Friday, February 27, 2009

.the chucklehead conundrum.

It was a dark and dangerous time to be chucklehead. He had long held tightly to his philosophy that a chucklehead did as he pleased, but for the last few years, nothing he did had pleased him. What to make of this new development in life? Of course there had been other periods in chucklehead’s lifetime when he didn’t feel satisfied, but those always seemed to be brief, fleeting moments. Tiny crystallizations in the flowing sea of time, that served mainly to remind him that he needed to be grateful for his joy, as it wasn’t always that way, no matter what the Polish Mastermind, Goldenboy, or any of the others may think of his lackadaisical nature and general attitude toward his life.

But this, this strange series of days was worrisome to chucklehead. It threatened to upend his entire life’s work. It was slowly and methodically chipping away at the wall of nonchalance he had so carefully constructed over the past few decades. Never before had there been an elapse of such magnitude and length. It occurred to chucklehead that he couldn’t remember the last time he had done as he pleased, or was at least pleased with what he had done. As the temperate rock called Earth circled the glowing ball of fire named the Sun, chucklehead sat and thought. Watching as the world hurried itself past him, chucklehead considered his newfound position in life. After chewing slowly on his options, he decided on a reckless course of action… he would seek outside help.

There was of course, Goldenboy, but chucklehead knew that not only would it take too long to ever get a hold of him, but also the advice that Goldenboy would give him would inevitably require too much work to be of any real use. Goldenboy would end up telling him that he needed to work harder, that it was imperative that chucklehead finally buckled down, envisioned an ultimate goal and strove for it. This was all well and good, and it even occasionally helped chucklehead achieve short-term successes, but after time he would come to what he regarded as his senses, realize he wasn’t doing as he pleased, and would go back to his life as he saw fit. Besides, this was too big, too important, to be short-sold by Goldenboy as something chucklehead needed to “work on.”

The next immediate choice was The Polish Mastermind, but as much as chucklehead despised the effort that Goldenboy put forth in life, he had equal disdain for the lack of work the Polish Mastermind put into anything. Contrary to popular conception, chucklehead was not a lazy person, far from it, as it took a tremendous amount of effort to dedicate one’s life to only doing as one pleased, and as much as he loved The Polish Mastermind, he knew that shirking off this moment of Change, as The Polish Mastermind was wont to do, could be disastrous at the very least, or perhaps even downright philosophically ruinous. No, this was too dangerous of a Thing to bring to someone such as The Polish Mastermind. chucklehead needed someone who could examine it for the issue that it was… a malaise of the very Worst kind, a shift in ideals.

****************************************************

Drunken Philosophy dragged slowly on his cigarette, listening to the dried tobacco leaves crackle slightly as he inhaled. “This…” he finally began, as smoked curled intricately out of his nostrils and mouth, “…this my friend, is a conundrum of the highest and most severe sort. This will require several rounds of not only premium ale, but perhaps also numerous servings of the finest of Irish whiskeys.” chucklehead sighed, for he had been here before and knew what kind of treacherous waters he was entering. Numerous servings of Irish whiskey, as Drunken Philosophy had put it, did not mean the same thing to him as it did to most mortals. Seeking help from Drunken Philosophy would most certainly mean chucklehead would find himself unwillingly kneeling in various dark corners around town, vomiting profusely, in an effort to purge his body from the ravaging effects of too much alcohol. And while it pleased chucklehead to routinely imbibe beverages of this nature, he was not looking forward to what the next day would have in store for him.

Aside from the inevitable hangover, chucklehead was also worried that his Problem would somehow be lost in the swirling and chaotic conversations that were sure to occur whenever Drunken Philosophy was involved. His worries were not entirely without merit, for as good of intentions as his perpetually inebriated friend might have had, the tendency to get lost in the effects of Irish spirits was most certainly there. Nonetheless, chucklehead felt the risk was worth it, and decided it would please him to consume ale and whiskey until an Answer of profound magnitude had occurred to one of them.

