New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode XII: Making It

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode XII: Making It

Gone: water, electricity, gas, phone, ATM's, recharging, friends, showers, hot coffee, cold beer, TV. Gone: what we'd come to consider as the essentials of social living. It was down to jumping into swimming pools for baths. We knew that couldn't last as they turned soapy, full of leaves and organisms that didn't bear contemplation. We'd also explored the limits of our island, stood in front of a favorite building massively collapsed into the street. We'd walked through water that left our shoes splotched and discolored. We'd seen the elderly barricaded with shotguns, neighbors organizing trash collection, neighbors sharing water and food. We'd also seen signs pleading for help, mocking fate, counting losses. It was time to go.

I'd secured two vehicles - a modern 4-door jeep and a vintage red pickup. The first turned out to be irretrievable behind a twisted and downed gate of metal and heavy lumber, but with a full tank of gas. The second had very little gas and flat tires but was garaged, accessible and repairable - our Great Escape. And so began two incompetents' quest to transfer gasoline from one to the other, inflate tires and generally act a part we were not born to play.

2 days. Yes, readers, it took us 2 days to accomplish what others could undoubtedly do in 2 hours. We were at first blindly determined to free the Jeep. We attacked the downed gate with ruthless energy and what we thought was creativity. We hacked, sawed, chained and tried to tow the gate. We tried everything short of dynamiting the thing and it remained immovable. A glaring pile of metal and malevolence. Our wonderful new air conditioned and reliable Jeep would offer us only the contents of its tank. But that offering required almost 4 hours of perseverance to complete. We reached new levels of ineptitude. And to top this farce, we later found that the helicopter hovering above for hours on end was not FEMA, was not aid or assistance but CNN, televising for reality TV. Oof.

The simplest things are often the most difficult. I do believe I'm not the first to discover this. Tubes, containers, the accoutrement of withdrawing gasoline were surprisingly devious little devils. Instructions for the process were difficult to come by as well. Neither of us wanted to initiate the transfer - the taste and smell of gasoline is very, very low on the gastronomic scale. But finally, at the end of day 2, it was done. The red truck was running, the tires inflated.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode XI: Dysfunctional Fun

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode XI: Dysfunctional Fun

Celebrate. It's an art, a daily occurrence, an occasion, a life's work. We found cause for celebration in the least and the greatest of things. The passage of time, the passage of friends - intertwined threads of life.

We'll move backward in time from the Explosion. The stockpiles of ice had not all melted; a cold beer was still to be found. And though our reality was wavering, it hadn't yet gone into a fugue state. At least for most of us.

Walking down Esplanade near the River I heard my name called out. Sitting on the porch of a pleasant double was an old friend. There were also neighbors, casually cross-legged, sipping beers from bottles sweaty in the afternoon heat. Beers that surely looked cold and comforting. "Come join us, have a drink!" And so began my last somewhat normal New Orleans afternoon. If by normal I mean disassociated from the rest of the United States and skimming the surface of denial.

We were an attorney, a socialite, a party-planner and your faithful, tireless chronicler. We hadn't heard about the massive flooding, hadn't seen CNN or spoken to State or Federal workers. But rumors were running, craziness encroaching.

James was voicing concerns, "I'm really worried".

"As are we all, child, as are we all," offered Sheila.

"I've got a big wedding this weekend Uptown and I'm worried about the flowers."

"Ah, yes," egads, let me take a long swig before he sees my face, "the flowers."

"If we don't get the electric back they're just not going to last."

"Oof, no, no, you're quite right," was all I could think to say.

"But honey, don't you think they'll call the wedding off?"

"Call it off? We've been planning this thing for 6 months."

"But they've probably left town."

"No, not on their wedding weekend. How could they do that?"

"Well, puppy, it's something to consider. Have you talked to them, then?"

"How could I? No phones, no coolers, no deliveries - I'll be a nervous wreck."

"Baby boy, have another drink."

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode X: Sleepless Nights and Explosions

New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode X: Sleepless Nights and Explosions

Time and memories following The Storm are disjointed and refuse, of their own, to follow chronologically. Thus we find ourselves entering the night before The Escape. Steamy, pitch black, mosquitoes and exhaustion. I'd paired with someone I barely knew, in the old pre-K days, to plan and execute the escape. He was tense, his senses chemically enhanced. He also had a gun.

He'd sit, all during the night, alone in the patio watching and waiting. We knew that many had armed themselves, and many more were desperate to leave. I'd come into possession of a vintage pickup truck, bright red, with a dubious engine and flat tires. But it was garaged and it was secret. We'd spent two entire days getting it ready to make a run out of the city (a further episode in itself) and it was finally gassed, inflated and we were counting the hours until dawn.

We'd very quietly loaded our belongings, what little we still had, into the truck. I was trying to get some last bit of sleep and had lit my remaining candles. The windows and doors were closed because of the insane and voracious insect life and I'd collapsed onto the couch wearing only boxers. I'd finally drifted off, wet with sweat, when a tremendous rattling and shaking of the rear doors jerked me awake. Dazed, my first thoughts were that intruders were trying to get into the house. I jumped up yelling, grabbed my clothes, tried to pull on pants as I ran out through the patio, down the black walkway and out onto the street, barefooted and stunned.

That's when I realized that it wasn't intruders but an explosion and fire. The sky was red and orange toward the River, bright across several blocks. The concussion had shaken the house. There'd be no more sleep, just the wait. In the dark.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August/September 2005, After. Episode IX: Makin' Groceries

New Orleans, August/September 2005, After. Episode IX: Makin' Groceries

New Orleans is a world unto itself. Insular, creative, dynamic yet static. The old ways not only remain, but are as solidified as the oak trees, the banquettes or jasmine. We don't just shop for groceries but we 'make groceries'. A mindset that's bewildering to foreigners - all those unfortunate enough to have been born outside of the Parish.

And so one afternoon I noticed a good many people bicycling, walking, pushing or pulling groceries. Mystified, and faced with various shortages myself, I stopped one to ask the source of these unforeseen provisions. Simple, I was told, the big new grocery next to the Municipal Auditorium had opened its doors in an act of generosity to the city. All within was free for the taking. A boon indeed, was it not?

And well worth checking out. So I hopped on my faithful and trusty bike and headed off on an exploratory mission. I thoughtfully brought along bags - just in case. Edging around a police station, gliding very slowly through standing water, I made it to the high ground surrounding this newest supermarket. Boats were pulled alongside the downtown side and many, many shoppers were moving quickly with bags full to bursting. All the doors to the store were open, the aisles a riot of cans and boxes, mud and liquids. I was assured by all that the management had decided the contents of the store were a loss and that the contents were a donation.

One enterprising gentleman was actually attempting to pull an entire shelf of goods with his bike, caught in the partly blocked doorway, the shelf tottering precariously. So I cautiously entered the fray to peruse the delicacies that remained. Luckily for me, many shoppers seemed unaware that microwavable products actually needed a working microwave, mixable products needed water and frozen items an oven. The shelf of chunky soups, stews and prepared meals was largely intact. Not only was I offered a bountiful selection, I was also tempted by another section of the store altogether. The bookshelves.

Hmm, entertainment venues were certain to be few for some time to come so I considered the book section a lending library and borrowed mysteries and thrillers to ease the days to come. Only one other library lover joined me and we exchanged sly and wise repartee. It was a new day, indeed.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August 2005, After. Episode VIII

New Orleans, August 2005, After. Episode VIII

The Storm had moved north. Somewhere else. It was the Day After. Walking down Royal, Chartres, Bourbon - all looked the same, except for the plants torn, trees cracked and broken. Take away the plywood, clean the balconies, all good again. Or, if not good, the way things were. But it was a narrow sliver of deception. We were higher, built for the ages, dense and protective of each other. It was eerie, like a movie set was eerie when the crews had gone, the lights turned off. There was no flooding here, no fallen walls or breached levees. An island.

