after Frank O’Hara

i was watching the news

and the president’s press conference

it was all very usual

when, quickly, i had a vision:

a towering wave eclipsing the city

which would have been a good way to end the world

but instead we are stuck with bats

and bandanas for masks

which are no good, really

but i won’t tell it to the neighbors who wear them

though i will share the infographics on facebook

in the grocery store

everything is an epic:

the slim-bridge journey to beef

the deep dive for eggs

suddenly

suddenly

suddenly

car horns still sound terrible

there are no such things as miracles

only distant women peeking through curtains

i have watched many midnight commercials

and have yet to buy Tupperware

i am sick of my doorstep

i might set fire to my porch

oh to be touched

to be touched

oh touch

.

ten strokes on chaotic veins

fingertips can only reach that far

but it's not only my skin

that you strum

it's my breaths that you play with so well

once oxygen-deprived

now inhaling the universe with deeper lungs

seeming to taste the air

for the first time

( slowly... exhale )

.

I saw him perform for the first time on a mild fall evening last October. I had never heard of him before, but I was immediately intrigued when I saw the promo video for the tour. As he took the stage, I fixed my gaze unswervingly on him so I wouldn't miss a word. He was a poet. Swoon. He was tall, 6'7 to be exact, funny, adorable, well spoken, relatable, and a lover of Jesus. I had to leave the show early but I couldn't get him out of my mind. I started following him on social media because I needed to know "everything" about him. I went to his spotify to save all of his playlists.This is where the cycle began. I told my closest friends (ok basically anyone who would listen) about this magical discovery. I watched every video I could find of him from anyone who had ever posted one. Yall he could also sing, play the guitar, and exegy the word of God. He was my unicorn. I was obsessed quickly. I had to watch him and check on anything he posted every single day. Stalker. In February, I hijacked my bestie and drove 3 hours to see him perform. I needed to meet him, which I didn't get to do because the show went too long and we had to get back home that same night. I needed to know if he was really real. Here I was falling in infatuation with someone I only "knew" from 2 performances and several 10 minute clips on YouTube. I unfollowed and unsubscribed from his pages to get a grip on reality. Except I unraveled and started checking his social media 10 times a day and rewatching the same videos again and again. Pyscho. So in a final ditch effort to regain my sanity, I will be purchasing a VIP ticket to do a meet and greet with him for his performance this fall. I will be awkward, giddy, and say something cheesy like "I listen to all your podcasts." I'll walk away after our picture together and he'll think "she's pleasantly strange." Ahhh fulfillment.

I wake up with a fuzzy feeling in my mouth, but don’t open my eyes. The last thing I can remember was drinking with my friends at the bar. We had just aced our end-of-year exams, and decided to celebrate. I had drunk too much, staggered home, and crashed in bed with my dog at my side. With the darkness pressing in on my eyes, I used other senses. The comforting warmth of my dog lying next to me. The cool, floating feeling of the cotton sheets, with a high thread count. They were the only sheets I felt comfortable in. The white light shining through my eyelids. The warm summer breeze caressing my face. As I became aware of my body, I felt a lump on the back of my head, and realized that my ponytail was still on. I also remembered I had not taken off my shoes. I stood up, still not opening my eyes, and my head started spinning. I reached my hand out to rest on the nightstand, met only empty air, and crashed over. My eyes flew open, and saw a ceiling. It was not mine. As I got my feet under me, I staggered to a window and looked out at a vast horizon. “What the…” for it was not the one outside my humble Montana home. It looked like those landscapes of Mexico you see on buzzfeed, with rushing blue water, and tall white buildings. My head spun faster and faster. As the ground rushed up to meet me, I got one word out. “Fuck”.

That was 30 years ago. Now I live a broken life. A half life. The things I saw, the things I experienced, were all in my head. Soon after that, I thought the people who had brought me there were coming to take me away. I always kept a gun in my house.

BANG

BANG

BANG

With the unerring accuracy of someone who spent hours down at the range, I shot all three of them dead, before I realized I was in my rose garden. They were my elderly mexican neighbors. When I went to court, my attorney pleaded not guilty, saying I was insane. During the court trial, I had another attack. I thought I was, again, in Mexico, being interrogated by drug lords. Screaming I would tell them nothing, that I knew nothing about their drug dealings, I collapsed. Soon after, I was put into a mental hospital. I sense I am near my dying days. Other people have told me about what I was like before that night of partying that ended so tragically. I was funny, entertaining, smart, kind, loving, and loyal. I had a boyfriend, named Mark. My mom had been a lawyer, my dad an astrophysicist. I remember not a drop of all this. The Caroline that was, is no more. I decided to write all this, as a sort of confession. I don’t want to die without telling someone, anyone, about those 3 people that I killed. Their faces still haunt me.

