Book Covers: Boy

First Line: "Fearon! What is the matter with you, boy?"

Sucked into the Land of Giants

I sit here

Me and Dillinger

We're both pretty sad

I'm watching him because Ricky went to go see Trish in Brooklyn

He misses Ricky

I've sunken deep into a chair that used to be mine

Smoking dry flakes



The black rectangle

The missing front to an empty drawer

A part of the world that doesn't quite fit

Like those robot lights at the Rail

Systematically shucking and jiving

Like a futuristic exterminator shooting invisible lasers



It commands attention

This booming black rectangle

It holds all of my fears, the hotlink to my stowed pricklers

A window to the unknown

It sucks me in

It becomes whatever is on the tip of my mind's tongue

Werewolves

Gloria

Gloria

Ants and Giants


Giants walk around and spit on gatherings of the small things

The tiny people try to swim out of the plasmic jelly

They struggle until it's over and the giant thinks nothing of it

Like tearing a leaf or smoothing out an ant hill

Everything is something else's god

Random Images

My Sore Throat

My sore throat would heal
If I could just stop singing
On my way home from work

307 Words

People say
well more often whisper than actually say
that things used to be
(before they got out of hand)
much better than they
as a result of technology and evil things
have become
and that if these evil things
which they could never understand
could be erased from memory
things could possibly
(though many knew it would never happen)
go back to the way they once were
a much simpler life
a much more simple existence
free of the pain of which people have become accustom
free of the influences of living idols who’s views are not welcome
views more like instructions than suggestions
on all aspects of existence
which were ultimately accepted by those too-young
or weak to remember what "once was"
was
few still exist and even these few have started to forget
giant billboards
too-fast cars
barely clothed teenage girls praised for their false uniqueness by the world
Nutrasweet burning tunnels through their brains
and that coffee-house chain
(you know the one)
that spreads like death before medicine to the edges
cameras watching the people watching the cameras watching the people
etc.
plastic cellophane enclosing everything
slowly making our world disposable
the very speed and stupidity at which everything now travels
dulls their minds into a shape resembling all the others
comparable to the inmate
the president
the stripper’s friend
the whistling mailman
or anyone really
except of course for the original
the original being what might have been had life taken it’s course
un-tampered by the steady beat of the invisible Sony speakers
that drone out all thought which was before nonexistent
all thought which engages the steady demise of true life
but these forgotten few
who whisper ever so quietly
will soon too be gone
and all which was once great can be leveled and covered in hot
already hardening
tar

Pigeons on the Street

Soon-to-be-Cops on the Train

The platform is full of police academy kids wearing clean gray uniforms. They carry identical duffel bags. Patches on their shoulders tell everybody what they are.

Inside the train they are in two packs, with each pack holding down the train-car's exits. Just like real cops. The pack closer to you consists of two guys, a blonde haired girl, and a very unflattering short girl; kicking around across the isle but still close enough. The little one looks at you with a kind of muffled suspicion. The boys muse over the blonde one. Trying to act casual. They talk about cases that they read about in the news or overheard at the academy. The guy on the left has blotchy skin, but is a far more skilled conversationalist then the guy on the right, who is always looking down and has thick eyebrows that some girls love and others hate. His face makes him look like he might grow up to be the occasional nice cop. The blonde is a pretty enough girl, with a nice enough body, but it's the hair that makes her stick. She has the hair of an angel. It's her strong-point and of that she is fully aware. She swiftly unties and flips it down, running her fingers through it, letting it soak up the fluorescent light. Eyebrows is mesmerized. He gulps. He does a weird hard blink and takes a step back. The other one, the conversationalist, isn't allowing himself the pleasure of watching her hair, he's waiting. Waiting for his next words, planning for what words she might use. Blondie throws her head back up, still using her fingers to comb. She flips and twists it into a little swoosh and checks her reflection in the dark window.

Eyebrows never looks away.