It should be noted here, for the reader who may be unfamiliar with our protagonist, that this was no mere chucklehead, bobbing along in the sea of existence, as so many others had done before him. This was a chucklehead of the most peculiar sort. As with chuckleheads before him, after him, and during him, ours did as he pleased, and was almost always pleased with what he did. But unlike his contemporaries, who were content to merely be, this chucklehead was always looking to improve some aspect of himself. It was a fundamental pillar of his Self, wherein it pleased him to be Great. And if he couldn’t always be Great, it pleased him to at least try. With that said, chucklehead had been pleased for many years, to build his tolerance for alcohol to be near what he liked to refer to as “heroic proportions”. So much so, that the only person he had encountered who could best him in the Game of Drink, was the very man standing before him, suggesting they consume what would inevitably come to be super-human amounts of whiskey and beer in search of an answer to chucklehead’s dire problem.

It should not be lost on the reader though, as it was on our dear chucklehead, that the very thing he desired to be Great at, namely, the Game of Drink, was the very thing that prevented him from becoming Great at so many different aspects of his life. For it was unknown to him that the Game was nothing more than an intriguing lie. It wasn’t even a Game. The Game of Drink so smoothly ingratiated itself in one’s life, that if one were not careful, the Game of Drink ceased being so, and became ever-increasingly…Drink. Few were able to understand this, and fewer still ever accepted it. Drunken Philosophy was a man who had come to understand it and, insomuch as he ever accepted anything, he accepted that Drink had long since stopped being a game and had become his Reason. And like all addicts, whether it be narcotics, or Drink, or gambling, or Love, Drunken Philosophy quested for reasons to partake, excuses to imbibe. So poor chucklehead, so convinced was he at his mastery of the Game, allowed Drunken Philosophy to take him by the hand and lead him out to the street. It was nearing dusk and the streetlights overhead had just begun to hum as they slowly put forth just enough effort to glow.

“I like it best,” said Drunken Philosophy “when we experiment at this time in the evening. Too early in the morning, and we’ll find we have wasted a day. Too late at night, and we will run out of time, leading only to it being too early in the morning. No, an experiment of this magnitude must always be undergone at Dusk.”

“Experiment?” chucklehead asked, not quite grasping at what his friend was trying to convey, “What experiment are you talking about? I thought we were going to drink Irish whiskey and ale until my life was pleasing to me again.”

“Dear friend,” Drunken Philosophy began, “When embarking on a quest such as this, not knowing where the night will take us, with no idea how much we will have needed to consume in order to find your Answer… it is always an experiment!”

With that he suddenly thrust his hands in his pockets, jumped off the last two steps of the porch, and began meandering down the street, disappearing into the rapidly dimming evening. chucklehead sighed, laughed, and thought bemusedly to himself all at once, “An experiment, it most certainly will be.”

***************************************************************

She was looking directly into his eyes with a mixture of mystery and subtlety. chucklehead surmised to himself suddenly, she had been doing it for some time and was, if not clearly, then most certainly waiting for a response of some sort from him. Having not heard the last seven or eight minutes of her conversation thread, he cast about suddenly for something valid to say. As his mouth opened and closed futilely once, twice, three times, his friend and sometime-mentor came to his rescue.

“Isn’t it the flashiest fish that fell through?” Drunken Philosophy roared at him, dropping into the booth on the opposite side of the girl, ale in one hand and magically balancing two whiskeys in the other. chucklehead blinked rapidly twice, closed his eyes slowly once, and shook his head from side to side very deliberately.

“I’m sorry… what?” he managed to ask, just before he noticed his right hand feeding ale to his mouth.

“I shaid, ‘Isn’t it exactly how I told you?’”

“Hmm…” chucklhead nodded, all the while keeping a watchful eye on his left hand, which seemed hellbent on upending the glass of whiskey it held into the very same mouth that his right hand had previously sunk ale into. “That…” he sighed, considered his options, and began again, “That isn’t at all what I thought you said.”