Caroline Redmont, May 14th, 2019.

Caroline Redmont

June 17, 1968 - May 15th, 2019

You will be missed.

When he had seen what the terrorists had done to the girl staked out at the top of the hill Trooper Rwezi had gone slightly mad. I could see that his eyes were wide and sweat dripped from his forehead, he started to shake and before I could stop him he swung up into the saddle and tore off down the hill at a gallop.

As hard as I had trained my native troops to ignore emotion and stick to obeying orders, what he had wittnessed on top of that hill erased all my training in an instant. All he could think about was the fact that the ones who had done these terrible things to the young girl were at that very moment getting away across the river into French Cameroon where we could not follow them.

I jumped on my horse and tore down the hill after Rwezi shouting and cursing at him to stop. I could see that the force crossing the river was much smaller than the one that we had been tracking from the devestated farm house some five miles back to the south.

I could also see that there was a stand of trees between the bottom of the hill and the river crossing. As I tore down off the hill I was thinking that those trees would be a very good place to set up an ambush.

I had just left the slope and reached the flat ground about a fifty yards in front of the nearest trees when I heard a shot and saw Rwezi tumble backward off his horse.

Shortly after that I felt a blow to my left knee and just as that happened, my horse let out a scream and pitched over bakward landing with my left leg pinned under him, his body between me and the trees.

I was now taking steady fire from the tree line but thankfully, the now dead horse was absorbing most of the bullets that were meant for me, it was good cover for now but I knew that it wouldn’t last long, for even now the rounds were slowly turning the horse into hamburger. I was throughly covered in horse blood but I was still alive. Thankfully, most of the rounds were passing harmlessly over my head as these terrorists were known for spraying lots of bullets but had very little marksmanship training.

I started to take stock of my situation and soon discovered that I was firmly pinned with my leg under the body of the horse. At least the weight of the horse on my leg was mostly stopping the bleeding from the wound at the side of my knee and felt very little pain from it. I could see my rifle lying about six feet beyond my reach to my left.

After some manouvering I found that I could reach the standard issue Spanish Star 9mm pistol pistol that I carried in a holster on my belt. I pulled this out with some difficulty and fornd that it looked to be in working order. I dropped the magazine, removed the top round and put it my shirt pocket.

I did this as insurance in case I was about to be captured. I had resolved long ago to never let myself be captured. It was well known that white Mercenaries didnt fare very well when taken alive by these terrorists. I had personally seen the remains of men castrated, stripped of their skin or simply raped untill blood loss killed them. I had resolved long ago to never let myself be captured alive. The round in my pocket insured that I had the means to keep that from happening.

After extracting the round I found that I had six rounds left in the magazine. Those, along with the one in the chamber left me with only seven rounds to defend myself from a force of over twenty. I started to look around for other weapons. I remembered that I had a Colt Woodsman .22 Pistol in my saddle bag. I carried it just for putting down horses and had even been forced to use it to relieve the suffering of a couple of badly wounded men who had no hope and were miles form any medical treatment. With some streching and well timed movements to avoid getting shot I managed to pull the small Colt out of my the saddle bag.

Just as I brough the Colt out I heard some yelling from the tree line that sounded like it was in Spanish. As I was processing the idea of someone yelling in Spanish here in the middle of Africa, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye from the treeline about fifty yards to my right. The next thing I saw was a short brown man in a tan uniform run out of the treeline firing an AK47 form the hip.

I would like to say that what happened next was due to superior training or outstanding marksmanship, but the truth is, I just pointed the Colt in the direction of the movement and fired without thinking. The man suddenly dropped the AK and reached up to the left side of his face and started screaming. I shook my head in disbelief as the man fell and started to thrash around on the ground. Soon the screaming turned into cursing in Spanish. I had grown up in Texas and had learned to curse in Spanish about the same time I had learned in English, and I had to say that the guy on the ground was making colorful use of the language, alternitavely calling for help and cursing me, his men, and just about everyone else within earshot.

I was then startled to see two men suddenly burst out of the treeline and headed to where the first man fell. I dropped the Colt and grabbed up the 9mm and braced my hand aginst the flank of the dead horse and squeezed off two quick shots. The first man fell and the second nearly fell right on top of him.

