Storm, a storm

Off in the distance the sky was darkening at a rate so heavy light fought hard to escape being engulfed, perceptibly blacker.

 

“Is there a storm coming?” asked the tiny girl.

 

On the right someone seemed to strike a match in the sky; a pale iremittable strip burned and distanced itself from reality. There was a sound as though someone very strong and far away dropped a bowling ball over a metal roof, probably vengeful, for the metal gave a resonating bawl.

 

“It’s set in!” cried Kira.

 

Between the near and far there was a flash of lightning so vivid that it illuminated part of the lake, and above, clear sky collided with blackness. A terrible cloud was encircling the house, without haste, a giant mass; long black arms extended in all directions from its edge; similar staffs pressing upon another were pretzeling on both the left and right horizon. The disheveled, frayed look of the storm cloud gave it a drunken disorderly air. There was a distinct, not smothered, growl of thunder.

 

All at once there was a squall of wind, so violent it almost snatched away the small structure to the front; it blew from the back, carrying with it clouds of dust could be seen hurrying along the edge of the drive path, followed by their shadows and the scent of rain and wet earth. The moonlight grew mistier, as it were dirtier; the stars even more overcast.

 

There was an angry clap of thunder, which rolled across the sky from left to right, then back again, and died away near the foremost vehicle.

 

The blackness in the sky yawned wide and breathed silent white fire. At once there was a second clap of thunder. It had scarcely ceased when there was a flash of lightning so broad telescopes in orbit about faced. The black spears had by now moved upwards untangled, and one of which, a course, clumsy monster like claw with fingers, stretched to the moon. The little girl made up her mind to shut her eyes tight; to pay no attention to it, and to wait till it was all over.

 

“holly, holly, holly…” she whispered.

 

more stuff not finished, coherent or fun. in fact, you’re reading alien hieroglyphics

Just before the police arrived.

The needle lowered to the wax record and a few moments later the air created a medium that provided perfect for listening, according to at least one person, the 28th best musical groups second or third album, London Calling was playing over the speakers, and suddenly there was a knock at the door, a hateful and loud knock. 

Again.

Knock!

A mans voice. 

“Open up it’s the police.”

“We know you’re in there, Ha ynoski”

Ha was sitting on the couch with yellow and reddened eyes. He picked up the candle  burning on the coffee table, took a deep breath and blew out  the flame; the grey smoke filled the pit of his stomach and everything went black. And The music faded:

“The ice age is coming,

the suns zooming in…

 …and I, I live by the river.

15 years and 2 weeks earlier

The sun rose at something like 3:42am; it was bright, it was hot and Konstaharra,  K. for short, had not slept for at least 72hrs. She sat hunched over a table made of old pallets, drinking brew for breakfast. She was dressed in a shirt and tie, jeans held by suspenders, and untied green converse both her arms tattooed; her left arm art on display was colored and faded, and somewhat indistinguishable. Her right, however, black, antiquate, beautiful but indescribable. 

At the same time a man sat next to a window in a coffee shop during a rainstorm. The café overlooked a university campus that spread down a hill and into a valley. Seagen is quaint little town with lots of houses and zero industry except for the college and real estate. Almost all the houses belong to one family. Well, the only member of the family still alive, and she owned something like eighty two percent of homes rented by students. She never went hungry and she never bought groceries. 
Anger can be power and if someone is already powerful; moreover, has a great deal of disposable income, things can become difficult or prolonged, almost indefinite. And survival is just a word. 

A Google map tells me that it will take seven and a half hours to meet you on September 23 at 7:30pm. (this is where your website tells me you will be) I will think about it. You’re not a household name, but again a bullet would make history. It occurs to me that similar thoughts have probably gone through the heads of men like Mark David Chapman, and the guy who shot Kennedy, Oswald maybe. Of course, I do not own a gun and have no intention to fire anything at you but well thought out and rehearsed questions.

Everyone in this tv show is a professional dancer which is not that weird seeing that they are all actors and actresses, however its an Indian wedding or maybe a engagement party and is remarkably like ancient dances of Asian pacific tribes would display their power before stealing women from neighboring villages. That act is followed immediately by se—a nude ass belonging to a man and a woman’s tits, typical TV, dinner dancing and sex. Ah! Society. I sit disquieted and consider my financial future.

Like many U.S. citizens, I spend much of my free time the future of space travel and the future of our children. This is because I care deeply about space. But space is a funny word; it has many connotations, for example: If someone were to talk about NASA or to speak about galaxies, space, the word then becomes, on the whole, grand and unlimited. But if we were to shrink space down from this scale to say, a neighborhood size—then we find ourselves on the outskirts of this essay and it’s main point. But before we get down to it, that is, to the guts of the essay, we must first add a few more words, matters of connotation, obviously.

  1. Race
  2. Hate
  3. Crime
  4. Evolution

So we begin at the end. U.S. citizens understand that there was slavery, and anyone with more than a 3rd grade education understands that slavery was profitable; furthermore, anyone who has ever bought a candy bar understands money as a way to secure things you need/want. What is somewhat less understood, however is that during the period in history where slavery was prevalent images of slavery were printed on currency. In other words, slavery literally was shown and displayed to be the center of the economy.

next stop 51st floor and a typewriter on a laptop

The day was long. Or maybe it was the afternoon that seemed longer, anyway. But he was home now. He was pale in sheepish monkhood. He sat down at his desk. Wallace opened the can of beer that sat beckoning, and releasing the pressure stimulating his ear by way of tiny vibrations that only a certain peoples are aware to the exact pitch, his universe became once again balanced. He finished the can in one or two, large gulps and a smile returned to his brow. It was just before dinnertime in the humid-heavy blanketed town. It was early June.

