my dog sleeps upon another

mattress

the same music pours on and on

the same dynamics

1:52 a.m.

naked below the waist

behind this table

scar across my left finger

has sealed the gap

to a kind

of fissure

my skin pale from lack of daylight

money burning fast

hair combed back neatly

a class act all the way

outside I can hear the bar

downstairs filling with college kids

and I don’t feel bad for skipping college

or

the last half of high school

now, 14 years later from those classrooms

those kids down there could buy and sell me

within seconds

but I have a nice television

and a modern stereo

some pages published

out of Reseda

and a lust for failure

unsurpassed

by anybody.

for Ellen

Sabbath was coming. August McQuarry and Gary White were ecstatic, their friend Donna Sawyer not so much. She was more of a Simon and Garfunkel girl. But all of them managed to find a way to get a $5 general admission ticket. This was big. This was "Iron Man" and "Sweet Leaf", "Paranoid" and "After Forever". This was Ozzy Osborne, Prince of the Pit, High Servant of Satan. Or so said the buzz. It seemed to Gary and August that Black Sabbath, which had been a Heavy Blues band called "Earth" before discovering the marketability of Heavy Metal Darkness, sure seemed to have a lot of songs about God, Love, and the undesirability of nuclear war. Plus Ozzy wore a cross. But it was Prog Rock. Ambiguity was not only expected, it was welcomed.

"It's Bill Ward I wanna see," said Gary. "He's more than a drummer. He's a *percussionist*."

They were in Gary's basement bedroom in the White's house at the upper dead end of Rodney Drive in West Nashville, listening to side two of Sabbath's third album. "Tony Iommi is a totally underrated guitarist," said August. "I mean, he's not Page or Clapton, but--"

"--it doesn't really matter, 'cause they're all doing different things. Iommi's just as good."

"In his own way, sure, no shit, dude."

August and Gary, both 15, seldom had anything genuine to argue about. They were both Freaks and hated Nixon. At Hillwood High School (aka "Pillwood"), there was no official hierarchy of subculture, no Socs or Greasers a la SE Hinton's Outsiders. But there were general types. The Jocks, the Grinds, the Cute-&-Sweets, the Stoners and the Freaks. Not all Freaks were Stoners, but all Stoners were Freaks. Everyone knew that. Gary was the fat kid who didn't smoke pot any more. August was the stout kid who would be a fat man by forty. He didn't have any weed at the moment. Maybe on Friday. Both had lengthy hair and precocious beards. It was 1972, and they were in a band. For now, they were its only members. Gary was the real musician, and could play a little of anything with strings or keys. August had a pleasant baritone voice, freighted with natural vibrato, still untested but unique. He could handle a handful of open guitar chords, but he'd never really be a picker. A picker was someone like his Daddy, Dale "Cottonmouth" McQuarry, who played steel guitar in P. John House's band, the Storysingers.

August was finding his feet as a singer and lyricist. But his major aspiration at this point--after he got Donna Sawyer to be his girlfriend again, and finished his ongoing novel about how hard it was to be a Teenage Steppenwolf in the 1970s--was to be a Front Man, a Lead Singer like Jagger or Morrison. More like Ian Anderson, really--August was too stocky to play sinuous androgyne microphone-slinger. But his feet itched for the stage. He longed to leap and caper and belt out power ballads. Gary had an eye for the details, and a vision of being the keyboardist/composer at the center of the musical web. If they could find a lead guitarist and a drummer, well. Anything was possible. This was their basic belief system. They were sincere, they were talented, and so they would Make It. In the meantime they had to deal with the fascist school system, Nixon, and the adults. Reality.

"Who's opening, do you know?" asked Gary. There was no Internet in their world, only newspapers and rumors. But August had gotten his ticket free through a friend of a friend of his Father's, along with some basic information. "R.E.O. Speedwagon. As usual. They open for everyone who plays at fucking Municipal Auditorium..."

"They're not bad, but--"

"Yeah, they're gettin' kinda old. And after them, before Sabbath, they've got this Sisyphus guy. You ever heard of him?"

"Is that the name of the band, or of the lead singer?" asked Gary. He liked to be exact. They both made unmerciful fun of people who enthused about that great guitar player Lynyrd Skynyrd, or how fabulous a flautist this Jethro Tull dude was.

"Both, I think. The name of the lead singer is the name of the band. I've never heard them on the radio. They're kind of cult-y..."

"What kind of music? Prog?"

"I read in Creem, Lester Bang's column...let's see. Sisyphus is a Greek myth, right? About the dude who gets sentenced to push a rock uphill for eternity?"

"Was that in the column?" Gary liked Lester Bangs.

"No, dude, I was just thinking that."

"Right."

"So Lester Bangs calls Sisyphus uh, a 'Byronic Figure'. And yeah, says he's, or they are, 'Miltonian'. Those are some really heavy old school poet dudes, man."

"So it's Prog."

And it was. But first came Tragedy.

"FOLKS!!!" bellowed the emcee on stage at Nashville Municipal Auditorium. "I'VE GOT BAD NEWS AND GOOD NEWS. THE BAD NEWS IS THAT OZZY HAS A THROAT INFECTION--"

"Oh, bullshit!" shouted August. "I read in Creem that fuckin' Ozzy has passed out drunk before the goddamn gig about 27 times this tour..."

"Au-gust--" Donna wrinkled her freckled nose at the profanity. She was 15, a redhead, all tits and ass and big blue rolling eyes. She couldn't help any of it.

"Sorry, Donna, but this is LAME!"

Gary silently shook his head in world-weary disgust, as if used to centuries of essential disappointment.

