SPLINTERS AND VOIDS

In the morning they realized 

that the expectations

upon them

had been beyond grandiose 

beyond reasonable, 

beyond attainable, 

beyond reality. 

It had been thrust upon them, 

trusted to them 

for no good reason 

other than 

they were next 

and something

was expected. 

No one knew what, 

but something...

someone, 

comes next. 

Next to what?

Next to who? 

No one knew. 

Unfair to be judged so harshly, 

yet so forged in their likeness 

so driven to succeed 

beyond reasonability, 

the burden 

their curse,

murdered 

by the father 

trust slaughtered,

they were doomed. 

Fair is not an equation. 

Fear is.

Like the crystal vase 

smashed by the mother in law.

Graceful, Fragile, Elegant 

...and gone.

Not to be judged 

less each splinter, 

every shard, 

be examined 

for weakness 

or flaw ... 

Or was The Whole

the illusion?

The shards reflecting 

the delusion of their 

Splintered reality? 

The truth 

is in the voids, 

eternally avoided. 

No matter there.

V

END OF THE RAILROAD

My mother was an engineer for  the railroads...not the locomotive engineer, mind you, but a  structural, practical and versatile engineer. She would design tricky trestles along sheer drops, or tunnels through thin shale, or dense granite...it was unheard of in her time. In fact, she often, in order to avoid the aggravation, would use the male derivative of her name EMILY, and went by EMILE instead. In correspondence it worked regularly, and without question and since her job called for extensive travel, she avoided facing the opposition and inquisition. On one occasion when she ( he) was invited to a social engagement of the most influential rail and political folk, she came as ‘his wife’ with regrets out of respect, since he had just that day fallen ill, and too late to send notice. She charmed them and they sent her off with their best wishes for his speedy recovery. "Such a good man..."

She could have had her way with, or her choice of, many a gentrified gent, but she chose my dad instead. He laid track ... little more than an endured laborer. She bore no prejudice to any man or woman that held their own. She counted among her friends those that spoke only Chinese, and learned the language in their camps. Pop would sit at those same fires, sharing those simple meals, and here came she, down from her railroad car, on that executive train, to sit in the dirt and share. She would often bring down food from the galley car, good food, about to be thrown away, but not if she could help it. And so, one night they came to smile at each other across an open fire, and sparks flew. If Mom was a rail, then dad was a tie, and mom must have liked them rough hewn, because they didn't come much rougher than the old man.

It wasn't meant to last. Neither of them were about to relinquish their lives to the other, too proud, too stubborn, too driven...but driven in opposite directions. And since mother’s life had some meaning, and dad was just happy to meander...we went with mom. Where else?

Mother eventually came to find the best of both worlds in a man named Patterson, who we called 'Pat'...a simple, bigheaded ‘panner’ from Eureka who struck a huge load, and became a homely, lonely, high-roller in ' Frisco, back in its heyday.

We remember Pat as a good and trusting man. He raised us and paid for us through college and more, even though Mother left him years before.

Mother is the one that couldn't be trusted. Always another bridge to build, man to bed, or tunnel to bore.  We were her boys ,what were we to do? We tagged along...even a stint in Peru. It was a sad parade of clowns, she entertained and dragged us through.  So it should come as no surprise that when we were of age we quickly got away - first Jimmy to the Dakotas, and me, the other way. I went island-hopping for many year, before finally landing in Oahu. Jim joined me for his last twelve, and now he sits there upon my shelf, right next to mom. They wait for me, and when I die, we three shall be mixed, and stirred, and tossed to the sea, where something tells me, we'll reunite with the old man eventually.

V 

I DON'T SUCK YELLOW rev.

Ew! What are you doing?!

I’m giving you a straw. I thought it might be better than a plain glass of water. Somewhat decorative. I have no tiki fruit spears or umbrellas…and presentation being everything, I thought….make some kind of impression, other than a schmo offering you tap water in a fuck'n-faded-beer glass…but, I could…

Stop! Jeezzuss. #@*&^#@ ... I appreciate the straw…and all…the thought, and consideration that went behind it…before it…whichever went…where...

Great. So what’s wrong? Mint? Lime?

Don’t be an asshole.

Oh? So…?

It’s yellow.

­­

Yellow - is a problem?

Have you ever heard of the term: "Chromo-phobia...?"

I sense the meaning...but, please, this is your call. Elucidate. 

I can’t suck on a yellow straw.

(silence)

                                
         (longer silence)

Do you want to do the ‘close-your-eyes’ test?

You mean, ‘guess the yellow?”

Yes.

Fuck, no! That means something yellow just slipped though my lips.

Fine. But, It’s the same fucking plastic that went into the hot pink, and color is just light so let it go. Close your eyes. Block the light and suck.

No way. Not sucking yellow…especially in the dark. ..and you are NOT the first guy to try that...

These are not ‘glowing magic fairy wands’, so how would you know?

Stop. If you had "a glowing magic fairy wand" I would know it. So, Fuck you.

Okay. You're right. I'm just not sure why...and you say 'fuck-a-lot', so..???