“Boy, I wish it would rain,” he thought.

“Me too, he heard the dog say.”

His eyebrows arched and he looked down and to the right. The room filled with the smell of puppy fart, and seeing the dog was asleep Wallace wondered if that was his conscience, and then if his conscience had evolved as he had grown old.

“SHIT! These beers sure are strong,” he thought. He reached down into the cooler that long fossilized his presence, indistinguishable and honest, and fished through the melting ice cubes raising the 12oz. can from the gaveyard abyss, liquefied now and previous solid form dripped heavy with gravity fell and splashed down raising the waters level, he wiped the remaining liquid on his cut off jean shorts, closed the lid and placed the can in the same spot as the previous. Systematic.

The dog rolled over and was now with its backside directed away from his sense. The rooms smell was dissipating its fart smell and the air grew cooler. Of in the distance a motorcycle accelerated its light red shifted until vanishing over the hill. A vacuum cleaner came to life in the apartment next to his and when it shut off he could hear the faint humming from the blonde girl who lived there. A pretty bird he thought. One who always lost her eggs. They had lived in adjacent apartments for a few months now but rarely saw one another except on the weekends though he could hear movement in her apartment on most days.

Wallace was alone.

He was always alone.

He didn’t mind being alone, in fact most days he preferred to be alone in his own thoughts this changed when he was drinking in a manner that some would label as heavy, or excessive—for example, seven or eight beers might pregame four or five shots of scotch to return again back to the beers and polish of the 12-pak, to return again to the scotch, sometimes bourbon.[1] Being alone and writing normally wouldn’t bother another soul in the world though being a social animal: Wallace, during these times, needed fresh air, and fresh looks. So, he sometimes would take to the streets.

Just then, the phone rang.

Riiiiing, R-I-N-G, r-i-n-g.

Ring.

“Hello.” Wallace answered.

Silence.

“Hello,” he greeted once more.

There was a knock at the door.

Wallace looked toward the door and then back down to the phone. He sat the phone on the ground and walked toward the door.

“It will rain,” a voice shuttered from the other end of the spectrum and voiced to no one, then…

….click

The receiver went dead.

Wallace switched on the porch light and opened the door. There was no one there. The night was crisp and still, something furry brushed against his calf. He looked down the dog was awake and looking up. Together they stepped down onto the porch and walked out into the dark and onto the grass. Just then, the wind picked up and it started to rain.

6/14/15

It was hot.

It was early.

Outside, the wind blew waves of communication: the squeals of the neighboring kids, the smell of freshly cut grass, visible light, warming into the study. Our main character stood up and elongated his posture into the maximum distance his skeletal structure would admit. He was of elderly hue. He had long hair and a beard that was perfectly opaque in the exact same ways from a distance if he was still and, provide his clothing didn’t clash but camouflaged and concealed, old Hank might be mistaken for a battered and broken concrete pole, skinny and slightly askew warn with both weather and time. His name was Hank and he was an industrial finisher, had been for years.

 

she had a thick accent

she smiled when he spoke

they kissed under the stars

he shipped off afar

under the twinkle of the night

and when moon is bright

looks up

and

know that

I look too

We are in the same

PoEM

one more beer

ill take all of you

one more beer and

ill be drunk too

one more beer

one more beer

a typewriter on a laptop

all of the following is an inchohearent uncheck stream of consiences typed as fast as allowed so please don’t be offended in anyrate this is just my brain (Read: I am on durgs)

he found his name.

the lonely letter said so

altogether different altogether: only

talking to people, the nicest of folk: when fucked up is increasingly difficult. I believe this in-part to be entirely due to the nature of my mothers side. That is, in other words, in its most severe syktosophrentic in nature. Something like 14% battery on the 14th. What is the world. What is the nature of the world What is the relationship between interaction? What happens after?

wiouwiofuwepfuwpqeufpwefwIEYFGO           ewygfo          EWYGFO9EWGFOewgofy           EOWGYH     oefhy o’FGHY          oewg            oFGYOEGYFO         eghwfo          EWG’OhwvkbnIVGEO”FHKWc o’FHW           JFBSMFBKSHFI3FK          QDIUFidma wejhwjfh o’s osfjsfyo’a F

6/16/15

This is a science fiction short about an object that when held by a person reveals another persons story in entirety, as if you were that person. You felt what they felt, tasted what they tasted, smelled what they smelt. It was real. It was vivid. It was personal, but you don’t know why.

Every person only gets one persons life.

Every person only gets a certain amount of story per day.

Every person has questions.

Or

It is a story that is about an object that lest you manipulate space.

And there it was.

It had been there all along, sitting idly by waiting for its time to come, that is, for its discovery to be made, again. The object is a peculiar little one, not much larger than the fist of a small child and as old as the universe its powers hidden from view for an immeasurable amount of time. It had been hidden in an average sized chunk of ice and placed and average distance measured end to end within a star system and so named kipper belt which was randomly chosen by a computer program by an intelligent being some good time ago. That is, in earth time.

Before we can continue I must warn you, dear reader, this story is one found within the object, it has been translated to the best of my ability—by way of time and study—and should not constitute, by any means, more than what it is. A story.

“Mr. Teflon, we found something over here.”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, Come and see for yourself?”

“Is it big?”

No.

“So, its small and heavy?”

Yes.

“Bring it over.”

“It’s unliftable, asshat,” whispered OBJ10 under his breath.

Teflon got up and walked over to where OBJ10 was working. Teflon looked down at the object which in his eyes looked a pale blue and balanced, unlike life—he thought to himself.

“Cut around it with the plasma cutter so we can see how big it is.”

