I can see how some may feel the Clintons are old news, and others may want to block out the history - “Please no more I beg of you” - but the fact is the Clintons will never go away. They are forever relevant, to this election, and to all that come after, until they rest in peace.

There’s a few simple facts we can all count on: death, taxes, and the Clintons. We cannot get rid of them. I think of Romero when I think of the Clintons, yes. Here’s this zombie. It wants to eat your brains. You enjoy your brains, and would rather not lose them. So, as naturally follows, you shoot the undead beast a few times. Hell, you even put two in the head for good measure cause you’ve seen the movies. You know the drill, and you think you’re done with it.

Zombie dead. Job well done. Check brains, brains intact, everything’s looking solid. You’re good to go. But the moment you turn your back the unholy thing’s gnawing on the back of your skull. You screwed up. You don’t know how. Two in the head right? But you screwed up, and now there’s a zombie clawing at your head.

I use this analogy with the utmost respect and admiration. You cannot get rid of the Clintons, and it is for this reason why I feel they are still relevant to this election, and thus, why I requested, and was granted, some time with Bill. What follows is a moment from our time together.

• INT. CORPORATE JET - NIGHT
• Bill paces the aisle while talking on his cell phone. I wait, looking out the window. It’s dark outside. We’re thirty thousand feet up. Not much to do but wait.
• Bill
• (into the cell)
• Obviously someone’s to blame. It can’t be me. So I nominated you… I didn’t know it’d turn out that way… Bottom line is you have to take it for the team. Simple as that. You’ll be stronger for it believe me.
• Bill plops down in a chair. Directly across form me. Puts the phone down. Doesn’t say goodbye. Like in the movies.
• Me
• You didn’t say goodbye. Like in the movies.
• Bill
• Huh?
• He seems lost in a thought.
• Bill
• Oh, the phone. Yeah guess I didn’t huh? Kinda cool right?
• Me
• I thought so.
• Bill
• So where were we? Russian politics?
• Me
• Actually we were talking about race. I wasn’t sure what playing the race card meant. You were about to explain it to me.
• Bill
• I see.
• Bill leans back in his chair. Thinking of tactics.
• Bill
• How about I give an example? I’ll be me, and you’re my low down opponent. Let’s say I’m talking to the media and I say something like –
• Me
• Are we role playing now?
• Bill stiffens in his seat. He likes this idea. Leans closer to me.
• Bill
• No, this is good. Role play. Good idea. This will help I think. Yeah, so I say, “Oh that’s not such a big deal. So and so did that before,” and you’re like “Look at him he’s degrading our accomplishment. How can he say that? Wah, wah, wah.”
• Me
• Can I say that line?
• Bill
• Sure.
• Me
• Okay, but you gotta say yours first so it’s like we’re in a conversation.
• Bill
• Okay, so I’m like, “This isn’t such a big deal. If you’ll remember Jesse Jackson won this state back in Eighty-eight.
• Me
• And I’m like, “You fucking racist pig.” No no, I’m kidding.
• Bill
• Good one. That’s about the gist of it, but you’re like…
• Bill motions for me to say my line
• Me
• So I’m like, “That was a regrettable comment from Bill and it’s yet another example of my opponent’s fondness for Rovian politics - diversion and denigration - and we need move move beyond this stale, corrosive behavior in order to focus on the priorities of the American people, like universal health care coverage and tax breaks for little kids with cancer. Chicken in every pot.
• Bill
• Good. Good kid. You’re good at this. See, you get it now.
• Bill leans back into his seat. Apparently satisfied.
• Me
• But where’s the race card? I’m still confused.
• Bill
• You just called me a racist son.
• Me
• I did? I don’t think I did. I said your comment was regrettable, and that it was an example of Rovian politics.
• Bill
• Exactly. Might as well up and accused me of throwing fried chicken at you.
• Me
• So Rovian politics, the words, are code for this guy’s a racist.
• Bill
• They use code words all the time. Always playing the race card. It’s how they won. Dirty politics. Now they’re doing it to John.
• Me
• I guess it’s kinda like complaining.
• Bill
• What is?
• Me
• The race card. It’s complaining about things.
• Bill
• More or less, but, and this is important here, it’s when the black man does it to the white man.
• Me
• So when a black man points out his discomfort, or regret about a person’s, who happens to be white, tactics or behavior then a black man is playing the race card. In order to draw sympathy I suppose. Like he’s a victim.
• Bill
• But who’s the real victim son?
• Me
• The white man who’s behaving badly and saying demeaning things?
• Bill
• Now are you starting to understand? Do you see the pattern?
• Me
• Of white people denigrating the accomplishments and behaviors of black people and then when those same black people point out this fact the white people acting as if a grave injustice has been done to them? Sounds like the victim card to me.
• Bill
• Exactly! That’s the pattern. You nailed it kid. They play the victim card, and then you’re like “Whoa now. Let’s step back here for a second and look at this”, and then, WHAM, they slap the race card on your ass.
• Me
• Whitey can’t win I guess.
• Bill
• We didn’t. What more proof do you need?
• Me
• To be honest I still don’t get it.
• Bill’s phone rings. He picks it up, and stands up.
• Bill
• Think about it kid. It confused me at first also, but then I saw what they were doing. You’ll get it, just keep watching. I gotta take this. Hillary.
• Bill walks to the back of the plane. I scribble some more notes and wait for him to return.