Before I had time to lower the pistol another man came out of the trees firing an AK from the hip. I leveled the pistol and he too dropped and lay there unmoving. I saw movement to my right and to my suprise another man was heading toward the still thrashing and cursing man. I waited untill he was as close as I thought he was going to get and I let off a round that must have hit him high in the head because I could see blood fly off the top of his head and he too dropped to the ground.

I heard a slight noise behind me and turned around as much as my trapped leg would allow. There to my suprise I could see my number two man, Corporal Andy Sims crawling through the grass on his belly toward my position. I grinned and waved to him. Just as I did, a tall thin white man in what looked like an East german Field uniform came running out of the bush firing from an AK in each hand. Andy rose up on one knee and put his issue FN Fal .308 rifle to his shoulder, pulled the trigger twice and I could see two red blotches appear on the man’s chest and he too went down.

When the white man dropped it had an effect on the folks in the trees beacause the firing almost stopped and that gave Andy time to reach my position. As he crawled up to me I said, “About time, you lazy bastard.” Andy smiled and replied, “Sorry I was late but I was finishing tea and had to clean out the pot and put away the dishes, anyway it looks like you had everything under control Captain.”

Andy then reached into his pocket and pulled out a half full bottle of Irish Whiskey and passed it to me. I turned the bottle up and took a long drink before passing it back to him saying, “I knew that you were good for something after all.” Andy smiled and said, “Never leave home without it.”

About that time another two fellows started out of the trees and I shot the one on the Right and Andy got the one on the left. I looked over at Andy and said, “That little guy thrashing around on the ground out there must be someone really important since they are willing to lose so many men to get him.” Andy grinned and said, “Yeah, they sure seem determined alright. Also you should know that most of my ammo is back there behind us on my horse. I’m down to about five rounds, How about you?” I grimmaced and said, “I have only two rounds left, so what do you say that when they go after the guy again, you drop one and I’ll let the other one just have him before we both get stuck out here unarmed.” Andy nodded because just at that moment two more men started out of the trees. Andy dropped the one in the lead and then we both fired over the head of the second man who when reaching the guy on the ground pulled him over his shoulder and headed back into the trtees with him. Shortly after that all firing stopped.

We sat there watching the treeline for what must have been five minutes or so when I heard a noise from behind us and turned to see two more of my Troopers cautiously approaching us from the tall grass behind us.

Trooper Ncube was the first to reach us and when he arrived his eyes became as big as saucers in his big black face, he started to wring his hands and said, “My god Captain, how are you still alive after loosing all that blood. How many times are you hit?”

Corporal Sims stood up laughing and said,“Ncube you ignorant bastard, its the horses blood, not his. Now bring your big ass over here and help me lift this dead animal off the Captian so we can get the hell out of here.”

Like Quasimodo,

I emerge

from the

darkness to

shrieks and screams

of “freak” and

the casting of stones

and animal bones and

rotten vegetables.

But that

is not tomato juice

which covers me

but my own blood.

So you hand me

a mask and a cloak

and say “hide

yourself. This is

Safe.”

But safety

is not what I

feel when what I need

is you to bathe

me and bandage my

wounds.

You are my keeper.

You keep me locked

away. You keep me

as your ugly secret.

The deformed freak.

The grotesque monster

hidden away in a tower.

You mention

me to no one

and tell me

it’s better

this way.

I see

you with your

suitress.

You take her out around

the town in such

public displays

so everyone can

see how happy you

are and I grow

envious in my

self-loathing.

Though I washed

your feet and held

your hand in

private I’ve never

known your love

the way she does.

Though I loved

you for longer

you will never

tell anyone.

As I watch you

run away

with her

I come out of

the dark and

allow the light

to hit me

little by little.

But I still wear my

mask and cloak.

I tell myself

“This is safe.

It’s better

this way.”

-Jo Resner 5/3/19

Even in the very early hours of the morning, the heat was oppressive. My windows and curtains were drawn against the night air and the fevers it brought. A candle lit my writing desk as I looked down at the finished letter there. There were several others, finished and sealed in a stack, but this last one had hurt the most to write. Several years before, I had cause to write a similar letter, but it never seemed to get easier. My dear Theodosia, the only thing it would pain me to leave behind, and my greatest pride. My head ached as I sanded the letter, folded and sealed it. My hands went calmly through the familiar motions, long-fingered and deft. I checked my watch, holding the face near the candle to see the gold hands. The portraits of Theo and her mother regarded each other on its face. The faith that had so consoled my wife in her last painful months did nothing for me despite all her wishes. I reached out for faith and found empty resignation. Three hours until dawn.

