bord in progress

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It approaches ...

...and hovers below. 

  

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mulling

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THE MULLINS PREAMBLE

"A Rudderless Child"

You may have noticed in the past, had you visited this sight, a stranger wander in, like a drunk into a bar - loud, rude, and often obliterating the conversation. 
I am obligated to provide some warning, in the form of this explanation...just so you’re not put-off by Him. You will be, but be assured, you'll not be the first. You may be perplexed, puzzled, or repulsed, but you won't be the first. He may grow on you intellectually, to a degree, or feel like 'a growth' in your cranium when he is done - he has that effect with me:

He will either storm through the doors with a blizzard at his back, or has been sitting, brooding in a  dark corner in the back of the room, observing your labors, while carrying on his life’s incoherent, grunting, running dialogue, oblivious of the occupants, or the reality of the space they shared , be it physical, or mystical, or just plain neurosis. 

Skunk Mullins is my lifelong mental camper, couch surfer, party crasher, mindmate and muse usurper, who refuses to go home, because he's found it, and its me. So, what am I to do? He is often frustrated, angry, and always mad, but I can’t turn him away because I’d wonder where he’d gone to vent, and to whom, and would they understand? He's been rejected most his life...so he might pick a fight when drunk, and the odds of both, are as predictably high as he will also be.
So if you should bump into the Skunk on a visit to this site, I want you to be aware of things, should you sense things aren’t quite right. It’s Skunk, the twisted philosopher, often in rant, I’d stop him if I could, but as I warned you, I just can’t.

SKUNK:

In a constant battle of give-and-take, it seems I'm only aware when I'm asleep, and Dreaming when I’m awake.

It’s the things one passes by, that eventually catch up with you. The job you should have taken, the girl you should have dated…especially the ones that 'offered'. But they scared you shitless instead. That’s an offer you should have probably taken, but you ran like the ‘piss-ant’ you are.  

'But she was getting fucking married. I shook his hand firmly and looked him straight in the eye. How was I supposed to fuck his fiancé /wife at the same time?  I should have. You never know. She was either a tramp, a savior…or neither. Just another screw?...too bad you never knew.'

You think anyone regrets not fucking me? Hahaha… That ship sailed. Look at me! See what happens? After awhile you lose your grip, become adrift, like a rudderless child…motherless boat…murderous shit…fuckin'clueless dolt. Do I have a reason? No. A life is not something you should drift through, but it’s what we do….some of us do, but don’t ask how many, or who, because I haven’t a clue. Rudderless boats don’t dock or steer they just drift on without a crew, just the one lonely captain, in charge of exactly who?  

Permission to come aboard? Permission refused. 

That train left the station on time… you missed it by miles…to places you’ll never see. Mixing metaphors, missing semaphores...sex with casual whores…things I’ve never been trained to use. I can’t read Life for shit, which is why I’m still living with you. Thanks for having me.

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IN THE TUNNEL - (rev1)

I first entered the tunnel many years ago, many more than ten, or even twenty….many more. Yet when I stop to think, when I can think through the drink and drugs, illegal and prescribed, I think there has always been a tunnel, in fact I know there has. Right through the urethra, vagina, womb, u-turn and out the shaft into the void, you plop. Then what? You didn’t get asked. You don’t even know what the fuck you are, but the rest is up to you. But, then… not quite, because there are things to be done, results to be measured, and expectations to be met. The best chance you got is that the expectations are low and they let you be, and if so, you’ll probably meet your mark, or your maker. Either way, not a bad undertaking compared to the other end, where ‘expectations met’ means the heavier the load, the more ‘the heavy lifting’ is expected. 


Oh, sure, at first that sounds just right, like the light from above shone upon you, and made you visible, viable, and valuable. But all along, like everyone else, you are nothing more than 'Vulnerable'. 

No one is impenetrable. No one is imperial. 