There’s a terror factor, okay? Leave it at that or I start to creep you out very quickly

What?

Sorry I meant, ‘freak you out’, but they both apply. So shut the fuck up, and enough about 'yellow straws'.

Ok. Good.

Now, what’s for dinner? Smells great.

Well, it’s a theme…but not necessarily. We’re having spaghetti squash with a butternut-puntanesca, habanero-mango chutney, a grilled thai yellow-curry yellowtail…on a bed of saffron rice… ‘the triple yellow’, we call it. “They call me triple yellow…”

Are you fucking with me?

Do you know the price of yellowtail?

Was it substantial?

ss…standardized

…sustainable?

I couldn’t tell you, whatever that question just was…

Mercury content! Let me check my…app…okay? What ocean?

Have no idea.

Supplier? Outlet?

Let's just say "a finer restaurant in this fair city"...

Direct or indirect?

Definitely indirect.

Lawful or unlawful?

Substantially unlawful.

Decent or indecent?

Definitely indecent.

Agreed.

Agreed?

Agreed.

Really?

Really. Your bed? What color are the sheets?

You don’t want to know.

Willing to find out.

Willing to throw them out the window.

And off they went.

Postscript:

Harold was just preparing himself for the long drive out of the city, back out to the 'burbs, and had initiated a dialogue with his 'onboard genie' -  

"Suni...! ?"

"Hello, Harold." 'she' responded. 

Secretly he craved their drives together, her voice - casual, intimate, almost sensual....so reassuring....and she seldom failed (except for the 'one-time', but they fixed that with the factory re-call...). 
He would often chat her up, asking inane questions like "What's the best pizza in Schenectady?" even though it was seven hundred miles away.
 ...or, he'd tease her and make sexually suggestive requests...to fill the boredom, but, much like home... "Oh, Harold, you know I can't do that."

 "Okay. Pick up messages, Suni..."

In that moment his eyes may have strayed, because his next line was: "WHAT THE FU...!!!"  (SFX)

It appears at this juncture Harold had experienced a blinding 'yellow-out' like none before, which, color aside, and the bedsheet clinging to his windshield, obliterating his view, caused him to panic and collide with several of the parked, and otherwise, vehicles along the way, hither and sway ...crash....bang 

"Harold!?... Harold?!..." was all Suni could say, with each collision. And with each 'collision' it became a little hotter...frantic...freaky...

... until the finale: A...newly detailed recently RE-fueled, only hours before...it definitely did not come into view...the BEEMER?!...like some Germanic Opera, the Silver Bitch - BLEW!

Such a 'Big-time boom', so sudden, so massive... Suni had no chance to say Adieu .

"Oh, shit," they said in unison, upon hearing the massive 'repercussion' of their passion from the street below, so rudely interrupting their probing penetrations, as the blast blew out the windows about them. 

"I told you about  yellow...!" she screamed.

" 'Oh shit'...very deep," thought he.

V

Trajectory be damned

Tom Burgher had escaped a single shot shattering his sixth floor window whizzing past his head before planting in the wall of his kitchenette. The police question him, they examine the caliber, which apparently was high, but a mess, and determine a trajectory to be flat if not slightly downward. It most definitely did not come from the street below because the blow would have entered his ceiling from that severe an angle, and the view of the target, if indeed it was aimed and fired with intent, would be extremely limited. No, this came from out there. 'Where' would be impossible to determine, but it appears the glass may have deflected the bullet, perhaps saving the Intended yet, in so doing, left them with no sense of its source. 

Questions asked but gone unanswered, they stood on his landing, and stared at the thousand windows staring back. Burgher knew then, it was time to move.

 V

OUT IN THE COLD

I do NOT want to know how shitty things are going

…nor, how happy we can be.

You see, none of it matters -

what we hear

the blabber

deafened 

by the chatter

blinded 

by the clutter

overwhelmed 

by distraction

from your reality

through your ‘Digitality’

none of it matters

until it goes 

dark

you don’t know panic

until that day

Man evolved

  but out in the cold...?

even those that think they do

don't really have a clue 

V

YOU LOSE, WORLD!

Phillip Stein? You heard about him, right? Drunken rant that he can’t recant. Total Immolation. Why is there one at every wedding? :

Okay, so! … so jus’ a quick salute to the handsome couple, from the Top Ten Dude of his Generation –

ri’-here - GENIUS!

Good looks - #1 in his class – feast the eyes, huh?

Great taste – attends all the trendy’s…spews and espouses the news and reviews. Ask me!

THE GREATEST FUCKING TALENT THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN!!! ….YET NEVER REALIZED!!!

Has anyone read my fucking resume? “Link” me sometime!

YOU LOSE, WORLD!

You know who doesn’t lose? Huh?! You wanna know?! You wanna know the BIIIGGGGG winners? Hahhahhahaaaa….

The Ladies! But don’t tell my wife about the mistress….hahaha…and don’t tell the mistress about the other two bitches! … hahahahahahhhaaa….

