my ass is so bony, it hurts to sit on wood

I got fucking visions, I know it sounds crazy but right here is where I'm going to make my stand. This is it. This is where I draw the line, Obadiah says catching me in the morning hours as I shuffle sleepy down the hall toward the porcelain shit machine.
I stop and stare, listen for a bit then say, well if we're on the subject I need some bars across these windows for security and, not for nothing, I don't want to smell the cigar smoke of my fucking neighbor either (as long as we're dropping F-bombs). He's a hell of a good guy btw (I say it like that B-T-W), but I just don't want to breath anything other than air, coffee or my own god damn farts. This last part I add for emphasis barely containing a grin.
Who Jerold? He's been smoking cigars fifteen years, I don't think I could stop that.
I nod but I see we're not connecting.
I'll get some wood for those windows and we'll fix you right up.
I don't think so, I want something worthwhile, I'll work it out.
I know I can come off as an asshole but.
You are an asshole I add abruptly, that's just the thing.
There are two kinds of people in this world, ones who draw the line and ones who just let it happen. This is where I draw the line, this is it, right here, he says speaking to the ghost of his dead father and the father before that.
Alright, I hear you, and to it I'll add this, it's not going to work. Not this way, not here. I'll watch you come around. I'll watch you work it out. But in case I'm wrong I'll buy the next round. Then I went to shit, which came out burning from the prior night's hot wings. Fuck.
I thought of Buttercup, poor girl, in this nightmare pile of bricks and broken things, fascist crazies, from the best of good places, for a night or two, playing along. The truth is, no one would play along if they had a choice. The truth is that this place is a monstrous end and a damn new beginning (god I pray). That said, I felt for Obadiah, felt on his side, to make a stand, etc. All that horse shit. I felt it was as good as any approach. Maybe it'll go. Maybe.

In the morning Emmy texts - I'm still praying.
Me too - I reply.
For what? I thought. For a strange thought thank God. For worse until it becomes clear.
What becomes clear?
Good point. It.
There is as much 'it' as there is a 'they' dear boy.
There is?
Ha ha, you know better.
I suppose I do. Even though, in the back of my mind, I know I don't.

othromantics

When we arrived in Jackson Hole there were lightening storms above the lake that I'd not seen before, and I had lived there five years. There was electricity in the air, big connective strikes, powerful stuff. Then when arriving at Leys' place about 20 miles from the lake there was ice, balls of hail, like I'd never seen in August, Leys either, and he had lived in the place for 45 years. That was the reintroduction. We (Leys and I mostly) drank several bottles of wine to celebrate. I was alive again, away from the pointless struggle for career that takes up ones time in the doldrums of upstate NY poverty. So they claim. That night I made love to Avé good and long and we embraced that feeling, the love, like it was our dying breath. Because it was. In a way it always is. Our relief and the power of that entrance was enough to convince anyone that God was watching and blasting away at our notions of normalcy. Or it was just happenstance. I thought of V-Daddy thinking that the romantic part was more than foolish. Then I imagined he approved. Someone had to. Imagine that is, imagine it was possible, imagine the best.

At home, in the studio, in the train yard below, a man had died. Men had gathered to await the coroner and stare at the torn body of the yard worker.

Apparently there was a missed step.

What happened here? I asked the guard and that’s what he said, Apparently there was a misstep. I pursed my lips in a grimace and nodded. Then we watched. We watched as the half torn body was lifted and placed into the coroners van while the police asked questions and took depositions. There was a misstep and that was that. I got my story, the boys in uniform got their days work, the unfortunate man got his earthly end and I walked Faf in our little piece of brownfield, what we got, next to our collaborative beginning.

+

hand over fist

Autumn came, the birds, the cold, the mist and rain, full in it. Just the leaves to turn now, coal and corn syrup cars slamming into stacks just below the dirty brick. Full in it; work, wine, sex & worry. Work to the point of worry. Worry to the point of memory. Memory to the point of rumination. Rumination to the point wine (box wine, dear lord). Wine to the point of sex (real love to internet porn dear God). Sex to the point of worry. This is it. This is where I am, we are, I am, dear friends. Friends. Lord. Love.

Let's lay in a cuddle for a bit.
Do you want to?
Yes.
OK.
Babe?
Yes.
If you had me first, if I was the first one you were with then we'd be flat out dead by now.
You think?
Yes.
Thats it, just yes?
You want me to affirm you lover?
You started this.
I just wanted to lay with you.
Then you spoke.
Babe, I sometimes think that we each seek a space that is impossible.
What impossible, I just wanted to sleep, to lay down and feel your breath on my neck.
But I wanted to lay down and see you like a bar of gold; heavy, pure and perfect. Something to keep me honest.
And I just want to lay with you.
I see.
Do you?
I think.
Well stop thinking and just do it, do something useful. Maybe fuck me. Maybe instead of talking or thinking just fuck me. Is that clear enough for you boy?
Yes.

