentation over Obama’s in their first debate. Republicans were elated anticipating further success and his eventual elevation to the presidency. Multiple sources of information including polls like the Gallup should be marshaled for more accurate predictions
    At what age do we learn the importance of compromise in our lives? While allowing drawing a line in the sand for a few absolutes, human interaction would be effectively throttled without reciprocity.
    President Obama’s concept of compromise is waiting for the opposing party to accommodate his agenda without any accommodations. Senator Harry Reid is his chief spokesman hewing to the party line. Congressman John Boehner, the republican Speaker of the House plays the same role for his party. He has been handicapped by the over-hyped Tea Party. The latter has been the biggest obstacle for republican negotiations.
    If Senator Reid and Congressman Boehner exercised independence from President Obama and the Tea Party, respectively, they might be better able to responsibly conduct government business they were elected for.
    However, any one who’s acquired Potomac fever quickly marches to the beat of the next election. Rather than considering crossing the aisle for necessary bipartisan cooperation on various issues politicians dance in attendance to party mandates. A republican candidate failing to please the Tea Party will have difficulty being elected or incurring another term. The same can be said for democratic candidates supporting welfare reform.
    If senators served one 6 year term, as initially cited in the 17th amendment of the constitution, and congressional representatives a single 6 year term, they would be free to vote their conscience and understanding of each issue without looking over their shoulder fearful of violating party mandates. Introducing term limits as a means to correct federal dysfunction may be naîve and is beyond the scope of this polemic. Nevertheless, more and more Americans favor term limits as a means to reduce partisan politics as usual.

    A former president said: The future is not for parties playing politics, but for measures conceived in the largest spirit, pushed by parties whose leaders are statesmen, not demagogues, who love not their offices, but their duty and their opportunity for service ... . (clue: He was a former academician.). The behavior of both parties is a far cry from the above call for integrity and service in government.

The Pointless Pyramid of Abraham Maslow

    I hesitated, in taking up this challenge. The Boss Lady, wants sources and references and footnoted allies to stand behind the author (or so it seemed), like Michael Jackson’s “boys” in the “Beat It” video. Quoting an Other, as ammunition, so to appear non-demagogic. I get it, this is a journal, not a street corner, but, that’s simply not Me. I don’t have much to offer, beyond rhetoric, be it in poetic form, or in prose...I just know I’m right, and that’s far too dogmatic, if not downright certifiable, to most all of you, out there. So, I resisted the urge to throw a mms at Janet, because all it would be—to everyone but Me—is spin.
    Then, it occurred to me that, Here, Now, in the post-postmodern, everything is spin, right? And, at some point, sources and quotes and Ph.d’s and elected office only allow the right to more cameras and microphones. They don’t show us all some golden, glowing Tolkienesque “way”. And, I remembered Jon Stewart, during the 2004 convention scene, popping wise at an elder Ted Koppel, showing the inherent fallacy, in what he called, “beverage truth”. If this one and that one sit before whomever the Pearly Whites are at the time, and this one brings out stats from the Brookings Institute and that one brings out stats from the Heritage Foundation, what have we learned by the end of the program, but what uniform we’re invisibly wearing? The battlecry from both “sides”, now, is that there are “two Americas”, but as a result, there’s no logic in affirming our logic by backing it up with another’s logic, because we’re all Yankees fans and Red Sox fans and at some fixed point, only a “Thunderdome”-solution, is gonna save us. In this pretty world, that ain’t happenin’...so, maybe rhetoric, is all anyone can hope to spout...and, suddenly, I felt qualified to weigh in, re: this issue’s Q.
    Short answer? This poem, by CEE:

    Longer answer? Reaction to Your reaction, to the Above work.
    “What does it say?”, my World Lit. teacher would ask, and your response no doubt runs somewhere along the lines of, “The poem not only is untrue, it advocates being a mindless idiot! Why trust, of all beings, a person, spirit-based or flesh, whom you don’t keep company of, and therefore don’t know?! Certainly, the individual is a mystery to you; how do you trust that? You get better odds in Atlantic City!”
    Yes, precisely. The poem Above, asks for a reliance and an act of faith beyond even falling backward in an encounter group. It’s the blind lunacy of wish fulfillment, Oliver Twist in its saucer-eyed, mud puddle ignorance. It’s acting and living and thinking and being as though the old Steve Martin joke about “Fred’s Bank!” (as he stuffed “deposits” into his white suit) is legitimacy, the Right Hand of Fellowship. It’s square dealin’, Karl, for no one more culpable or with more power than you, would ever, ever harm you. For why? What reason have they? You may to a certainty trust them, for they have never let you down. Not really, they haven’t. There are those in your sphere whom you, personally, privately believe are viperous ne’er-do-wells...but, how can you condemn, in so much as the tiniest blanket manner, if God—or a god—or a certain person undisclosed—has not shit personally, upon your personal shinola? They haven’t proven their unworthiness. How do you “know”?
    That’s right. The discernment you’re using, in response to me, regarding the discernment you’ve gained in Life, is the answer. And, I agree with you. It’s a lack of trust inherent, intrinsic, so wide Evel Knievel himself wouldn’t have a prayer. And, now, we have arrived at The Truth. Whatever deity, or elected or appointed They with whom you have a problem “makes you” feel x-way, is exactly half of said problem. Yes, God knows you’re the defender of (your) faith, and any politico or pundit or mouthpiece or suit with the opposing logo is just a bitch or son of a bitch whom hangin’s too good for...got it...but, you feel the way you do, based upon something, rooted in something, and I’m giving great, whopping benefit of doubt, by not saying you have couch issues.
    Point is, the BoSock or Yank of Blue or Red, the one(s) standing there in mindseye, is the crux. The one on the Orwell Channel, right this second, is only representative. This whole thing began somewhere... for each of you...and, it didn’t begin with dipshit trust. Or, maybe it did—and at that point, you’re a child whom another beat down with their fists, or a child whom The Others rejected. The bottom line of the second half of our equation, is You. You don’t trust. You have no reason to. Because those you’d “trust”, can’t be policed like it’s The Real World. Because you yourself can’t actually, really KNOW. You can’t trust the well-polished Other around the corner out of sight, no matter their very team logo, if we extend far enough. You can’t. So, you don’t. Whether the chicken or the egg is the assface, is really a moot point.
    Final answer, Rege? This poem: