Wishlist / Shitlist, Pt. III

Posted on by under Uncategorized

Hand in hand in hand in hand
they sat.
He held it by just continuing to hold,
and sure – that’s a strategy, too,
when it comes to women.

She looked ripe to cry,
a blonde and pedestrian sorrow.
Disappear here:
“When we kiss, I feel NOTHING.”

Worlds of want which
wither on the vine,
at the end of her
thousand-yard stare
(or 914.4-metre stare
for all my homies on the metric).

One day (or in one day)
she’ll up and leave ‘im
so I wonder:
“Who will it be
who tears heaven asunder?”

It’s a basic bitch world
and that is how it’ll stay.

Larrydavidian

Posted on by under experimental, humorous

A branch off the Jerry tree,
a chip off the ol’ block;
curbstomp your enthusiasm

If a fire started, I’d wait and see how it developed first. Hear me out, okay? Wouldn’t you find it awkward to call the fire department and have them come out with trucks and hoses and bells and whistles and all… if it turned out to be just a small fire?

Ah, I mean, you know. Like the tiny flames just fizzling out on their own and you, lord of the idiots, standing there like a putz waiting for a brigade of firefighters. Like yeah: way to go, dipshit. Nah, I’d be a wait-and-see kind of guy. A waiter-and-seer, that’s me.

Anyhoo, the other day. I’m at the laundromat, there’s a full drum of tumbledry just sitting there. For 30 minutes straight. I disapprove. Then this woman comes up – finally – and checks the laundry… then starts another tumble with the same batch!

NOW I DEEPLY DISAPPROVE. Yet say nothing. But I did think to myself: “You know, we’re living IN A SOCIETY!”

“Whaddya want me to say?
That things haven’t worked out like I planned?
That I’m struggling, barely able to keep my head above water?
That LA is a cold place even in the middle of summer?
That it’s a lonely place even when you’re stuck in traffic on the Hollywood freeway?
That I’m no better than the screenwriter driving a cab, the starlet turnin’ tricks, the producer in a house he can’t afford?
Izzat whatcha want me to say?

WELL I’M NOT SAYING THAT!”

Things I Don’t “Get”

Posted on by under Uncategorized

Not taking “no” for an answer. Seriously, it’s just gonna drop to the ground and lay there if you don’t take it. You’re gonna have to pick it up. So just take the damn thing when it’s handed to you; easier that way for eeerrybawdy.

Crafting sentences into weapons, into sleek high-tech killers with each word a cog in the machine of evil.

Being held for contempt. I mean, hold me because you love me – or at very least because you care, yeah?

Being vague on purpose to extort more and more and more down the line – at the expense of the ties that bind. 

Like, totally!-tarian states.

So, anyway. I got you something cheap and impersonal to remember me by; to craft my feelings into material form and hand’em over on a slow afternoon.


A Man Pissing at the Airport

Posted on by under Uncategorized

Nothing is coming out.

Goddamnit all to hell. Did I catch something from that intern last month? This is not the damn time for a man to start having this kind of trouble.

Then again, when is such a time…? Ok, now I’m getting something… nnhh… aaaahhh, there we go. Finally. Was starting to get embarrassing.

The two suits outside the bathroom stall are still making idle chatter. There’s a stinging feeling in there, though. Most, ah, vexing. This is not the kind of predicament a man should find himself in. Whip it out and then, just… well, faff about for fifteen seconds because Mr. Johnson isn’t in the mood to cooperate. 

It’s against the natural order of things, surely. “When nature calls”, they say. Well, nature called and I did my best to answer, despite how Mr. Johnson feels about it. 

It’s quiet – beyond the sound of the current de toilette, of course. The suits outside the stall have fallen silent. It’s the loneliest place in all of God’s green earth, this here. The off-white bathroom stiles. The chlorine smell in the air. An inch of plywood on each side of me, separating me from the world. And in the middle of it all, one man and that stinging sensation. Sounds like a bad jazz band, that last one.

I’ll have to talk with the doctor about this. I think I have an appointment with him soon, anyway. And, ah, note to self: find an excuse to get that intern, buxom as she may be, fired. Or find someone else to find an excuse.

Which reminds me, I’ll need to call Mac tonight and tell him to give everyone hell about this morning’s memo. Can’t do that myself. Thank heavens for him. If there ever was a man in his place and not afraid to get his hands dirty, Mac’s the one. Lord Almighty himself could afford to take a vacation if Mac was doing St Peter’s job.

Still that sting in there. Fffuck. Sure hope I haven’t caught a bug. The missus will be furious if she’s got it, too. And she’ll huff and puff about it behind closed doors, but… no, no, she’s probably in the clear. It’s been a while since we, well… I have my meetings and the job; she has her schedule as well. Still, better not risk it. I respect her too much for that.