She sees his backwards face hanging stuck and is pleased.

All the while the short female cadet is just standing there, looking around and waiting for her turn to say something. It's never going to come and she's beginning to see that now. She looks familiar. Her face is soft and round. Her hair is dark and somewhat curly in that frazzled, un-angelic way. You might know her. She's getting sick of their babbling. Sick of watching moths bumping into the light bulb. Some of the others on the train are becoming irritated, having no interest in their stories or their enthusiasm, while others have them zoned out, along with everything else. They don't sleep, these others, their minds just float up and to the left. An internal clock tells them when their stop is coming up.

Riders are rushing on and off the train. A large black man is among the new passengers and Blondie is whisper shouting, "it's him, it's him", to Eyebrows, who doesn't get it. She thinks he's the principal from the television show Boston Public. It does look very much like him, but it's not, he's too young. His voice confirms this when he asks a female passenger across from him what year she graduated. The cadet who doesn't exist is fed up. She makes a noise and walks away from the pack, turning and planting herself onto the closest seat, which is still quite close to them. Eyebrows notices this, and seems to feel something, but the golden hair catches his attention and he realizes that he's lost vital seconds. Blondie still thinks that it's the guy from Boston Public and the resulting jabber forces the little pissed off cadet out of her seat along with another noise and this time she plants down even harder. The passengers are pleased that she made such a definite statement. This is how her life as a cop will be; oppression and fortification. She is going to be a good cop. Eyebrows is regretting not saying something to her. He will say something to her on Monday at the academy, but she will ignore him. That's it! You know her. You went to school with her. She lingers in your memory like someone you recognize from the background of a picture. She might know all about you. What's her name?

Outside the windows is a blur of piping and paint up close. Now the wall is gone; the tall lights make everything look like a zombie movie. An empty playground drifts along, the past and future site of something horrific. As Jamaica station approaches many of the passengers are shifting and gathering. Many are standing and approaching the not-quite-cops. The blonde is saying her goodbyes. The conversationalist hits his mark with a well-paced reply. Eyebrows says, "See you on Friday then", and Blondie says, "Monday" and waves as she steps away. "Oh, yeah Monday". An exiting old woman appears disturbed by one of the advertisements that faces away from you. A wall of people is rushing the boys. Eyebrows yells, "See you later" and then hopes that she didn't hear him. The little cadet rushes by them with her giant duffel bag. The people have finally stopped and Eyebrows looks a little dazed. He does the weird hard blink thing. He says, "Don't you want the express to Babylon?" pointing to another track. The conversationalist says, "I know that. What're you trying to get rid of me?" a bit standoffish. Eyebrows says, “No, I was just saying". They finally sit down across from each other and they think about Blondie for the rest of the trip, not speaking again. The far pack of cadets is gone now. The train is nearly empty and those that are left are mostly those up-and-to-the-left types. When the lights go out it looks like a teenager’s room. All of the emergency signs light up, like those sticky glow-in-the-dark stars. The mood softens and you are allowed a short break before returning to:

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USE WITH CAUTION THIS ABILITY TO SEE YOURSELF, AS YOURSELF

Laying here I can't help but think of the despicable things I've done. Living with memories that can't be skewed is new to me. I've always done things I regretted, as we all have, but now it's different. My young misdeeds were still derived from a place of positive intentions. A good person's indiscretions. These new things cannot be undone or sorried away with a handmade card or a week's diligent kindness. I've become a person I despise. Having broken all of my own rules and stepped on my downsliding set of values is worse than never having incepted them in the first place. I am a failure at being good and you can dump all the freshcut flowers you want to on that, but it doesn't change the truth. This didn't happen overnight. I shuffled sideways into the dark and now I will forever reek of these foul cigarette-stream acts of selfishness. I can only try from here to reverse course and reach out for the remnants of who I used to be, hoping that what I grasp at doesn't crumble like dust in my hands. The soft sheen of what's left behind is the the needless reminder that I feel between my fingers as my mouth moves, saying things that are, in retrospect, hypocritical. And still there's this urge to say I'm sorry, but as we both know, that is a phrase meant to make the speaker, not the listener, feel better. I have no right to say I'm sorry. In its place I will say I love of you that which makes me hate what I've become and without this love, this desire to head back up the river, I would die right here and now, regardless of how lovely a day it is or that my dogs are watching me write this.