“It never seems to be, my friend. It never seems to be.” Drunken Philosophy had managed to consume part of his ale during this exchange, all the while somehow making one of the whiskeys he had previously been balancing appear suddenly in the grasp of chucklehead’s treacherous left hand. chucklehead thought it best to try and remain Switzerland in the battle for oral dominance between his right and left extremities, and focused instead on the young woman who was still besieging him with her stare. Inspiration leapt from a dark and almost forgotten corner of his mind and he cried out triumphantly in her general direction,

“I’m not sure. What do you think?”

And as the young woman’s gaze shifted from mysterious and subtle to simple adoration, she threw her arms around his neck and said, “Yes!”

It is important here that the reader understand that to chucklehead, it had suddenly, although as we will come to find out, temporarily, ceased being a Game. And for one night, chucklehead understood what a twisted and terrifying Nightmare the Drink could become. It wouldn’t do to go into the details of the rest of his sordid night, so suffice to say, chucklehead remembers vaguely throwing down, quite angrily, a handful of money on the bar table, as Drunken Philosophy had apparently forgotten his billfold, and stumbling off into the night. There are flashes of comprehension, where he realized the subtlely mysterious girl was walking with him, and he could hear his friend’s raucous laughter somewhere in the unfocused night ahead of him. He can barely recall kicking in the door to an apartment, which he realized later with much relief was his own, and has only the smallest rememberance of a female someone removing his clothes and trying desperately to make it a night he would never forget.

************************************************************

He realized, just before he opened his eyes, that he must be careful. Something was most certainly amiss, and he must proceed with caution. As one eyelid dared to crack open, and searing pain flooded into his brain, chucklehead’s memory of the night before, what he could remember of it at any rate, came rushing back to him. Without turning his head, which would have been disastrous, he confirmed by a slight twitching of the fingers that the reason he couldn’t bend his elbow was because there was a person sleeping soundly upon it. And as he thought back to his last full memory of a girl adoringly shouting “Yes!”, chucklehead groaned and wondered what he had agreed to. Unconsciously the mystery girl snuggled in closer to him and with a big breath filled sigh quietly whispered,

“I Love you.”

Jumping up, ignoring the trombones blaring behind his eyeballs and the elephants stampeding his skull, chucklehead did a quick analysis of the situation:

There was a girl in his bed.

She was naked.

He had just come from the same bed and was also naked.

Except for his socks.

It was his own bed, and therefore most assuredly his apartment.

She must have helped him home and now undoubtedly knew where he lived.

The mystery girl had just sighed Love.

chucklehead was not always a man who knew what pleased him even as he strived ever forward to do just that, but he definitely, definitely, definitely knew when something did not please him, and this situation was one of the very finest examples of that. And so being a man of principle and steadfast adherence to his creed, he acted swiftly to remove himself from the situation. Luckily the young woman in question was apparently a heavy sleeper, and had not stirred when he had leapt so unceremoniously from the bed. He gathered up a change of clothes, except for his socks, which as we know were already on his feet, wrote a hurried note on the back of an envelope… something to the effect of needing to be at a meeting, turned on every light in the apartment, turned off the porch light, and rushed out into the morning.

He had worked overtime at the office on purpose. Which was a bit of a misnomer as he was a freelancer, and beside that, the notion of overtime had ceased to please him years ago. He looked down at his wristwatch and nodded silently in agreement with what the watch told him. It was as he suspected, well past dusk. As he turned the corner to his block a sudden sense of fear hit him square in the belly. What if she robbed me? He thought. What if this was all some sort of nefarious plan to be alone in his apartment? chucklehead laughed suddenly out loud, what did he own that could possibly be of any use to a thief? His computer he kept at his office, and besides owning a few old Blue Note LP’s, nothing else pleased him enough for him to consider full time ownership. No, he’d be just fine.