I do love her even though there are other ladies. And plenty of them. Doc will give me something for it, I’ll give it a week or two – and lo and behold, as if it never happened. Immaculate un-conception of any bug there may have been. And Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. And next time, I’ll be a bit wiser. Start wearing a rubber johnny, for one.

There we are: see you later, Mr. Johnson. The suits’ conversation has not picked up. I flush the toilet: some punctuation for your civil silence, fellas. 

Always with the suits. In meetings, in conference rooms, in briefings, on airports, at fancy dinners: always so serious, always making polite, as you do. Suits and suits and suits, a never-ending march of them from sea to shining sea. This job has taught me to trust the handshake and eyes of a man more than the cut of his coat. Some things money can’t buy.

I open the stall. Suits idling around the sink: No. 1 coughing gently into his fist, No. 2’s broad back turned to me. La-dee-da. How’s that hair… aaaand looking sharp. Ladykiller. 

I head for the door, Suits 1 & 2 follow suit.

The new aide is waiting outside. The kid lifts his eyes from whatever brief paper he was going over and twitches at the sight of me. Christ above – relax, son, I’m not gonna bite you. Whatshisname… Andrew, maybe?

“So ah, Andy, is everything ready? We can go?”

Andy (did I get the name right? Probably not. But he won’t correct me.) blinks behind his specs, his new suit both well-cut and ill-fitting on his thin frame.

A quick nod. “Yes, sir, we are. Right this way.”

We trudge down the corridor in the dark mass of suits. Like a pack of wilderbeast crossing the savanna, sun tickling tense jaws and watchful eyes.

Connally waits ahead, ready to greet me. He’s beaming: greying, smug, new to the job and thinking hisself a well-earned cowboy to fill those boots.

We’ll, let’s dance then, partner. Podna. My hand lunges forward, grabs Connally’s; we shake and smile like the old pals we most certainly are not.

“A hearty welcome, Mr. President!” he bellows (as much as you can bellow within our echelon of society). “Dallas is privileged to have you here on this beautiful day.”

“‘Tis kind of you to say so, Gov’nor.” I smile more and flash some teeth. Mac said it’s an expression of domination in the primal world. “It is, ah, an honor to be here.” A small slap on the shoulder, there: the tap dance of diplomacy. 

“I, ah, understood it’ll be a steak lunch, yes? Nothing like a Texan steak…” A quick wink. “…but don’t tell that to your esteemed colleagues in Arizona.”

Now Connally laughs; genuinely bellows it out this time. “Indeed, Mr. President, indeed! Shall we?”

“We shall.”

With the niceties spoken, we head for the cars. It was a moment well played. Actually, damn it to hell with that pissing problem! It’s probably nothing. I’m in Texas, the sun is shining, somewhere out there’s a steak lunch with my name on it, and the nation loves me. Life’s for living.

I have a good feeling about today.

That Feeling You Get

Posted on by under experimental, short stories, solemn

That primal feeling you get when you’re walking back to your bed from a nightly trip to the bathroom or the kitchen. Sure, you know that one. We all do.

You are a rational 21st century person who does not believe in supernatural terrors, who doesn’t check for monsters under the bed, who ain’t afraid of no ghost. And yet, you cannot help but slightly look over your shoulder. You cannot help but walk at a slightly funny angle so you could jump around more quickly to fend off that small sliver of hell that lurks in the dark corners of your eyes. That beast, that terror, that formless torment that you somehow know is coming at you any second now. 

I mean, you know there is no one and nothing there. Never has been, never will be. And you know, beyond any reasonable doubt, beyond any instinct stirring your soul, beyond any synapses silently misfiring in your brain. You know all of this.

And you also know that even if that nothing that lurks there would one day be a something that lurks there, it would in all likelihood be something wholly unmenacing. Something listless and undangerous. 

A timid little mouse. A faint breeze from a window left open. A feeble wraith, risen from a tepid well of some mundane malice. Casper the friendly fucking ghost.

And yet. 

In your mind, you know something else as well. You know against your better knowledge; you hold a conviction you cannot let go. Your lizard brain is screaming: it’s saying there’s a threat to your life and soul behind that slightly ajar door that you pass, that unseen and dark corner of the room that you must walk by. 

It is the night, there might even be others living with you in the building… and still you cannot shake that primal fear.

You know.

You know what I speak of. Don’t you, my friend?

DON’T LIE to me. You know goddamn well what I speak of.

Feast of All Hallows

Posted on by under artistic, non-rhyming, poetry, solemn

Industrial frights, smiled-through scares –

as if the night’s not dark enough as it is.

Boo, how scared are you?



Do we suffer so much

that we must 

quench our fear with laughter?

