All Off for Tuscaloosa

They say I died in Tuscaloosa

En route to Miami Florida

Bus pulled in for scheduled stop

Dinner at a Five and Dime countertop

Meat loaf, mashed,

       green beans, brown gravy

             ...some white bread to sop

A fine Last Meal it was. 
But then...

Men at a booth

they start yellin

One with Panama

He rose quick

Gun in hand 

he shot the other

Then the waitress

The owner

And me. 

That’s it.

The fry cook took cover

Behind his window slot

Came out throwing

Kitchen paraphernalia 

Panama’s head nailed by a big stew pot

His hand, cleaver-severed 

Just dangled and dropped

Boning knife deep in his thigh

He staggered, jaw slack

The damage now done

Floundered like a fish

flapping on his back

Cook kicked him hard

Broke some bones

then square in the face

Broke the guy's shades

Shattered the man's teeth

And dreams of his own

in a life, too real

Turns out Cook 

was the one deemed

'Illegal'.

And here I knew

nothing of this

Until I finally read

my own obit.

A Long Long Distance

Pay-phone at the Movie house....

Discipline is not something that came readily to Leland. Self Disciple was easy enough for him to avoid, but Imposed Disciple really pissed him off. It got his juices flowing again, like a valve stem blowing out…got his anger up, and that was not only not good, it could prove to be very destructive. Explosive.

“If you hang up on me I will…”

“You will do nothing but harm to yourself.”

“You know me that well you think.”

“I know the sight of your fist in face. I know the feel of bone shattering. I know the pain and disfigurement.”

“What disfigurement?”

“You forget what my nose looked like we first met? Go back and look at the bumper-car pictures if you still got one.”

“I…”

“You tore them up in a fit of fury, didn’t you?”

“Burnt them up…used them to start the trailer.”

“Well, there you go. Now you are stupid and homeless. Not an un-rare combination, I suppose.”

“Do you have someplace?”

“I have a very good place, which you will never see.”

“Wasn’t asking for that reason. Just wanted to be sure we did not share the same fate. It’s humbling.”

“Something you never got around to before. How’s that feeling?”

“Pisses me off.”

“Then you have not yet been properly humbled. Wait ‘til you give up the fight – that’s humble. But enjoy the taste. It only gets more bitter, and a taste I’m tasting right now.”

“So you still hating me?”

“ No, more like stomach acid…”

“Emotions have nothing to do with it?”

“Not a thing. And no pill to put it to rest.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Makes no difference.”

“You have a good day tomorrow.”

“If I don’t die.”

Go To The Flag

The man came in through the garage. I was under Unit 9 and I saw his feet go shuffling by. I called to him and he waited while I rolled out.

“Can I assist you sir?”

“Where’s the cops?” is what he says. I told him he was turned around and this was the City Yard. He pointed to ‘9’ and says, “Cops.” I tell him “You are a block away from the Police Station.” I walked to the back bay and pointed out the flag pole. “That flag is at the Police Station. Understand?” He looked confused. “Go to the flag.” I saluted instinctively, and he saluted me back. Right snappy, like he’d done it before. He nodded and walked out.

**********

That man has been whittling for the last three months. He never whittled before in his life, he said, but he had a purpose this time, just never told no one what that purpose might be. His hands hurt and he grew frustrated, I could tell, finding half finished objects, almost like a child’s carving. Looked something like an airplane – like a Cub Scout might try. Tossed them out his front door in a tantrum…scattered all around on his yard. At first I worried about the knife and him cutting himself, but he seemed to avoid it, and handled it proper, that I could see and thought maybe it was some good therapy.  Then, I asked him that very same week, what he did to his hands. You saw the hands. They were black. Inky. Like dye. He said he scrubbed and scrubbed and just couldn’t get it off, but he needed it for his project. I offered to help, maybe with a brush, but he yelled at me said he needed no help, and he wasn’t my child. Who was I to argue? I let him be after that. He’d been through a lot. Losing his wife. He was a most kind man. They both were. Laughing…!!! Sweet people. Life don’t stay the same.

I saw him walking up the street that morning. I was worried because he had gotten lost on two occasions recently….and…you don’t know about some people’s state of mind. The police brought him home before, and I talked to them. They asked questions about his family…his care. I told him I was a close neighbor and try to keep ‘an eye..’, but that’s about all he had left. They said something about Social Services, but I don’t know what transpired. They had my number, but no one called. I watched him walk up that street. How could I stop him? Why should I stop him? If I’d known, I would have stopped him.

