Some people shouldn’t drink, particularly those with meaner natures. Marco was one such.

He’d already belittled his family at home. He was now at the bar, the night still young, people to harass abounding. The twenty-something guy on the next stool was dressed nice, classy, obviously monied, which pissed Marco off. He downed his whiskey, then mumbled nastily below his breath.

The man turned on Marco, his eyes burning red-hot, so that Marco felt their heat. The younger man’s skin darkened, and aged. Horns sprouted, and fangs. Enormous black wings unfolded behind him. “Problem?” He asked

“No sir… I’m good!”

Not particularly funny, but always made me smile. There was a freckle-faced little boy whose name I don’t remember who always cried anytime his mother wasn’t in sight. He was maybe three, his sister four, and they used to sing this together if you asked them to (and I always asked). And they sang it in just this way:

Come a widdle

come a widdle

come a wote, tote, tote

A wee, wee man

in a wed, wed coat

Wid a tick in his haaaaand-

and a tone in his f-woat

Come a widdle

come a widdle

come a wote, tote, tote!

No mere writer or poem painter, she

Lost is a beacon on the writer’s shoreline

A siren

Drawing me (who would remain at sea)

in closer to Prose’ rips, and raps

Offering a safe place to bash my weary words against

The first voice hailing from the ether

In faceless song

A welcome from the dark

Echoing through the mesmerizing mist, ever calling

Faithful as dewdrops and dandelions

a-soak in the summery sun

Her value is not in her posts

(Though beautiful enough)

But was her presence

In those reflections sparkling the rocky shore

With images refracted within the imaginings

Like sunlight through dewdrops snuffed

And wind-scattered dandelions blown

And Danny and I together alone

@Mazzmyrrheyes, come home

Tommy Thibodeaux took a final peek over the low rock wall. It looked the same this morning; the same as yesterday, the same as last week, and last month. The view never changed. Only the weather changed, and the weather had long since ceased to matter.

They formed lines alongside him, left and right. Their faces appeared different than yesterday’s faces, cleaner, more youthful, but the eyes were the same. The eyes showed their fear. They were men, after all. But being the eyes of men they looked hard at Tommy, each leaden eyeball an immense weight pinning him under it. It had become harder to return their gazes. Unsure, their eyes followed him, then their legs. They knew his name. He was the one the veterans looked to, so these newbies would climb when he climbed, run when he ran, scream when he screamed. They were mini versions of himself, lesser Tommy Thibodeaux’s, and the real Tommy would be the last thing most of them would ever see. Aching to be him, aching to be like him, they would follow him to their dooms.

How strange to still be here, when so many had gone? How strange that his boots were different than these new men, and his uniform? How strange that the dirt on his did not match the dirt on theirs, neither in color, nor quantity? How strange that he was so much older, and they so much younger, and they all the same age? Ever so briefly he wondered at the oddity of it.

A blue-eyed boy stepped in close behind Tommy. Though the fear in the blue eyes was palpable Tommy offered them no words of encouragement, nor advice, nor plan of action. Tommy had seen death aplenty, and wanted no part of this boy’s. He would either live or die. Tommy’s words would change nothing. This was the one thing he had learned.

The line formed. Tommy dry-mouthed his whistle. Somehow it screeched through his cracked lips. Tommy stood then. He leapt the wall, and ran. It was while running that he noticed, like every other morning, a sickly yellow dawn breaking beyond the smoke. It was while running that he noticed that the thick, blood-red clay was slippery underfoot. It was while running that the morning air tingled with the smells of gunpowder and death, and that he saw the enemy ready, and waiting.

His speed was uncommon, his stamina unmatched. Tommy liked to be out front, where he did not have to see the others fall, or to dodge their fallen bodies. He realized that he had forgotten his rifle, but no matter. He had forgotten it before. So what? The trick was to get there first. The rifle was only weight.

He was the first to reach the rifle pit. His foot found a sandbag and pushed his body out into space above it. From high above the rifle pit the bullets had a familiar feel, like the bite of cheap whiskey. Dead before he hit the ground, Tommy Thibodeaux rolled to his back, pulled himself up, and took a final peek over the low rock wall…

.

1) Absolutely not. The double wide would never survive re-entry!

2) “Trash“ would automatically pull it’s britches down every time it hears “moon-shot”.

3) “Trash” already has too many craters on it’s Uranus.

4) You just can’t deep-fry Tang.

5) “Trash” would giggle every time the other astronauts suggested a dark side re-entry.

6) There would be Croc prints forever embedded in the moon dust.

7) If ”Trash” found out there were asteroids in the Milky Way it would quit eating candy.

8) “Trash” would cut the sleeves off of a perfectly good space suit to show off a new tattoo.

9) Do we really need a pink flamingo planted outside the International Space Station?

10) The other astronauts would forever be calling out “moon-shot”! (See #2)

No, “Trash” should stick to vacationing on the Gulf Shore beaches, where it belongs!

Do fish have problems with fish bones when they eat?