I lay on the couch in my office on Wall Street with no expectation of sleep. This affair in the morning would change my fortunes, one way or another. My stomach seethed, although I had eaten only a little bread and some wine the evening before. In the dark, close heat, I lay quietly. There were no plans to be made yet beyond tomorrow. My papers were in order; aside from Theo, only my legion of creditors would be disappointed by my death. All other paths had closed themselves off to me.

My friend Van Ness shook me awake. I must have slept, although when the blank darkness changed from waking to sleep I don't remember. He lit the lamps as I dressed. There was little to say to one another, so we kept silent. More than enough words had been spilled already. My costume for the event was familiar and simple. I had worn it before, to the same sort of meeting, and had needed to replace a button on the coat afterward. The suit was black and simple, the trousers wider-legged than was fashionable and the coat loose-fitting. I felt the patch on the front panel where a lead ball had passed through and my hands stilled. Van Ness noticed my hesitation and handed me my hat.

We walked out together into the dim pre-dawn street. Few others were about, until we reached the docks. Already, men there were beginning the day’s work. We greeted passing gentlemen with nods, and shook hands with the oarsmen of my hired barge. I carried nothing but an umbrella, and neither did Van Ness. Birds began to call as the barge slowly nosed out into the Hudson. The oars slid into the water in a steady beat, bearing us across the river. The cliff ahead began to lighten, dawn revealing layers of color in the exposed face above the trees and brush of the bank. There was little traffic on the water, and the crossing passed more quickly than I expected.

The bargemen landed us in New Jersey, easing the barge into the mud to anchor it. They waited on their benches, hired for a round trip. One took some bread from his pocket and chewed without any evidence of enjoyment. The other yawned. The normalcy of the scene was maddening. Van Ness and I strolled companionably up the bank, out of sight of the barge, and followed a narrow trail up to a ledge on the cliff face. Newly cut branches showed where men had come through before us. The dry ground showed no footprints. A few yards further and I could hear low voices ahead, in the clearing on the ledge.

I paused and removed my hat to wipe away sweat from the climb. Insects hummed and whined in the air about me. My hands were cool despite the heat.

Three men waited for us. Doctor Hosack, looking uncomfortable, turned away from the other two and greeted us on his way back down to the boats. A portmanteau sat unopened on the cleared ground between us. Van Ness and Mr. Pendleton met next to it, greeting one another coolly. There was little to be said this morning, besides the formalities. This meeting had been months in planning and years in the making.

The other man waited with impatience in every muscle of his frame. His graying red hair was lightened in the old-fashioned way with powder, although his attire was new and fashionably cut. He had gained some weight since I had seen him last, singing at a dinner party, but fairly vibrated with intensity. He looked courteously away from me as our friends argued some fine point in low voices. I wished we could speak face-to-face, but the hour for that had passed. The breeze down the river rustled the branches around us, blessedly cool.

An agreement on the terms seemed to be reached: Pendleton reached down into the portmanteau and retrieved a pair of gentleman’s pistols. In sight of both of us, he and Van Ness loaded the weapons, shook hands, and separated. Van Ness handed one to me, his face troubled. We had lost choice of position, and I would shoot second.

The pistol in my hand was unexpectedly heavy. Each face of the octagonal barrel gleamed with oil, and the sun glinted on the sights. It was a beautiful weapon, engraved and well-maintained, but it was not a dueling pistol. Such was to be expected of this low-born opponent. I felt the weight of it in my hand and my body remembered years spent on the battlefield, and the more recent encounter. I had stood in nearly the same place, with one of the same set of pistols in my hand. My friend then was more anxious than I: he loaded it incorrectly, despite my instructions. Today there were no such accidents.

My opponent moved to the north end of the ledge and I faced him. His eyes were striking in his pale, set face. There was no sign of weakness or reluctance, only implacable purpose. He squinted down the sight of his weapon, pointing it here and there against the morning sunlight. Pendleton paced out the distance. I took my place, holding the pistol lightly by my side. My heart raced, although my face was calm. I was cold from my toes to my fingertips. I turned sideways to him, drawing myself as tall as I could. My feet scuffed the dirt, seeking clear footing. My free arm folded behind my back and my coat hung loose as I raised the pistol to eye height. My shoulder shielded my face. The sights lined up on my opponent’s hip. He mirrored my pose, right foot forward, right arm extended. The bore of his pistol glared at me. My memories of dozens of battles flashed through my mind at once, and I drew a steadying breath.

“Ready?” Pendleton asked, safe from the line of fire on my left side.