But just as he was getting close enough to confirm his entire apartment hadn’t been stolen, a new thought, even more dastardly that the first occurred to him. He gasped out loud as he realized… She might still be there! He had thought every angle was covered, he had been congenial and convincing enough in his note hadn’t he? Yet, she had sighed those three ominous words a mere ten hours previous, he must accept the possibility that she hadn’t understood the nature of the game, and that she was waiting patiently for her Knight to come rescue her…

What would he do?

What would he say to her?

And for the love of all that was holy, what was her Name?!

chucklehead began to sweat as he slowed his stroll down his avenue. Squinting toward his building he counted the windows… up four stories, and three to the left- Dear GOD! He thought. The lights are on! She is still There! Luckily for chucklehead, his gaze was frozen in terror at that window long enough for him to see Old Mrs. Gildenstern hobble slowly past the large (and unfortunately definitely lit) window. Reeling from dread, it took him a moment to process what had just happened. Old Mrs. Gildenstern, a nice enough neighbor and all, was not one to leave her apartment for anything short of a fire, and certainly was not in the habit of rifling through his belongings in his absence. He counted the windows again… up four stories and three to the, wait, three? Or was it four? It was four! In his haste chucklehead had misremembered which windows were his. It was four to the left, and the fourth window was gloriously dark. chucklehead bounded up the stairs to his apartment and nearly wept for joy upon noticing the porch light had been turned back on.

Collapsing into his chair exhausted from the brief but curiously intense Emotional roller-coaster he had just been on, chucklehead finally took note of his surroundings. It seemed very likely that he had come home; the key had fit into the lock, the number on the door corresponded to the one had become accustomed to, and the chair he was sitting in was most assuredly his. But as he looked around, chucklehead noticed that his entire apartment had been cleaned top to bottom. The dishes were done, his records had all been put back into their milk crates (in alphabetical order by artist, he noticed), his laundry pressed and folded at the foot of his neatly made bed. As chucklehead roamed about this strange new world of his, he eventually came to notice a note on his kitchen table. It read:

Thank you for the time and the experience. But mostly thank you for understanding. People in this town never seem to understand my position, and it was nice to finally meet someone of like mind. I hope it doesn’t bother you, but I took the liberty of cleaning up a bit, as you are a very Messy person. I can tell by the level of Messiness that this is not the remnants of a lazy weekend, but rather the culmination of years of practice. I can tell plainly that it simply does not please you at all to do much more than the requisite cleaning needed for basic human sanitation. It’s fine and all, it suits you well actually, but the next time you invite a strange woman into your home, you shouldn’t leave all of those Blue Note LP’s out. They are very valuable, and I’d hate to see them get stolen.

I was going to take some of your food in payment for the cleaning you did not ask me to do, but upon investigating your ice box and cupboards, I thought it best to dine at the deli, rather than subsist on Ale and what I can only guess is macaroni of some sort.

This note has suddenly become much longer than expected, as I only wanted to thank you (again), for the time, experience, and understanding.

Until next time,

-M.

M? he thought, M? What kind of woman cleans your house after a one night stand and only signs the good-bye note M? M for Mystery, that’s for damn sure!

He opened the ice box to discover she had lied after all. One Ale was missing.

**************************************************************************************************

He glanced sidelong at his friend as he handed him an iced tea. It wasn’t the whole leaf tea he had gotten used to over seas, but his Wife had put a sprig of fresh cut mint from their herb garden in it, to give it as she put it “Just a smidge of extra Love”.

“You look awful.” Goldenboy finally said, as the man he had known for twenty-five years gulped down the proffered beverage. “How many did you go see before you came to me?”

“Just Philosophy.” chucklehead murmured behind his dark sunglasses and hat pulled low. Goldenboy laughed, “Well, I suppose in cases such as these, just one would do it, as long as it was that one. What happened?”

“I don’ wanna talk ‘bout it.” chucklehead said, still muttering into his iced tea. Goldenboy laughed again, but decided not to push it. He knew well enough what kind of hijynx Drunken Philosophy had put his friend through, and he knew well enough that if chucklehead didn’t want to talk about it, something Dark had probably happened.