“okay,” said OBJ10.

The cut out the object which was much smaller than they had guessed and they placed it on a melting pad to slowly melt of the remaining ice. The computer clock said 16hrs.

OBj10 was new to the mining apprentice. He had only been resourcing for about a year. He enjoyed it, like most people he thought that it was like any other job. Some days were good and others were not, but he kept coming and it beat the monotony of life without travel. It was something he could be proud of, something that could still be classified as an art. It was special and he was helping people.

6/16/15 6:30pm

As I type this sentence, I’m listening to the Stooges “I wanna be your dog.” Its 2015 I graduated high school nearly two decades ago and this song was recorded almost two decades before I was born, but not quite. I am listening through a pair of headphones that would make even the most seismic student in the early 70s swoon. Simply stated: the last sentence sole purpose relating to this essay is to let you know the stooges are playing loud in my ear. Which is not the same for the next: My 15 month old golden puppy is destroying my girlfriends scarf—I cannot help but to think of the metaphorical substance here. I have decided tonight to listen to Funhouse in its entirety and write about this and maybe someday someone somewhere will find it and read it, hopefully to the end. Music is, for so many people, an escape from something or a pathway to some greener and more luxurious mood. In a word, fun. And we have the first song on the album. “Funhouse” Thus, I pose the question: For whom is the funhouse fun?

I rather enjoy the hypnosis that is provided in the opening of the album and by the second song a am nothing if not loose when the solo vibrates and shatters my self confidence about being able to do anything close to as splendid as this band. But suddenly the music has an advertisement, nay two, and completely kill the buzz the stooges and I had going. It may take decades to regain the momentum.

The third song on the album trapped my dog in the scarf and has him rolling back and forth. Its like he can hear the music and is reacting (appropriately). He is acting how I feel. For a second, if I may, I would like to bring to the attention of the readed the album cover of funhouse which is glorious in its hell. Iggy pop seems to be melting into s see of fire and all the while is subservient to whatever is bellow which is, more than likely, the reason for the comfortable look he has. Its either that or I have had more than my share of the album. Either way I’m still listening and will continue to do so. After all its not like this is a new record or that I stood in line to get a copy so I could rush home listen and can have a conversations about what it all means with anyone but…

My dog.

He is here too remember.

What I mean to say here is that in the years since this records release technology has led to a time when this entire disk is completely available free of charge to anyone who has the app and a good enough internet connection to stream the data. In other words we now live in a world where, at least the musically curious, as well as the adventurous are able

…and another commercial, or add or what the fuck was I saying? What the fuck. Fuck.

Ah! Finally, the funhouse. This album is fucking fantastic. It is the single greatest thing that I have listened to all day, and I want to do it again. And again. I have removed the headphones and now can clearly hear the keys as I write this review. It is a review, correct?

No.

If not it had better have a direction.

I suppose on some strange and academic level this essay is trying to say something. That is something other than if this decades old album still carries merit, or even what that merit is, or for that matter, was. This paper, below its surface if I take you down, if I separate you from all the things you are supposed to believe it that deep down inside the bowels of this essay in its most unusable energy: this essay is about nostalgia.

The world communicates, as does the Universe, to us through waves and radiation. Much of which we being meek in our structure and virgin in our time are unable to experience or we are unable to explain. Though there are those who think other states of conscience can help. I cannot begin to explain how incorrect their beliefs. This paper is in some ways related to just that thought as its purpose, funally: nostalgia is nothing but the experience with ones self on a period of history in which they have had a “first time”

Who hasn’t? Of course, I know nothing about the period in which day-to-day life was for these rock icons. I suppose I suppose I could Google it, but then it might be more fun to make the story up. Something about my adolescent smoking weed and not having to go to bed or, if you reader prefer, when the cat is away. But that is propaganastic petty play. The real villain of this party is Jonathan Jones. Or, is it Jones Donavon. I simply cant recall without great uncertainty, that is, in other words not science worthy.

I just heard a coo-coo clock.

I don’t own such a timekeeper, even a broke one.

I’m pretty sure I heard it again.

And what’s really strange about the situation that I find myself in is what I am doing because of it: actually concentrating on trying to hear it again.

What I see however, is a dog. The sun disappearing over the horizon or the tree across the street, anyway and without its light Im afraid I wont is able to continue to write.

A conscience person that is able to live two lives; it’s the same person only their thinking is based on the others time. For example: Frank was born in 2006 but his physical body lives in 1776. The information that Frank has about the future does him or any body no good. He knows about cell phones, and movies on demand, gps in cars and hiphop.

The five gallon emitted waves of unpleasantness to ring in his ears. The apartment smelt like a mix of stale beer, candle wax and wet puppy. It was mostly empty. The floors were hard and displeasing to the gentler side of human nature. There were a few lights placed in different rooms, some rooms had two others none and not a single lamp with a twin. There were six rooms in total of the apartment, though only one at a time was needed. With the lamps of the apartment there were piles of books; some were open with letters facing the floor others were stacked totemed to the height of an average man without shoes or a hat.

I don’t turn on the tv most days, even though I type on one. Some days, for something a little different, Ill change fonts, others still Ill just talk about it. On those days that I do you would do well to realize that sitting here is what I indeed, intend to do. Most days I overthink, or tend to overanalyze common situations. Perplexed by the inner workings of everyday situations.

Pointed, hilarious and useful are the exact words used to describe a sex pistols album.

9:58pm

It becomes another thing that exists only to be consumed.

6/17/2015 4:49pm

They say in order to write you just need to write, still there are others saying that they are ‘really good writers,’ I have my reserves about the latter part of that sentence, but I really am a no one. Really. Stop reading this, go outside, sit in the grass, breath in the air; do something, but stop reading this immediately. If you don’t you will not be glad that you did. There is nothing in these lines but bad grammar and worse writing.