**********

What time did he enter the building?

10:48.

Front door? Scanner?

East Entry, Front. He ‘Passed’ the scan. He looked to be lost. Stood in the middle of the lobby gazing around, so I approached him. He fumbled with something in his pocket. I thought maybe he was stashing a pint. He was disheveled. I smelled no booze. He cursed to himself and withdrew his hand…looked like it was covered with grease, like a mechanic. I took a closer look to make sure it wasn’t gangrene at his age, but found it more like some blue-black ‘ink’. He said he wanted to talk to ‘cops’. I ask if I could help but he shook his head. I thought I looked the part, but apparently he didn’t agree. I asked if he wanted to file a report, witnessed a crime or needed our services. He nodded yes, and said “…crime.” I wondered if this ‘crime’ might include counterfeiting…with the ink… so I asked him to take a seat on the bench. He did. He sat for awhile, then moseyed on down to the drinking fountain, then the men’s room. When he comes out, he’s smiling. He shuffles past me, into the duty room and the next thing I know 14 guys are unloading their weapons…like a firing range in there. He was here on a mission and he finished it. Wooden gun and shoe polish…damn sad ending. Hope he got where he wanted to go.

Isolation –

an insulation of despair,

with the weight

of guilt,

grinding regret

and the fear

of being forgot.

Don’t fear.

Don’t fret.

You are Not.

...and that's all I got.

                                   - Amen. 

ANKA NESTED

It was a day too sunny and bright. Air sweet and light, scented with lilac and hay. Anka knew nothing of this, her skin was peach fresh and soft, she chose to stay in the loft between sheets so white and luminous they glowed, and a quilt so thick it floated, her nudity enfold. She was nested why stray? She was resting. She’d stay. 

Wait out the day and ponder

the boy instead.

Harlon Mills just passed.

He died?

He died…78 years old.

It’s been that long?

Fifty years…almost.

He was that black boy – tall and lanky – long arms - with some of those crazy legs. Run like ….big eyes…like ‘nothing ‘stoppin me!’ Crazy ass fool, just searchin you out, lookin’ to knock your head off.

No. You’re thinking Marlin Hill…played for the Broncos. He was wild! This here is Harlon Mills played for the Bears. Big long country white boy. Both boys was from the South. Poor folks. Good hands.

We were all poor. Just didn’t know it.

Some even more poor…worse off than most.,,,and we knew it. Hell, I knew it. My Momma knew it. She cried. Always so tired…died tired.

May she rest in peace.

Amen.

No, Marlin went to a Negro school. Southern U, I think…

Mills went to Mississippi. But he come from Arkansas.

Hill…HE come from Mississippi. He live there now, but got the dementia.

Who don’t…played that game? Scramble your brain like eggs in a bowl. Only you just don’t know.

You don’t know until after yer forgot. Then nobody remembers you until you die. That’s when they say, “Oh, yeah…him. I seen him play…”

Best you can hope for is you don’t remember, yourself.

Chances are you won’t.

S’ a game. It’s only a game…

Don’t fool yourself man. It’s money. It’s something they pay you to do, because nobody else can do it.  What the hell else you gonna do? You know what you’re signing up for.

Don’t think you’d know ‘dementia’ back then…

If you did, and they offered you the money…at that age…with your family in that way…young stud…you’d say, ‘I’ll take it and worry about the other when I’m old’.

Can’t hide in a cave all your life. Got to live in the world. It’s bound to beat you up somehow…hell, man, look at me and you…

Me? What’s wrong with me?

Nothing you don’t know.

We played the game, you and me !

It’s a good thing we wasn’t so good…school bus was safer.

Still got our wits about us !

See, you think so, and that’s what wrong with you, right there.

What’s for supper?

We just ate supper.

Nooo. What was it?

Spaghetti.

THAT was spaghetti? Nooooo.

The WAS-band.

 a chance conversation...

My Wasband, the former “Mister”, …. feel free to use that term. I coined it, and you may use it. Yes, thank you, I thought you’d like it... 