There she is. Stand up Honey! Thats my girl! C’mon up…honey…hey, honey! Jokin’ up here! C’mon back! Where you going? Will somebody go get my wife! Stop her! Aw, shit…I’m in the doghouse…she can be a real psycho… so anyways, so you two go to fucking Bali and fuck your Bali brains out. Hahah… Hey. No. I’m okay, fellas, I got it…hey!…NO! (ugh)

The Mic hit the floor with a thud, and the feedback filled the room, and drowned out the angry outcry, but once it was switched off, the rumble of discontent was loud and clear, as were the sobs from the Bride’s Party, as that asshole was taken ‘out back’ and roughly handled by the groom’s men.

Once the ambulance was loaded, all the questions were answered to the official’s satisfaction, and it drove off …the siren ‘whooping’ down the road, on the way to his personal oblivion…that’s when the party really kicked in. You missed a good one.

MAURA MOON'S LAST MORN

Maura Moon awoke to the bombastic thunder of a dumpster being pounded, up and down, landing on the ground, in grand ceremonial style...resounding surround-sound, with no consideration for those that lived along, and just above, this alley of discontent, this frigid morn, hearing that rumble and clatter, over and over, rolling down the alleyway, bouncing off the old brick, cold brick, walls. The squealing brakes, the pneumatic hiss, the cranking arm, the clang of the slots, the grind of the lift, the growl and the dump, and then the growl... back down, signaling the finale, and the drop of the empty, dense, tin bin.  And again…and again…

The stink, the steam, and diesel fume, rise, to underscore the cacophony, the taste of Defeat. In the inhale, a tangible and foul taste. 'Bitter' would be a blessing, but this was toxic, noxious, consumptive waste. God she hated Wednesday...a winter Wednesday especially. Gray, bleak, biting, with chafing winds gusting in off the lake. The bus will be late as she huddles, shaking, in a kiosk of metal and steel, like meat in a freezer case, while wrapped in a mega-graphic of a bimbo holding a burger almost as bountifully endowed as each of her overtly enhanced breast. Crudely defaced, the graffiti artist was also an astute observer, his "THREE TITS" summed it up nicely. Apparently this "She" is "someone" to some target (boy) audience, but Maura has no clue, who, …nor gives a .... (ALARM!!!!!).....shit! ....she did NOT want to leave this warm comfort under her toasty dual comforters and flannel sheets... not today...please.  Then comes a tapping on her window,which soon becomes a hard drizzle, turning quickly into stinging shards, rasping sharply against the glass...not some misty spritz....this pelting was 'driven'.  Goddamn it anyway!   While she waited for her tea to percolate, the storm grew, and she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Riley, the retired ad-man next door, called out, "We can hear you!"     

"Fuck you!!!! ", her retort.

He always got a good laugh outa’ that, as he intimately understood the grumbling. He, too, had weathered the weather, while 'working the game' ...won some, lost more, two wives prior, and three kids...grown and distant...he resides alone, not in his suburb home. That, sadly, went to wife number three, (his biggest and youngest mistake, and a classic case of male depressive desperation) so he chose this studio apartment, downtown, in Midtown, (not the 'right side' of Midtown, mind you, but…) six blocks away from his old office. Old Turf. He just couldn't stay away, plus he knew the general neighborhood, well enough to stumble home from his nighttime soirees, and essentially couldn't afford much more. Besides, where else would he go? He'd seen every major market in the US of A, on many an occasion, in all conditions, and still preferred this town, his town. 
On nicer days he'd take a stroll down the old avenue, hoping, to meet someone, 'one of the gang', heading out to lunch. And at first it worked, but then they grew fewer and fewer, or perhaps, to avoid him. The old watering holes were gone, too, and he wondered where they congregated nowadays…the new crew…he had no clue. Things change. But on a day like today, he didn't miss any of that, No, sir. They could damn well have their rugged commutes. "Earn it you bastards," he'd mutter, " I did, dammit… before I pissed it away on women and drink. Young women, old booze, those what rules old fools like me, as we come to realize, we always lose. What the fuck...”

"Yeah, but I bet you enjoyed the ride," she responded back through the thin flat walls, already knowing the answer, having heard his stories time and again.

"You’re gonna miss your bus!" he yelled back.

"Won't that be a tragedy!?"

“Indeed! When the rent is due...!"

“Damn you!”

“Damn you, too, but take your slicker! It's a pisser!”

“I see the weather, and I don't take advise from old farts.”

“The voice of experience!” ( he farts )

“I hear that, and there's no experience expounded there that I would want any part of!”

“You don't know what you missed!”

“Damn-Happy to know that!”

WILL YOU TWO SHUT THE HELL UP?

“Sorry, Mrs. Baldwin!”

EVER HEARD OF A TELEPHONE? MUCH MORE POLITE TO  OTHERS! TEXT FOR CHRISSAKES! It’s SILENT!

“Didn't know you were wearing your aid! Sorry!”

Who needs a hearing aid with you two as neighbors !

“Go back to bed, Mitzi!”

Easy for you to say, Riley . And you have a lovely day, Denise!

“I'll sincerely try Mrs B.!  Thank you! B-bye!”

And off she went…for good.

It’s just not the same here anymore.

V