"BUT WAIT!!! WE'LL GIVE YOUR TICKET MONEY BACK IF YOU WANT TO LEAVE--"

There was uncertain stirring in the smoky auditorium.

"BUT IF YOU STAY, SISYPHUS SAYS THEY WILL PLAY A DOUBLE SET!!!! THEY SAY--"

Suddenly out onto the stage skipped a slender but wiry young dude with understated facepaint, high forehead and long white wild wavy hair. He wore a sleeveless white jumpsuit, knee-high white boots, and a blue feather boa around his neck. This apparition held--a fiddle? a violin? in one hand, and a bow in the other. There was a jack into the instrument that lead to a long thin cord which disappeared behind the curtain. It was--

"An electric violin!" Gary was stoked. "This is gonna be cool!"

Donna raised an eyebrow and looked thoughtfully at the handsome dude in the jumpsuit.

The emcee had paused. He held up a hand, offering the microphone on its stand to the dude with the fiddle.

The man didn't move. He put a hugely exaggerated look of sorrow on his face, and began to play a ludicrously mournful, but technically quite good, solo on his violin. There were scattered shouts of approval and clapping, some laughter. The song got sadder, the player began to glide around in exaggerated arabesques. He could dance. Getting down on his knees, the fiddler stopped and threw his head back, finishing the piece in a crescendo of over-the-top screeling and wailing. Then he leaped to his feet, bowed, and stepped to the mic. The scattered cheers had turned into sustained, if uncertain, enthusiasm.

"YES, IT'S ALL VERY SAD, ISN'T IT? YOU EXPECTED BETTER, DIDN'T YOU?"

August glanced over at Donna. She had a look of fascinated doubt. That was the general tone of the audience, smoking their cigarettes and joints in the dark of the arena, in a strange time that was already vanishing.

"WELL, THAT WAS ME PLAYING 'MY HEART PUMPS PURPLE PISS FOR YOU'!"

There was no outright disbelief, but this was edgy. The marks went nuts for the casual and homey profanity.

"TELL YOU WHAT!! I'M SISYPHUS, AND THESE ARE MY MATES COMING OUT NOW! WE'LL PLAY A DOUBLE SET TO MAKE UP FOR SABBATH BAILING!! WE'LL DO EVERY SONG ON ALL THREE OF OUR ALBUMS! PLUS THE NEW ONE! IF YOU WANT YOUR MONEY BACK, THEN GO WITH MY GOOD WISHES, BUT IF YOU STAY, I PROMISE..." Here Sisyphus raised his bow and pointed to the rafters. He held for a beat, and the crowd subsided into murmuring.

"I PROMISE THAT WE'LL DO THE WORK TO WIN YOU OVER!! WHATTAYA SAY, NASHVILLE??"

Later, August told Gary that he didn't remember seeing anyone leave. Gary said that there was no way to be scientifically sure. But it was a grand beginning to August's personal Sisyphus Myth, his enduring story of the absolute fucking greatness of the show that night. A story that, for weeks, August and Donna would tell to anyone in their peer group who couldn't escape hearing. Sisyphus had almost "literally, man" flown around the stage. He had vanished in red smoke on stage left, and appeared in blue smoke "not even a second" later on stage right. Sisyphus played violin like Lucifer and sang like a slightly soiled angel. He talked to you between songs, he wasn't all snobby, he was funny. He gave each of his bandmates a chance to solo and be cool. There was more smoke and fog and laser lights, with a 19 minute violin solo. Every song had a deep hook and memorable lyrics, and oh yes, definitely yes--

It was Prog Rock.

Primal, emotional, cerebral, romantic. Like a hand out of the darkness for the young and uncertain. The show lasted nearly four hours. The Bic lighters came out for encores. Gary and August held up theirs. Donna was a non-smoker, but she waved her arms and shouted.

As he raised his tiny flame in the smoky half-dark of Municipal Auditorium, August thought:

I hate for this to end. This is just perfect. Me and Gary and Donna. My best bud and maybe my girlfriend, sort of, and no hassles or bullshit, and this is like the coolest fucking band I ever heard. What would I give to have this go on forever?

It didn't, of course. There was home and school and afternoons spent watching "Leave It To Beaver" and "The Andy Griffith Show", band practices, and get-togethers at Donna's crowded Irish Catholic house on top of the hill at the upper end of Shawnee Drive. In the heat of their obsession with Sisyphus, they'd pooled their funds and bought all four of his albums. Now they gathered on Donna's living room rug to examine liner notes and interpret lyrics. Album cover art was marveled over and searched for hidden clues. August, Gary, Donna, their other friends, and various of Donna's brothers and sisters, would gather around the stereo as if were an altar, eyes closed, meditating (as best they could) to songs like "Social Graces", "A Battle of Power", "Pushing The Rock", and "Valley of the Dead". It seemed very plain to all of them that Sisyphus had a Secret to reveal. After all, his songs kept saying so.

"This is about Heaven," said Donna.

"I'm pretty sure it's about a wandering bard," said Gary.

"It's about reincarnation, I mean come on dudes, it's obvious!"

In August's head and heart, he and Donna had had a very special Autumn night together, a "Simon and Garfunkel Night", as Donna's sister Ellen had called it at the time, soon after August had moved to Nashville. He'd sat next to Donna on the stone steps of her front porch, looking down on the various lights jewelling the woodsy darkness and rolling roads of the neighborhood. There was a bittersweet smell of burning leaves on the air. Street lights had not yet been put in, and the night was pierced with stars. A cool wind shook the trees. Their flanks touching, hormones heavy in the air, August and Donna talked about Relevant Issues and Deep Stuff while Sounds of Silence spun on the stereo and they shared sips of a clandestine rum and coke. There had been some tentative kissing. For a while Aug and Donna had almost been--well, who knew? Not August. He was never sure where he stood with Donna, whose real name, Theresa-Madonna, was never used by anyone, even her Mom. In this thicket of sorrow, August felt himself alone of all adolescents who had ever lived and grieved. He was DEEP, and he wanted a DEEP CHICK. She was the only one.

"I'm just not sure Donna is right for you," said Gary. They were sitting on a thick log across a narrow path through the little stand of woods that separated their homes. Both called the log "The Smoking Log", with capital letters and reverence for personal tradition. August thought of the paltry scatter of trees as "The Mescaline Woods". It had opened up large for him one night on 2 caps of Chocolate Mescaline.

"Dude! I thought you understood!" August sulked for a moment. In those days, this was as close to a genuine argument as he and Gary ever came.

"Come on, man, she wouldn't stay at the Comics Symposium at Vanderbilt with you. Not even to see Gary Trudeau. Hell, she doesn't even LIKE Doonesbury. And she's for Nixon."

"I know." August took a glum puff of his Kool. He no longer had to hide in the woods to smoke. Cotton had told him if he was gonna do it, to do it in the damn house and not be a bullshitter. August had grown up in a constant smog of cigarette haze, sent on frequents trips to the store to get smokes for his parents. His ensuing early addiction was apparently acceptable to them. That was one less thing to worry about. And he felt romantic, like Paul Simon or something, smoking and writing at his tiny particle-board desk.

"Doonesbury is over Donna's head, that's for sure. But--"

"I know you really like her, dude, but what about Ellen?"

Donna's younger sister was a slender and pretty blonde with a boyish figure. "I actually, well, she's like, you know, more my type physically, and she's super smart, Ellen, but she doesn't seem to care about dating and all that shit, and Donna and I had this night--"

"I read the story. Twice."

It had been okay, the story. August had thought so, anyway. A young dude walks down his street, turns right, walks up another street, then climbs the long driveway to the house of the red-headed girl on the bus who asked him over to listen to albums. They have a magical evening, talking about Dreams and God and Ideas. The young dude starts home, but pauses at the corner to think:

Something has changed in me.

The story, A Simon and Garfunkel Night, had been good enough to win first prize in the citywide Belmont College-sponsored High School Creative Writing Contest the year before. Donna wasn't as impressed as August had hoped, but Ellen had liked it.

Gary continued. "Speaking of stories, what ya gonna write this year?"

"Oh yeah, Belmont's coming up. I wanna win first prize my second year in a row."

"You've got a good chance, Aug. I mean, you have another year of writing experience and all. When's the deadline?"

"McCrae says next Friday." Jenna McCrae was August's Creative Writing teacher. 26 or so, she resembled a sawed-off Irish Lois Lane. Aug was sure most of the dudes at Pillwood jerked off to Jenna's fine legs in their short skirts, but August couldn't bring himself to do so. McCrae had won his genuine respect as a teacher, and it seemed somehow tawdry.

"You got any ideas?" Gary ground out his smoke in the dirt and dug a tiny grave for the butt.

"Yeah! I do! I almost forgot. Look, I was thinking, what if, let's say, there's some loser dude at school who can't make any friends or get any chicks, and to be popular he decides to buy some pot and go to a Sisyphus concert?"

"He thinks that'll make him cool?"

"He's kind of, well, his family is fucked up and he has emotional problems. He doesn't know any better."

"Good so far. Is this dude gonna get busted or something?"

"That's not it, the main thing is that this dude, Billy King, gets the pot fronted to him by this really asshole dealer. The bastard says he'll see him at the concert, and if he doesn't have the 20 bucks for the lid, well, it's his ass. I won't say ass, of course. I'll have to say it boringly."

"This dude is gonna beat him up right there, with the cops watching?"

"The guy wouldn't really be that stupid, but he figures Billy's such a loser, he'll believe it."

"And then what?"

"Is Donna really going out with Max Hill?"

Hill was a good but erratic lead guitarist who wasn't quite in the band. He was short, skinny, twitchy, and tortured. Max brought out Donna's maternal instincts. He was extremely high maintenance, requiring her constant emotional care. August fumed. He had tried to treat Donna right. He knew Max Hill couldn't possibly respect or connect with her as deeply as he could. If only she would give him a chance. He sighed and lit another Kool off the butt of the last one.

"You know it won't last for long, Aug." It never did. Donna had a long line of eager suitors from her front door all the way down the hill. She went through them like Kleenex, while her less curvaceous and bombastic sister Ellen stayed in her room by herself, listening to music on the headphones. August thought Ellen was self-composed and a little chilly. He had no idea that she was clinically depressed. It was just one of the things he didn't know about the Sawyer family. He did know that he was scared to ask Ellen out.

"What, now?" he imagined her saying. "You dated my sister, she broke up with you, now I'm leftovers?" Or something equally dismaying. Chicks couldn't know how bad it hurt to be laughed at and rejected. August didn't want to take the chance. He had made a fool of himself over women too many times already. Never again. He couldn't take the pain.

"I guess not," August said at last, grinding out his Kool on the dead log. "I just wish--"

"You'll get another chance, I bet, but right now, why not think about the story, dude?"

"You're right, Gary. I'm sorry I was an asshole."

"You're not an asshole, Aug. You're just bummed out a little, that's all."

"Sometimes I think I might be depressed." In this, August was correct. Like Ellen, he had undiagnosed and untreated clinical depression. On top of the regular tortured teenage artist angst, it was fairly challenging. Of course, he'd thought about suicide. Sure. Didn't everyone?