We'd had no news yet of the rest of the city. There were no police, no national guardsmen, no federales. Just us, the diehard locals. We exchanged tales, planned a meal, shared still cold beer. We planned on sitting on a balcony, or a banquette, or a stoop, glass in hand and ready to welcome everyone back. Meanwhile a good friend came through with an offer of housing in the Quarter. My old neighborhood, the quiet end of Bourbon. Secure, it seemed, behind a gate in a renovated Slave Quarter. Close, but not too close.

But now rumors were everywhere. Guns were appearing, as well as strangers. The night was intense, threatening, pitch black. Rifles and shotguns, pistols or knives, wary and protective. Events of the new few days run together. A suicide across the street, said to be a young man who may have drunk himself to death. The generous grocer at the corner who'd given away everything and was left eating crackers. Our island became an actual repair, rapidly encroached from the east and north. Water deep enough for boats came within 2 blocks of the Quarter itself. Then the gas was shut off and, finally, the water as well. No more showers, cooking, flushing toilets. No night time strolls or casual visits. Look both ways after dark, run stealthily, take turns at guard against looters. And more rumors.

Over the next 5 days we saw no New Orleans police, no National Guard, in the French Quarter, the Marigny or the Bywater. No bullhorns or water trucks. No FEMA personnel or explanations. Each story was more extreme, more irrational, than the one before. People trapped, looters with chainsaws, explosions and fires.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, Monday August 29, 2005, During. Episode VII

New Orleans, Monday August 29, 2005, During. Episode VII

The chunk of roof shattered the glass door and pieces fell everywhere. Only one significant piece, however, decided to share my body. And behind, in the entryway, another section of heavy, old plaster ceiling came down. Ah, the best laid plans.

What's a lad to do? If ever I needed a drink it was then. A restorative liquid, hearty and promising of lazy summer nights. Dry, carefree and convivial summer nights. I didn't hear the breaking levees, or the floodwaters, or the trees bending and splitting. I simply found the driest chair I could, poured a rather nice Sauvignon Blanc and collapsed. And, at some point, the winds slowed.

Electricity was out, of course, but I still had water and gas. I could still create a campsite meal of hot soup but I decided, instead, that a nice putanesca would better serve. A spot or two of limoncella would add a bit of zest for the chef. I also decided that an evacuation would be in order - sooner, rather than later. Those old, high ceilings were water-logged. I was very afraid indeed that the entryway failure would spread. There'd be no sleeping here under the threat of concussion, or worse.

My meal was simple but, under the circumstances, spectacular. Then, thanking the 341 gods that I had a gas water heater, a long, long hot shower. With candles, of course. My last hot shower, it turned out, for another week. Then it was out and about to survey. The local radio was starting to broadcast pleas for help, for information, for any human contact.

I walked down Esplanade, away from the River, toward Bourbon Street. Apart from heavy tree damage it seemed we'd been spared. These buildings had seen it all, over the years. One more storm, one more summer. Some were already out on their sidewalks sweeping, bagging, pushing trash and debris into piles. It was beyond us to clear the streets for vehicles, but we could open paths for bicycles and pedestrians. We nodded and smiled, amazed and pleased at how quickly the cleanup would go. Should go. Content with the anticipation of having coffee soon at CC's, trading stories, apartment hunting.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August 2005, During. Episode VI, preparatory

New Orleans, August 2005, During. Episode VI, preparatory to K'ville

Anticipation. Of what, you ask? Of everything. Anticipation of wind and water, of flying debris, of food and drink. Of darkness, without electricity. Of toilets that don't flush. Anticipation of neighbors in need, of wading through muck that doesn't bear analysis. But anticipation is a pale and wan thing. Like a shadow in the forest that never materializes. But a hurricane . . .

Anticipation. You always forget something. No mental checklist includes every thing you'll need. You may have been through storms, through gales, through hurricanes or cyclones or tornadoes. But you never can be ready for everything. It's just the way of it, of life. Mother nature is, after all, a real mother.

A sealed apartment, as sealed as a New Orleans apartment from the 19th Century can be, during the month of August is a terrible thing indeed. So I kept a front and back door open as long as possible. And I stood on the balcony, waiting, as long as possible. We were under a mandatory curfew as of 6:00pm but I saw no police cruising the streets. I heard no warning announcements, saw no officials checking my neighborhood. It was curiously relaxed. Another Sunday evening waiting for another summer rain. It was a long, anti-climactic night. Friends calling until the a.m., scattered from Houston to Pensacola. From Detroit to San Francisco - some by plan, some by fate or fortune. Dawn came and I wondered, where are you?

Nope, you can't anticipate everything. I didn't anticipate that my landlord would fail to secure the windows in the attic. That for hours on end I would be under a sieve, looking for every available container to collect water. Every pot, pan, bucket and towel. Anything capable of storing, slowing or absorbing water. Of hours moving furniture, wiping furniture, listening to falling plaster, watching water drizzle down the chandeliers.

From my kitchen window I could see the tile start to loosen and lift from the slave quarter. Carelessly I decided to watch through my rear glass door as trees in the patio pried and wrenched at the roof until a large chunk flew through the air directly at me. It crashed into the door, shattering in a rain of glass.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August 28, 2005, Before. K'ville, a few preparatory notes. Episode IV.

New Orleans, August 28, 2005, Before. K'ville, a few preparatory notes. Episode IV.

Sunday morning, coffee as usual. Some were leaving, but not all. I'd been through hurricanes my entire life and had never evacuated, nor had my parents. I had vivid memories of a storm while I was a boy, feeling the water rise inside our house past my knees. I stood in our Florida room, which was unshuttered, undraped, and watched a neighbor's roof as it was lifted into the air and carried hundreds of yards. My mother lit candles, set up her easel and calmly painted a plantation scene. Her only comment, "What else can I do?"

My Marigny apartment building was 19th century, with thick brick walls, and had stood through 150 years of storms. My apartment on the second floor was at least 18 feet above the street. It also had no television and I relied on a rather archaic means for information - a radio. Those of us who made the decision to ride it out actually believed we'd be meeting for coffee, usual spot, within 36 hours. And as the New York Times reported, we weren't alone:

Quote:
"We call it a vertical evacuation," said Joseph Fein, owner of the Court of Two Sisters, a French Quarter restaurant. He said the city, its residents and visitors, were responding much as they had to many previous hurricane threats, but that Katrina "is the most threatening we have seen."

Mr. Fein's said his restaurant, one of the largest in the French Quarter, served 250 diners on Saturday night, and he had planned to remain open today. But by 9 a.m., he said, it became clear that not enough of his employees would report to work. So, instead of preparing brunch, he said the employees who did show up set to the task of nailing plywood over the restaurant's windows, and bringing its outdoor furniture inside.

Several other restaurants were simply boarded up and vacant by midafternoon. "Due to Hurricane Katrina, we will be closed all day Sunday, Aug. 28, and for lunch on Monday, Aug 29." said the message on the answering machine at Emeril's, a restaurant in the Warehouse District. It said Emeril's would reopen for dinner on Monday night if conditions permitted, but it was "uncertain when the reservations department will reopen."

End Quote.