(Fucking)

(time)

Babe?
Yes.
I'm sorry.
What are you sorry for my love?
I'm sorry I was short with you earlier. I don't mean it so harsh.
I know.
You do?
I think.
Because sometimes I think that maybe you think I'm not listening or sensitive to you and what you are going through but I think I see it.
I'm not sure, really I just don't know but I understand your concern. Thank you love.
(tears)
Because I just love you so much.
I love you too. That's why we lay like this. That's why we're together.
Really?
(I don't know) Yes.
(you fucking hypocrite) Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
(fucking)

drag and bone

There came a moment where i saw my own paranoia. I see it and know it and live in it and realize, this is it. This is me. Creation. Create things. Dispel it. End it. Yes. No.
Rose, live well. Drug yourself to normalcy.
Normal, OK, this would be best for the others?
Yes, that's why I'm telling you. That's the whole reason for asking.
Yes, OK, so which drugs to take now?
Let the doctor decide.
Doctor?
We'll take you inside the system and a doctor who cares for you will prescribe medicines that will help you find normalcy.
OK, but...
No buts mister, you'll see. On the other side will be strong and consistent desire for family, steady increased income, social success and love.
Even love?
Yes, when you correct yourself people love you more because right now, well...
That sounds good. It sounds almost too good.
That's probably your disease talking. You don't have to fear any more about it. The doctor will show you which drugs to take and at what times and this will correct your paranoia.
You know this?
I know this.
Which drugs?
It depends on your dependencies. Probably Wellbutrin and Xanax for the acute moments.
Like when I feel like leaving or when I feel angry about social injustice or injustice in general?
Yes, at those times because you have everything you need and then some so when you think and feel those things you are just whining. Do you understand?
Yes, I understand. It just seems...
No seems or buts mister, just go and talk to the doctor and then live better and without disease.
Do you hear that?
What do you hear?
Lightening or something. I hear the weather.
Maybe it's just a passing storm Rose bud. Maybe you just hear what's passing.
You're probably right.
Of course I am. I'm helping. Isn't that what you always want, just to help? Well that's just what I'm doing, helping.
There are two moments in songs that I'm thinking over right now. It just sort of hits me when I think of these moments. Can I tell you?
Not really but I want you to have the best kind of trust with me so just tell me what you are thinking.
OK, I keep thinking about when Damien Jurado in Medication is praying to God and asks for him to take his brother's life. It's wrong but I ask it, please take my brothers life, he says and then when Bruce says Fear will turn your heart black you can trust in devil's and dust. I'm thinking of those two things and thinking which one I'll be.
The doctor is going to help you there. The doctor's going to bring you medications and then that's that, that'll be that. You won't have that kind of thing in you.
I was hoping, wondering, if that was like, normal, to think those things, those lyrics and about songs and stuff.
No, it's not. Not in that way. That's why we can do this, talk like this. OK?
OK.
(silence)
What's the best thing I can do right now. For myself.
The best thing?
Yes, for myself given our conversation and I want to please you.
Don't try and please me Rose because that usually goes nowhere. But I think maybe you can just tell a story. Try to write a story down.
I can do that?
Do it nice. Make it clean.
Nice. Clean.
(silence)
And then we'll see.
(silence)

Faf maimed a small woodland creature at the far extent of our yard. I would say it was a rat but on inspection it's head was too round and formed and I thought it was a groundhog. It must be a girl I thought, about the groundhog we see on a somewhat regular basis. The poor thing was helpless and sort of kicking futile on the hard patch of dirt near where the rail yard fill hits the embankment. Right where Faf dropped it at my feet, it's hind quarters covered in slime from dog saliva.
Baby, it's still living, leave it be Fafa.
She lay down kind of crawling toward it, tail wagging, awaiting my approval.
I placed a hand on her supine head and watched the poor thing kick and struggle through the last moments of its poor young life.
Oh babe, it's sad to see, I told Faf. Then I looked around to see if anyone was near and wept while I comforted Fafa because I wouldn't allow her to pick it up as we watched it die.
Where's Avé?
Too far from here.
Too far how? She's coming over now.
She's not going to be a part of this.
She's not going to know what to say anyway, your shit's always taking over.
Alright, so I'll stay quiet again.
Good thought.
Not so much.
I picked up the small thing's form, still breathing and placed it away from the open sun and danger, underneath the railway shrubs and left it alone to die while Faf and I moved along to get some beer and wings at our local pub in the early autumn sun.

the ones you know

What is needed? Here is what is needed. Love, the ones you know.