Hamilton lowered his arm, switched the pistol to his left hand. I lowered mine as well and waited. He dug in his coat pocket, unfolded his glasses and put them on. Again he sighted down the barrel of his pistol, trying the light. My fear sharpened into anger. Even now he was scheming, trying to intimidate me into retracting my challenge. He had forgotten I was a man of honor, a gentleman and a soldier.

Van Ness folded his arms behind his back, side by side with Pendleton. Hamilton’s posturing ended in the expected pose again. I raised the pistol, extended it, met my opponent’s eyes. Every muscle in my body was tense and expectant. I rested my finger on the trigger and waited.

Pendleton’s voice sounded faint and distant.

“Present!” He called, and an instant later Hamilton’s pistol barked out a cloud of black smoke. The report startled me, no matter that I had been expecting it. I had never been shot in all my time as a soldier, and felt no pain now. The smoke drifted away. I realigned my sights on his hip. Pendleton should have been counting down to my turn to fire, but I heard nothing except the echoes of the shot. Hamilton met my eyes again, lowering his hand after the pistol’s recoil. The pull of the trigger was such a small action. My finger tightened against the trigger’s resistance. The barrel wavered. The weapon leapt in my hand. Smoke filled the air around me with the bitterness of saltpeter and Hamilton staggered.

The breeze carried away the smoke and I watched him fall to one knee, then down on one side. I knew well what death looks like, coming over a man’s face; I had seen it in the war and I saw it again now. Van Ness hurried towards me with an umbrella to shield my face as he chivvied me down the trail.

Now, after the pistols had spoken, I found I could too.

“I have to go back!” I told my friend, turning back as I spoke. “I have to speak to him.”

Van Ness took my arm and steered me forcefully down the path. Now that I would speak, there was nothing left to be said.

Today's Quote: William Faulkner

“If a story is in you, it has got to come out.”

Video: https://youtu.be/fr0W4Y-FT5k

WIKI: “An American writer and Nobel Prize laureate from Oxford, Mississippi. Faulkner wrote novels, short stories, screenplays, poetry, essays, and a play. He is primarily known for his novels and short stories set in the fictional Yoknapatawpha County, based on Lafayette County, Mississippi, where he spent most of his life.”

I was fallin’ down to Earth at a gawd-awful speed through the clear blue skies of Zephyrhills, having made my peace with Jesus, knowing – finally – how the universe began and how it would end:

“Helluva lot of good that’ll do me now,” I thought.

A six-pack of things crossed my mind, including: who would get my Frank Sinatra album collection, where did I park my car, would my sainted Mother have to ID my crushed body, how would my Nets, Mets, and Jets do next year, would anybody miss me when I was gone, and, most importantly: “Whatever happened to Arch Deal?”

Why Deal?

In June, 1975, Tampa Bay TV newsman Arch Deal jumped out of a small airplane at 3,000 feet over nearby Cypress Gardens and his main chute didn’t open. At 2,000 feet, his reserve chute failed to deploy. At zero feet, he hit the ground – yet managed to survive, except for his broken neck, six broken ribs, separated pelvis and hundreds of contusions, lacerations, and bruises.

I was in a similar situation – but without the chute.

Would I survive?

The spinning, churning, and turning was taking its toll. I was fadin’ in and out. I’d managed not to look down by keeping my eyes closed as long as I could. When I finally opened them (wide) and stared at Mother Earth, I saw (floating in the sky) what looked like a large, eerily thin, crown of thorns.

A sign from God?

Then the crown slowly transformed; first, to a winking eye; then, to a butterfly.

My last sane thought was of the card game that dealt me this death drop.

“Never play poker in an airplane when you’re out of money,” I thought. “Never.”

Wish somebody had told me that sooner.

The rushin’ wind, like an old train, was blastin’ (unmercifully) through the dark, moist caverns my brain. The last functional thought I had was a joke I heard as a kid. The punch line:

“It’s not the drop that kills ya . . . it’s the sudden stop.”

The air leaves me breathless. The light, blind. My senses, over extended. My bones crack under pressure. My hair, whipping like wild fire. Fed by the oxygen and thriving out of control. And everything is ending. And I think that as I fall I will leave you behind. But you fall with me. And you are the wind under my skin. You are the gravity breaking my insides to splinters. The stars behind my eyes. You are the rupture of my lungs. The bursting of my heart, too full. The enveloping waves, crashing through my last thoughts. You are the cement rushing at me. The ground, ready to catch me. And I think I’ll leave you behind. But I’m only diving to meet you. I’m only careening into your arms one last time. And I still feel you in the end.