"If you start writing, you'll stop being depressed. So what happens with Billy?"

August brightened at the prospect of fucking up someone else's world. "Okay, Billy is freaked out big time, because he tries some weed and isn't used to it. Of course I'll have to write it like he made an unwise choice or whatever..."

"Goes without saying..."

"Yeah, so now he's freaking out because he really wants to see Sisyphus, but he's afraid this dealer's gonna kill him. His dad has a pistol, Billy rips it off, hides it under his jacket, hitches to the gig. He thinks he can scare the fucker with it if he has to..."

"Holy shit..."

"So Billy's at the concert, right, and the dealer doesn't even come around and bother him, and he's made friends sort of, with this really deep hot chick named Nikki or something, and Sisyphus is playing the 4th or 5th encore, and dude starts thinking it will never be this good again for him, and he doesn't want them to stop playing, so Billy King goes nuts, and decides he wants them to play forever..."

Gary was super intelligent. "You mean--"

"Yeah, he takes out the gun, and he puts it to his head, and screams for Sisyphus to keep playing or he'll kill himself. It's all confused at first, but people are gonna scatter when they see a fuckin' gun. And when Sisyphus hears him, of course the dude's gonna tell his guys to keep playing until the pigs can figure something out. Only the pigs are stupid, it's taking a really long time, he's kind of got this Nikki chick hostage too, and Sisyphus just played a double set and now they're playing another one, they're really fucking dying up there, it's like the band is getting crucified, especially Sisyphus..."

"How does it end?"

"Huh. I think the pigs finally get tired of dicking around and blow Billy away. It's what they'd do, right? But Sisyphus, hell, he wouldn't quit playing while one of his fans was in danger, right? Those dudes can play all night, we saw, they could do it for a while..."

"You better make it extra, you know, moral, dude. Belmont is a Christian college, right?"

"Oh, sure. Like not knowing your kid is mentally fucked up is bad, leaving guns lying around is bad, anything to do with drugs is bad. It'll be moral as shit."

"If you win, you should send a copy to Sisyphus."

"I might do it anyway. Shit, Gary, I got to go, my Dad's getting off the road tonight, and we're all having dinner together." August's Father was home one week out of the month. The rest of the time, he was touring. Seeing him again for the first time after several weeks was always special. Before the old man could begin to irritate August by acting like his fucking Dad or something, Cotton was back on the road with P. John House. It worked out well. Sometimes August wondered if his Mom was lonely, but being 15, he didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the emotional needs of adults.

"Your Dad is cool. Making a living at songwriting and side work."

"Your Dad is cool, too. Radio Free Europe and all."

They sighed. Grups. Adults. Grown-ups. You had to put up with them.

"Seeya, Aug."

"Later, dude."

August started his story the next afternoon while watching "Leave It To Beaver". It was the one where Beaver puts a voodoo curse on Eddie Haskell. Aug scribbled in his notebook for a while, then went to his bedroom and hit the cheap but sturdy Grants typewriter his folks had bought him when he was 12 and sure he wanted to be a writer. August wrote in a white heat, trying to avoid clichés, but not really worrying about them, either. Long before deadline, he finished "A Cry From The Crowd".

"I took the title from a song by the Prog Rock group Sisyphus, that's not bad or anything is it, Ms. McCrae?"

"Well...you can't copyright a title. I must ask, though--is it imitation, or is it a pastiche?"

"Is that like a moulage?"

"An homage, a nod to some particular writer."

"Oh yeah! Definitely! This dude Sisyphus is a really great artist. You should hear his albums. Seriously. I can bring them. He's like Byron or Milton."

"My husband and I prefer jazz", said McCrae kindly.

August felt honored to be given a glimpse of his favorite teacher's private life. Everyone had secret identities outside school. He sometimes marveled over it, especially when tripping.

"I left the story at home, Ms. McCrae, but I'll have it to you long before Friday".

He didn't. Not the same version of the story, anyway. August had to rewrite "A Cry From The Crowd" after he loaned the original copy to Donna to read and it had mysteriously but totally vanished overnight from the top of her dresser. Donna said sometimes her Mom just came through and tossed stuff out. Donna had absolutely no reason to fuck him over or lie, and her house was like that, but shit! His story! His fucking STORY! He'd almost yelled at Donna, but that wasn't good for his cause. He had to swallow the loss and recreate the story. This time there was no white heat, only cold plodding. It seemed to August that some really great things that had been in the first draft were gone. He couldn't summon them back. He'd had a chance to show the re-written story to Cotton before turning it in to McCrae for the Wordfest Contest. His Father had been honest.

"Son, I'm sorry, but you end up by having this record artist crying and punching his dressing room mirror because this squirrel of a fan got his ass killed by being stupid and crazy, and that just plain wouldn't have happened. Anyone who wants to be an artist, a star, can't give a shit about anyone but himself. I've seen it all my life."

"I think Sisyphus gives a shit. At least he's trying."

"He might be, son. I can't know. I'm not saying it's bad if he cares, I'm just saying that it isn't very realistic that he acts that way. Plus, some squirrel pulls a gun in the front row? I'm OFF that stage, fuck that guy. No speeches back and forth, and you can bet that P. John fucking House ain't doing no crisis counseling for him neither. He's right behind me."

"Well, damn."

"I'm no real judge, son. You're writing this for your audience. I just ain't in it."

August had resigned himself to second or third place. He knew the revised story wasn't as strong as the original. The magic had leaked out. And even toned down so it sounded like a morality tale, "A Cry From The Crowd" still had weed, guns, and mental illness. Belmont College was not only Christian, it was Baptist. Aug would settle for third place and be happy.