Strange question. It would seem obvious that fish would more likely have problems with their bones if they didn’t eat, always scratching through their skinny sides. Nothin’ worse than a puny fish. Take a bluegill, for instance. A study shows that 30% of bluegills think their ass is too fat, 10% think their ass is too skinny, while the remaining 60% don’t care; they love him anyway, he has a good heart, and they wouldn’t trade him for the world.

No problems there!

He is one of them, but different. They gather like moths outside her door, fluttering ’round the porch light, drawn to her dance. They gaze intently, their desires watering like hard candy against their tongues as she flickers. Wordless they watch, eagerly they await this auction block of lust, a week’s wages ready to burn.

In high heeled shoes their desire shows and shuffles, so slowly turning, the glowing wick in her window their sole attraction. The young moth stands up fronting the glass, his attraction a balm for her burn. She recognizes him from last week, and the week before, pushing his way up close. She knows how it would be with him; quick and fumbling, but sweet. She knows his kind, and likes them. His sort never know what to say afterward, ashamed with what they had done, ashamed at where their salary had gone. Still, she hopes it will be him. At worst he would be gentle.

When the door opens she is drawn to the heat from the street. When Max speaks their eyes leave her en masse, drifting hopefully toward him, or nervously around. “Which lucky one will combust in her fire?”

“Four hundred for Madeline.” Max’s bored voice contrasts with their hopeful expressions. Our Girl senses disappointment from the young one, and within herself, though her shuffle never stops. “Oh well. It might have been nice.”

The young one’s eyes will not meet hers. A fat man pushes through the small throng, a familiar man with his wad of bills thrust high. Our Girl sighs. A new flame slips past her, and toward the window. Victoria begins to dance, the same shuffling and turning, her naked skin so sexy and smooth that Our Girl’s own hand aches to caress it, hot and buttery as molten metal. Outside the glass the boy lingers at the window, but his eyes have strayed. They are only for Victoria now; a new flame, a new desire, though still too hot for him to handle.

Unamused our girl turns to her fat man. He has been here before. He is not the worst. He likes her feet, likes her to press them against him, likes them to walk atop him, her weight in the strangest of places.

Our girl wonders to herself just how much money the boy had; how close he had come to feeding her flame? Snuffed, she clomps down the hallway in the ridiculously high heels. Funny, how dancing in them is easier than walking, but she leaves the on. The fat man will want to take the shoes off of her himself. Though strange, the fat man was far from the worst.

She resigned herself. Tomorrow would come… another day, another paycheck. Her moth would be back. He would regret it after, as something within him would be forever turned to ash, but he would be back. No moth yet could resist her flame.

There is a tree leaning out over the lake, perfect for wood ducks. We Adirondack’s admire wood ducks, along with most anything else wood that nests. They are small, these wood ducks. And despite lacking webbed feet like the lesser, non-wood ducks, they are easily the most colorful of the varieties that visit the pond, and the best parents. They nest far out in the leaning tree. The chicks are safe up there until ready. The wife and I watch with all the trepidation Adirondacks can muster until the babes finally do fall, their mother rudely pushing them from the nest and down into the water, but in so doing the chicks never need face the dangers of land. It is a much better system than the mallards use, which is to say little-to-no system at all, and the tiny yellow mallard chicks pay an awful price for their parents reliance on luck to keep them alive.

Even further up in the leaning tree is a larger nest. Though abandoned now, it recently housed a family of red-shouldered hawks. They built the nest in late winter/ early spring before the tree leafed-out, so we were able to watch from our porch as they came and went, screeching to each other over their building accomplishments, and later him carrying frogs, or snakes to her while she sat her egg. I recall one fine day when one of them swooped in to perch on my back. It was a proud Adirondack moment that, a rare chance to be included in life’s action! Have your sparrows and your squirrels! But for me? I will shoulder a hawk!

Between the heights of wood duck nest and Hawks’ nest, at the farthest end of a branch, waits a not-so-patient kingfisher. His tommy-gun ch-ch-ch-ch-ch can be heard from anywhere around the pond, though we suspect that none of our neighbors are familiar with it. The sound is easily lost in the mowers, and the back porch TV’s. How would they ever hear it? Why would they ever? At best they might wonder what it was they have missed when the corner of their eye catches her splash on the lake’s surface, but probably not. How can they? They are never outside? They are rarely bothered to sit! And when they are bothered to, they turn us in towards the firepit, or aim us at the television above the bar when the “real” and better view lies outward. “Will you not sit? Will you not see?“ These are the the beginning and ending questions of Adirondack philosophy.