None of us, as well, had seen the 10:11 a.m. bulletin quoted in Episode III. Rather casually, during the afternoon, we wired our shutters closed, taped a few window panes that had cracked or seemed precarious and stocked up on canned foods. We gathered liquids, not forgetting wine of course, and filled bathtubs. Scrounged for extra candles, unboxed flashlights, did laundry. After all, the storm would be gone by Monday night, sweeping and tree trimming would be underway, all was in hand.

To be continued . . .

New Orleans, August 2005. Before . .

Weather charts don't tell a story, they merely post markers. They're not sweaty, they're not sleepless, they're not exhausting. The temperatures of August 2005 were vampires, and circumscribed virtually everything that affected daily life in a city below sea level, surrounded by water, well along a road already filled with misery.

Guns, drugs, tourists, beer and go-cups. Drive through daiquiri stands, 24 hour street scenes and bad roads. Torn sidewalks, failing schools, deep potholes. Drive-by shootings, corner crack stores. Life in the Big Easy. But New Orleans was hardly Big, not any longer. A downwardly spiraling population, suburban flight and too many locals going through the revolving doors of the jails. And Easy? Easy, perhaps, for a privileged minority secure behind ornate gates, lush walls covered with confederate jasmine. An easy place to die, get high, drop out. An easy place to plan cocktails, or a tailgate party, or a funeral.

Yes, we know funerals in New Orleans. We have them down to a fine art. We march, play our instruments, wear our dirges. Life is easy but dying's even easier. And everywhere, the heat. My thermostat still read 94F at 11:00 pm on the nights in August. Lean times, too lean for $400 electric bills. Too lean for decrepit air conditioners to waste their watts. It took a lot less energy to chill a bottle of wine or a bottle of beer.

There was no gris-gris giving a premonition. There were no omens, unless the crime stats were omens. There were no nagging whispers that something bad was going down because those whispers were lost in the long days of summer. Sickly sweet night-blooming jasmine, night prowling cats, night prowling turistas. As we say: "same ole, same ole".

I had a second floor apartment almost on the river. High ceilings, wood floors, tiny balcony. Lots of mosquitoes and a favored destination for roaches. But only steps from the Quarter, from Frenchman Street in the Marigny, from all the small things that we considered the city's charm. I also had a tight circle of friends with a regular morning coffee klatch. A fluctuating group of 5 to 15, every morning. Artist, realtor, student, retiree, landscaper - an incredible range of age and accomplishment, of past and future.

More on the days Before to come.

there's a point to all this
forgiveness

drop a little remorse
dance a little dirge

you never seem to see the
day

sing a mourner's tune
disco never died

4 o'clock, wobbled in your
cha-cha shoes

left hand wannabe
sashay, sashay

there's a point to all this
dreaming

drop a line, dusty at the dawn
make some starlight
in the mirror

tap your toes
dry your nose

can you make it
go away

go all
away ?

white

silver bells, cockleshells, rhymes with
sunday, skittered next to saturday, whistling
down the pastor's lane, hiding neath
sweet summer's dress, cause white
will fool the neighbors, speaks of good
girls, speaks of love

may fool her daddy, sitting in the
kitchen, waiting for the oak to give
him shade, waiting for his tears to dry
may fool old cross-eyed henry, waiting
for his corn to grow, and the squirrels
to sing their songs, chat upon the weather

may fool the barber's wife, gone to dayton
once a month, looking for a lover, wishing
on a star, and she reads her glossy magazines
delivered once a week, while she dreams

may fool the sheriff's lad, running wild
but running free, soon to leave for parts
that keep on calling, full of promises for
boys who know a thing or two and are ready
for a dare

may fool the beggar man, asleep in carter's lane
smelling jasmine in the evening, mad dog
on the vine, counting stars into the thousands
drinking rain all through the spring

may fool the churchy lass, doing deeds
full of renown, headed for the deacon's door
when prayer's are finally done, and they
will celebrate, perhaps a kiss, perhaps
a few

hiding neath sweet summer's dress,
looking like her momma in the photo
on the wall, curiously smiling, all those
days ago, when winter came but once
a year, may fool the neighbors
when she speaks of love

children must learn how to listen, say
the corner men, snapping their sass
must learn how the square of life
makes random walls, tilted leans

do you tell them fairy tales, as you
chase with the dogs, run and howl
as you look for the nickels that some
how will rain, filling your pockets

they build castles, stronger than yours
taller and grander, not solitary
but if they learn how to listen, who
will be there, crissing and crossing

all whispers and lies, it's all gone
uneven, this life that you lead
rickety shadows that hide you away
say the corner men, whooping by day

and i think that i'm damaged, but i don't
know where, though i talk to the churchy
boys, forgiveness rolls on their tongues
raspy hymns go make their rounds

yes, i would teach the children, for
the world smells sweet,
there are dangers, which will take
them by the hand, as the day follows day

sugah and the old man

i feel it's comin'

the time i can begin
to unforget you

little dreams been chasin'
me
snip, snips of bits
slivers of pieces

some things,
most things
won't be fixed, put back
what's broke, sugah, what's
gone lost, moved away
from me

i can't go chasin', sugah
but may be, if i sit here
blow some dust from off that mirror
write your name
look deep into those old man eyes
what do they see
gone dry, gone dim

i'll go a rockin', tap a tappin'
put my ear against the wall
where i can nearly hear you singin'
sashay woman

i feel it's comin'
get these feet amovin'
is it time, sugah
to unforget
?

where's the zen?
or, isn't it all about the rhyme?

taffy leaves me daffy, with her spikey cha-cha shoes
billy leaves me silly, with his obituary news
wanda leaves me fonda, with a smile that's got no flash
but susie leaves me lucy, when i've got some extra cash

ain't it all the bees knees?

the perfect score

there seems to be a place,
is this an empty chair?
my night's gone cranky old,
but there's something, maybe, probably,
and i can keep a steady hand
so let's clear the hard soaked air,
you've got flushes
and you've got straights,
paper ones for shooters
it's a place i know surely well,
know where this game will go

your sister's on the run, i hear,
with a man from ibm
she kissed me at the science fair,
when we were seventeen
and then again, i think last week,
but i was kissing mad dog,
20/20's a perfect score,
rowdied down in oakland
hit the docks for a wholesome toke,
but payday comes with a tyrant's clock,
the envelope's brand new

oh

memories

you have photos,
say we were lovers
did we marry
sometime in your past
did we waltz
across the garden
did i carry you
ever
?

you have memories
say that i kissed you
brought you flowers
and ice cream
was i a wonderful
lover
?

you have letters
say that i wrote them
from far places
snow and islands and castles
returned with presents
wrapped in silver
was i gentle
and true
?

you have memories
say that i made them
was i handsome
and clever
constant and laughing
bring summer
and joy
?

am i reflected
in your eyes
your magical suitor
strong and immortal
opening doors
waking you softly
was i your
prince
?

i seem to remember
a day gone golden
gone misty
and distant
somewhere far away
across an ocean
lost in a valley
protected by magicks
don't i
?

i seem to remember
i seem to remember
don't
i
?

The Christmas Tale of the Misunderstood Son

Christmas morning, 4:43am. Timmy's foot tested the air, found it just warm enough by wiggling his toes. Small giggles - no, tiny giggles, Timmy giggles, fluttered down under the covers. And now one eye and one nose carefully surveyed the dark stretch from bed to door. Gauging, calculating all the factors involved in Christmas mornings. Suddenly a cowlick popped out like a miniature cluster of antennae. Then out of the cocoon tumbled in a bundle the little imp and apple of his daddy's eye, Timmy the Great Warrior. And as with any great warrior, he had studied the battlefield, knew his enemy, was prepared to exploit his weakness. He was prepared for victory.

