in santo

Embracing the Mundane

It was not  the best option

but it was the only option

She wasn’t the prettiest girl

but she was a lonely girl

She didn’t expect much

and he knew he could deliver

A marriage not made in heaven

built to endure on earth

A practical couple

Capable of earnest affection

If not true love

Don’t expect more

And maybe you’ll get

more than you expect...
always giving one another
more than they were owed

it worked for them

and that’s what mattered

moving ahead
by sharing the load

their first child was not the brightest child

but he was a normal child

(and we know they had sex,

at least when 
convenient and practical, 
so there was no other father 
nor ever a hint of scandal)

he was an only child

with not a brother or sister

was not gifted in any way

was not a pretty child

but was a healthy  one

closely resembling the parents
and acting just the same

they didn’t tolerate strangers

not before the baby was born

and certainly not after

they had no social life to speak of

but they all had each other

and there was the occasional laughter

they were a tight clan

of three

didn’t talk to neighbors

no reason to really

unless a reason arose

then it was short and sweet

that is, less there be conflict

something to readily avoid

made no promises

nothing to break
confrontation, 
never their choice

believed in a god

up to a point

took solace in their religion

but not in their church

people to rub up against

people generally hurt

keeping clear and tolerant

a means by which to survive
'getting by' was tolerable
so no greedy needs
to 'Thrive'

Involving meant 
involvement

which is where 
they flatly failed 
to compromise
and firmly 
drew-the-line
besides, Isolation suited them...
suited them just fine

menace creeps slowly

and waits outside the door

so check before leaving

can’t be too cautious anymore

save for the retirement

to spend before you die

what's left goes to the boy child

who has taken a new wife

she wasn’t the prettiest bride

it wasn’t the best option

but it was the only option

and she was lonely

as was he.

Devil's Pent

You know I’m here. I’m pent up. Aggressive. I’m feeling that rage. I’m close-by, can you feel my breath?

Yeah. And it smells mean. Maybe because you’re so full of shit. Nothing’s changed. You’re not here. You don’t even know where ‘here’ is, you sap.

Turn around, re-e-eal slow…and don’t be too surprised…

………………………made you look. What do you see?

Well I’ll be… it’s a roadside rubber and a trail of small dog turds. You ARE here. Welcome back motherfucker.

I see you.

What do I have on?

You’re wearing that yellow shirt….sleaves cut off. Black top under that. Black pants…

Damn. You are here. What color shoes?

Yellow converse.

 Shit…what do you think of my hair color?

I like a red bush. You tint the shrub or trim it?

Alright. I give up. Where you hiding? I’m hanging up and coming out in the open. Where you hiding? I don’t see you. Where? …I’m…

Just a minute. Don’t be hanging up until I tell you to.

Those cops are in the diner. The car is empty. They don’t know about me…or you…we’re just people. Nobody doing any harm. Ain’t that right?

You playing me along?

It’s way too easy.

So what are you wearing?

My boyfriend’s leash and collar. I’m his bitch.

You’re the devil’s bitch, you are.

If you say so. Bein’ from his loins…and all.

Maybe that makes you my Mama.

Son, if you want the truth - you were spawned from anal puss in an Oklahoma outhouse.

Is that you Mama?

No son. Your Mama was a man. A deviate, like his son. He’d be proud of you if he gave two shits. Turns out you were the only one…

You know when I find you I’ll kill you…

The hell you will. IF you find me I’ll be sighting down the barrel and I ain’t alone.

Doesn’t matter who or how many…

You won’t know. It’ll happen quick. Won’t be no words. So tired of your words. Just quiet. No more words. Finally peaceful. Like…Listen…

(click)

Skunk Runnin'

Skunk is sitting at a table. He’s attracted a woman, or more likely he to she, but there they sit. She asks what he does, and he tells her, and that leads to the obvious question and sets him aflambe. She’ll glaze over half way through, and by the time he’s done, her chair will slide back and she’ll be gone. He’ll appreciate the view of her walk-away anyway and consider it something, not lost, but gained. So here goes:

Have I written a book? No, I have not. I have compiled a thousand words…constructed thousands of paragraphs, miles of sentences. But a book? No. Too constraining. too structured, too disciplined. Too hard. ...Have to have lived a life...Something to say. My words are not from experience. My words come from the ether, and channel through me, to…who knows? (Christ, I sound like so many self involved, closet cases ...speaking in abstraction & clichés, ...meanings empty, vapid verse). Maybe the next guy down the street who is writing along with me, word-for-word, thought-for-thought, maybe he knows. Maybe he has the same awakening, the same revelation, the same mental orgasm. Then, too, I read words and say godthatscrap and reflect back, blurry, wondering if they were my words born from some other mother. So foreign so distant.