The Wasband was from Pithville, P. – A.  Of course I abused it, how could I not. I told him any poor sot from Piss-ville doesn’t deserve the likes of me! And sure enough, one day he decided to leave. There was a note that said “You’re right. Goodbye.”

I’m not very proud of what I did to the man. I pounded him too hard, I presume. Hard quick body blows were my specialty. Stiff shots to the ribs and psyche. Takes their breath away. Tires them out. I don’t play that way anymore. I don’t play, period. I learned that about myself. I hurt people so I can love them later…or some such horsescrap…my shrink….my shrink is an uptight bitch with a stick up her ass, and I tell her, “By-the-minute, honey, you make more money than anyone in the entire county…and that includes whores and politicians.”

She doesn’t much like it, but I pay the bills and have the connections and she feeds off the likes of me. She’s a society junkie who crosses and tramples all ethical and professional boundaries necessary just to  get close enough to sniff a whiff of rich asshole. I know that’s crude, and I’m workin’ on it, but it’s also true.

But, okay…you’re not here to talk about my back-story. Let’s talk about the Foundation. I was at the President’s dinner over at the University last night. Thought the winds would blow away all the tents, but they didn’t and it turned out alright, at least as much as those functions go. I fund the Horticulture School research lab. It’s got my name on the building. It was his idea. The irony here, I guess, is that he’s long gone and the building stands with MY name on it. “Piss off to Pissville, peasant…” is basically what I told him, and damned if he didn’t. Married some young cutie he taught in goddamn high school, if you can believe that. My Uncle Ray, he privately held a chain of groceries and a lot of land up by the Bay area. It’s family land, or it was until we sold it…sold the groceries to a chain. My Uncle Ray always said, given the substantial wealth of the family… “You can not trust the motives of outsiders, especially suitors.” He was always suspicious of Riggs…thought he was a …you know…thought he was way out of his element. Thought maybe he rose high enough to suffer nose bleed at Thanksgiving dinner, but no, that was my doin’ plain and simple.

But let’s talk about “the trail”, shall we? I love the Hopper Trail…walk it everyday…sun up and sundown. My knees aren’t too good so I need to walk. It’s painful at times, but the trail, it soothes my soul. I love the Gnarly-Gnome Oak, do you know the one? ...contorted roots twisting up through the rock?….and the shale bluffs, the creek, the trout. I don’t like snakes but you have to accept them. We had a mountain lion scare two months back. Coyotes will snatch your cats right off your patio. But my god, living IN the world and not sheltered from it…!  This is where Riggs and I parted company. I knew he was bored silly once he was fired from the university and all he had to look at all day was me. In those days I was restricted to the wheelchair….before I could get around again…but, eventually he got around…too much. He was the hit of the club. Everybody just loved charming Riggs. That stopped with his “egregious impropriety” and the club regrets losing this member here, and had he stayed I’d have personally seen he lost his own, I assure you. Afterwards, I was inconsolable for a bit and I down-sized to a smaller place. Better for me not be with that ‘community-club crowd’,  but I’m right down the canyon with a hot spring pool and Jacuzzi. Helps me so much….

Okay, you didn’t want to know all this, so let’s get on with the topic at hand. The trail will have markers, maps and placards identifying specific trees and various native species. It will have plaques at landmarks, like the Horseman’s Bridge, and there will be an updated “posting” board for local wildlife sightings. Not just snakes and mountain lion sightings…but deer, and bobcats…racoons and skunks. There were bear here five years ago…so, you never know. The Bird people want their own board, which is fine with me. There’s trout in there the size of my arm. I see them, they like the hot spring water vents, and the confluence of smaller streams. You’d think they know they’re protected, they’re so casual. It’s quite a joyful place, and it gives me a lot of pleasure to support it.

How’s that?

Hell, no, you cannot take my picture. My niece handles all my shots. Call her. We have PR stills, but don’t be taking any. I usually appear with dignitaries, but only if required….but a shot, now..Like this?! Please!….not one in the last 8 years, so don’t take it personal that I still have my vanity about me. I was never bell of the ball so there wasn’t much vanity to begin with, believe me.

Doe this conclude this interview? It’s a puff piece really. Be sure to visit the trail. If you ever want to get some wonderful, deep state history about the family we can arrange an interview or a speaking engagement….

Where does this run? Just local or syndicated? Okay, yes, local makes sense. That’s fine, probably no papers in Piss-ville anyhow.