Concentrating on You

These days I spend largely alone concentrating on concentrating. Living the life of a semi-nomadic cow-puncher-writer with the gloves of the damned stretched across my taught fists. I say bring it on muther fucker because the bovine are on their tip hooves up top the fence posts crooning at the alabaster moon and me I’m licking the bourbon sweat from the nipples of the deity inebriation—my mother, my god—what am I doing?

But you know. You’ve got those eyes, the ones I saw seeing me, the ones half full of mercury and waited down with sadness. At night you'll peer out from behind a pillow as the boogey man plays slide guitar inside your nightstand. I’ll come in out of the night to save you, moon beams stuck to my jogging pants like burrs. I’ll pick the nightstand up and shake it like a peanut can to see what’s inside. I’ll open the doors and evil will fall out like an unformed bird. I’ll squash it with the heel of my steel toed boot, eyes and tiny bones popping and squirting. You’ll beckon me towards your bed--after of course I’ve removed my evil smeared boots--and I'll leap and hit my face on the bullet proof glass. You’ll laugh and slide under your covers never to be seen again.

The Junk

The dream has vanished, dumped in a river of suicidal deficiency; they have swum with the lobsters and danced the tangle dance with the cement shoed shysters that were whacked just to be whacked. In a climate of oily residue and overripe fish shit the answers at the bottom of the river of life are safe with the sheep because they don’t even try to swim. Their fate was long ago determined by forces unknown; forces that are far beyond the grasp of the latently homosexual Sunday school teacher who ties a Bible belt tightly around his scrawny arm. Yes, the same mainlining, fantasy junky that spikes the hardest junk of all into his cowardly arms. The very junk distilled from a little book of Machiavellian lies called the Bible. Oh yeah baby feel the rush of the fairy tale, that there was this chick named Eve and a dude named Adam and they started it all in a little lab outside their trailer home. They cooked their junk right their in the forest and I’ll be damned if they didn’t hook half the world into believing they actually existed. There are is no such thing as dinosaur bones. There is no such thing as love. There is no such thing as reality unless they say so.

a little something for the pain

Believe in me, I said.

I do, she said.

Tell me I’m good, I said.

You’re good, she said.

Tell me I’m the only one, I said.

You’re the only one, she said.

I’m a god, I said.

You’re a god, she said.

Love me, I said.

Are you fucking nuts? she asked

And walked out the door.

I'm sorry. I've been neglecting you haven't I? You have to unerstand that I've been very busy that I'd never purposely treat a blog this way, especially a blog like you, my blog. At the end of the week I will tend to your wounds, I will visit other blogs so you have company, I will cover your pages with my twisted words, I will post pictures on you and find you a new statcounter. Things will be good, you will see. Don't give up. Don't leave me. I will make it all good. I promise...

Blind Pickle Man

When I bought my house I learned the previous owners had rented the second floor apartment to an old blind man. He answered an ad they were about to put in the newspaper. That’s right. They claimed he came to inquire about the apartment before it had even run in the paper. They thought he was strange but he produced the needed deposit and two months rent in advance so they allowed him to move in.

They told me that the old man never went outside and that no one ever came in, that he didn’t receive Christmas cards, or groceries, subscribe to cable or use any electricity. In fact, after the first day they rented to him he never made another appearance outside the confines of his dwelling. Mysteriously though, on the first of every month his rent check would appear on their kitchen counter in an empty one gallon pickle jar. The owners would always take the check out and sniff it and indeed it would smell like a dill pickle.

Some years later, on the first of the month, the owners awoke and went to kitchen expecting to find the pickle jar with the usual rent check inside but were disturbed to find a plunger instead. The owners thought this some kind of cruel joke and so opened the upstairs apartment, and yelled up the stairs, “This isn’t funny!”

From the upstairs apartment, coming from the bathroom, they heard a muffled, “Help.”

Quickly scaling the stares they rushed into the upstairs apartment, which was fille with empty pickle jars. They heard “help” again and it seemed to be coming from the bathroom so they rushed in. The husband tore open the shower curtain and once again they heard “help” and it seemed to be coming from the shower drain.

“Did you hear that?” the wife asked.

“It sounded like it was coming from the drain,” the husband said.

“Well, plunge it,” the wife said.

“Okay,” the husband said and began plunging.

There was a loud burping noise and the smell of dill pickles wafted up. The husband pulled up the plunger and there was a pickle stuck in the bottom of it. Pickle juice bubbled up from the shower drain.

“What the Hell?” the husband asked, turning the pickle over in his palm.

“Help,” they heard from the shower drain again.

The husband again began to plunge and soon he sucked up another pickle and more pickle juice filled the tub and then they heard “help” again. The wife placed the pickles into jars and scooped the juice up with other empty jars. This process went on all day and all night long and still they heard “help” coming from the shower drain.

After two days of plunging and filling pickle jars with juice and pickles, when all the pickle jars were filled they no longer heard anyone calling for help from the drain. They never saw the old blind man again.

I didn’t believe the story and bought the house.

This morning I was digging in the garden out back when I hit something hard with my shovel. I brushed away the dirt and there was a full one gallon pickle jar. The pickles inside looked fresh enough so I took one out and bit into it. “Help,” I heard and looked down saw that there were more pickle jars in the garden. I began to dig with my hands and soon found that there were thousands of jars of pickles under the garden, stack neatly in a pyramid. As I removed the top layer of pickle jars a magnificent light shown from between the cracks. Hastily I removed more of the pickle jars and when they were all gone I saw something very odd. There was a giant pickle jar in the center of the pickle jar pyramid and there was an old man inside this giant pickle jar floating like an embryo in umbilical fluid. He was wearing very dark glasses and clutching a long white cane.

“Help,” he said.

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