I don’t know what is going to happen if you keep reading. I have no idea. The idea might completely change and the story might wharf into something wholly different; it might lack substance, or clarity, it is most defiantly a waste of time. And if your still reading it take a moment and think about just that word, time. What is it really?

Right now, at this exact moment somewhere a dog is playing with a ball, he is chewing and rolling and he is no more than ten feet from me. He is covered by a pair of womans underwear around his neck. Its funny to look at but to hear the screams emitting from the ball are more than disturbing. That might have been too dramatic. It probably sounds more like a black hole collapsing inward. The puppy is at the age when chewing on everything, on anything, is what passes his day; he’s like 3 months. On second thought, he is three and a half months. His birthday is on February 24th. I’ll probably go sledding with him. Today I should buy him a soccer ball.

Every time my dog gets tired I take a drink. I wish this had deeper meaning than it does and I am sorry if you were hoping for a similar outcome. It simply means that my dog likes to play outside and I like to drink and we do this together. We really are good, good friends. The day was strong on my stomach. I had to shit twice in that hot fucking box, it’s not good to admit but deep down I’d almost rather shit in the blue box. I just wish I wasn’t quite as tired or thirsty during the day as I normally am. I could probably blame it on all the playing with the dog. But then the more rational and clear thinker in my head would say it is probably the booze. I cannot help it. I don’t even want to try.

My landlord said that we could paint the apartment in whatever way we like. I did. I wrote one number and one number only—the precise location that is required of the potentiometer of whose job it is to selecting temperatures. I did this for the number 375. Not because that was the number I had previously chosen for this here assignment but in fact, was due to where the dial was turned my first night living here and when I went to cook dinner I saw there were no numbers on the display. In fact, there was no display. I don’t own a stove. I’m lying.

Trying to write academically is super frustrating when you don’t have anything to say.

6/18/15 3:41pm

It seems to follow, at least from yesterdays pattern, my writing has become somewhat more concentrated that is, a semi complete thought for at least one paragraph. They neither are great paragraphs nor are they grammatically correct, but they seem to be getting better in structure. I hope. Today’s writing assignment comes again in the form of an album the devil put dinosaurs here and the first song is Hollow. It is fucking fantastic in its Alice in Chains sound, from the opening I am thinking to myself; okay yes, let’s get fucked up. However I am alone, besides my dog and he is preoccupied. So that is exactly how this article will be written: as it was intended to be consumed—as fucked, and jaded as I can get. I hope it’s a long album. I might be out of my mind, but the ad’s that fill the air between songs are exactly where I can get the supplies I need for whatever I am researching online. Its almost like there is no more privacy at all. It goes like this: I think to myself, and I say, self. This is a neat idea, so I do a little research—I’m really into it—and all of the sudden: “The next thirty minuets will be ad free thanks to the following sponsors. For example: I was in need of a “how to” for in order to bond glass, and after Hollow. The home fucking depot! And so, I will more than likely go tomorrow after work and see what I can find. Why?[2] This is suddenly very concerning to me. Not because I broke my stem and cant smoke out of a water pipe, but because and possibly more concerning, its not 1984. Its much, very much worse. Big brother not only can get in my head, but he literally can direct the ways in which I think about how to spend my day; I cannot alone, anymore. Neither, dear reader, can you. A good while after WW2[3] there were a few gentleman that would sit around drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, L&Ms. They never talked about the same thing more than one day in a row unless it was baseball season. They did talk about baseball, a lot.

That’s the think you see, the thought that we are the soul supreme inhabitants of the universe is incontrovertibly singular. All together this is not really a new thought, but what is new, what is really different is that because we all experience time different, is that it is impossible to prove this beyond reasonable doubt. That is to say, there is no possible way that by reading this a person, say you, a person can be convinced about what the writer, I—an in me—can express. You have to write it for yourself. Because I wrote it for myself, this is the only way you can experience anything like the feelings that I express and make me feel. Do you get what I am saying? I think it is going to rain when I die. 1992 was a far better year than 1994 for Layne Stanley. I’m trying to do you justice, brother. I really am, but your shit is deeeeeeep. “I cannot explain me.”   Its probably because I AM THE SOUL INHABITANT of my universe.

What if he isn’t goanna die, this was the last thought before the needle pierced his skin and making permanent the bellow the knee cock tattoo he was about to get. On second thought, the straightest line between two points is a straight line. It’s not that hard. Or is it? The most important thing, of course, is to remember not to jump immediately.

I think Lane you would be proud. I don’t recall much, and I didn’t write it down.

6/19/15 3:04pm

It is now 5:21 and the end of the movie that has consumed the last two hours of my life is nearing completion. It wasn’t horrible, the movie, I think I read the book the movie is based. It had to do with music and life and breakups and heartache and loathing. Ha! Loathing in my living room. Maybe I will watch that Hunter S. Thompson movie next. Or maybe I will listen to the clash. But first a small tidbit about my life: I own a cat and a dog, and the cat loves to sunbathe in fact he is doing that very activity as I am writing. He is atop the dogs crate in front of the window catching radiation. His life is fantastic and I am almost jealous. Also; I have everything I have ever wanted. And yet…

…it’s fucked.

I want to say here are my words and I could give a flying fuck if you like them or not. In fact, I am going to continue to write them even if you fucking hate them.

[1] Do not discard the amphetamines and weeds that normally accompanied

[2] I broke something.