Truth be told, Goldenboy had been expecting this visit for at least a week. In fact it was just the other evening he found himself remarking to his Wife over an excellent pot roast, that he was fairly surprised chucklehead had taken so long to drop in. For the year had been getting older, and it was always at that time, when dusk seemed to hang just a little bit longer before succumbing to nightfall, that his lifelong friend, confidant, and one-time partner in crime would inevitably come rambling about, muttering incessantly about losing his Pleasure. It had gotten to where Goldenboy could have set his watch to it. If he ever had reason to wear one that needed setting that is, he found digital watches to be much more accurate.

Goldenboy had never had much use for the changing of the seasons- one was just as good as the next one for him. Each had their own peculiar way of making the world special to him, and he couldn’t imagine enjoying one at the expense of any of the others.

“Well, its no use sitting there pretending your hangover is the only thing bothering you. You may as well come out with it.” After two decades of this conversation, the introduction had become a bit tedious to Goldenboy. In fact, twenty some-odd years of the same basic existential problem would have driven a lesser man to perhaps schedule a family vacation around that time of year. But Goldenboy knew two things about this conversation. One- his friend needed his help. And he never let down his friend, even though he knew chucklehead would usually exhaust all other possibilities before seeing him. And two- this was the only time chucklehead ever listened to him. Spring and Summer, his arrows of advice fell to the side like so many children’s toys, and even in the depths of Winter chucklehead was generally pleased with what he was doing. But come Autumn, Goldenboy would sit on his front porch, watching his Son play some imaginary game in the yard, and he would gaze down the street waiting for his oldest friend to come pensively up to his gate, like a beaten dog whose hunger has gotten the most of his fear.

“I’ve lost It Goldenboy. It’s gone. I was doing what I pleased, when suddenly it wasn’t pleasing to me. So naturally, I stopped doing that, and yet… I haven’t been pleased with what I’ve done since. Now, I know these things tend to come and go, but this time is different. This time I’ve lost It.”

“Lost what? What is this ‘It’ you keep rambling about?” Goldenboy was slightly annoyed at his friend for stopping so abruptly. He usually rambled on enough to let Goldenboy get his pipe lit, and sometimes was even able to talk himself all the way through the never-ending circle that was his philosophical crisis. On those rare times where Goldenboy didn’t have to fix anything, he still took the credit for it. It wasn’t because he sought the glory or admiration or even the gratitude of his companion, only that he would have solved the problem much sooner, if chucklehead had simply stopped talking and let Goldenboy finish his pipe. And in fact had already solved it in his head, but was too occupied by the smoke to articulate it to his desperate friend.

This time was different though. Instead of casting about for the next thing that pleased him, chucklehead had simply given up. And for the first time in his adult life, Goldenboy became suddenly concerned for his friend. It occurred to him that if chucklehead could cease doing as he pleased, or at least be pleased with what he did, then it was possible that he himself might not always stay Gold. If this wasn’t the first time this thought had occurred to Goldenboy, it was certainly in the top five. Part of his unique ability to stay Gold was due simply to his complete inability to imagine himself any other way. Much in the way Drunken Philosophy would remain drunk, and The Polish Mastermind would remain…well, himself, Goldenboy had always just known that he would come in first place, be successful in life, marry a wonderful Wife, and generally…stay Gold.

“That’s just it. I don’t know what It is… but I certainly know It’s gone.” chucklehead sank back into his Adirondack chair, his body language bemoaning his horrible state of affairs.