• EXT. LUXURY HOTEL/POOL SIDE - DAY
• John McCain is propped up in a beach chair. A big umbrella hangs over him, blocking out the sun’s light. His face is smeared in sunscreen for good measure. He holds a drink. It’s green. A little umbrella sticks out. After a sip he delivers the punch-line.
• McCain
• So the doctor revives this poor woman, and when she comes to she moans out, “Where did that wonderful gorilla go?”
• McCain chuckles.
• McCain
• That’s too good right? One of my favorites.
• Me
• Yeah, funny. Bet it racks up the chuckles from the chicks.
• McCain
• Hey, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.
• Me
• Tao Te Ching right?
• McCain
• Who? Listen, let’s finish this fucking interview cause I got a massage in ten minutes. I call her Bubbles. She’s got an ass so sweet I swear it’s drippin’ honey.
• McCain gulps down the last of his green drink, and nods to someone in the distance. Points to his empty glass. Turns it upside down for effect.
• Me
• I’m pretty much done here. Suppose my last question would be about your promise to eliminate the budget deficit.
• McCain
• Straight forward enough. I’m getting rid of it.
• Me
• I get that part, but how, exactly? I was looking at the numbers last night. They don’t really add up. What with your proposed tax cuts, and the…
• McCain
• It doesn’t have to add up kid.
• Me
• Suppose not, but then, you know, you’re kinda lying to people. If that’s the case.
• McCain
• It’s a promise okay. Shit, I can’t be responsible for all the crap that comes outta my mouth can I? You gonna sit here and tell me you’ve never stretched the truth a little? Polished the corners on what might be?
• Me
• Sure, but you’re saying you’ll balance the budget and you can’t.
• A topless chick hands McCain another green drink. He takes out the umbrella and pokes her in the ass with it as she walks away. She giggles. He smirks. He turns his attention back to me.
• McCain
• Here’s the deal kid. I can balance the budget and slash taxes cause I got an Ace in the hole.
• Me
• Which is?
• McCain looks me in the eyes. Probing me. It’s kinda painful. Then smiles.
• McCain
• I like you kid. You’re a standard issue liberal, limp dick cunt, but I see you. You’d stick your dick in the potato salad right? I can read people.
• McCain sets his green drink down. Reaches under a beach towel by his chair. He pulls up a golden wand, kinda like one you might buy at Wal-Mart for the princess outfit your six year old daughter is going to wear for Halloween.
• McCain
• This right here is my Ace in the hole.
• Me
• A Magic Wand?
• McCain
• Fuck yeah.
• Me
• So you’re gonna wave it around and the budget will balance?
• McCain
• It’s a little more complicated than that. There’s some chant too. I forget, but the point is with this little baby here I can solve all our deficit problems. So it doesn’t matter what the fuck I say. Get it? I can tell y’all I’m gonna make it rain gold coins every other Thursday afternoon, and with this, fuck if I can’t.
• McCain twirls his wand around twice. Sets it on his lap, and picks his green drink back up.
• Me
• Where did you come by this Magic Wand?
• McCain
• Fuck if I tell you.
• Me
• Well it’s got a little price sticker there right?
• I point at the Wand. McCain looks down.
• McCain
• Nah, nah. This is just my name. I put a sticker on it so I don’t mix ‘em up.
• Me
• You have multiple Wands?
• McCain
• Of course not. But W.’s got one too and we’ve mixed ‘em up in the past. Cindy suggested stickers - listen are we done here cause I gotta get this rub down.
• Me
• Yeah, sure, but for the record you’re going to eliminate the deficit with your Magic Wand?
• McCain
• Like I said, there’s some song I gotta sing. A full moon and shit. I don’t know I wrote it down somewhere. I mean I don’t just wave the fucking thing around like a cock at a stag party. It’s complicated, but yeah, basically this beauty will balance the budget.
• Me
• Is it gonna win the war in Iraq too?
• McCain
• I’m gonna win all the fuckin’ wars I start. Got that?
• Me
• With this Wand?
• McCain
• You are a first class idiot aren’t you? Of course not with the fucking Wand asshole. With this…
• McCain puts his green drink down and reaches under the beach towel again. This time he pulls up an extra larger salt shaker which appears to contain those gold stars you get for being extra good in kindergarden.
• Me
• A salt shaker?
• McCain
• Not a salt shaker numb nuts. Pixie dust.
• Me
• Got ya.
• McCain
• You know what the great thing is about this shit?
• Me
• What?
• McCain holds the extra large salt shaker up to his eyes, shakes it back and forth while peering inside.
• McCain
• If you put a magnifying glass up to the glass you can see all the little pixies flying around inside, and they’re all naked. I kid you not. Naked as this month’s Playmate. God damn if that ain’t the best thing since the fax machine right? And by my estimation, and I’ve looked a lot, all of these little pixies here are sporting D cups. How sweet is that?
• Me
• There’re pixies in there? Cause from where I’m sitting they look an awfully like gold stars.
• McCain
• No shit huh? That’s what I said at first. But apparently you shake this thing real hard and out comes the pixie dust. Right out the top here, or the bottom, cause it’d be upside down right?
• McCain shakes the bottle to demonstrate the process for me.
• Me
• And that’ll win the war in Iraq?
• McCain
• Among others, yeah. Now I’ve been awful generous with my time, but you gotta get the fuck outta here. Time for Bubbles to tenderize Daddy.
• Me
• Got ya Chief. So, thanks for your time. I appreciate it, and I’ll see you tomorrow right?
• McCain’s nodded off already. So I place the beach towel around him, tuck it around him a little, and put the Magic Wand in his hand. And I leave to write up my notes.