Obi Wan slippers, shielded by the Force from any traiterous noise. Darth Vader saber, imbued by the Dark Side with power unimaginable. Xvid goggles to enhance his X-ray vision. Deception, soldier, distraction, isolation, elimination. He didn't understand these words, but he was a soldier born and instinctively knew their strength, their rightness. 4:52am he crossed the soft and warm carpet, listened at the door with his field medic stethoscope, and finally entered the hall.

The tree, and thus the presents, was the tremendous distance of two rooms away. Living room, then kitchen must be crossed before attaining his goal. Failure was not an option. 'Victory before all else, then honor will follow.' He wasn't sure what honor was (well, not exactly) but he had a very clear idea of victory.

"Purpose and determination, soldier. Do you know what that means?" He had looked on the internet, and even looked in his father's big and heavy dictionary-book but had never really decided just what that meant. But some answers weren't to be found in searching. Some came fierce, and some came hard. "Yes, Sir! A soldier without purpose and determination is a dead soldier, Sir!" Even when Timmy's tongue got wrapped or twisted, these words always made his father smile. And if there was anything that Timmy knew, it was that his father should always smile.

But Timmy knew quiet, and Timmy knew stealth. The living room was crossed without tripping any motion detectors, or triggering any heat sensing devices. His personal body shield served him well. Kitchen attained, quick replenishment of field rations - peanut butter cookies, sweet heavy egg nog with an extra brownie for his power-belt. And then, with a smile, he counted 5,4,3,2,1, zero. From his bedroom came his voice calling out in terror, "Dad, dad! There's a man in my room! Dad, help me!" Over and over. "Daaaadddyyyyyy!" Slam! Feet running. Heavy sleep-filled breathing. Timmy took another cookie and held his breath, held his heart. Closed his eyes tight, tight, tight. His Xvid goggles suddenly turned black as space between the stars. Bright light exploded through the wall then dimmed back to Christmas morning dawn.

With a small jump and a small fist clutched over his head, Timmy whispered, "Yes!" Then he carefully placed his goggles on the counter and poured two glasses of egg nog. Putting a napkin under each, he carried them into the Family Room. His mother sat beside the Christmas tree, knees tucked under her chin, happy eyes looking at her son. "Merry Christmas. Let's open our gifts."

By the Bay

taking your poll

marriage breaks
oops
are your shoulders wide enough to make the
blame game ?
spin the wheel, sling the questions
covet this, pander that
when the best is a split decision
cut and diced by impartial middle year
someones

rehab is of dubious advantage to an
old clubber like yourself
wartorn, cheesy, a casual smoocher
where the lights tell no tales
happiest in a corner of no return
foggy, powdered by lauder, so coolly
scented

i'm not asking questions lightly
some prurient interloper, not i
taking polls, writing with a no. 2
not when erasure will invalidate
these hard science results
or here to graffiti blemish on your
recently renovated
dramatically escalated
tucked and vacuumed hide

my machine will sniff your heart rate
adjust your pressure, tune your
response
do you find day to be unforgiving?
rarely accommodating?
requiring constant adjustment to your
pallor, your hormonal tension?
oh, marriage
what have you done?

Chapter 2: The Lieutenant, AKA The Loo

Daniel Naquin, known as Little Dan by his extended family, did indeed grow up in southern Louisiana. Or, more specifically, Eunice - a small city west of New Orleans. His grandparents spoke little English; his parents a mix of Cajun French and Anglais patois. He obtained the affectionate moniker of Little Dan because a first cousin, born 7 months before our hero, had also been named Daniel. By this fortuitous circumstance of birth first born Daniel became Big Dan, though shortened to just Big as he entered middle school.  

Our Little Dan quickly discovered books, especially books with a mystery at their core. By the age of 6 he was reading his father's Hardy Boys collection. At 9 he'd wheedled the first tools of crime scene inspection: magnifying glass, Swiss Army Knife, compass, notebook, sketch book, binoculars and a hand-me-down camera. All of this was kept in a scrupulously maintained knapsack with numerous pockets and sleeves. He gradually added zip-lock bags, chemicals, gloves - until his parents despaired of any plans of medical school. But their despair turned to optimism when he stated at age 12 that law school might be an acceptable career path. One Uncle Gaspard took our lad under his wings at age 14. Uncle G, to Little Dan’s delight, was a sergeant with the Eunice police force. A solid cop, he had too little ambition, and truth be known, too little brains, to ever get any further. 

Our lad was but 5'4" at 15, 5'5" at 17, but an unlooked for spurt pushed him to 5'9" when he began classes at LSU in Baton Rouge. He dove into a pre-law curriculum, mixed with forensic sciences, with much enthusiasm. He was a slim, wiry young man with thick dark hair, large green eyes and a small, upturned nose. The nose was a mystery to his family, who had a long and glorious tradition of proud schnozzes, a la Francais.

Finally able to shrug off the moniker Little Dan, our Daniel did quite well in school. He had none of the family exuberance, however. He was a reserved - ah, we'll call it like it was: he was very, very shy. Shy to the point that he remained a virgin until his junior year. One unexpected birthday party led to a number of unwanted shots, which resulted in a tumble and a roll in the hay. When he woke the next morning in a stranger's bed, he was mildly amused that his first experience had been with a very blond, very athletic man. Said man did his best to capture our reluctant hero's heart, but was never able to move past an arduously held reserve. His attempts to storm the castle walls lasted into their senior year. Alas, the walls held and the dexterous and athletic suitor moved on.

With no family tradition to follow, Daniel graduated from LSU Law in the top 10%. But his interest in criminology held true, and the Lafayette, Louisiana force welcomed him with some enthusiasm. We'll skip the next 3 years - a tale better told at a later time - landing us gently in San Francisco, where we resume a turbulent, but fortuitous, introduction to Sionn.

Chapter 3: Sionn's Assault on the Castle Gates

Lt. Naquin managed to harangue, harass - and attempted to intimidate Sionn - for 3 hours. Sionn just leaned back, with an amused smile playing across some very voluptuous lips, answering tersely, when at all.

"Are you going to keep this up through the dinner hour, Lt. Naquin? If so, I'll need to change our reservation." Leaning forward, clasping his hands, "Your stamina is admirable. I like a man with stamina."

The lieutenant stood abruptly, "I'll have your statement ready for your signature and you can still make your dinner."

"I still have hopes that it'll be our dinner, Lieutenant."

"Is hell freezing over, Mr. Mac Cearnaigh?"

"I do believe it is, sir. And you pronounced my name quite well."

Daniel turned abruptly, leaving the interview room with a vehement slam of the door. His partner stood outside, watching the exchange and openly laughing. "Get to ya, did he?" 

Turning red, "I don't get that man. He acts like it was nothing, those kids. It's all a big joke to him, the whole dinner thing . . . the flirting, the too cool, laid back attitude."

"While you were in there being mortified, I tried to get some intel on the guy."

"What do you mean - tried?"

"Just that, tried. I even called in a favor from a friend with the feds. Whoever he is, it's gonna take someone a whole lot higher in the chain to get it. Classified, classified and then classified some more. My friend said to forget it - he wasn't gonna risk his career. And somebody called the Cap. We are officially to stay away from this guy unless expressly given permission. And he says that ain't gonna happen."

Daniel looked at the man who was now waving, mouthing 'Hi'. "Arrogant bastard."

