A Jewel Dealer.

The bellboy silently closed the heavy hotel door behind him as he left the cushy room. S swallowed hard and calmly shut her eyes. She let her head roll back against the wall and began to quietly count to herself in the dark closet. She heard J’s voice float to her in the darkness, boisterously speaking to the man who’s name was signed on the hotel paperwork scattered across the glass coffee table about 10 feet in front of the closet.

J was carrying on about pointless things, trifling topics that filled the empty space between herself and the jewel collector she was captivating with nonsense.

“75…76…77…”
S stealthily sat up on her haunches, readying herself to spring to her feet.
“85…86…87…”

“I hear it’s lovely there in the spring.”

She heard the sarcasm oozing from J’s low murmuring voice through the darkness.

“95…96…97…”

The footsteps were growing louder, getting nearer, the floor beneath S shook lightly as they approached the closet she was hidden it, lying in wait.

As the closet door opened, S registered the surprise in the face of the jewel dealer; he knew he had been gotten. The jacket he had intended to hang up in the closet was already wrapped tightly around his torso from behind, and J’s maniacal grin peeked at S through the darkness from over his left shoulder.

“Don’t make a sound.”

S was deftly binding his legs already and, rather gracefully, switching her position in the closet with the jewel dealer’s next to J. THUD. The man fell full on his weight like a sack of potatoes into a heap on the closet floor. Two wide eyes staring up at the calmly poised women from the floor of the closet.

“Give us the keys.” J thrust out her hand towards the panicked face in the inky darkness.

“I…I…”

The jewel dealers words stuttered pathetically through gasps and quiet sobs.

“You will be a ghost full of regrets if you don’t stop talking and hand me those keys.”

S was wearing her serious face as she said this. Nervous pocket shuffling in the closet; keys jingling, coins rattling, until finally a small ring with two tiny nondescript keys on it was tossed through the space between them. A groan of miserable defeat followed from the closet.

Crooked Finger.

I know you’ve made the effort,

to fish me out and throw me aloft,

you’ve been on belay for a decade,

awaiting the tension on my end to let off,

you typically would never bother with,

hand-holding of the incompetent,

you have no patience or tolerance,

with things that lean to your detriment,

yet somehow your open palmed hand,

remains out to me, wherever I am,

even if I don’t know where I stand,

the bear blazes trails to the lamb,

I probably disappoint your mind,

and let your spirit down all the time,

I probably don’t very well epitomize,

the things you stand for in my own eyes,

I guess I feel heavy against your soaring flight,

like a weight on your ankle without any right,

I want you to achieve the dreams in your life,

with both of your hands free to win the fight,

            you’ll need both hands to accept the trophies,

            to stab at the person breaking and entering,

            to sign checks, breaks necks with your badassery,

            keep your hands free from the mess known as me.

 

 

 

The Unsecret Dialogue of Gravediggers.

“You can’t just walk around using your hand as a testicle vice at will, S!”

J appeared drunk as she bobbed and wove in front of her friend’s face, sweat running down her forehead and into her eyes as she chucked another shovel-head of earth out and over her right shoulder.

“Are you even listening to me, S?”

S wasn’t listening; she was instead, absorbing the things that were coming out of J’s mouth.

“Fine, at least dig, then…it’s hot out here; the buzzards are coming.”

J pointed a pterodactyl-like finger past S’ head, aimed high on the horizon, whereupon a kettle of the grotesque, awkward carrion birds slowly descended through a clear, hot sky towards the spot where the girls dug. With her other hand, she handed S the shovel she’d been digging with and went to the trunk to get another one, so as to speed this undertaking along.

The Unsecret Dialogue of Testicle Injuries.

PART 1

 

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Fast forward about twenty(ish) years from the day on the wharf when J was labeled a “sexual deviant” for the simple and innocent act of trying to keep the inattentive and tom-boyishly uncouth S’ dress from blow up during a wind gust. In hindsight, the deep shade and electrocuted expression on the poor bastard’s face has become one of J’s most treasured memories; and the mere thought of that specific moment in time is the source of multiple stomach muscle injuries as a result of hardy laughter. But as all things are between S and J, the circumstance was rather damning and getting more difficult by the second for J to navigate a way for it to end peacefully (not that any chance of a peaceful resolution hadn’t been thrown out the window the instant S made the dude’s junk into a necktie, but hey – she had to try).

J pushed the milkshake back over to S and maneuvered the straw into her mouth, seeing as how she was rather “tied up” just then; S took a big drink and let out the proverbial “post-Kool-Aid Ahhhhhhh” but remained like a statue otherwise. The girls both fell to staring at the man next to S at the bar – the man who’s nuts she’d mistakenly manacled as Darth Trump’s;

“You know what, S?”