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Inside the Wall

I was a zombie those mornings, rarely getting more than two or three hours of sleep. I had to wake up at 5:30, which for me was hell. The sky was gray at first and the heat was already there, just a taste of the swelter to come. This was my summer construction job. I was sixteen

I didn’t like any of the guys I worked with. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in the cab of the truck with them, I wondered what I was doing there. Once we got to the site they would slack around and tell stories, while I broke my back. They called me, “the Mexican”

It was a half-burned down house on a street that could have been almost anywhere on Long Island. As I got out of the truck I could already feel it had gotten at least ten degrees hotter on the ride over.

At first I had to rip down the insulation from the ceiling of the charred kitchen. I was wearing gloves but it wasn’t long before the fiberglass had infiltrated them. It fell like sparkling dust as I tore down the yellowed sheets that looked like giant used cigarette filters. My neck began to itch and the more I scratched the deeper those little triangles of glass would dig into my skin. By the second hour I was shirtless with red scars all over my neck and arms.

For lunch we had Chinese, which would not have been my choice for my first meal of the day. We sat on around a long forgotten rusty seesaw. The youngest of my coworkers, the kid who used to have my job, told us about his fiancé and her newest anal beads. They all laughed and dug for more and more filthy details, the filthier the better.

I tried to think about the ride home and the joint I had waiting in my pocket. Then the prison guard began telling us one of his prison stories. He was a pear-shaped, red-skinned man with a moustache. He took so much pleasure in telling us these stories.

This one was about a man who was inside for raping little girls. A short little man that wore thick glasses and looked like a math teacher. The guard decided one day to sit across from the rapist in the chow hall and strike up a conversation. He asked him questions about the little girls. Disgusting questions until the rapist began to squeal tears.

The guard did his impression of the crying man for us, using his hands to make the “boo-hoo” motion in front of his face. I could barely stomach my wanton soup with the chunks of soggy gray meat. I put down the warm container and went with the bag of fried noodles.

The guard went into another story about how he liked to walk down the cellblock clanking his keys against the bars. He said it echoed throughout the entire complex forever. He tells us how the inmates beg him to stop; to let them sleep. He’d stop for about thirty seconds before starting it up again, clank, clank, clank.

My next task was in the basement, which was totally exposed to the outside toward the back, because one of the corners and most of the floor was completely torn away after the fire. The boss took me deep into the basement where he showed me a long wall next to the water heater.

He took out his razor and cut out a strip showing me how to remove drywall as if I hadn’t been doing just that for weeks. I began cutting the wall with my own razor and he watched me for a moment before going back to bullshiting with the others.

The prison guard had found a shoebox full of homemade Poloroid porno. He started up describing each one in his usual graphic detail. I heard the descriptions in pieces as I went back and forth to the dumpster with the strips of the wall

I noticed there was a woman up in the window of the neighbor’s house watching my trips. Even after I spotted her she continued looking down on me. I was drenched in sweat and covered in soot, so I was dripping black water. I hoped at least she was getting something out of it.

Eventually I found that it was much quicker to just pull the drywall off with my hands. As I tore down the final piece I saw something jammed inside the wall, catching the light behind one of the beams. It was a butcher knife that was never meant to be found.

I pulled it out, using a piece of paper, and examined it a bit. It looked like it had been inside of that wall for a quite some time. It had been the type of basement wall that was almost certainly a later addition made by whoever rented there. People on Long Island are notorious for sprucing up dank basements and pretending they don’t smell the mold.