His partner watched the act unfold, "Why, padnuh, I do believe he's pushing all your buttons. That's a first for the iceman."

Daniel turned sharply to his partner, "Just what do you mean by that? And what's with the iceman thing?"

"Just sayin'. Everybody knows you don't date. And the way these ladies gossip . . . well, ya know."

An hour later Sionn stood outside the station, leaning back against a fire hydrant, arms crossed. He was positioned so that he could see his prey leave through either the front door, or the back, which led to the parking area. 20 minutes passed before a still scowling Lt. Naquin appeared. He watched him pat his pockets, as if searching, or checking that nothing had been forgotten. "Are you good at what you do, Lieutenant?"

Naquin's head jerked up, spotting the casual figure. "Are you stalking me, Mr. Mac Cearnaigh?"

"Stalking? Are you in need of a stalker? Do I fit the bill?" He took a step forward, "You're taking this case very . . . personal. Is it because they're children?"

"Are you really the heartless bastard you're trying so hard . . ."

"Daniel! I’m neither heartless nor a bastard. The dead stay with us . . . always. And these, too, will stay with me.”

“So what's with the dinner thing? Do you actually think I would want to go anywhere with you, under any circumstances? And if you're hoping for a quick lay . . ."

"Oooh. I know there's nothing easy or quick about you, Daniel Naquin. But back up a minute - aren't you even curious as to why your partner's peekyboo into my life was . . . unsuccessful?"

"Huh? What are you talking about."

"Don't try to pull off coy. It'll never work. And you'd make a terrible poker player."

"It's basic procedure, nothing more. Did you really think we wouldn't confirm your identity? You're a material witness . . ."

"Nope - I'm not a material witness. I was not at the crime scene, I saw no crime committed . . . except the possible crime of disturbing the scene, or transporting dead bodies. And you aren't sure that the woman you arrested actually had anything to do with the homicides." Shrugging, "Sure - on the face of it she was the one seen moving the bodies. That, and her obvious . . . disinterest . . . " Spreading his hands, "Actually, this is an interesting case. Could be a career maker for an ambitious copper."

"You're crass. I see enough crass every day - I don't need to add to . . ."

"Oh! You've pierced my heart! I've been called many things - but never crass. But, hey - I can work with that."

Daniel had been staring at this odd man in utter amazement. "I have better things to do than stand on the sidewalk sparring with an idiot stalker."

"Back to the stalker. Oy vey! And just what are those 'better things', Daniel?"

"Anything! Anything is better than spending any more time with you!"

Sionn nodded, "OK. Obviously your indignation is trumping your desire to solve the case. That's a shame . . . but . . ." At this he turned and began walking away.

Daniel stood transfixed as Sionn left. He hadn't expected such an easy, abrupt retreat. "Wait! What did you mean - about solving the case?" 

Sionn stopped, but didn't turn. Daniel muttered under his breath, "Fuck. Oh, fuck." Louder, "What are you holding back? If you know something . . ."

Sionn simply raised an arm and waved him on. "C'mon sport. Dinner waits. That's the price to be paid."

Still muttering, "Oh mother of god." A little too loudly, "If I find out that you've been withholding . . ."

Sionn smiled, "Nag, nag, nag. Is that how we're gonna be?  Drama drama drama?"

"We? There's not going to be any 'we'. I'm an officer of the law and you're a witness. That's it."

It's finally here - the first, and very rough, draft of a novel. I'll be adding chapters every few days along with rewrites, changes, etc. But be forewarned, this is a gay adult novel with very explicit scenes. It's also a mystery, twisted with supernatural elements. It is intended for mature readers only.

San Francisco Dreaming, Sex and Death

Forward

You are about to enter an urban fantasy. You’ll find death, sex, unexpected love, loss, and perhaps, horror. A fantasy that plays loose with time, with hearts, with the self.

Prolog

The boy walked below his window every school day, a bag of books slung over a thin shoulder. Today he seemed tired, resigned, a bruise partially concealed by a sleeve grown too short. His hair was choppy, home-cut he thought. The heels of his shoes were worn nearly flat, the once white socks dreary with gray. His eyes followed the pattern of the walk, stepping over cracks, over tree roots that had broken the pavement long ago. The scent of puberty drifted above the night-blooming jasmine, exciting him. Soon.

He drew back the honey striped velvet drapes, but carefully avoided the morning sun. It pooled on the wide-plank cypress boards that ran throughout the house. Dust danced in the rays, creating arcane symbols. Mahogany bookcases lined the south wall, floor to ceiling, leather bound, cloth bound, skins of heretics, of saints . . . knowledge, lore, dissimulation, pride. His fingers twitched in the warming air, raising new symbols in the floating bits of earth.

Sliding back the pocket doors he entered a long wide breezeway, thick with the river damp. Voices from the French Market gave sing-song melodies . . . counting watermelons, selling redfish and pralines. The plaster was uneven over the brick wall, telling stories of long ago trysts, wakes, loss, of birth. The bubbled glass panes had trapped the air of dead men, giving the windows their haunt. 

He'd followed the boy home many times, down Decatur and into the Bywater. His four room shotgun sagged precariously, the front steps warped by one hundred years of summer. An older brother sold drugs uptown, to the college boys. A sister sold her tarnished goods to the tourists, walking up and down Burgundy or Dauphine. His father worked the rigs when rare episodes of sobriety interfered with his drinking. 

He'd tasted the sweetness of the boy just last month, lapping the flat belly dry. Soon. 

Chapter 1: Can Death Lead to Romance?

A cantankerous feral cat edged toward a limping pigeon. One wing tucked close to its molting chest, it seemed unaware of the part it was to play. A 1976 coupe de ville, resplendent in maroon, sliced into a no parking zone, feeding the street some Mexicali rap. 

So it was on a sunny June day in the Mission. The Irishman sat at a sidewalk table, half reading his tablet, half watching men walk, talk, amble along. A dark haired, slender hipster caught his eye - a shadow on his cheeks, tight tank, jeans rolled above bare ankles. Looking, then not looking. Indecisive, but it was mid-day after all. Perhaps it was simple sexual ambiguity. He suddenly waved, spotting someone across Valencia. With a glance and a shrug he walked away.

The man at the table smiled, evidently pleased at the exchange. His chopsticks searched through the remains of a deli mix, picking out dried cranberries and raisins. He pushed the diced carrots to the side. Tilting his chair back against the wall, he turned his face up toward the sun. His black t-shirt captured heat, counteracting the slightly cool breeze. Long, hairy legs ran down to small, arched feet in flip-flops. He wore decade old surfer jams from a summer Down Under . . . nicely faded, smoothed from salt and sand.

When his legs began a nervous beat he knew it was time to walk. 20th and Valencia had turned out to be a good spot, a nexus of sorts. Midway on Hipster Alley, and full of possibilities. But enough, for now. He walked down 20th to Mission and into the Dragon Bakery. The small Chinese woman behind the counter briefly looked up as the bell above the door jangled. Satisfied, she continued boxing a pink, round, 3-layer cake. He often came exclusively for their raisin buns. He chose two from the tall, battered display case, dropped a couple of dollars on the counter and left. He started toward Folsom, walking along the curb to remain in the sun. Passing a small Asian woman, he slowed to consider a strange rectangle of graffiti crowning a second story window.

It took a moment for his eye to recognize the stylized depiction . . . a man, on his knees, blowing another man. It was a daring, peculiar piece. Something about it tugged at the fringe of a memory . . . a similar work from long ago. A stifled scream broke through his small graffiti moment. A pretty Latina covered her mouth and walked, ran, stumbled down the street, not turning back. The small woman he’d passed leaned over a wide stroller, making shushing noises. Curious, he looked down.