The constant observer, the eavesdropper. I do look and I listen. The mortal souls that share our space and air, so familiar but, so too, strangers and eccentrics. I love dialogue, the bits of pieces, the rogue voice, the common voice. I don’t much care for punctuation – I know it’s essential but resent it’s formality. If I feel like a coma, I comma. It’s the rhythm in my flow…I almost said ‘dance’ but that’s an image we’ll not stir. Dialects come. Word choices are easy, fluid, but often odd. I simply transcribe. I habitually refer to it as the TV down the hall – someone else’s apartment – loud enough to hear as background, but sometimes cutting through your consciousness, quite clear and compelling. It's like my mind is 'apartmentalized'  little units with their own life form inhabitants. The voice at the back of your head – conversations passing in traffic, often going in the opposite direction. Or, that thing you read in the paper or the scene you passed in the bus. There's a poodle on the roof of a passing car, the owner/driver oblivious to it's fate. Before you can scream it's too late. It's gone. You see and hear stuff everyday, every friggin minute of consciousness, and sometimes UN-consciousness. Pixels...particles...These are pocket scraps, post-it notes, not literature. This is painting without the paint. Like painting itself, the work of it, the art of it, the discipline of it…and in my case, the lack there-in….because there is Work to it. There's GUTS to it. I admire it so. I am a really messy painter, often frustrating myself with my own clumsiness and tendency to make mud…maybe mixed with fear for lacking talent. So I stay a nothing in the first place. I sketch. It’s less of an investment. It’s quick and immediate. I point, I shoot. You make it – you capture the thought, don’t over-think it, or think it at all - it’s done. Sometimes trudging, and depressing, you wad it up and throw it away - but sometimes suddenly wide open. like Vince Lombardi – Run to daylight – and when that hole opens up and you see the field for what it is – it’s breath, it’s width, the sky, the stands, the sounds, explode. It’s not even that you feel the running – you don’t – you just are. Sometimes it’s like that. The jazz of it. Writing short stories, not worried where they are going or how they intertwine. No diagrams. No complexity beyond a page, or four. Economy. Playing rifts, not writing the concerto. Have I written a book? If disjointed text and context are to be accepted…if structure is an issue…a demand…I don’t know. And ‘not knowing’ means I have not. Is that important? To some, certainly to most writers, it is essential, and I know I am not most. But the guy down the street can be saying that too, and he’d either be right, or just as wrong.

Who's Vince Lombardi?

Right now a marching band is strutting a block away, the horns are playing a simple rhythm. Drums tapped lightly. Their feet in beat. They are not on display, not in full regalia, but awaiting their moment, to strike. The horns bide the time. That’s what I’m hearing as they march away. Farther down, a mile or so, as they approach downtown, I hear the blare and pound as they explode in sound.

STORE CLOSED

Store’s closed.

Give me five minutes to buy a jacket and tie, and I’ll buy you a drink and a steak next door.

I was just heading home to dinner. Wife. Family.

One hundred dollars to the college fund.

Come on in. You got twenty minutes.

Five dollars a minute it is. Here you go.

Pay me when you purchase.

Deal.

He didn’t want anything too flashy, draw the eye. Blend-in-brown would suit him fine. He settled for a camel hound’s-tooth…not something he would typically choose but circumstances and efficiency were the priority and the fact that it fit smartly right off the rack didn’t hurt. A man should feel comfortable in the jacket he’s in. Gives off a trustworthy demeanor. He threw two dress shirts onto the counter and grabbed a couple of pairs of socks.

You legit?

Legit?

Yeah, running from the law or something?

You really want to know the answer to that one?

Probably not. Four hundred, forty six, and thirty three cents…

Does that include the college fund?

No sir, that is only for the merchandise.

“Then suppose we call it an even 6.” He fanned the six bills on the counter.

I sincerely hope you wear the items in good health, sir. And thank you for your business. Please come back anytime.

That would be doubtful, but I appreciate your hospitality.

You want steak and a drink don’t go next door. The place is a town watering hole and the locals will pick you out right off. The police…they eat in there. The steak is much better over at the hotel.

Just another out-of-town guest…

And a better cut of meat.

Thank you, sir. Pleasure doing business with you as well. Good luck with the family.

Thank you. I’ll walk you out.

On the street a patrol car pulls to the curb. The shop owner nods to the street corner behind them and the customer turns smartly and leaves in the direction of the hotel. Behind him the shop owner greets the patrolmen as they brush past on their way into the steakhouse.

“Enjoy your meal boys!”

Hearing the platitude the customer now knew he could slow his pace into something more leisurely, and started to anticipate a savory  steak as he strolled…

“Yeah…with a  big baked russet and all the trimmings.”

WIDOW MUSIC

( phone rings )

You listening?

Lola?

Can you hear that from your place?

The music? Yes. Must be Donaghn’s.

It is. Dreadful.

Wanna meet… grab a beer? This is silly - we’re only four blocks…it's half way.

Noo. That singer…can you hear her? So mournful… …strumming that awful guitar. Celtic widow music.

I don’t exactly hear the same dour subtleties that you hear…her voice from this side of town, is more lyrical, wafting, echoing...Haunting...Evangelical.  Lola...?

Yes?
                                                
Feeling glum tonight, are we?

I won’t be damaging my wrists, if that’s your fear. But anymore of that baleful whine and I just might jump out this window...become evangelical myself.

Not funny. Have a drink. Come on.

No really. I’m done with Donaghn’s.

Clever.

True, though.

Somewhere quieter?

Ya…home. Alone. Quiet.

I understand….and won’t take it personal. It’s just started to rain.

I know.

(thunder)

Oh!

"You felt that?"

"I did and that does it..."

Can I call you in the morning?

Okay.

G’night.

G’night.

Harvest

Lift

Lighten your load

Drift

Allowing to unfold

Humble yourself

Allow failure it’s moment…

Temper

…don’t allow it to take hold

Renew

Build where it happened

Reopen

What was closed

Attune

What has gone sour

Plant

New seeds

Grow

New things

Replenish

your own sweetness,

Harvest

the nectar of your soul