[3] Re-named because there have been more, many more and we do not recall large roman numerals.

been a while

The day was long. Or maybe it was the afternoon that seemed longer, anyway. But he was home now. He was pale in sheepish monkhood. He sat down at his desk. Wallace opened the can of beer that sat beckoning, and releasing the pressure stimulating his ear by way of tiny vibrations that only a certain peoples are aware to the exact pitch, his universe became once again balanced. He finished the can in one or two, large gulps and a smile returned to his brow. It was just before dinnertime in the humid-heavy blanketed town. It was early June.

“Boy, I wish it would rain,” he thought.

“Me too, he heard the dog say.”

His eyebrows arched and he looked down and to the right. The room filled with the smell of puppy fart, and seeing the dog was asleep Wallace wondered if that was his conscience, and then if his conscience had evolved as he had grown old.

“SHIT! These beers sure are strong,” he thought. He reached down into the cooler that long fossilized his presence, indistinguishable and honest, and fished through the melting ice cubes raising the 12oz. can from the gaveyard abyss, liquefied now and previous solid form dripped heavy with gravity fell and splashed down raising the waters level, he wiped the remaining liquid on his cut off jean shorts, closed the lid and placed the can in the same spot as the previous. Systematic.

The dog rolled over and was now with its backside directed away from his sense. The rooms smell was dissipating its fart smell and the air grew cooler. Of in the distance a motorcycle accelerated its light red shifted until vanishing over the hill. A vacuum cleaner came to life in the apartment next to his and when it shut off he could hear the faint humming from the blonde girl who lived there. A pretty bird he thought. One who always lost her eggs. They had lived in adjacent apartments for a few months now but rarely saw one another except on the weekends though he could hear movement in her apartment on most days.

Wallace was alone.

He was always alone.

He didn’t mind being alone, in fact most days he preferred to be alone in his own thoughts this changed when he was drinking in a manner that some would label as heavy, or excessive—for example, seven or eight beers might pregame four or five shots of scotch to return again back to the beers and polish of the 12-pak, to return again to the scotch, sometimes bourbon.[1] Being alone and writing normally wouldn’t bother another soul in the world though being a social animal: Wallace, during these times, needed fresh air, and fresh looks. So, he sometimes would take to the streets.

Just then, the phone rang.

Riiiiing, R-I-N-G, r-i-n-g.

Ring.

“Hello.” Wallace answered.

Silence.

“Hello,” he greeted once more.

There was a knock at the door.

Wallace looked toward the door and then back down to the phone. He sat the phone on the ground and walked toward the door.

“It will rain,” a voice shuttered from the other end of the spectrum.

Click.

The receiver went dead.

Wallace switched on the porch light and opened the door. There was no one there. The night was crisp and still, something furry brushed against his calf. The dog was awake and wanting to go outside. They stepped down onto the porch and down the stairs.

Just then, the wind picked up and it started to rain.

6/14/15

It was hot.

It was early.

Outside, the wind blew waves of communication: the squeals of the neighboring kids, the smell of freshly cut grass, visible light, warming into the study. Our main character stood up and elongated his posture into the maximum distance his skeletal structure would admit. He was of elderly hue. He had long hair and a beard that was perfectly opaque in the exact same ways from a distance if he was still and, provide his clothing didn’t clash but camouflaged and concealed, old Hank might be mistaken for a battered and broken concrete pole, skinny and slightly askew warn with both weather and time.

A industrial finisher for years Hank

“Bluebird”

(charles bukowski)

ha had a thick accent

she smiled when he spoke

they kissed under the stars

he shipped off afar

under the twinkle of the night

and when moon is bright

looks up

and

know that

I look too

We are in the same

PoEM

(Nathan Haynos)

one more beer

ill take all of you

one more beer and

ill be drunk too

one more beer

one more beer

a typewriter on a laptop

(nathanj. haynos)

all of the following is an inchohearent uncheck stream of consiences typed as fast as allowed so please don’t be offended in anyrate this is just my brain (Read: I am on durgs)

he found his name.

the lonely letter said so

altogether different altogether: only

talking to people, the nicest of folk: when fucked up is increasingly difficult. I believe this in-part to be entirely due to the nature of my mothers side. That is, in other words, in its most severe syktosophrentic in nature. Something like 14% battery on the 14th. What is the world. What is the nature of the world What is the relationship between interaction? What happens after?

[1] Do not discard the amphetamines and weeds that normally accompanied

Bukowski In-flu-cents.

Harris slipped on his boots and opened the door exposing his naked self to the outside elements. Jezus Chris, it had been a hard while and he was still up against the wall. Death, he thought, was next. Death was always there. He’d made a dumb mistake and bought an old printing press and he didn’t even know if it was in working condition. We all, from the machinery of life, end up dead—its just mathematics. Nothing new. It was the waiting around that was the problem. The phone rang.

It was his girlfriend. “Listen, you son of a bitch, I’m tired of you drinking. I had enough of that with my father. . .”

“Oh hell, its not that bad.”

“It is, and I’m not going through that again.”

She hung up.