I told the boss about the knife and he told me to go back to work. I told the prison guard and he said that they find knives inside walls all the time. He grabbed it from me, getting his fat fingerprints all over it before chucking it into the dumpster. After a moment, I went back to work.

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The Drive Home From Work

My reactions are delayed, dulled, like my brain and my hands are fighting parents passing messages through the children. I don’t mind it. What I’ve really been trying to do is regain control. While every thing else is a mess, at least I can not care about near misses on the shiny wet highway as I cruise along somewhere between sixty and one hundred miles per hour. That twang of instant sweat when one becomes intimate with danger is supposed to be a natural reaction.

I’m listening to music- well, listening isn’t the right word- it’s more like hearing the way you smell. The accompaniment is something I’m aware of, but only in an underneath-way, like an old lover rubbing your back while you tell a story you’ve both heard a million times. This song affects my mood as the sound-version of fresh baked cookies. The type of reaction I sometimes have to remind myself to acknowledge. So I bob my head and sing along. Some old song I never particularly liked or disliked, one of those songs I am simply aware of.

It’s dark and all you can see is bright light shining through colored plastic skins. The headlights coming at you white, the break-lights coming at you red as you breeze by. The occasional bone-head maneuver reminds me that there are people inside of the cars. Blurry people each with their unique back stories, stockpiling frustrations. Sometimes they make me livid, but not now. I could care less about these people. I let them stay nothing but sliding sets of red lights. I imagine I’m a space-custodian sent to do some important cleanup amongst the machines, the endless looping machines.

I’m not paying attention to the road like I should. It takes me too long to flip through the radio stations. Little insignificant details strike me as interesting. My shifter, which I thought was becoming worn out is actually just filthy, the ashtray is leaking black water, the dual cup holders are too close together to hold anything but straight, Tom Collins glasses, I have seven different thermoses on the passenger seat and floor, though I only remember having one. The backseat holds piles of sweatshirts that I never wore when I lived in California..

I know it’s dangerous only because of what I know can and does often happen on these slick endless bands of concrete. I know all about the twisted car-like or truck-like heaps and the greedy gasoline fires and the rip of the windshield and the blood and the guts and all of the horror that a moment’s carelessness can bring. I’ve seen the flipped vehicles and the dazed bloody passengers staring off as if seeing things through someone else’s eyes. Maybe there were others back in the wrecks some mash-up mock of what they were just a few moments earlier. It’s strange to think of dead people stuck within these chewed up steel-miracles as you pass them, perfectly safe within your car with your pre-set radio stations and ass-groove. These are things I never dwell on for long, not while I’m driving. It doesn’t interest me, counting the cars in a pile up or stopping to see if anyone’s dead.

When I’m in my car I don’t have to care about anything outside of wherever my mind wanders. I think some people find this mental-state while jogging, or sewing, or humming with crossed legs and o-forming fingers, or fucking. I find it while driving. Just as fast as the red lights ahead of me will allow. It gets harder for me everyday to not push that little needle as far as it can go, forcing my car to its limits like I was hiding inside of some unstoppable primeval beast. I’m not in any rush to get where I’m going. I just like passing the others. Something about making good time than them makes my head tingle a bit. I think bliss would be an endless road of yellow lights. At first you might think seeing green after green would fill you with joy, but the yellow holds something better. Being allowed to continue on when others must halt is fulfilling.

So I press down the go-button when the music hits its climax, for some reason believing my slow reactions will keep me safe, that is to say, it keeps me from over-reacting. I know I wont crash, I’m not saying I’m a great driver, I just know I wont crash. I can’t explain it, but I’ve always felt that way, even during near misses that would have likely torn my vision of the world to tattered scraps. It’s during those blown out slow-moments of surreal captured speed and violent proximity that I am most comfortable. It’s like I’m in the hands of some God, feeling no need for guilt or anxiety. There’s no point in being scared about things like that, there’s plenty to be scared of outside your car.

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