Trick or treat or have you ever wondered

how one day 

all of it will end?



I fear no puppets jumping out of boxes,

but the springs that coil inside us.

I fear no faces clad in plastic masks,

but what skulks that hidden shadow’s ring.

I fear no night that lay in October’s end,

but the terrors our new world brings.

Ignacio & Hammer

Posted on by under humorous, short stories

This was something I wrote years ago. (Well, the bulk of it and the basic setup; I’ve revised it abundantly before publication, as you do.) If memory serves, the first draft of this text came about sometime after I returned home from my international student exchange.

During my time abroad, I had no personal laundry machine in my room or a shared one in the dorm building. Thus, I made trips once or twice a week to the local self-service laundromat, located a short ways down the street. While I sat there waiting for the washing up and tumble-dryer to run their course, I took to reading the novel Catch-22 by Joseph Heller and cackling to myself as I did so.

I had acquired the book on one of my trips to town. On some lazy afternoon walk I had happened on a local bookstore where I saw the book in the English literature section. I vaguely remembered the novel’s and author’s name from some past literary overview or musing of mine, and took that as sufficient providence to buy the book.

As is probably apparent to anyone familiar with Catch-22, the novel’s style and sense of humor are basically what this text is all about. Saying I was “inspired” by Heller would be an understatement: I mostly do what I, within my limits, can to imitate him. So for what it’s worth, I suppose this is my Heller pastiche.

I don’t remember ever coming up with a proper title, just a working title or two that really didn’t fit or satisfy. So let’s just call it by its protagonists: Ignacio & Hammer.

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

Chaplain Ignacio found Colonel Hammer seated squarely behind his oak desk. Chaplain Ignacio’s desk, that is, not the Colonel’s.

“Sir”, Chaplain Ignacio startled as he opened his office door and the fact of Colonel’s presence became apparent in his still sleep-ridden brain (Chaplain Ignacio’s brain, that is, not the Colonel’s).

“Chaplain”, Colonel Hammer boomed. His crew-cut hair was standing at attention.

“Sir.”

Chaplain Ignacio was uncertain if it would be appropriate – and indeed, to the letter of the law – to sit on the visitor seat of his room. After all, Colonel Hammer had occupied his usual seat behind the oak desk. This was Chaplain Ignacio’s room but the awkward fact of Colonel Hammer being his superior made the situation, well, awkward. 

Chaplain Ignacio continued to hesitate and ponder protocol, fearing to take the fateful step into his office. Passing the threshold would necessitate more fateful decisions, such as another step, then another one, then another one, then… well, we all see where I’m going with this.

These steps would quickly amount to a walk, and the good Chaplain would then be forced into another decision: the direction of this walk. While technically all 360 of the degrees surrounding him were available, the direction would be nonsensical if taken in any directions except toward the visitor’s seat or his own seat behind the desk.

No, seatwards was the only direction.

Yet, with Colonel Hammer occupying the seat behind the desk, conflict on that front seemed both inevitable and imminent. That said, it was perhaps as things should be, the Chaplain mused. After all, where would conflict on the front be more appropriate a state of affairs than in the military?

He had no precedence for this manner of intrusion: foul-mannered yet completely legal (especially if one was to look at it from Colonel Hammer’s side of the court). As a superior officer, Colonel Hammer traditionally held the stronger case. Such is the military way: superior officers hold superior views by virtue of being superior officers.

It would hardly be of any use to be a superior officer if one’s view was inferior, Chaplain Ignacio mused silently to himself.

“Take a seat, whydontcha”, Colonel Hammer instructed with his low thunder of a voice. 

“Yessir”, Chaplain Ignacio spoke and ended his hesitation at the door with unvoiced gratitude. It was only 0630 hours and the Chaplain had thus far been denied his regular cup of morning java. As such, he felt ill-equipped to deal with the surprise of the Colonel awaiting him in his empty office (which the presence of the Colonel, technically speaking, made a not-empty office).

Chaplain Ignacio took a seat – whydontcha – on the visitor seat and waited Colonel Hammer to reveal what cruel trick of fate had bestowed him upon the Chaplain that morning. The Colonel produced a thick cigar holder from his breast pocket and from the thick cigar holder he proceeded on to produce a thick cigar.

“Do you mind if I smoke”, he bellowed. It was not a question and the Colonel produced a silvery lighter from his pocket and lit the cigar. An assaulting pulse of puffs began to emanate from his rhino-like frame.

“Sir”, Chaplain Ignacio coughed timidly.

“You do not like me smoking in your office, Chaplain.”

The Chaplain wavered. “Sir?”

“Yes or no, Chaplain.” Again, it was not a question.

“No sir.”

“No what?”

“Sir?” Chaplain Ignacio was lost at sea and not in the navy.