He walked over to the counter bearing cocktail making ingredients and poured a highball. He walked over to the bedroom with it, took of his shirt, pants, shoes, calf covering socks. He went to bed naked with his drink. It was eleven after one. No ambition, no talent, no chance. What kept him out from behind locked bars was raw luck, and luck never lasted. He emptied the glasses continents into his open mouth and stretched out. He picked up a folded piece of the week old newspaper. . . read some pages. He read the obituaries, about the anguish and terror and the miserable condition of man but it was written in such a way that made death comfortable and rose like in a way. In other words, things might as well have been fine. Harris preferred to read words that burn. He dropped the paper on the floor and tried to sleep. Sleep was always difficult, If he could sleep three hours in twenty-four he was satisfied. Well, he thought, the walls are still here, give a man four walls and he has a chance out on the street he has none. Out on the street nothing could be done. There was a knock on the door. “Harris!” somebody shouted. “Hey, hey Harris!” What the shit? He thought. Now what? “Yeah?” he asked, standing in the hallway. “Hey, what are you doing?” Wait a minute. . . . He opened the door to the hallway of the apartment building and there stood the professor from plumbville that tought English Lit. He had a looker with him, and they both looked at his innocence. Harris invited them in and wrapped his indecency up with a fuzzy blanket. The prof introduced the looker. She was an editor in one of the large New York publishing houses. “You’re fast,” she said. “Well you know writers have always had to kiss the asses of publishers.” “I thought it was the other way around.” “No, it’s the writer who is starving.” “She wants to see your novel.” “All I have is the original draft with some hand notes. I cant give her the original, its stained and weak.” “let her have it, they might buy it,” said the prof They were talking about his novel, Meatloaf. He figured she just wanted a free copy of the novel. “we were headed to the coast but wanted to see you in the flesh.” “how nice.” “Harris read his poems to my class, we gave him 50 dollars. He was frightened and crying.” “I was indignant. Only 50 dollars.” Harris gathered up the letters and crumpled up notes that were scattered around the editors feet. “People owe me money and I cant collect. The sex mags have become impossible. I’ve gotten to know the girl in the front office. One Kara. “. . . .and if you don’t get the check, you’ll phone again?” “yes, Kara.” The professor and the editor laughed. “I can’t make it, fuck it, anybody want a drink?” They didn’t answer so Harris poured himself one. “I even tried to make it into Columbia. I had all the paperwork and couldn’t afford the stamp. I can’t afford to live.” The professor started to explain how to profit from other peoples misfortunes. Harris walked over to the editor. “Lets go to bed,” he said. “You’re funny,” she said. “Yeah,” he said, “like a person walking into a wall because they lost their Seeing Eye dog.” “You’re still funny.” “I’m the hero, the myth. I’m the unspoiled one, the one who hasn’t sold out. My paitings are selling for $250 and I cant buy a bag of farts. “All you writers are howling wolf.” “Maybe the wolf has finally arrived. You cant live off your soul. You cant pay the rent with your soul. Try it sometime.” “Maybe I ought to go to bed with you,” she said. “Come on, Shel, we got make the beach.” They walked to the door. “It was good to see you.” “Sure,” Harris said, “goodbye.” He walked back to the bedroom took off the blanket and got back into bed. Maybe he could sleep. Sleep was something like death. Then he was asleep. He was at the track. THE MAN AT THE WINDOW was giving him money and he was putting it into his wallet. It was a lot of money. “You ought to get that into the bank, that’s too much for anyone to be carrying around, said the man at the window. “No,” he said, “I don’t want people to know that I am rich,” he said. The doorbell rang. He put on shorts and opened the door. It was Henry Stobbas. Stobbas was another writer. He knew too many writers. Stobbas walked in. “You got any money, Stobbas?” “Hell to the no.” “Alright, I’ll buy the beer. I thought you were rich?” “No, I was living with this girl on the lake. She dressed me well, fed me. She booted me out. I’m living in a shower now.” “A shower?” “Yes, its nice. Real glass sliding doors.” “Alright, lets go. You got a car?” No. “Okay, we can take mine.” The place was bad. It was the type of place you might expect every conceivable criminal from the annals of history to congregate and agree on a plan of execution to kill the rest of us (those not invited to the meeting). There were no tables in the club, just some hay-bails covered in plywood that made up stage for the girls to dance and some five-gallon buckets you could sit on, or puke in. Whichever came first. It smelled like someone had just puked in the corner when Harris walked in behind Harry. The bars had all closed their doors and this is where the riff-raff played after hours. There was a girl to the right, pretty, young. She had a maroon covered top that covered her milk white skin. She was sucking on a smurf colored blue dildo, she was leaned back and had her index finger near her asshole. Harry remembered thinking the dildo looked like a carpenters pencil, if they came in packs of five. “Is this legal?” She can’t be old enough, he thought. He poked Henry on the shoulder. “Is this all, you know… l-e-a-g…” Henry cut him off mid sentence. “yea, its all on the up and up, man. Just don’t go off telling every Billy on the planet.” “Yeah, alright man,” Harris said. He had been in this position before, and knew what ‘on the up and up’ meant in reality. It wasn’t legal, and that the girls probably hadn’t been on 18 complete earth rides around the sun. Please keep your hands inside the story at all times. He slammed the remaining beer in the can, tossed it in a bag that read cans in all caps before he opened a new one from the remaining 12pack he held under his arm. She looks older already, he thought. His first steep was to get away, to turn everything off. The goal was to become invisible to the world. He started by turning the thermostat in his apartment below fifty degrees. The temperature outside, however, was in the single digits outside. Its going to be cold on the bus in the morning he thought.

Conversations

A conversation over drinks at the end of the world

I

There are places in this world that are titled in such a way as to change the title is to change the entire ambiance. The innocence of these places is to be preserved indefinitely, and if you find yourself out wandering one day, and so happen to find one. Enjoy it, and when you leave—it best to ignore such a place exists. As trying to find the same exact place is sure to drive one mad. One such a place exists in the phalanges of the northernmost parts of the world, where night swallows day and is never fully satisfied. Events from the outside world have trouble penetrating the stagnant atmosphere of these forgotten places. They exist only in memories of those who spend time within them. They are, in other words: mirthful in immobility.

People that tend to occupy these sterile scenes are in search of something. Others still, who call these places home, are mirror images of our serching selves—but reflect only in what we need to see, and nothing more. The closing of a chapter in a life happened in just such a place.