Luckily for both himself and chucklehead, Goldenboy’s principles in life were not so easily shaken. He picked at his perfectly straight teeth with the end of his mint sprig and said calmly, “Well, if you’ve lost It, I mean truly lost It this time- you’re just going to have to work a little harder at finding It. It occurs to me that in previous years when you think you’ve lost It, you had simply misplaced It. And in so doing, you’ve gotten complacent in your ability to find It. Now this time (and I suspect this won’t be the last time) comes along, and instead of merely forgetting where you’ve put It… you’ve truly lost It, and in addition to that, you’ve forgotten how to look for It. So that being said my friend, perhaps its time you stopped waiting for It to turn up, and you started being proactive about Its return.”

“You know-“ chucklehead started with an almost alarming sudden certainty to his voice, “some times you can be a real bastard.” And he stormed off the porch and out into the evening, just as Goldenboy’s Wife came out of the interior of the house with a plate of sandwiches she had just finished cutting the crusts off of.

“Where is chucklehead going?” she asked Goldenboy.

“He has to go find It, and I’m not going to do it for him this time.” Goldenboy responded without looking up.

His Wife looked down at her husband with the smallest amount of fear in her eyes. “Do you think he’s up for it? For finding It, I mean?”

“Nope. But I certainly hope he gets there, or I don’t know what to do.” Goldenboy realized then, that his pipe had gone out, and that his stockpile of matches had disappeared.

“Ah Hell.” He muttered. “Do we have any more matches?”

“I don’t know dear,” his Wife responded as she tilted her head slightly to the side, gazing down the rapidly dimming block where chucklehead had wandered down, “you’ll have to go inside and look for yourself.”

****************************************************************************************************

…and then suddenly, he was awake. He always thought that form of waking up was a god-awful cruel joke. Much worse than being startled awake, or slowly rising to consciousness, to be suddenly Aware was disconcerting, to say the least. He sighed loudly and winced at the pain in his chest. It was always in the mornings that he forgot about the pain. Years of whiskey and unfiltered cigarettes had given way to a “precancerous” condition in his esophagus. He liked to chuckle to himself whenever he thought of “precancerous”. To him, you either had cancer, or you didn’t. Having a precancerous condition to him was like driving a car and calling it a “prewreck” situation.

Precancer or not, he slowly swung his legs off the bed and onto the floor. Sitting up, he stared down at his torso, taking inventory of the scars and bite marks the Crazy Whore had left him, during their tenure together. Everyone knew, and some, including chucklehead, had risked going rounds with him, by telling him that the Crazy Whore was a Very Bad Idea, but The Polish Mastermind hadn’t listened. Or rather, hadn’t cared. For all his touted intellect, he was only human- and the Crazy Whore had known just how to get under his skin and cling there.

To make matters worse, she was now the mother of what was quite possibly his child. But despite the repeated resounding cries of concern from his family, his friends, his Partners in Crime, The Polish Mastermind refused to even consider a paternity test, perhaps not wanting to face what would then be irrefutable Fact that the Crazy Whore had indeed been less that faithful during their years of cohabitation.

He fumbled around in the grey early morning light until he found what would inevitably help him through the day- one tightly rolled joint of the finest marijuana the northern coasts of California had to offer. The Polish Mastermind could, and did drink with best of them, but it was the Grass that was his true poison of choice. He lit up the spliff and thought briefly of the last time he had spoken to chucklehead. “I should call him.” he thought. And so did. Forgetting in his hazing THC soaked brain that it was five a.m. and that just because he was up, that most certainly had nothing to do with chucklehead’s situation

The phone rang and rang until finally The Polish Mastermind hung up, disgusted with what he imagined was a bonafied snub from his friend. He decided at that point to call Drunken Philosophy, to see if perhaps he had any knowledge of chucklehead’s whereabouts. The phone rang once, and was scooped up with such urgency, the Polish Mastermind almost dropped his end.

“HELLO?!” a haggard voice roared on the other end.

“It’s The Polish Mastermind. Have you seen chucklehead?”

“Good LORD man! It’s five a.m. in the morning!”

“Ohhhh… shit man, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Wake me? You think I went to sleep? I was up all night trying to help chucklehead find It.”

At this point, The Polish Mastermind finally began to notice a noticeable slur in Drunken Philosophy’s speech.