Under the leaning tree’s lower branches mallards and gadwalls float in pairs on smooth water, their heads tucked away from the midday sun. Near them a more industrious blue heron high steps through shallower water. The heron picks an unfortunate perch from the blackness below him, then slides it’s DVD sized body down his garden-hose sized throat. It is a wonder to watch, that he doesn’t choke. The lake is well stocked, the fishing good, good enough that every so often a strange heron or egret (poachers all) glide in on parachute wings in search of a meal, but our old man will have none of it. Like a bullfrog through a bullhorn he croaks his warnings. With a calm fury he taps his wingtips at the surface in his slow-motioned pursuit. As he chases them over the woods and away a pair of geese near, drawn by the heron’s bark, and pleased to join in the cacophony. You hear them first, their excited honks growing louder as they come. When directly overhead the twins slam on precise brakes, their wingtips curling downward in harmony, their bodies hunched to catch air, their landing gear extended to slap the water. When their paddles do so it is enough to startle a lonely loon who has been quietly criss-crossing, minding his own business. This is too much activity for the loon. The poor, loner loon is built for more open water, and must circle the pond three times before gaining enough altitude to clear the tops of the walnuts, cedars, and sweet gums that circle the pond’s edges. In watching him you may or may not notice a far away ring-neck or bufflehead pop up to the surface to bob there like the rubber duckies they are, but do not not blink, or they will disappear below again as if they were never really there, leaving not a ripple to mark the spot.

At late afternoon an osprey calls, circling high overhead. She has flown over from the river, as the fishing here is easy. Today is warm, warm enough that turtle heads dot the surface. The turtles are easy hunting for the large osprey. Knowing what is to come, my anticipation builds. The wise would back away from me at this moment, for there is little in life that can match an excited Adirondack. Spotting one the right size the osprey torpedo bombs it, her body slapping hard on the water and threshing along the surface before struggling upward again phoenix-like, her weighty supper clutched below her, weighing her to the surface like the loon is weighted. All the while an impressed sandpiper judge shouts “Perfect 10“ from the beach, while my untenable excitement ebbs.

With nightfall the Spring air quickly cools. My cedar shrinks and creaks. I am older in the night, surrounded by the equally sad moaning of bullfrogs, and the barks of tree frogs. Somewhere close is an invisible hoot-owl, and from somewhere further an answer. Near the shore the heron is silhouetted in moonlight. Farther out a group of mallard shadows bob easy on the waves.

Fortunately, Adirondacks needn’t sleep. We have naught to do but wait, watch, and weather. Soon enough the soaking dews will fall. Soon enough the day will gray. Soon enough the pond will mist, and another of our too few days will passively pass before us. But tomorrow could be different. Perhaps tomorrow someone will venture out to join me, someone to show off to the reasons I was placed here to begin with.

Azur, navy… no, cobalt the sky

Cyan the sounding sea.

An emerald forest

A forest meadow

A kelly green lime tree.

Daffodils lunge

At butterscotch suns

Canary gold flies free,

Into dawn’s bloody gushing

Into dusk’s crimson flushing

Or to the pale, rosy-blush of she.

But it’s only a ruse,

The colors I use

Are always black on white.

Yet they mix in a way

That needn’t turn gray

In the picture that you see.

Frisco was a good dog from the very beginning. Even as a pup he paid attention. He listened, and he learned well. He always did right, or almost always. He did love to chase a cat, which caused trouble now and then.

My wife brought him home in an effort to get me to move in with her. She knew I loved dogs. It certainly helped my decision. That very first day he laid his tiny body across my foot and slept for hours, until that foot grew so numb I finally had to move. I was hooked on the girl and the dog. Frisco bonded us no differently than a child would have.

He was a Shetland Sheepdog with a thick, beautiful mane. He would lie in the grass for hours, his head held high like a lion’s, his eyes bored but watchful as he awaited any danger that might come forth so that he could throw himself at it. We were his love. Protecting us was his passion. Thus the “shepherd” in his name, I suppose.

He is long gone. It has been twenty years now, but I feel myself getting choked up as I write this. There is a picture on my office wall that my wife gave me one Christmas. In it Frisco is sitting because he was told to sit, that is what he did, but you can see the uncertainty in his eyes. He is in a strange place, with strange dangers that he is unsure how to protect her from. It is about the only time I think of him anymore, when I look at that picture. But when I do it all floods back; his high, shrill bark, the velvet feel of his head and ears, and the way the hair curled down behind them like ribbon scraped through scissors. Or the way we would race each other over the Reafield hills when he was just a little fella, him yapping at my heels until he finally poured it on and got out in front, barking with unbridled joy. The way he once broke his leg and just laid down, refusing to tell me what was wrong, or that anything was. But mostly I recall how he watched. He always watched. Every move he watched. He watched for so long that he knew what was going to happen before it happened. He anticipated everything. I could get up to go to the bathroom and he would not move, but if I stood up in exactly the same manner to go outside he would sprint to the door. How did he know? From watching, I guess. There never was a more observant, or more faithful creature. Not ever. I would have died for that dog, just as, without doubt, he would have died for me.

But as nature will have it, Frisco lived his ten years and left us. It is both the curse and blessing of a dog, ten years. He developed a strange cough, and it wasn’t long after that. We cried for a few days. We got another dog, and moved on with life until we are only reminded every now and then when we pause beside a picture on an office wall; a picture with a worn collar hanging from the top right corner, a picture of this world’s very center, if only for a short while.