GRRRRR-”Oh God!“-GRRRRR-”Jesus Christ!“-GRRRRR-”For fuck’s sake!“-GRRRRR-”My eyes!“-GRRRRR-”He’s dead damnit!“-GRRRRR-”Follow me!“-GRRRRR-”Go back! Go Back!“-GRRRRR-Please Mommy!-GRRRRR-”There’s a scientific explanation for all this.”-GRRRRR-”Run!“-GRRRRR…

Two yawns and a weary stretch to the sky before Old Russel Beattie’s mint-condition Remington Shotgun splits Bunny Bunny Berrybottom in half. The wails of children pierce the national pulse. Outrage and disgust clog the circuitry. Cameras, Congressmen and gossip leak from rusty pipes. Accountability languishes. New laws roar, pink and staunch. Order restored. Minds at ease. Old Russel Beattie eats hot soup. Circle the wagons.

God I hate to admit this now, but I was an awful father, just wretched. Divorced, living alone, very selfish, a bit of a womanizer, it goes without saying I wasn’t exactly Father of the Year. I didn’t even know my own daughter was allergic to peanuts for Christ sakes and my son, forget about it, he hated me with a passion bordering on fanaticism. But we’ve all got our faults and my inexcusable parental behavior is in the past now. I’m happy to say I’ve changed my ways and, while I’ll never be the Mack Daddy Daddy, I’m no longer the pathetic absentee father I once was. How’d I do it? What prompted me to change?

Like they always say, nothin’ like a little alien invasion to spark a gut check. Looking back, I guess it was unfortunate that millions had to died and fugly critters from space had to raze the planet in order for me to embark on an introspective journey but it is what it is. Like my momma always told me, “Son, they give you lemons then you make lemonade.” So sure people died and the planet’s now a twisted waste land of grief but, by gosh, I love my kids.