“Ah, I see. So he’s there then? I need to talk to him.”

“No. nononononono. Of course he isn’t here. Why would he be here? We agreed to look for It on our own- you know, split up, cover more ground. Why would he then be here? I swear, it’s like you don’t even think sometimes before you start in with your jibber-jabber. ‘Mastermind’ my ass! He isn’t here, of COURSE he isn’t here. He was last seen headed in a vague westerly direction with a Mystery Girl.”

With an abrupt click the phone line went dead, leaving The Polish Mastermind to surmise that, whiskey drunk and ale soaked, Drunken Philosophy had either hung up on him in indignation or had passed out in mid-thought and dropped the phone. While it never occurred to him that chucklehead might not even want his help, the Polish Mastermind just knew that he had to help him find It. Everything hinged on It, and if he were to continue his own existence of living vaguely outside societal law, he would have to help his friend.

He ambled slowly to the kitchen, his gait hobbled by the fact that his right leg was now two inches shorter than it used to be. This, above all things, annoyed the Polish Mastermind to no end. His precancerous esophageal condition could be put out of mind that it didn’t technically exist yet, his acid reflux could be taken care of with a purple pill and a puff of green, his cheating Crazy Whore of an ex had finally moved to Texas, but his leg? His leg bothered him. It meant he could no longer play athletics to the level he was used to, and it also meant that if something went awry on a Job, he wouldn’t be able run.

It was in fact, on a Job that The Polish Mastermind had received his curious malady. In a dark warehouse, outside of Antioch, a barrel filled with a dubious liquid had fallen off a rack, rolled down a flight of stairs and straight into The Polish Mastermind, pinning him against a pallet of decorative pavement stones, crushing his right leg into pieces. The doctors declared that fact that he ever walked again to be a miracle, but The Polish Mastermind had never taken much stock in what doctors had to say. Weren’t they the ones who told him he might have a disease someday? If that were the case, then he might also walk again someday, and that day may as well have been that day. So much in the way that he had previously willed twenty pounds off, he had willed his leg to heal enough for him to walk again, but the damage had been extensive, and as a result of healing, rehabilitation, and countless surgeries it was now a full two inches shorter than the other.


Thursday, February 26, 2009

Ponyboys

Contrary to popular belief,

It was precisely because they ceased living 

their so-called tarnished lives, 

finished breathing

with reckless abandonment, 

and let their days of wanton self-destruction 

die,

That caused them to stop being golden.

The Kingdom

Do you remember when, at the top of the stairs, in the kingdom of Sunshine

The Twin Kings held court?

One had a Queen,

The other a mistress.

Both had a just a touch of the Evil.

The Jester and the Fool were not one and the same but

Inseparable nonetheless.

Two different robyns chirped happily away

While sage, drunk, poet, and gypsy were all welcomed equally.

Do you remember when, at the top of the stairs, in the kingdom of Sunshine,

The Twin Kings held court?

Their castle impervious to all but Rain,

They would look down on their land

And joyously ask everyone to join.

While the great moat shimmered to the horizon

The Kracken ceased his mythic monstrous ways

To become friend and confidant.

Do you remember when, at the top of the stairs, in the kingdom of Sunshine,

The Twin Kings held court?

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

;

;
(for mosita, on her birthday)

in the beginning i would have used terms like, 'out of my league';
'too cool';
et. al.

but in subsequent years
especially the "misspent" ones in her tiny run down apartment;
off Placer;
drinking copious amounts of cheap beer;

smoking certain amounts of tobacco (me) and more (her);

it occurred to me, it wasn't a question of social standing but rather
a difference in the paradigms of our philosophies;
while her world was still available for exploration;

adventure;
wonder

;

mine had already become stagnant;

a place of certainty and absolute decision.

and so now, on the advent of her birthday;
i realize that she remains still in a place i will never understand;

in a world that is hers alone.
adventure.
wonder.