Two boys, possibly 2 or 3 years old,  were slumped together. Beautiful children with soft blond hair. Their heads fallen awkwardly to the side, necks broken, blue eyes open. He looked again at the woman as she cooed. She had a slight smile, a jagged scar running from the corner of her mouth to her neck. A very small woman, barely five feet tall. He nodded to her and she shyly said 'hello'. Tucking in the corners of a blanket, she hummed an old Hmong sleeping song. 

She wore the deep indigo hemp clothing of the Black Hmong. Hand stitched, beaded and knotted. A woman from an ancient country, somehow here on 20th Street.  Kneeling beside her, he spoke cautiously in her native tongue, “Your children are very beautiful." She nodded, "They are ghosts." She looked at him carefully, “Are you a ghost? I cannot smell you.”

A crow fell to the sidewalk, fluttering at the last instant to stand just apart. It’s beak clacked, one claw scratched the concrete noisily. Large wings unfolded, tips against the ground.

"These ghosts once lived. Where is their father?"

Ignoring his question, "I go to the yellow priests. They will tell me what to do."

A second crow flew just above their heads, dipping, circling. A large brown rat skittered from an alley to stand next to a broken plastic bag. It raised up on hind legs, nose in the air, sniffing. Roaches began marching out of a street drain, wings beating with a synchronized rustle.

The small woman stood, “No, I cannot smell you.” She again started to push the stroller, watched by the crow, by the rat. 

He followed her to the corner and seemed to come to a decision. Pulling out a phone he made a call. "I'm at 20th Street and South Van Ness. There's a Lao woman pushing a stroller with 2 dead young boys. They seem to have had their necks broken." Listening, "She just turned south on Van Ness - shall I follow her?" She was past mid-block when several police cars pulled up and a number of uniformed officers jumped out and surrounded the woman.

He dispassionately watched the unfolding of an urban drama. Faces shifting with emotions - bare, curious, shocked, angry. Finally they requested his ID, questioning him until a young man in a charcoal gray suit approached. The officers cautioned him to stay where he was and walked with the newcomer to confer quietly. At last, the man in the suit looked his way and came over.

"Lieutenant." He offered his hand. 

"Do I know you?"

"No, not yet." 

"Then how do you . . . ?" 

A scruffy cat arched its back and howled. Blood circled its mouth, a feather caught as it dried. The lieutenant backed away as the animal began crawling forward, claws extended. Tawny yellows and browns carried the detritus of the streets. “What the hell . . . ?”

A large black bird perched on an eave above, following the hunt below. Its head bobbing up and down as dark sounds bubbled through its throat. A uniform leaned against his car, head bobbing in unison with the bird. Suddenly a booted foot hit the cat midsection, kicking it to the curb. The cat raised up, hissed and ran across the street.

“Whoa! Lieutenant - you were about to become cat food.” A tall brunette watched the departing cat warily behind mirrored sunglasses.

“Mother . . . uh, thanks, Sheila. That’s one seriously demented cat.” As he turned back to the Irishman a bloody feather stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Reading his passport, "Sionn Mac Cearnaigh?" 

"Ach! You've ripped my poor name to shreds." Slowly pronouncing his name, he added, "You're from Louisiana, if that’s a soupçon of accent, n’est-ce pas? Brooks Brothers looks good on you." Grinning, "And your name, sir?"

Blushing down to his shirt collar, "I'm Lieutenant Naquin. Let’s start at the beginning, Mr. Mac Cearnaigh, shall we?”

Looking over the policeman's shoulder, Sionn saw the small woman handcuffed and put into the back of a cruiser. Crime scene techs arrived and started their routine. "There's very little to tell you, actually.” He gave a terse, impersonal recital. “You're quite young to be made loo. Impressive."

The sudden veer caught Naquin off guard. Sionn barely held back from laughing as the man again blushed. 

"If you're trying to flirt with me . . . there are 2 dead children. You're acting as if . . ." Frowning, "I need for you to come with me to give a formal statement."

"OK." Looking the lieutenant over, openly, "Do you have dinner plans? I'm thinking 'The House', about 8? My treat, of course."Naquin stepped up, almost nose to nose, "You're incredible. Absolutely incredible."

Sionn licked his lips, "Yep, I am. But it usually takes a little longer for someone to recognize it."

Naquin grabbed his arm, "The car. Now. The only place I'm going with you is to the station. And if there's any charge I can come up with for your snarky ass . . ."

"Hey! My ass isn't snarky." Looking back over his shoulder, "It's generally considered a very nice ass."

Pub crawl! the Seattle way. And posing for your indubitable pleasure is the Seattle artist Isaac Layman.

This iPhone snap is the anti-anti of his work - ergo no artistic thievery will be claimed. But alas, my mission up here in the great beyond is closing to an end. Revel, San Franciscans, for I return.

chasing the trance

old ladies, swaying, clapping
moving to that strange unseemly rhythm
blue hair, silken, unnatural hair
praying in the dimmery of the day
done chasing lost souls, are they
?

sit down where the old men hunker
polished pews, flickered candles
as they watch their women
chase the trance, watch their
tongues call jesus

holy, holy, what a fine diversion
keeps me satisfied, keeps me warm
ain't no devil knocking, knocking
at this homely, cherished door
listen, won't you, to salvation
may keep you kneeling
on the floor

old ladies, swaying, praying
up to the dawn
selling penance, oh ain't it pretty
i hear forgiveness in the wind
yes, if i had my way, that hot wind
would kiss these lips, and
i'd burn this old place down

feeling the call

looking at pictures, watching them fade
as black into gray, white is no clearer
when days are gone long
yes, momma used to jitterbug
in skirts with no pleats, her
shoes gone to goodwill, sunday morn
photos of picnics, iced tea and stained lace
yes, watching them fade

i can rock by the mirror, as after
noon slides, tap my toes in the
summer blown dust, watching them fade
gone autumn, gone cold, wintry silver
takes hold of my hair, but i rock
by the mirror, and see only sun
flying by

may be movies are twirling, and
flickering at night, choppy voices from
places forgot, was i ever so gentle
did i smile when you sang, was i shorter
or taller, as slender as air, or am i
dreaming the long shallow dream

this house calls a reckoning, for
paying the tab, for hours we've borrowed
one, at a time; there's an end to a debt
says a tale i once heard, there's a time
when you'll follow, was i ever enough
but i'm gone in my roaming, as i rock
in this chair

feeling the call

davey and me

well, davey and me, we've
been cryin' in our soup
sittin' on our old brown stools
oh, i was laughin' in the twilight
saddin' in the sun
all roun' yesterday

come fiddle with me, sally
music makes a ghost
twangin' strings n poundin' keys
ain't a drummer in the city
got a thing up on this lad
oh, but davey and me, we're
sad to see

jelly beans n brown marshmallows
crispy from the fire, then
take me tootin' to the funeral
long black limos full of doors
or i could crash a weddin'
in my tux, a pretty sight
yes, i'm handsome as the devil
on clean sheets

oh, davey and me, we've been
cryin' in our soup

life, no. 1

sittin' with that old man, causing bout the day
laughin' at the lies we've told
that is a joyous juice he makes,
swirlin' brown and smoky, snakey
with a sting

i got two brown feet, tired from
runnin', good for just the two-step
and a lazy eye for nights gone dark
may be you've seen me, chasin' flies
out in the garden, lightnin' in the
air

yes, lawdy, i'm out sittin' with the old
man, but we've no hymns down in
our chests, we've no blessin's, no
i dance the blues, up in my window
where the yellow sun has bent some
shade

oh, i'm ghostin' with my momma, as
her rocker keeps its time, hear her
cryin' when the moon's fell by, hear
her stories, little sadness, raisin cookies
make me smile

ain't life dandy, hard as funerals
soft as wakes and irish tunes
lads gone off to find their war
ain't life simple, but hard as kisses
and gettin' old

scattered, in the wind

i've gone down from heaven
made some wings of salt
can't you smell the ashes scattered ?
just like honey in the wind

you've been walking for the sundown
old black hymnal singing choir
asking jesus for a favor
momma's child gone worn and frail

you liked your dresses blue in flowers
soft from drying on the line
old hot sun done made you crinkled
ain't that just the way of things
?