It took the possibility of planetary annihilation and possible human extinction for me to get it, but get it I do. God bless those aliens, without their colonial lust I never would have realized what a gift being a father really is. You know, in many ways those funky space dudes were a lot like the old me, selfish, inconsiderate and angry. If I knew then what I know now I might have been able to talk with them. You know, share my pain. Guess you don’t really know but I think they may have understood the silent agony I was going through. As it is I piss on their dead bodies for fucking with the Earth.

False Promise of Van Pussy

We meet each day at the corner.
It just so happens.
We’re friends I guess.
I wouldn’t do his laundry,
but we’re friends I guess.

The guy bought a van the other day.
White spit on a filth of dirt - He tells me.
Thing is nasty. He tells me.
I can fuck in the back.
A pussy magnet for sure. He tells me.

But do you? I ask.
Fuck? In the van?
Yeah - do you fuck in the van? I ask.
Presently? He asks.
Sure. I reply.
No. Not yet. But I could.
And the idea pleases me.

Cream Cheese pleases me. I say.
Exactly. He nods.
We’re closer now.
Despite my intentions.

One week later - same rotten corner as always.
He drives up.
His van’s a matter of taste.
He rolls down the window.
Leans my way.

Pretty sweet huh?
It’s rhetorical -
but requires a verbal response of some sort.
Better than walking - I say.
You fuck in it yet? I ask.
Naw. Bitches you know?
Not really.
I jerked off in the back a couple times.
He smiles with that.

It’s a start. I say.
Figure. He says.
I’m gonna go get me some pussy. He says.
Wanna hop in? He asks.
No. I say.
No need to ask again. I add.
Your loss. He says.
And he drives away - on a false promise of van pussy.

We’re friends I guess.
No one’s ever asked me.
I kinda hope They don’t.

First Person Review

I’ve done some of these first person reviews in the past. Basically, I don’t have the mental energy to write traditional movie reviews. Instead, I pick a character or thing from the movie and write a review from that perspective. This one’s for Stay Alive.

- “Dude, so you play this video game and, like, you die.”
- “And I should care why exactly? I mean, dude, I died, like, twice yesterday playin’ Halo.”
- “Dude, are you listening? You, like, die. Not your character. You dude. Fucking dead.”
- “No shit? That’s kinda cool I guess. Like, I actually die. Me?”
- “Yeah. You.”
- “Cool.”
- “Fuck yeah huh?”
- “How’s it work?”
- “Fuck if I know. You die dude. Some evil bitch kills you. It works good. Blood and screamin’ and shit.”
- “Is it Martha Steward?”
- “Huh?”
- “Is Martha Stewart the evil bich that hacks you up?”
- “Dude, come on man. Martha Stewart. You’d, like, rip her balls off.”
- “Yeah. Probably. Unless she had, like, flaming nipples or something.”
- “Or something? What’s wrong with you dude.”
- “Nothing that you can’t relate to.”
- “So you wanna play?”

- “Sure, but, like, assuming this is true and all, like, maybe it’s cool and shit, but I’m not sure I want to die, like, die exactly.”
- “Who does? It’s a fucking game though.”
- “But you die?”
- “Yeah.”
- “How many lives do you get?”
- “Are you a Buddhist?”
- “No.”
- “One.”
- “What if I say I’m a Buddhist?”
- “But you’re not.”
- “But if I say I am?”
- “Dude, I don’t know. This is gettin’ existential man. You, like, die. It’s a Catholic game okay.”
- “Really? Does it have, like, girls in those uniforms and shit.”
- “Sure, man. They’ll blow you if you win.”
- “No shit? Like, for real.”
- “I don’t fuckin’ know dude. You die. That’s all I know. So do you want to die or not?”
- “Sure, not like I’m doing anything today anyway.”
- “Cool.”

Personal Observations

Let’s be clear up front, this movie will never be included in the pantheon of classic horror movies. I’m not sure it could make it into the bargain bin at Super Eddy’s Discount Emporium. With that said, it’s not as bad as you might expect. It sucks pretty good, but I’m down with crappy movies. I watch a lot of them. You should too or risk becoming a movie elitist.