Your life is spent in tunnels. Your life is Channeled ... you find yourself blindly  baring more burden…driven, by driving someone else’s highway, and carrying their freight 'in Priority' of yours. You get them where they want to go because it’s your job. 
(You break down?... they 'retool'. But then take solice, because, they travel the tunnel, too. 

In the end, no matter your up-keep and maintenance, your 'expectancy' still comes due...dutifully accounted, projected, and invested, by those disassociated with you. You’re not but a fraction of a digit of the least common denominator in the ledger. A pixelated- digit, displayed on the previous screen.

Turn the page,  or rip it out,  it’s over either way. 

Done everything right, full speed ahead, just not as fast as stupid, as more paint's been shed, and this tunnel seems tapered and dark, while NO EXIT signs shine in RED alert. Drive on.

And if it's a bright light I see, I'm aware what it is - the tunnel is over...run out on me. But, having seen it before, we see it anew. Off into the void...we just went....plop...

  So...you were asking, “Where do I see myself...?” 

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THE BOY UNKNOWN

Raspberries, I don’t care for. They’re prickly. They are fragile little pods, all delicate and thorny! Who needs prickly, thorny, fragile, mushy, seedy, moldy raspberries? 

They make a fine preserve…

But fresh, they don’t keep!…not hereabouts, they don’t. Blackberries, are big and hardy…cherries, and…first-pick strawberries…short window for perfect berries… Wait too late, and you end up with strawberries so bad, a raspberry wouldn’t date it. For that matter, get to any berry too late, and it’s a waste… So? You were saying…?

(and yet there are jams...) 

What?

(ahem) I was suggesting a small, simple, fruit plate with le fromage.

Then, Pear will suffice. A sherry might be nice…you have something?

Most assuredly. Might I also suggest…? We have a small assortment of delicate wafers – angels’ wings - dusted with finely powdered Cuban-cane, held in-reserve, for our ‘special’ guests. I could have them prepare an assortment with perhaps, an espresso…perhaps a vanilla bean custard…with blackberries,was it ?

Again with the berries? Did your buyer go mad at the berry mart, Marcel? The season is waning and so are my tastes for ...you know...

We got bananas in just yesterday, directly from Guatamala. Very fresh! Ha! Ha!

Something humorous about the bananas, Marcel?

The snake!

Snake! Where Marcel?!

In the bananas! In the kitchen! Green, like the bananas! Seven feet long!

My god!

Python! 

Oh No! Any staff injured or…?

No-o-o.

Pietro?

No.

Sixto & Michel?

No.

‘The Bowery’ still intact?

Yes.

And your sudden sadness...?

The mop boy got caught in the alley. It awaited him while curled in a can, and attacked on the boy’s last nightly visit. He lifted the lid…it was quick…it was late. No one heard. I suspect if they had heard they wouldn’t know.

How so?

It's just...what, exactly, does 'that' sound like? A muffled scream as he squeams within the vipers squeeze? A whimper…? Could that be a cat…? Two AM?... in these lots? You expect gunfire not whispers.

Screams and shots. Yes, I see, if its not gunfire, it hardly matters. 

There are silent options, of course...

What do we know about the poor boy?

Not much. He’s small…hard worker…He came on the previous boat, just last month... in from Guatemala. His remains will return on the same boat tomorrow.

Oh, no, …and the snake?

Claro took a clever…it was too full to give a fight. We plan to hang the skin. What do you think?

Seven feet might look grand above the bar, over there…and the meat?

Ha! You are a rare one, Harry. We are taste-testing tomorrow afternoon. The boys are looking forward to it. Would you like to join us?

Yes. Yes, I would. As testament to the young man lost, I would be proud to eat the snake that ate him.

Exactamento. We are proud to prepare. 

They traveled a long way to meet such a tragic fate, and each misplaced in this miserable place. Pour yourself a brandy, Marcel…and take a seat, there’s no one here. Join me.

Merci.

Now, if I may be allowed the honor, I would like to propose a toast:

May you finally find your home. 

Little Boy - Unknown.

(clink)

              
    ... and, snake, I'm betting you taste heavenly.

Amen.

  

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observer