i've gone down from heaven
tired of angels, goodness bare
sure could use some fancy whiskey
paper label from tennessee

i'd trade his throne for barefoot dancing
for pain, sweet jasmine all the night
you'd sit for hours, stare at that mirror
i never knew you, no not at all

memories have lost their hold
lost their bitter taste
soon that man i was
will go a'scattered in the wind

the float

he was an immoderate man, choking d-flats into
his steel horn, riffing down ill-tempered a-sharp
sugary crusty donut shaped violations

he throned those iron steps scratched out
from his bedroom window, splayed his toes
shook his arms to free the juice

listening down, waiting out the breathing that
stole a few half-chordal splutters, squint-eyed
o-ing his lips to mimic back a few

maybe he'd coda out some butchy-boy noise
blonde hair glisses, frat-bunny do-wah do-wahs
crossin-the-bridge makin-time atonals

his leg found some dancing, shaking a wrong
old beat stutter stutter what'd-i-ever-do-to-you
and everybody knows boys don't cry

boys don't get sweet inspiration, make sweet
choices, make supper with sushi make-believe
and he splayed his toes cross the edge iron

steps, swimming in the moonlight, gripping
shimmying, chasing dizzies, gutting out
and making kisses on his horn, steel smooches

making him a good boy, an honorable boy
a make-me-proud boy, and he gripped the
iron one last time, then did the float

i have a window

i have a window, made of old stuff, grayed out in the sun, where
i can make my spying, safe and full-up with the warm of day,
and it never shadows my careful eye, never leaves me open

to the hardness lying by, it is a window special to my taste,
obedient to my ways, i am become here precious

i have a savory flavor, and i may cause with you, bring you
arias from the world away, pander you with scotches, rums
and scents, leave you pleasured, should i gift you with

lollipops and whispers

come sit with me, i am rare as those hothouse secrets,
i was an old man yester day, drunk up with churchy
hymning, drunk up with frittery oratory, but i have a window,

where i can tango in the dark, wear some fancy glimmers,
bring my little frivols to the play, i have watched you making
kisses, and i'll favor you my bruises, imagine you with blushes

we'll forget the sun betakes us both unkindly, if only you will
sit with me

jimmy

gentle jimmy
died tonight
8:04 pm is nearly dark
not black in mourning
soft with gray, rich in shades
but i'll go walking
heel to toe
careful where the streets
bend unlit
i'll jump across the alleyways
hiding jimmy's dreams
all full up with fear
i may be but
trust is trust, all wrapped
in care, i think i do
love smoky liquor
brown or gold, caught
by moonlight
then we'll speak bout gentle jimmy
or dance the digger's two-step
on the 19th avenue

dying's got a speak
all of its own
though it comes and goes
now forgot, now remembered
they say all life's got ebbs
got tides and turnings
or is it just my sweet
hot whiskey
that sleeps in this old bed
sweet faithful lover

gentle jimmy
died tonight
done in from chasing angels
if i can merit, can understand
the streetly choir
weren't he but a child, or
am i wandered
am i seeing past the glass
and through the mirror
8:04 pm is not nearly
dark enough
for dying

the hot house flower

leg crossed over knee, with fine display of
tan socks, loose and overwashed socks, j c penney
season 1974, no doubt recovered, no doubt
discarded, or are they beige
?

he may be seeking treasures, in his bold
blue pant, belted closely, firmly held, may be
on the chase, pale arms sheltered in a triumph
of the clorox corporation

as he sits, long fingers tap tap tapping
some times paused, in a delicate rhythm
profane with jazz hip spasm, uncrosses to an act
with startled calf, and smiles

and you whisper, bent incautious, breathless toward
my ear, that you desire him, watch and devour
him, he carries baubles, ragged pages, hair flown
furious, this instant man

but i can't see him, though i strain, though i
could reach across and touch his shadow, hear
some sibilance from his lips, and know they
have a fullness made to blush

and you whisper, mouth unforming, watch
his slowly nodding chin, that you desire him
would caress him, he of the j c penney
season 1974

i'm indecisive, there is a haughty and entirely
demanding, conundrum, where does line go sharp
between the tan and the weighty beige, where
does my fashion sense begin
?

but faced with such fine drama, can i turn away
miss even a mini-episode from your unexpected
gift? here as we sit, and sip our marvels, soy unfatted
doubled, preciously caffeinated

yes, his legs are crossed, eyes star-tossed
or so you say, bent incautious, crassly salivating
and if he wears boxers, paisley manufactures
from the house of sears
?

will you still want him, hot house flower
he may be
?

lost

i'm gone lost
mercy
and i'm gone out of dreams
ain't i
?

yes, i say i been travelin
far off places, cause
you love your bits
of sweet romance

lovin butterflies, darker
flowers, glowin in the shade
so i kiss you full of mysteries
don't i
?

breathless, you sit and listen
and for you i'll shape some words
round, fullsome, and cut away
the bitter

but i'm gone out of dreams
been flowed over, lyin in the sun
near drowned, neath the weight
of butterflies

and taste my tears

i am

i am the healing man
oh lordy, full of comfort
i am

and you have fallen
out of grace, and lie there
hungry, but

were you ever just an angel
and i am never blinded
in the dark

i am the comfort man
oh lordy, full of healing
i am

sitting in your window
drinking full of scent
hardly

do you think to weave
and bind me, sorcel me
with magicks

i am the dancing man
oh lordy, jealous in the hours
i am

so call out, call out
if you have some voice, some
power

for your healing man
oh lordy, leave me with my dreaming
i am

if

churchy boys, wauling down on 7th street
tappy with some hymnals, and jumping
with their fever, oh lordy, if my old gray
pants, if

but i don't listen to the whispering of the son
no sugah, don't make absolution, shining at
the greyhound stop, smiling to the cadillacs
clicking nickels, in my old gray pants, if

young sammy ran with the hard cap fellas
while his momma rocked, jumped up to a polka
and sang along in black and white, to her
emerson deluxe, crocheted for salvation, yes

if my old gray pants can keep their magic
you know that pennies find their way, but
dimes are silver, last forever, small and tidy
and my pocket's wide, and deep, only

i haven't told you, cause i keep my secrets
they took my place, at the greyhound stop
where the cadillacs they roam, proud and
sleeker than you know, sniffing for my scent

jesus find me, lost away on 33rd, wiping
chevies, and keep me young, just til these
old gray pants, they lose their charms, if

bees and honey

honey, i'm sweet as melted butter
see the slippers on my bedroom floor
tossed, crisscrossed, cause i like my toes
all bare

brown from swimming in the old maid pond
rustling with the willows, fancying
summer kisses, or was i howling
to the moon

gone ragged memory tales, jimmy-jagged
made up tales, telling stories like my
daddy, passing through the windows
dark in night