You know the type. Wes Anderson is their God. Paul Thomas Anderson gives them a hard on. These are wonderful directors no doubt, but watch shitty movies. You’ll end up liking some. It brings you down to earth. Whenever folks start debating classic movies I’m always sure to mention my fondness for The Core. It’s a bullshit detector cause if they can’t bring themselves to lay down some shit movie they loved then you’ll know you’re hanging with the snobs.

My advice concerning Stay Alive, don’t bother renting it, and if you do don’t tell anyone you did. This is a movie you watch when you’re home alone, picking your toes, and there it is on Starz. So you watch it. If you take proactive measures to include this film into your life you’ll be ridiculed for it. And rightfully so. However, if it’s just something you caught in passing that’s an acceptable compromise.

Link to Metacritic Info: Stay Alive

One Fall morning, Bezo returned home after a meandering stroll through the forest with news of the outside. His sister listen, immobile in her wonder, as he recounted how he spotted a Star Buck growing east of Cellador Fork and how he mustered the courage to break the seal and how once inside he discovered the most wondrous liquid, the color of bark and broken earth. Sparkle couldn’t contain her infant curiosity so they returned together, to the Star Bucks east of Cellador Fork.

From that day forward Bezo and Sparkle frequented the Star Buck, drinking earthen liquid and giggling between nibbles of pompous treats. A few months later a Wall Mart appeared next to their liquid palace. Oh and the beauty of its guts entranced the Twins McGuffin. For inside, on shelves tickling the heavens, sat dated objects of imagination and fables. Bezo and Sparkle spent hours upon hours strolling the Wall Mart’s byzantine halls sipping their hot Star Buck’s love. At each turn they discovered a new and godly want, on every shelf a bold and baying need. Cheeks flush and plump, Bezo and Sparkle prance around the Wall Mart intoxicated with lust and manufactured desire.

Within months of their discoveries, their one room, tin roof, straw hut home became a two story, vinyl siding, ranch house, fat and soft. Their plants replaced by a well manicured, Kentucky Blue grass lawn, flat and square. Bezo married an Islamic women from town. Two kids and a job at Lufkin, Lufkin and Parkinson’s soon followed. He prayed to paper and time and developed an obsessed with the manipulation of numbers. Sparkle become a Republican and howled at the moon. She joined the PTA, developed an addiction to Ritalin and frequented Tupperware parties. A Fundamental Lord developed a crush on her. Strife, heartbreak, family values inverted and bent. Bezo kissed his sister goodbye. She wiped her lips with a linen napkin and spat a curse. Straw huts and quaint notions tremble and weep. Days gone by, grow, grow, grow. Sparkle wants a new dishwasher the color of aluminum. Bezo needs a political favor.

It’s the future. I’m a walking, talking wet dream. Your heart would explode with the anticipation of fucking me. Boom!Pow!Bang! goes my gun. I have purpose now.

They killed my daddy. Gambling mistake. And my mommy. Love don’t always beat the spread. They tried to kill me too. Sent Him to chop down the last branch. The Hitman. His black heart contained a small kernel of gold. Little boy’s brains stick like wet tar to a hitman’s twisted soul. Don’t wash off with time’s Tide. Not like the others. He holstered his gun. Nothing to say really. We drove away.

We grew older. We plotted. We got even with They. Me cause they killed my Daddy. And my Mommy. Him cause he thought it might set him free. A Man can’t kill his own shadow but he can kill one as ugly as his. Vicarious existential death. Watch one as soiled as you die at your hands. Could bring a moment of peace. An instant of relief. For a Hitman pocketing two Nines and a kernel of gold the chance is worth twenty years.

This. That. And the other thing. A Woman in this case. Moves like a Boa. Coiled graced. Cupid’s got his hands full following her around. A Spark. Then ignition. Burns like dry ice. Love nurtured by an orchestra of gun shot memories. When you play in the dirt you dream of clean sheets. She was fresh outta the drier.

Manufactured time ticks by my watch. My Daddy’s watch. We’re winding these gears. They’re caught in our hourglass. Just don’t know it. Spring goes the trap. Blood by the buckets. Pleas of mercy ignored. And then sweet blessed revenge and the foul aftertaste of repressed rage.