Not even runner-up.

"The fix was in, Aug." Jenna McCrae consoled August with a small cool hand on his shoulder. He felt an odd Luciferian pride in having lost this particular contest.

The fuckers just couldn't handle Prog Rock.

I kept tapping the surface, then the sheet of ice cracked into a spider’s web traveling forth and prostrating toward the sun-smeared white expanse, driving the cracks into the feet of the chromoly sky until the cracking sounds gave way to the warm water beneath the sheet, and I dove on in.   

I woke up at 2 a.m. for no reason except nerves. I read, writhed, pondered weird pains in my body. I watched the windows of the door, each screw making their rounds, peeking in, watching my body waste here with a pulse. A deputy walked by, ducked down and slid some postcards under my door. I’d finally started fading when I saw the blur of him stop outside the door and send the mail through. I reached for my glasses and looked at the postcards. My sister had gone to a store somewhere and had two postcards made, one with Angel and one with Diablo. Angel was on her back looking up at me, her little paws curled into her chest, her smile. The other was Diablo, in the back seat of the van, both of the photos were from my facebook page. Seeing Angel made me stand from the bed, my bare feet on the cold floor in my boxers, in the cold of this place. I stepped over to the wall and pressed my back against it, let the cold punish me for not being there when she died. I slid down to the concrete and stared at the photo. I ran my finger down her blaze, adorable and white, running down her forehead and snout, her eyes so loving. “Angel.” Tears hit the card. I held it and cried, then I sobbed. I grabbed the one of Diablo from the slab. I flipped them over. She wrote that she thought I could use some friendly faces to keep me company. I set their faces on the floor in front of me. I hadn’t seen their faces in months. I’d never see Angel again. And I knew I’d never see Diablo again, I sensed it. I looked at his eyes, one blue, one half blue, his short fur I could never escape, his movie star smile. I kissed the postcards and held them over my heart. I sat there and bawled. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t, I couldn’t give this place my rage, I wouldn’t let the hacks know I was in pain. I stared at the postcards here, in a jail cell, my bare back frozen against the wall, my heart dead in the eyes of my little girl, dead in the memory of Diablo. I sat here and cried until I was out of tears, and I had to stuff the postcards into my legal mail so I wouldn’t look at them. I dressed and sat on the edge of the slab without blinking. The screws walked by and I sat here, I sat here and I wanted to bring death to so many people.   

I watched the cell become brightened at 5 a.m. A stark brightness, a dead brightness that is nothing short of sterilizing. I watched the zombies walk by the door for meds and razors and breakfast, and at 9 a.m. I was sitting in the day room watching the outside and it was bad today, more than depressing, Helena, much more. Four guys sat at the table to my left talking about Camaros, a Chevelle one of them had and lost, a ’66. Outside nine jumpsuits walked the concrete, Mexicans in threes twice, Mexicans in twos and one speed freak. I went back to the cell and stayed here all day and night. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do anything but think about what used to be.  

If it can make you stronger

it can kill you

personally, I like

the sentiment

but respectfully disagree

Sunday in the diner

walking in, a homeless guy

hits me and my buddy

up for

one dollar

to get a dollar burger

my buddy waits by the door

and I think about it

the homeless guy mentions

something about showing me

some kind of homeless card

or crazy card he has

and I pull a five-spot from

my wallet

he snatches it:

"Thanks, man. You're badass."

He walks off and I follow

my buddy inside and he looks at

me and smiles

I scratch my protruding gut:

"Tell me something I don't know, motherfucker."

We laugh and get our booth

order and eat while I watch

more homeless out

the window

peppering the outside

full with the scrubbed-clean

after-worship crowd

as they begin to pile in

for breakfast

I think about them

clean like soap

every Sunday

the industry of Christ

if we want to truly

help the homeless

and kill the national

deficit, provide true

and humanely

accessible health care,

and all the etceteras

that follow these,

tax the churches

but I take my thoughts

of these dead horse thoughts

of all this

and watch the sunlight

battle through

a bright grey sky

and the coffee

begins its coursing

while I remember all

the love and hate

and platitudes and

erase them from my

mind at once

and realize that because or

in spite of

everything around me

I am happy

and think back to my favorite

Nietzsche quote:

The Trouble With Happiness

"Now everything I touch turns out to be wonderful. Now I love any fate which comes my way. Who feels like being my fate?"

pedaling the streets of

California

head full of draining

garbage, of waste

looking around, seeing what's waiting

feeling ready to either

embrace what's left with resignation or to

embrace it with what I know is right to

be true

as it is with the words

with how we clean our teeth or

suffer the damages

out there pedaling

four cups of caffeine

going toe to toe with

the head cold

pouring sweat toward

a hill

thinking of summer waiting to the north

while a band from there

plays on in my headphones

while I crank past two bums

on the grass and ride off the curb

toward the hill and I think about

how we destroy what we love

not with action but with inaction

I shift into the lowest gear

to punish my cold

while the sweat pours out

and the guitars thunder

beautifully around the

stanza:

Augustino

With his eyes once a shining sea

I said he's half a shadow, god don't

let that be me...

up the hill

suppress the cough

the anger

level out and breathe

watch the leaves and sun

and remember that

we are here

for just so long

and the time

we have

might be nothing

in the big picture of

things

but for me

it's all I know

and what stems from that

is a fist of years grown

into miles and stories

and novels

a fist of colored fingers

with branches confused

and leaves stained

with decision

both bad and good

the base

planted in blood

and poems.

We sat in Joe’s. The hair of the dog worked perfectly, except Craig wasn’t looking so hot. He sat with us. Billy smiled at him, “Looking pretty on top of your game, Craig.”