Early one evening I go out to piss with Faf. She trots her yard and I just stand there in it near the fence that separates the city from the railway and piss. I piss in full view while Faf seeks an appropriate equivalent for her turd deposit. It's amazing how much privacy one has in full view. Faf and I are similar creatures in this way - we prefer our privacy in public. But this day, before we make it, just at the edge of the yard we find a man with a tripod, a camera mounted to it, intent on the sky just above the west complex roof line. He is waving his hands about, really flailing between glances into the tiny camera viewfinder and alternately at the two of us as we were, standing silent, watching as through a glass screen this man's small dance. We watch until it registers he wants our attention. I pull down the earbuds from my ears and silence the music. The man speaks.
The international space station! The international space station! he says pointing.
Seriously?, I say.
Yes, the man replies matter of factly. Yes, there it is.
And there it was in the early evening sky; bright, low, traveling at a steady clip 250 miles above the earth's surface, caught in its orbit, the only visible heavenly body.
There's eleven people up there right now, the man says. And that faint dot just beyond it, that's the space shuttle waiting to dock.
No shit.
Really, the man replied, no shit.
Within five minutes it had passed, the man had packed up his gear and we were standing together at the edge of our field still looking up.
Amazing, I say, it moves so fast.
17,000 miles per hour it moves I think.
Amazing, I say again. Thanks for waving us down.
When I saw you there I thought you'd want to know, he replied.
Yea yea, amazing, I say again, I did. Thank you.
No problem, he says as I step onto the sharp cut grass.
All else is memory.

I sat there with Z and saw nothing but bullshit. a snare. a trap. I saw the way out was the way in. I saw my uncles' in the soft world transition. I saw the International Space Station. Then I saw this. I saw what I thought was needed then left. What a bullshitter, I thought. What a fuckin' heister.
So what?
So what, what?
C'mon.
C'mon what?
You won't give an inch will you?
What are you talking about?
Seriously? You know.
(Silence)
(This is it)
(Silence)

Hmmm... What is needed?
Hmmm... What is needed?
What is needed? Do you provide what is needed?
Here it is. Here it is. Here is the provision.
One foot. One foot.
Here is not your empty, doll.
Here is not your empty.
Here is not your nemesis, friend.
Here is not your empty.
You may make for better gold.
Your story made for fodder.
You may make for world untold.
You may make for better gold.
This is it.
This is it.
This is what is needed.

love

I've been holding back my love.
What is it Rose?
Just that. I've been holding back.
Oh. Ok. What do you have to say?
Where I've been and why I can't just tell you.
Why don't you just say it?
Because you would think the worst. Despite this, it does come from the very best of me.
Yes. I think I understand. So tell.
With each lover I wanted something better.
That's it? We all wanted this.
I think so. I understand but I believe my experience to be exceptional.
You're arrogant. But I love you.
We are mostly arrogant, most of us.
So we are the same then?
Yes. So with each lover I wanted something better.
OK, why are you telling me this?
I think maybe because I'm confused.
Well then, unburden yourself boy.
Confessionals?
Something like this.
When I left Buttercup I was torn up, I wanted her love so badly.
You're impatient.
Yes, but this love required reciprocation.
And what if you're wrong? A myth. A sad reveler. Weak.
Then I die that thing. That's the risk.
Sad.
You think?
I think you are justifying yourself.
But God screams at me. I've got stories and those hit me like a bag of bricks. Those twirl in motion.
But you leave a wake.
Waves settle.
But you cause pain to others.
Pain results in reaction. You do it too.
This is not about me.
I see. So I cause pain?
Yes.
Convenient.
Not so much.
(silence)
Rose?
Yes.
Will you want me after this.
I think so.
OK.
(pause) Do you hear this music?
Yes honey, I hear it.
What do you hear?
Soft chords, more.
I hear the lyrics above them.
What are they?
They say I want you but you are a distant beast and I am a beast.
Sounds campy, swooning.
Maybe...
But maybe sincere.
I love you.
I love you too.

And in that soft moment I thought of her soft belly and her soft desires and everything that I so fully loved and walked out on. That IS rumination says Frank. That's the very definition of it.
Thought about the past is rumination?
Uh, yes.
How do I stop it?
Think now.
Think now?
yes.
I'll try.
(silence)
Pain will help.
(silence)
I'll try.
Don't try. Just go.
I see.
Maybe.
Maybe.

several signs of autumn

There are several signs of autumn already in the north east that add to my general sense of heartbreak. Keep these thoughts out of rumination zone I keep thinking but it's hard so I prepare a canvas and lay down some words. One word actually, a series of one. Initial thoughts are go and I'm rather pleased with it. But in the blankness of my reply in my non structured meditation I work a few more hours and go wandering. To the bar where I find a wry crowd.
Who's this guy?
Me? I'm one man young.
And what's that supposed to mean?
I'm just playin' with words cowbell. (I specifically call him cowbell)
You're playin' with fire son is what your playin' with.
I stood staring at him, thinking about it, almost walk away and say, then throw down tinkle boy.
Bar stools scrape the floor, chests puff.
What's with the tinkle boy shit boy?
You gots the tiny tinkle right? That's why you're hemmin' and hawin' cowbell.
Then he swung and caught me on the forearm as I tipped back off my stool landing hard on the floor. Before I knew it I was out the door getting strangled by a fat bouncer.
I let myself relax and waited him out. When he let up I popped him quick and hard on the ear, struggled free and trotted down the road to safety. So it goes on a Friday night in the country. I may have to leave here I thought. (I always think that).

Back at the studio I check the mail. There in tiny child's writing is a message from my six year old niece Amber, "Dear Uncle Rose, Thank you for coming to my party and for the gift. Love, Amber." It took up the whole card in a good use of space. I tack it to the wall with a good long pause and think, I may have to leave this place soon.