Tied up on a dead end street. No three point turn gonna get Them outta this one. Suffocating. Slowly. The last goodbye. The final kiss. Tastes of cellophane and crystalline clarity. I see it in their pupils. Large like an idea whose time has come. I die. Now. This moment. Right here, now, I die. Don’t get more real than that.

I live. The Hitman lives. I snuggle into my new sheets. Hitman leaves us on the cloths line. He returns to his cracked shell. A band-aid applied to a severed soul. Won’t stop the blood but it’ll let you know you tried.

Killin’ ain’t easy but it’s preferable to livin’ with a hot coal in your chest. You gotta douse that baby with Justice. The reciprocal kind. Only way to go. Forgivin’ might get you through the eye of the needle but it won’t ease the pain of a missed chance at nostalgia. You can’t forgive a man for stealin’ a memory you never got the chance to taste.

And the beauty of it all. They knew it was comin’. Had that hollow ringing in their ears from the time they shot their first virtue. You can only kill so long till that wailin’ song comes a callin’ for you. They knew it was comin’. They just didn’t know it’d be me.

My adopted daughter sleep walks and screams “Silent Hill.” I don’t like it much. Chasing after her is a pain in the ass but it’d be wrong of me to return her. So I figure I’d take my little cherub on a road trip to a spokey ghost town I researched on the internet. A female cop with a lame Terminator look tried to bust my chops in transit but I left that bitch in the dust. Wouldn’t you know it, as I approached the ghost town fog sets in and I crashed my pretty SUV. Fuckin’ ghost towns.

When I woke up my adopted daughter was gone. I could have left it at that but I feel obliged to look for her. The ghost town sucks balls. It’s dark and these funky monsters try to kill me. Most of them move like epileptic slugs which makes it easy to avoid them. The Terminator babe shows up and cuffs me. She thinks I’m a pedophile. Bitch. She shoots a few holes in a monster. I run away because guns are dangerous. There’s this siren that blares at random intervals. When it does birds fly away, everything goes dark and you’re basically fucked unless you have a Zippo lighter, which I do. It never goes out, even if I run at full speed and its illuminating circumference is greater than the stadium lights at Fenway. The thing rocks. If I had bug spray I’d rule Silent Hill with an iron fist. As it is I’m cuffed and worried for my safety.

The lame Terminator bitch catches up with me. We become friends. She’s not so bad. Her haircut is a joke but I don’t mention it. A rather large monster with a gigantic cheese grater on its head almost kills us but it disappears. There were these flesh eating bugs too. They appeared to eject out of its ass. They also disappeared in a cloud of ashes. I was relieved. A crazy old witch keeps showing up. If she took a shower we’d probably trust her but because she looks like she’s lived in a garbage can her whole life we can only assume she’s a blood sucking vampire.

Eventually we make friends with this cute teenager. She’s well groomed and suburban. We like her and she throws rocks at the witches head. She introduces us to this fucking wacked out cult. Her reward for her kindness is that the Cheese Grater Monster rips her skin off her bones and eats her soul. I feel bad. She smelled like vanilla and puppies.

The cult are some serious fanatics and are as scarey as the Cheese Grater but we go along with their mind numbing ranting. They tell me I have to find the beast or something and I’ll probably die or be subjected to an eternity of agony and pain. I have my Zippo lighter so I tell them “bring it on mother fuckers.” I just want my daughter back. Did I mention she’s adopted? The Terminator bitch gets jumped by the cult while trying to save me. She had plenty of time to get in the elevator with me but I guess she’s one of those sado-masichistic types. It’d expalin the haircut.

Down in the cellar I meet my adopted daughter’s twin. She’s all fucked up. The cult intentionally burned her a ways back and she’s kinda pissed about it. Understandable. I’d be pissed too. So I make a deal with the twisted twin and we march to the church to deal a fatal blow to the cult.

Back at the church all hell breaks lose. The evil twin starts ripping apart the cult with barbed wire. I watch and stab a few loonies while they’re distracted. It’s a bloody mess. When everyone’s dead I get my daughter back, but not really cause she’s switched places with the evil twin and tricked me into thinking I’m leaving Silent Hill but I’m really still there. It’s like a bad acid trip you don’t realize you’re having which is fine cause I’m oblivious at this point and am happy to be home even though home is like some nether region between real and fantasy.