We laughed. He rested his head in his palm, “Got called in at noon. Jasmine pulled a no-show. Last one. Now I have to pull doubles.”

“Didn’t Donna used to work here?” I said, “have her cover it while you find a new bartender.”

“We’re not talking right now.”

“Oh shit,” Billy said, “what happened?”

“Fuckin’ last night, man. At the courtyard. That Rick dude’s girlfriend started talking to me.”

I ate my olive, “So?”

“Right. But after that Donna got all pissed and depressed. She kept telling me look how close you two are, and that I don’t find her attractive anymore, I want to fuck what’s her face, Allison, she can sense it and blah, blah, blah.”

Billy washed down a fry, “That’s when you throw her in the bushes and give it to her.”

Amanda looked across the table, “Never fails.”

“No, she was fishing for a fight. Mind you, she was emotional and nauseous. I shouldn’t be talking about her like this. Just pissed.”

Christine touched his arm, “She’ll barf it out and come to her senses. Both of you seemed agitated last night. In fact, we hardly saw you two.”

“Yeah, we were talking on the steps most of the night. Or she was.”

He looked at us. I read his body language, and Billy read it. It was an understanding of your coterie, new or old—what Vonnegut referred to once as the people in his “karass”—a group of people aware or unaware that they were working together in life.

“How long?” Billy asked.

“Seven weeks.”

“No wonder she’s all aggro and emotional. Her hormones are fucking haywire.”

“I was wondering about her gin and tonics,” I said, “looked awfully club soda to me. Figures.”

Billy looked at him, “So it’s a keeper.”

“Oh, hell yes. She’s 36. She wants a kid. If anyone here repeats any of this, I’ll be really bummed.”

“No one’s saying anything, Craig,” Amanda said, “has she asked you what you wanted?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’d love to have a family with her, but if she’s gonna come unglued like that at this point—look, I don’t want to be one of those pathetic assholes who complains that his wife lost attraction for him once she had the kid. Put a fucking bullet in me first.”

He signaled the barback over. A young kid appeared, maybe 22, dark black gauges in his earlobes that stretched them out into ridiculous hoops, never to be earlobes again. Tattoos neck to knuckles, way too early in life.

Craig looked at him, “Scotty, you want to bartend. Tonight’s your trial. 4 more bloodies, and a Long Island for me.”

The kid punched his palm, “Fuck…YES.” He hurried off. Billy took a drink, “There you go. Drink. Think you’ll promote Lobes?”

We laughed. I looked at him, “You beat me to it.”

Craig made a painful face, “I don’t know, but he’ll do for the next week. Who knows, right now I feel like everything just, I don’t know…sucks.”

Christine grabbed his hand, “Craig, don’t take this the wrong way, but you need to tighten up and get all of this across to her.”

“But have a talk with yourself, first,” Billy said, “an honest one. If you don’t want to be like those pathetic assholes, don’t treat yourself like one. It’s all on your shoulders at this point.”

Amanda looked at him, “Especially if you’re having a kid. This child needs to come in with a clear home, broken or not. Iron it out as soon as possible.”

Craig stared over at me. I shrugged, “What they said. Just be true to your nature, brutha.”

Lobes set the drinks down. He waited for us to drink. They were good. He looked at Craig’s face while he drank the top of his. He looked up at Lobes and nodded. Lobes nodded back, “I set you up with a longer pour, man. And this round’s on me.” He took the empties away. Craig stared into his drink, “Little ass-kisser.”

We looked at him and laughed.

“Craig,” Billy said, “if you want this kid, be happy,  ride out the rough road with shit for awhile. And go easy on yourself in the meantime.”

He had to go take a call from the bar phone. I asked Billy and Amanda why they never had kids. They smiled at each other. Billy looked at me, “Because fuck that. That’s why.”

“Amen,” Amanda said. I laughed. Amanda looked at Christine, “She wants kids.”

Christine’s eyes went wide. She slapped her, “You shut your mouth. I still haven’t decided that.”

Billy laughed, “What about you, John?”

“Right now I don’t. And I’m definitely glad that I don’t have any, or even one.”

Craig came back, “That was Brad. He gave Lobes the green light, but I have to stick around and watch his ass.”

We drank a few more and left. Craig went to his office to nap before the rush. Billy and Amanda stuck around for awhile. Billy stared to the courtyard then looked at me, “You never did say how you shook that cop, John.”

“Yeah,” Christine said, “I was wondering about that, too.”

“It’s no big deal. I was talking to one of them, and he’s known Dave awhile. He recognized me from Pizza Guy. He said no more weed, no more problem.”

It somehow sounded credible, and it was true. We talked about the party, the hole in Shell and the next five days of work. They walked home and we went to bed. Dave was right about the getting laid remark. I wondered if it carried over to Billy.    

We were on our backs in the dark, catching our breath. Christine rested her head on my chest. Her sweat ran off my ribs into the sheets. Satin. Hers from her old room at the house.

“What’s on your mind, Papi?”

“Do you think Amanda still has the hots for Billy?”

She giggled, “You’re thinking about our future. I knew it.”

“So humor me.”

I felt her heart race against my side, her leg draped over mine, her bare foot caressing my shin. It was beautiful. She rubbed my ear between her finger and thumb, “I think they bit off more than they could chew. I think a lot of people do. One of the things I love and like about you is your sense of awareness, your appreciation of reality and being fair. A lot of people don’t have that. You’re lucky. And you’re not too bad in bed, either.”

“Good answer.”

“Your turn. What’s great about me?”

A loud knocking arose from the front door. It was well after two in the morning. I put my pants on and hit the lights. I grabbed the baseball bat from under the bed. I looked at her, “Stay here.”