J suddenly shrieked over the bar;

“I totally see it…”

“Yeah…you do?”

S’ eyes shot like darts up at her friend’s endeared face as J examined the man’s visage with the intensity of scientist;

“You aren’t just saying that to make me feel better?”

J leaned closer to them;

“Tut Tut; I could’ve easily made the same mistake from behind, I mean look at that rodent carcass on his fat head!”

The man let out a short yelping sound as S and J broke out into maniacal laughter at the expression on his miserable face; and J gave him a exaggerated wink.

“What’s your poison, El Jeffe?”

She asked the question with a blatantly overdone Hispanic accent, juggling a few bottles in front of her cockily.

drank

African Tools of Death.

For Sam:

You are an enigma.

Enigmatic to my drab eye,

you spark against my darkened sky,

with you, comes the mental hum,

you loan me peace of mind,

no love letters or epic songs,

might ever rightfully define,

or accurately emphasize,

how you’re a stationary prize,

that hangs higher than all else,

higher than you likely realize,

I just can’t help myself,

from warming in your light,

resigning my heart, outright,

to the magic and the might,

you’ll never fully perceive,

the grip you maintain on me,

You are a beam of light.

Lightning bolts that strike,

cutting sharp as knives,

through life’s dark scenery,

You are full of surprises.

From the depths of such rebellion,

and what’s left of the little Hellion,

your character  arises,

to shine so singularly,

so winningly, impressively, eternally,

you’ve yet to fail the friend in me,

and so…respectfully and true,

thoughts especially of you,

that words might do

some kind of justice to.

Continental Story Books.

She wrote for me,
a book of recipes,
filled page upon page –
with the ingredients I’d need,
and, day after day –
it’s a book I still read;
detailing poisons –
in her own handwriting,
pressed in between –
old weathered binding,
soft leather skin,
full of soul, and divinity;
a handbook,
to guide through,
the dark days ahead –
written in a language,
spoken to and by the dead,
and it should be clear –
why I hold so dear,
the words that I have read;
she drew a picture-book,
and dedicated it me –
filled it with her paintings,
and photos of the beach,
chained it,
with a padlock,
beneath iron lock and key…
and the only person,
on this Earth,
who can open it –
is ME.

Home.

Things are happening; I have already started to pull out every box and crate stored in my garage; in order to sift through and keep only what’s truly necessary, I must touch each thing.

It’s almost comical…how all of the things I have nearly killed myself in order to hang on to for so long will soon be thrown out. These things turn out to mean nothing; and to serve no purpose at all…outside of painful reminders to me of a former identity that’s become a bitterly recalled ghost. Things are changing; big ideas are being rolled into balls and set into motion around me – and I have been called off the bench to get into the game. I intend to play like never before once I get on the field, believe me…

But Life is funny this way, isn’t it? At last, I have lost everything; I don’t mean that in a pitiful sense, either. I mean to emphasize how I have nothing to lose anymore – no child to set a good example for – nobody to financially support or look after – no career left – no social life or REAL friends nearby. I am finally unbound from the courts and the juvenile delinquent joke-of-a-system; I have no warrants out for my arrest, no news anchors left to stalk me from my front porch, no family (besides my brothers and theirs’, of course).

I have had no drive or motivation; I have been feeling essentially hopeless and as if my Life has been winding down to its final scenes, somehow. Things have been exceptionally dark and dreary here in my world – and any of my regular readers know how and why this has all come about; it’s almost just a natural result of the absolute deflation attached to Boo, and my former identity’s faith in her “recovery”. Either way, the word STAGNANT comes first to mind when I try to search for a fitting descriptive word…yes, I have been quite stagnant.

All that being said, I have recently become the (un)secret winner of the (un)secret lottery; and things are beginning to open up, for lack of a better term. I am now fully planning to make an enormous shift – like to a different continent and country – to a different time and equatorial zone – to a new beach and ocean with different animals and an unfamiliar salinity in the water…I am finally leaving this Gods-forsaken shit-hole of a “life” in my dust…and the actuality of the whole thing is beginning to sink in with me.

I have, at last, told some people that matter to me such as two of my brothers, my mother, and my former boss – a big step in the process. I have emotionally shut myself down to the negative reactions; and have perfected my responses to inevitable arguments; I guess the point is that it’s finally starting to move a teeny bit, all of it. And, for the first time in so fucking long, I have a curious level of hope…hope for my own days to come.

An unexpected and uncharted chance; at …something good and wholesome; something meaningful and fulfilling to the broken spirit I harbor…something like “home”.