My husband is kinda bummed about the whole affair. He tried finding me and my daughter. She’s adopted you know. He even went to Silent Hill and made friends with a taciturn and spooky detective who wasn’t very helpful. I’d feel bad for him if I wasn’t mind fucked and a bit bummed that my movie ended up like the Ring with shades of poop. Oh well, at least I found my daughter. I love her even though she’s adopted and all. Maybe in the sequel I’ll get to ride a motorcycle like the bitchy cop. I bet my Zippo would stay lit at ninety miles an hour. I’d be like the Ghost Ridder with perky tits, minus the bad complexion.

Two-thirds of everything I do
is never one-third good enough for you.

So by that math a quarter here, or
      a quarter there,
might get me a palm of hot skin,
or a slip of respect.

Though my math isn't what it used to be.
It used to be bad.
It is worse now.

So could be two-thirds of everything I do
is always one-third short of
your ideas of a perfect fraction.

But a perfect fraction is two-thirds.
      Right?
Or one-third by that measure.
The measure of perfection, which doesn't much care for
      dialogue in any event,
                                            or measurement.

I just want a fucking thank you
      from time to time.
I'd settle for half of that.

[See post to listen to audio]

[See post to listen to audio]

Life is complicated. Free will and all. Ego wants this. Soul is that. Who can figure it all out? Now imagine having another person’s mind kicking around inside your head. Talk about a bitch. Who Am I can be a mess to unravel. Good thing I’m hot as a cowboy’s kettle, or people might think I’m nuts, cutting myself and all that jazz.

There’s a lot of things wrong in the world, but a drop dead gorgeous woman in a Ford truck fixes most of it. Or so I’ve noticed. Being one and all. Or being two really cause of this bitch in my head. She’s actually not that bad. If you forgive the blackouts, cutting, time tripping, and manic schitzoid delusions.

Take, for example, trying to concentrate on a task, like my writing. The cat’s enjoy a good lap. I’ll be writing, plunged deep into whatever world I’m creating, swirling in another place and time, and here’s a cat climbing into my lap, after a few paces over the keyboard. I’m a loving guy so I’ll often let them have their comfort, but sometimes I’m a selfish guy, and I won’t, but these are cats. They don’t care what I want. They don’t care for my needs. They want a lap, not so much my attention as my retention.

Occasionally a rhythmic on/off/on dance will hammer the point home. Occasionally, it doesn’t matter what I do. And so I found myself in the company of a persistent cat the other day. Despite repeated, and blunt, messages that her behavior was annoying me, I couldn’t shake free of her need. So I moved. And she followed. And I moved again. And she followed again. And I moved again, this time some one hundred yards away to a different shelter altogether, down to the boathouse and the quaint solitude of my workbench. She did not follow.

I wrote for a time thereafter before becoming aware of her absence, or the absence of our previous behavior. The truth is there are times I enjoy writing with a cat in my lap. I was now wishing for her presence. We do this. I do this. We push away, and reel back in, the needs of our lives. At times bent on stubborn independence. At others aware we will never be independent, but are tied to the mystical bonds that unite us in a synergy, that united us and imbue us with vitality. Each of us an individual, but an individual composed of a multitude. Am I One, or am I Many? I am both, and the divine dichotomy of the situation can result in fractured awareness and inconsistent want. Thus, for me, the singular importance of nurturing a holistic awareness, seeing beyond flesh, seeing the I in its multitude.

These thoughts came and went, mere seconds perhaps, not a brooding moment, but enough for me to pick up pencil, and write some soiled lines in my Mead Composition book.

The cat keeps following me
I moved here,
to this unpleasant place.
The cat did not follow.
I wish it had.

Stretched thin at both ends, laid out for the universe to embrace, he felt an eternal love become him. He felt the cosmos swirl in his head. His fingers became sparkled with stars. His flesh became a graceful arch to God in all Her rich glory. Billton Baliwag became One of a Multitude, and knew the faith of a mustard-seed.

And then the experience was gone. A freckled moment misplaced. Time spit Billton Baliwag out of whatever gap he had mistakenly crossed. The familiar man he always knew returned, covered in soil and leaves, but himself as he always was. Flesh and bone, animated by blood. A trembling residue of joy tickled his being, and he ran beside it. Ran through the Wood of Maple and Dream. Ran to tell his friends. Ran to tell the cameras. Ran to tell history.