Lucy was barking at the door. A figure’s head I didn’t recognize stood dark on the other side of the door’s window. I crept up and flipped the light on. Lobes stood there, nervous. I hushed Lucy and opened the door, “Get your ass in here.” I hit the inside lights. He walked in and looked around. He eyed the bat. I’d forgotten about it. I threw it on the couch, “Knocking like you’re the goddamned police.”

Christine came out, crazy hair, dressed quickly. She stared at Lobes, “What’s the matter?”

“Craig’s in jail. DUI.”

I pointed to the couch. He sat. Christine went into the kitchen and poured us three cokes. She walked in and handed them out, “Might as well get jacked up on caffeine now. I know where this is going.”

I sipped, “Thanks, baby.” I looked at Lobes, “What’s the bail?”

“$1,500.”

“What?”

“It’s his second one.”

I downed the coke. Lobes said that Craig used his phone call to phone the bar, and told him where we lived. He didn’t want Donna to wake up to that, and he told Lobes to relay a message to me that if I helped him out of it, then Joe’s Place was infinitely picking any tab I accumulated. I rubbed my eyes, “He’s down in county?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have the number?”

He pushed call on his phone and handed it to me. Christine handed me my shirt. I talked to a lady about a third party release. I asked her to start the process, and told her I was on my way. I closed the phone and handed it back to him, “Alright. Thanks.” He finished his coke and left. I grabbed some socks and my shoes and sat on the couch. Christine was fishing for her boots. I called to her, “Babe, you should sleep.”

“No, fuck that. I’m going with you.”

I leaned back on the couch, “Maybe I’m just not supposed to rest.”  

I gave the lady my debit card, signed the forms and waited. She told me I was lucky to have him processed so quickly. She said it was a slow night. I looked at the clock, a quarter to three. The lobby was cold and sterile feeling, boring and fluorescently lit. We sat there and watched the other people. Christine leaned her head on my arm. An hour passed. We saw hookers and pimps and vagrants, a few addicts and the occasional student. A series of locks were sprung, they produced an open metal door and Craig walking out.

“Holy shit, John,” he hugged me, “dude, thank you.”

“Let’s go, Craig. This place is depressing.”

We walked. Christine rubbed his head, “Hard night, buddy?”

I laughed. She squeezed my arm. Craig was a mess.  

I looked at him in the rearview, the lights of downtown streaked his face with yellow and red and silver.

“You’ll be fine, man. Maybe this was your last hurrah, a final warning.”

His cell phone rang. He looked at it, “Fuck.”

I stared back to the road, “Better answer.”

“Want me to?” Christine said. He thought about it. He handed the phone to her.

“Donna? Hi, Christine. He’s alright. Listen, I’m going to call you from my phone because his battery’s almost dead. Give me ten minutes to get home, sweetie. Bye.” She reached the phone back.

“Thanks,” he said, and held it in his lap, “the battery really is dying.”

“Looks like you’re on our couch tonight, Craig.” I said, “Sorry about your DUI.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Just taking your turn, pal. Every one of us has rolled those dice.”

It was pushing 4:30 by the time we got back. I made us sandwiches and slices of cantaloupe. Christine sat in the office and talked to Donna. I set him up with a blanket and pillow, my old ones before Christine’s satin mandates spoiled me. It was around 6 when she crawled into bed. She slipped out of her clothes and laid on top of me. I rested my hands on her bare ass. She kissed my bottom lip and raised her head over mine. I felt the ends of her hair on my neck and I kissed her throat. She talked lowly, “What a fucked up conversation.”

“Save the day?”

She rolled off and curled over my side, “She has issues with him. Big time.”

“The last two days have played out in full. Maybe Joe’s is like an omen, a portal for drama.”

She laughed, “But it’s our Paris.”    

I woke up at noon to hit the can, then I let Lucy out. Craig was gone. There was a note on the coffee table. He thanked us and wrote that he’d be in touch tonight or tomorrow, that he was heading home to face up. He wrote that I was a true friend, and that he never forgets and so on and so forth. I let Lucy in and crawled back into bed. I spooned Christine and kissed the back of her neck, “Morning, Mama.”

“Papa.”

“You’re late for work. Busted.”

She laughed, “It’ll be alright.”

I didn’t have to work until 4:30. When I walked in it felt like I’d been gone for a week, though I’d seen the two of them the day before. I stared back at them, “Gentlemen.”

Dave looked up from his cards, “Back on track?”

“Thank the fuck Christ. Deal me in.” I sat down and looked over, “Hey, Mikey.”

His broad back faced me in silence. Dave rolled his eyes, “He’s watching Gladiator.”

“Got it.” I fanned my hand. Six and a possible, “Six and a pop.”

Dave went 5, Tom went board, and I led with a jack. Tom looked at his cards, “You look good, John. If good means like shit.”

I took his lower jack, “Must be this full head of hair.”

“Yeah. Bullshit brown.”

I told them about the last two days, in their entirety. Tom laughed. Dave exhaled a large breath, “God, I’m old.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Tom slapped a card on mine. Dave took the book, “I’ve been there and further, my sexless friend.” I smiled at the ashtray where Tom’s cigarette burned. He picked it up, “How would you know? Maybe I’m just not as open as Norman Mailer here.”

The phone rang. Dave grabbed it, “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” He answered and walked in the back. Tom shook his head, “I hate it when he buttons down a conversation like that, eating off my comeback.” I laughed. Sometimes it was hard to believe they were dangerous men.  