One day, a fat old beast, bulging of a man decided to walk. Alone and without purpose or meaningful work he walked without time. He was in search of something and when, after a good while spent walking, he looked up—a sign looked back: FOR SALE

He walked in. A short man in suspenders was sitting on a bar stool smoking a cigarette and reading something.

“yeah? He asked

“I, ah, I ah, i…”

“yeah, come on man, spit it out!”

“I saw your sign. What are you asking?”

“how much you got?”

“I am afraid not much,” he answered.

“Im just out for a walk and im not sure if I want to stay indefinitely, purchasing seems permanent.”

The suspendered fella, for the first time, looked up from what he now could see clearly: a small blue covered book with lettering, a faded golden hue read: Whitman.

“aint no truer truth ever told, my friend, sit down and tell me about yourself,”

he placed the book under the counter and his hand returned clutching a pint glass with dried water spots spattered along the outermost extension of the rim.

“This one is on me.”

“The name is Jack,” he said smiling, and handed over the beer.

James drank the entire contents of the glass in a single breath.

“Ahhhh…” perfect, James thought. That was just what I needed.

“You can tell a lot by the way a man drinks a beer, even more so if that beer is free…” Jack said.

“Delicious.” James said, as he wiped his lips with his right hand glove—left to right.

“How long has this place been up for sale?” he inquired.

“Oh, lets see…”

Jack looked up, and to the right, before answering.

“I bought it back in 82,” he began, “and, I guess, I never took the sign out of the window, as a matter of fact,” he continued, “I think you may be the only person to inquire about its purchase. Though I suspect your stopping in was more so of the wanting to warm up, than the actual wanting to purchase an old tavern on a hill.”

As true as that was, and it was, Jack gave the history of the tavern—which was much older and fuller of history that James might have thought. Even though the history was more of the local mythological sense and had no real world significance. James could not have been any further from the truth.

For a bartender, Jack was in his element.

He was taller than the first look had let on, and he carried himself with a slight hobble. Favoring his left side though his hop seemed to not cause him pain He was bald with dark and serious eyes that suggested an uncomplicated aim. It was as if the years of cold weather of this place had penetrated his cells restraining the aging process to the speed of an infant marching in mire.

“Another?” he asked.

Sure, said James

“How long hove you been out in world, wandering?”

“I don’t know, maybe an hour.”

Just then the wind blew open the door and along with the deep dwelling blow of the door smashing sound sent across the room, the forward advancing air of the storm kissed the bare neck of James. And for a brief second he thought, like the wind, he was purposely placed.

Jack hobbled over to the door and closed it. Though it was windy, the sun was making its way through the cascading cloud cover, and life seemed as if it existed only for the two of them. Jack placed a log on the fireplace and stoked the fire sending warmth of comfort across the entire place. Illuminating the walls that James had assumed to be unfruitful and old, the fire blanked the bar in a revealing light that made a historic impression. Pictures consumed the walls like an advancing cancer. Jack was in most of them; all of them were black and white.

Jack returned to his post behind the bar and whipped up a cocktail of what James thought he referenced as the manner of providence.

“Cheers!” announced Jack, and down the hatch did both men let the liquid flow.

II

The Cat believes it war, and the blood is red wine.

By Nathan J. Haynos

I

 

Conesus, N.Y. — It’s a small scene cut from Christmas cookie cutters and bleeds red the blood of kitten combat; it is also the beginning of a new year and the climax of a war. It’s a place where one can become bored very easily. It is such a place, too, where animals—and in this particular cottage—cats have believe themselves human and are at war.

The larger of the two soldiers has a distinct advantage over his opponent. That is, he is fat; if the war was to end in a paw-to-paw battle weight will prevail. It should be mentioned that all accessories, that is, watches rings and shiny things have been removed from the two felines–they are naked in nature and are here to survive. The larger of the two cats is grey with black waves of fur that give the impression of him being smaller or of less weight than he is. Though, small he is not. He is a surviving tiger with a 48-inch vertical and a taste for uncooked flesh. He is now distracted by a smell on the floor. Or he is playing a sort of cat possum, big he is dumb he is not.

On the other hand, the tiny feline has aggressiveness and what can only be described as bitchiness. She does not empathize with her enemy; she has tasted blood and cannot function normally in society, thus she is a worthwhile opponent despite her weight. She has yellow eyes with a slippery disposition and easily fits where her opponent cannot. Her fur is short, slicked and brazen. She is alive only in moments of battle.

The little one is quiet and low to the ground. The fat fluff cannot remain hidden for long and is spotted from across the room. A dance of spirits supervenes and an advantage of height is assumed from the upper plateau of the porch table by the smaller, and she can, from atop the table, see the entire battlefield and contained within all the perfect little nooks perfect for concealing her killer cat motives. She is a slippery devil, that one, and a sickle she does conceal.

She has escaped her perch as the fluff of hair—her opponent—pretends he is uninterested in her position, still distracted by the sent of death on the floor. Just then the quiet becomes loud with a thump from the jump off the table, thwack goes the air as she darts across the battlefield with cheetah like speed. By the time he swings his head she is within the safety of her hiding area, and out of his peripheral. She is unconcerned for all of her scars she has earned, and awaits his inevitable return.

There is but one way out of the kitchen and it’s thru the gauntlet where she now sits, patient, quiet and low. Darkness surrounds her and her yellow eyes glow crisp and sharp. She is still, and she is eager.