Somewhere between memory and where he had tripped, Billton Baliwag forgot the feeling. He could not connect to his distant gift. So he concocted a tale of stale words and brittle lies, glued together by a personal desire to be heard, magnificent and supreme. He crafted his tale, dense with contrived language and derivative sap, and charged a book for the story. He laid down an exclusive price for the glory. He made lists, other people’s lists. He manufactured a white cloak from thirty cent hands worn rough with grief. He called himself a Grand Title no one remembers now. People listened for a time, adored and marveled. But it went away. Whistled into the dust from the breath of a fickle world. Replaced by another book, and another vision of stars and microwaved truth.

Billton Baliwag spent the last years of his life wandering a Wood of Maple and Dream, looking for a sliver in time, supported by a cane and a memory. The search was in vain, but a moment before his death he re-created what he had once chose to lose. “Ah, here all along,” were his last words, but no one was listening, and that book was never written.

Or so I told myself. We can bend to the easiest explanation, the logical tale. We’re like cattails this way, swaying with a superficial wind. We believe the senses. The stories and truths we grew up with, or read in a book, or was told by our parents. All well and good, but sometimes a turtle causes a traffic jam. You’re none the wiser and the world is sweeter for it.

Pine Cone Falls

A Pine Cone fell
from a Poplar.
      I assume.

It fell for longing.
The touch of soil.
Those suspended in air
must ache for the
sting of solid ground.

Roots do not grow
three stories high
in a hive of want.

So it is of the soil
now
Rooted as it yearns,
      or maybe,
a chipmunk got a tickle.

I watched them scurrying about, in what appeared to me a chaotic and frenzied pace, no apparent pattern to their travels, content to bask in manufactured 75 watt bliss. I wondered if they preferred the sunlight to the man made variety. I watched some more, couldn’t tell. I then wondered what they thought of me. This big cloth of flesh, doing nothing particularly important, staring at them, hovering in their space, and with that I wrote the following poem.

What does this bug see
when this bug sees me?
Does a bug even see,
when it looks at me?
And what might it be,
that it sees?
Is it me?

Who is this me,
that the bug might see,
if the bug sees?

Best I try to see
like the bug sees me.
Then I might know
how the bug sees me,
and just who that me
might be.

written for the april poem-a-day every-once-in-a-while exercise

Turtle Love Sings

Turtle Love sings to me.
The sweet sting of a
long time gaze drifting
over a few feet or,
three thousand two hundred and four, point four, miles
of corn fields and hills, which
enviously give way to their beastly
snow capped cousins.

Turtle Love sings to me
of her on that distant shore,
more wild that this one,
drawn sharp, less wise,
more child.

Maybe she grazes on a distant memory,
but knowing the consequence,
as the sun now knows the consequence of her dress.
Sun dress,
white flowers, blue,
who can forget blue?

There she evolves, under the ancient light
of a noble star, true friend to man.
There she becomes,
and the sun now knows
what we have always known.

Turtle Love back in its shell.
Her grace should not be smeared
by man's fingernails,
and thus, this three thousand two hundred and four miles.
Point four for the memory,
which we will never transverse.

written for the april poem-a-day every-once-in-a-while exercise

And he grew up stout with cash flow, and surrounded by gadgets, gizmos and plastic molded into the most wondrous of puzzles, but it was never enough for Little Jimmy Jeffors. He craved more, better, bigger, higher, louder. Until one day he quite simply blew up from the inside. His incessant plunge into his need for information blew his brains, and fractured a boy spirit animated by radio waves.

Little Jimmy Jeffors ceased to be. An implosion of circuits, chips, and cheap labor parts. His friends abandoned him. What good is a pile of rust and melted chemical? His Mum cried over him. Her tears sizzled on his frayed mechanics. Little eyeballs glowing red with lust. Crawl Little Jimmy Jeffors. Crawl. You can still scoot to the next great thing.

The Wind That Takes Them

Sit for a moment under a moist sun,
protected by leafy borders.
Sit there child,
like a rock does.
In a moment you will be all the poems that ever were,
and most that will one day be.
Let them go into the wild.
Blow them to the wind.
They'll be back,
but first they'll forget
how wonderful it first felt.

written for the april poem-a-day every-once-in-a-while exercise