But the truth always comes out, whether it’s far down the road, in court, over too many beers, or a phone call from a mob boss who runs the town you grew up bleeding for. And the truth can sever bone, quick-like. Dave came out of his office, “Mikey, go home.” Mikey left. Dave grabbed a chair from another table and sat next to me, close. He scooted his chair even closer, “What does Billy and his wife or Christine know about this place?”

“Nothing. Why?”

He looked into my eyes, scanned them. He leaned back, “Good. Real fast, John, there’s a rat on the Wop side. He’s rolled over on everyone. He’s PC’d up in county. Listen, you’re fired. No record of you here, nothing, except you delivered food. I can’t hide that. Pizza Guy is closed to you for awhile. I don’t know whether or not we’ve been mentioned, but if we have, it’s going to get bad around here. Regardless, we’re ceasing all priorities until we hear word from up top. Eric can help fly pies with Tom. Don’t take this personally, John. It’s protocol. All, and forgive me for this, new blood has to be cut for posterity. In case something happens and they nab you, it won’t be anything but bad,” he reached into his pocket, and then stuffed a fist of Franklins in my hand, “you came in, requested two weeks off, and you went, regardless. Do you have a good reason to take off for two weeks on the fly?”

“I do.”

I told them about it. Dave stared at me. His face was stone, “We have some cleaning to do. Make tracks, call us from wherever via The Alley landline.”

I stared at Tom. He looked pissed about the rat, but he looked focused. Dave tapped my hand, “Look at me. I want your ass gone by tomorrow. Don’t worry about The Alley. I give you my word they’re in no danger, no matter what. But we just can’t have you here, and by here I mean the city. Trust me and listen to me right now. It’s for our own good, and yours.”

He scooted back. I stood and looked at them. We nodded, and I walked out.  

Riding through

Sacramento

toward the old part

of downtown

through the marina

just over the tracks

the homeless fish for

fuck knows what

kind of sewer-raised fish

in that water

my buddy is on his

beach cruiser and

I glance back

at him

while we pass along the water

old tents scattered

lives scattered

from meth

or methods against

law or society or

another person

or maybe the one who

is trying to make eye contact

with me is just an old fashioned

junkie dead to his dreams

and alive to his fear

I keep pedaling

and remember the good

things

the warm, salt water

of Puget Sound

the taste of good

wine and the sound

of warm waves

beneath the summer

of home

and above the

circles of whales

of seals surfacing

to bark

of crabs walking

along the sandbar

by the jetty

while my hands meet the water

from the dive

with the white

jelly fish safely

around the shore

of Alki, floating between

the city and the West Side

the water fronting

the buildings and

shores and islands

like

a

spectrum almost

mysterious to me

while we ride past the

marina and

into the beauty of

Old Town Sacramento

the city has a pulse

a vibrancy

a mix of every place

in California, when I

really stop to

think about it.

We sit and slam coffee

while I watch the

people

and think about

the shores

of summer

-burning alive after

the rain, the water

awake and stretching

for dusk

the waves rolling

across to meet

our feet

-warm, sun-soaked

and

waiting.

1

bloody mary and burger and pen

careless on a friday afternoon

candle, menu, page and ink

out the window and lifeless in dust

rot the hours and uniform, the burning

of waste and heart and index.

the hot shame and flames and fire

burning and

twisting

and

screaming

I raise the drink to my stupid mouth

while across the ocean

a lion mounts his female.

2

my dog sunbathes in the

tall grass of my backyard

he has one blue eye, which is electric

and see through, and he has a partial

blue eye, so I called him Chico.

Not very writerly of me. I guess I

could have called him Capote,

or Mailer, come to think

of it. He's a macho one, but also feminine

on a few levels. I think if Mailer and Capote

fucked, though, Mailer

would have been on bottom.

Not for loss of control,

but for total control.

3

I don't know you anymore,

but I will call you Alexandra

I will hold your body without

weight or breath or bother when

the branches break in the northern wind,

while death dangles ugly

while the warfare harvests its dead, its

brown leaves

while the sorrow usurps loneliness

I will call you Alexandra

for no other reason than you are nameless

and I am alone and destroyed

but maybe

I will call you Alexandria because

in a novel you were sweat upon

and shot upon in the back of an

old green van

I would call you Bronte or Joyce,

but you are far too beautiful

for them.

I will call you mine, here, for no

other reason than you can't exist.

4

sunday 5:45 p.m.

burning, dragging, a break in the blinds

shows the breath of Gauguin

with the metal grip of

Geiger, but not the taste

of ash or fire.

liquid screams pour

onward

leaking and

burning

and

dragging poor Gauguin

away from Tahiti

and through

the ages.

Go to college to learn

surgery, neurology,

law, medicine,

finance, teaching, and so forth.

Technical arts, maybe.

Those who truly make it

or have made it

on any level

with writing prose

or fiction

or poems

or contemporary literature

will do it out of a mixture of stubbornness, compulsion, and fire.

Past an understanding of English, school was

an arduous nightmare for me.

Pulled from the system(s)

by sudden parental death,

school was a logical waste

for me at grade 11

employment eclipsed

education

because the streets were

even worse than

the classrooms

so I worked shit

jobs

a dropout with a dream

I read voraciously

and wrote like

a madman

and after two decades

of being out in the wind

or in cars or old vans

or in apartments

or rented rooms

or shit monthly

and weekly

hotels across the country

the hard work paid off

the hard work at home

after the job had eaten my

flesh for 10 hours

but the jobs fed

the pages

and right now the rain

falls in California

and the steak and eggs

are over-easy

and rare just like

I like them cooked

and even though I'm

in a diner on my

phone

and not crazy

about this poem

I didn't write it

to be anti-education

or pro-anything

this poem

is

cautionary.