He decides he ought to wait her out. He is nervous. He paces the small kitchen thinking of a plan of attack, perhaps if he can get her to move he can flank from the east and surprise her. The rain starts to trickle in from the outside world and he grows impatient. It is cold and it masks the delicate footwork of the advancing army. Barefoot and impatient he sets his trap. Launched from deep within the territory of the kitchen a Champaign cork acts as a mortar and is launched into the air. As it approaches terminal velocity and its target his plan is successful and she is forced out from her hole. She is exposed and he takes his position along side the wall perpendicular to her position. They don’t see each other and the mortar didn’t collect any confirmed kills. She is flustered, and he is content.

Intelligence reports are confirmed by from both sides as to the exact position of the enemy as darkness has swallowed the battlefield.

II

A sunday and a game

The third quarter of the football game has just started, I have cookies and chicken and some guy named Mac gets his first sack of the day. The Bills are forced to punt from what looks to be the their 13 yard line. The TV freezes and just like their playoff chances the signal “cannot be found.”

Thank the heavens that wish me to write; I found a good game with two minutes left in the third. The NYG vs. STL game, the score isn’t close but that’s not the point of this article. The game is really just there for filler. Just then Kendrick’s scores an absolutely necessary run for a touchdown bringing the rams within one TD. A good one, it seems, in Saint Louis.

McDonald launched himself like a missile at his own teammate, when the connected the crash sent EJ Gaines helmet flying and leaving his spinal cord bending backwards so his lips kissed the skylights. He left the field on a motorized flatbed and the NYG throw a TD to Beckum jr. Six catches and 100 plus years make him one a game short for an NFL record. We may just very well whiteness sports history today.

Lets explore that sports history thought: What makes a fan a fan, not so others know, but to them, what happens inside their head that makes them identify themselves a fan, especially a team who is not remembered for having more winning seasons than not. I’m talking of course about those who identify themselves as being rams fans, a team that has been to the playoffs eight times in the last 40 years.

Could it be for a chance to be part, if the accident will, to become part of a franchises golden year, could the golden years, then, be relatable to a part of fan and his life. So that they would be able to say

…I remember when, for example.

…I was there when, as another.

I was there when, when last quarter a team that was down by two TD’s managed to loose a game on a Sunday I drank gin.

Conversations for Couples: On the Can—perspectives on the rear end of a relationship and an accident.

shit

Editorials, Op-Ed and Letters | ED-IT ORAL OBSERVER
Conversations for Couples: On the Can—perspectives on the rear end of a relationship and an accident.
By HJN

What follows is the Sunday morning routine of a couple that resides in a quaint little town firmly nestled beside a lake in upstate NY. A mid-December, Sunday morning begins like any other. The guy wakes up before daylight, and gets comfortable aside a dopey dog. It’s dark and cold and its quiet, so insulating with an electric blanket, and the digital paper starts the day.

Op-ed is wonderful to get the process going, answering questions about the world and what people are talking about. Alas, the girlfriend is up, coffee is hot and fills the air; the mind is active—its time for a poop. On most Sundays the first to poo is my girlfriend; about when she is halfway through coffee cup numero one her body decides its time for numero two. And she is mouse-like quiet when time to do-do so.

The door shuts; I smile, because I know what is coming (or going), and I quickly finish reading an article about Ebola and orphans. It reminds me of WWII and millions of displaced children as well as those who were orphaned, and I feel for the Russians; I am also grateful for the cheap prices at the pump.

I digress, the door opens and outsteps the thinner her. “Everything come out okay,” I pose. “Shut-up,” she floats back, with a shit-eating grin on her brow. She knows; I know… the world poops, right? Yes. But, how comfortable are we about this private, as it should be, act? Should we flush these opportunities of intimacy, let it be, gone with in the wonder of indoor plumbing? In history there are times when burning the fecal matter was commonplace and was, I’m sure, a Sunday chore—deployed service men belonging to the utilities lower ranks can attest to that. Someone once verbally ousted, “pooping is more relaxing than an orgasm.” His girlfriend once told me he had a thing for anal and might have had inner excurses about his sexuality. No doubt, a fun filled field day for Sig. Important none-the-less as we are not pushing any content back-up for this article. Think of it as a laxative for the mind… sit back, relax and it will be over in no time… no need to get push… easy as…

I’ve go to get down to the matter at hand before more of you flush this post from your view. So listen now, and listen well and hold your questions till the end.

The stake of relationships, as anyone would agree, has a degree of comfort ability between its two partners. Shouldn’t one element be about, arguably, one of the most relaxing activities humans do day-to-day? I mean everyone plays the flatulence and Dutch oven card at least once during the early stages of the relationship right? The real though of this, hopefully, is not just a pipe-dream. It brings up a greater and more deeply buried concern with which we choose as life partners. How deep is the love of your partner. In sickness and in health till death do us part, right? Now, back up to the sickness part. Pretend, if you will, one of you (assuming you’re in a relationship), gets sick. I don’t mean a cold, the flu or even a month or yearlong ill, but a life changing—immobilizing act, the kind where one literally needs to wipe the ass of another person.

I absolutely adore my better half, but I don’t want to wipe up her shit, no more so than I would ever want anyone to wipe my ass. This is not to say that I wouldn’t, I mean babies and all, but where is that line between partners. It’s about life, and living and the experiences that happen between two matched souls. Who wants memories of whipping ass for the better part of an adult life?

Does it make one a bad person if they are to refuse to do so if such a case was to arrive? Look at those around you who are in committed relationships. Can you see them doing it? Would you, the reader, do it? Is it then out of obligation, being stubborn, and refusing to give up hope?

Hopefully this type of thing is rare, very rare. And I hope that you or I never have to face this reality, but in closing: If you talk about poop with your partner it’ll be easier to face their shit later in life.