ain't girls that pretty, slinky made of
twists and slopes, razzled in the hallway
mirror, spinning like a top, just to make me
sing

but words, all come and go, whispry
and know that i'm a liar, given to
confabulations, a hunter with my soft
feet, i am a caution

or says the honey to the bee

noel, no. 3

eddie done the slips, fell with the slides
rocking with the shiver, all blinded in his winter
white

gone, check it off, some list grown short
and slashed, wrack it slowly, pencil finally
finely

edge him into goodwill, dodgy wear-washed
cast-me's, as we laugh against the dollar rack
badly

and try to guess the potions, anxious oily lotions
cremes from overstock, warehoused somewhere by
walgreens

is my eddy, foiled again, skipping breaths once,
twice, cloudy in the afternoon, and he wonders if
he's kissed

alley hopping, hoody thugs slamming hip-hop
miming dead end arias, eying salty eddy under
dread

is our life, was and going to be, our life, over and
again, bouncing on the hedges, tiptoed to the ledges
down

tie it, down, and tightly tie it, for the run, for the
streetly frolicks, and if we lose, or throw it, blow
it

i'm wise, glowing in the disco ball, endless wise
me, making dance, shaking to the ghostey years
forever

the long but not drawn noel, no. 2

i'm gone long, drawn out like sheepdog running
just a lopsided and bluesy boy, maybe shouts
when the night gets long, do i

got still some hopscotch, do i, and make scratch
jenny, or she is suzy, surely a bit of laughing
lady, ready for her romp

sling this new day, quilty all of older stuffs
cause when she wears old jasmine oils
blinds me sure enough, do i

if you're thinking, lazy long and old man thoughts
you will be hankered there, sure for hours
grumpy and tapping feet

i got some flying in me, do i, and blow over
all that ocean, leap the slips of water, just to
blink sweet sally's way

prayerful fella, wink there to the sun's down
and we can heist your uncle's dimes, scoop
those heavy nickels to a tune

jabber fella, i'm long here by your aunty's chair
long for that warm and gentle chair, do i, where
it's dark and knows best

i feel the marvel, do i

mystery song, no. 3

dark talking fellas, do they make their whisper
corner standing fellas, slying and looking
ready to be a thief, and watch their brown eyes
turn blue

sing-song blues, humping and thumping
foot tapping stuff, just made for fools, for heart
hunting strangers making their time
out of time

jesse, come back from your travel, cause the
clouds are gone hard, thick with some heavy
wails

i find them fearsome, these jabber and stomping
men, snapping and cracking, riff-raffing down my
alleys

what is this life i lead, ordered like some sergeant's
bark, but it gives me no sleep, shoving fierce into the
night

lord, he watches and he listens, counts the quick
little whiskeys, as i brown my toes with the falling
sun

tell me quick, about this life, have i gone astray
have i done wrong, lord, and some times you love
me

cause i can see the end

a thief

night, splattering red across my windows, and we're
tired, this night and me, waiting, wearied down
by sour whiskey, twisty and dancing in tosses,
by turns

deceitful lover, is my night, false hour by hour
stealing minutes, and i feel it stalking, lurking
prowling, hoping to creep into my bed, but i
have no room there

i sing some small romances, don't i, while i am
living this life, surprised some times, by your
little nothings, forgotten in my shallow corner
darkly worn

and i don't know you, or did i ever know you,
i have my weakness for the thief who takes
my baubles, then slips away to leave them
every where

i fall bound, wrapped into my old thin bed
ragged pillows, blanketed by my father's
whispers, tied with memories, tied from
losing you

A few selections from days gone by

susie

susie sells her socks, but only after church, down by
charlie’s gate, and only to the catholic boys, cause they
have dimes and pennies, pockets full, and blushes on

their cheeks, and when the moon has slipped away, the
doors have darked and shut to strangers, she skips across
the pastor’s lawn, makes her prayers, sly with promise

sly with woman twists, sings her happy patter, and hides
her favorite monies, down in the deacon’s garden, scented
with old granny’s lilacs, scented with some magicks that

her daddy tossed aside, and susie weaves some charms
that would leave her momma danced in pride, wickeds
up the night time airs with fabulous concoctions. oh, yes

our susie, our heart’s delight

- - - - - -

waiting

he sat behind a mirror, drinking bourbon sweet and sassy
waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the dawn to warm his
toes, laying riffs up on the window sill, in that same ol’ same ol’

and he dreamed, and he tasted old and salty wounds, and he
sang, chasing katydids, waking up the sugar apple trees, and he
laughed, cause days are short and sleeping’s lost its way

so he rocked, with his daddy’s slow and easy, wrapped in
d.ellington’s aharmony in g, waiting for his lies to lose their
joyful ways, and the sun to rise, and the bourbon turn to scotch

- - - - - - -

lost in queens

i watched his finger tap a samba beat, listening to vivaldi,
but he whispered e.merman jollies from a corner la-z-boy

and still, the sun will set as he darks the air with shades
and little torments, and still, he breathes his minor key
complaints, warbly rodondos, caprices in a sutra style

why am i lost in queens, besotted by some sweet fandango,
causing gently with my old-man and sillied by the sun

why do i fill him up with my 7-penny stories, buy vanilla
frapaccinos for this malted debonair, in his store front
parlor, in his lounge left discarded by a disco dancing swell

he’s drawn with such casual dissidence, a jangly composition
and relishes my lies with a hunger raw and sharpened for a feast

or have we simply been misplaced, and chance would have us
make our waltz, make us giddy with our heady and flamboyant
spins, a doo-wop boy and a barber with a sunday night despair

give me my salty whiskey, if i’m to while away the day, so i can
sing some janis joplin, and listen to vivaldi, and finally go my way

an extended haiku in a-minor, riddle

hearts
muscular organs
solitary
they move yet
their murmurs give us
pause

you're alone
but
do you know

i can take
everything

From the ongoing Songs of Childhood

mystery and hot chocolate

shared rooms, narrow beds and unquiet places
night wise sounds that easily torment
raw breaths, loosely opened windows bring
cold

when alien, exotic noise ratchets on those
uncomforting walls, brickey and dusty
odd uneven row upon row, crumbled
sometimes

frank walks on stone floors, jimmy on
wood, both on the look, the watch, making
their summons, driving in dreams for
the out

billy's caught in the old song, sharp, or
minored, he can't change the key, escape
the octave of his birth, a casual after
thought

old houses tire easily, afraid of people
watching for despair, keen eye, laughing
with their money, carefully woven
clothes

but they have a duty, when children
find them home, want some refuge
have a purpose against idle passers
winds

parents can be fickle, forgetting in their
ways, leave joy outside the garden gates
or follow roads that wind and torment
away

wally keeps some vigilance, dark-eyed
dances on the roof til dawn, makes small
mumbles to the bees, the wasps, old black
flies

so turn the days, so wait the children
where they lay, where they mark their hours
well within that mystery where you leave
hot chocolate

and forget

A tidbit from songs of childhood

the boy at the door

an orphan is an orphan, though he smiles
very properly, turning his mouth, twisting
his lips, a mimic of strangers who stare

as he worries of tears, of rips and worn
creases, hiding a spot where his supper
had flown

he has flight in his fancy, sitting by doors
reading of birthdays, of candles, surprise
of gifts everlasting

of waking at Christmas, ice falling through
air, but Santa's for children with parents and
cakes

with chimneys that beckon old men without
care, and he knows there are rules, for boys
in the night

lessons to learn, if a lad hopes to leave
to wander, to search for the reason he sits
at the door