Thunder began to gather on the brows and behind the eyes of Colonel Hammer. “No as in ‘No, you don’t like me smoking in your office’ or no as in ‘No, I’m wrong and it’s alright for me to smoke in your office.’”

“Well, sir…” Dewy drops of sweat began racing on the Chaplain’s temple. “Sir, I meant the latter. Sir.”

Colonel Hammer’s eyes widened at the Chaplain’s audacity. “Are you saying I’m wrong, Chaplain? ‘Cause that implication damn well goes with the latter option.”

“I mean…”, the Chaplain stammered and saw his cushy career of consoling men about to die for lines on maps and decorated flags, flashing before his eyes. Colonel Hammer chose to rewind that tape, however.

“Never mind about that now”, he roared and waved his cigar-free hand in the grandiose gesture that many cultures associate with the expression “fuck it”. Ignacio had rarely felt such ease at someone giving his words the good ol’ fuck-all so suddenly. 

“I come to you this morning to seek council on a matter of great importance”, Colonel Hammer explained. “It’s to do with a new enemy in the field that I’ve no experience of… but they tell me you’re an expert on this one.”

Chaplain Ignacio felt dumb-founded. He had never been an expert on military blocs, allies or enemies. Chaplain Ignacio’s work, as he understood it, consisted of assuring men on his side of a line on a map about two basic things:

The first of these was more in tenor with what the Church had taught him: that all men are born good and it is fine to feel bad about killing other men since the Bible does actually say “thou shalt not kill”.

The second, and more to the military’s liking, was that it was actually equally fine to kill men on the other side of that line on the map since they were not born that good. And besides, maybe those other men hadn’t even read the Bible so they wouldn’t even have the good Christian decency to feel bad about killing us on this side of the line, and so on and so forth.

These were assuredly not esoteric truths lost to superior officers, Ignacio pondered. All this made him profoundly unsure of how he, a lowly Chaplain, could help the Colonel on this one.

“So I rest assured that you can help me on this one, Chaplain.”

“Yessir. I’d be glad to help if it’s in my power, sir.”

“You would not only be glad, you would be doing your patriotic duty”, Colonel Hammer corrected without missing a beat. “Now, this new enemy is on the lips of several of our men. I cannot do with that: talk of opposing forces levied against is bad for morale. So, Chaplain, tell me all you know about this ‘God’ that the men speak of! I want to hear all possible tactics we might use against him, strategic weaknesses, the lot.”

Chaplain Ignacio blinked. He briefly considered the option that Colonel Hammer might be joking on his expense and in quick fashion withdrew that suspicion away from out in the open. Even if the Colonel would be testing his sense of humor, the retaliation to an un-understood joke would likely be less devastating than a suggestion that the Colonel was making fun when in fact he wasn’t.

“Sir, God is…” Chaplain Ignacio was at a loss and not sure if Colonel Hammer was at a win. “God is a… force to be reckoned with, I would say. Sir.”

Colonel Hammer frowned. “Mmmyes, that is what I gather from the reverence the men seem to have when they speak of him.” He lifted his steely eyes to bore through the Chaplain. “And what is your experience with him, Chaplain?”

Chaplain Ignacio swallowed laboriously. He corrected his spectacles that did not really need correcting.

“Well, one could say that I encountered Him at a young age already”, the Chaplain offered meekly. “He is… well, with me at all times. As far as I understand. Sir.”

“At all times?!” the Colonel boomed, aghast. “What the damn hell are you saying? Does this ‘God’ have such a high level of intelligence among us?”

The Chaplain waved his hands on the edge of panic. If he couldn’t subdue the Colonel’s fury, this would once again lead to firing squad assembly. HQ would ultimately disallow any firing squads and declare them to have been merely “symbolic”. At which point, the Colonel would give a fiery speech to the troops to underline how indeed the “literally intended firing squads had just been fucking ‘sym-bolic’ and the HQ has not put these words that they just put in my mouth, in my mouth. Dismissed.”.

So that would just look bad at HQ again.

“Colonel, sir, you have to understand: God is… He does not have a level of intelligence among us. He just, ehm… you see, by definition, He is omnipresent, meaning He sees and hears everything. But, but it really is –“

“EVERYTHING?” The Colonel vacated the Chaplain’s office seat and headed to the door. “THERE IS SOMEONE WHO SEES AND HEARS E-VERY-THING ON THE BASE AND THIS IS THE FIRST I HEAR ABOUT IT!”

Colonel Hammer’s face contorted to that of an oncoming stroke patient as he rumbled down the corridor to begin the truest show of military force he could muster: procedures.

The uninitiated often think the army life is all about learning to kill and maim, but it’s really more about procedures: the troops eat, sleep and shit procedures. The higher the officer, the more inane and burdensome the procedures.

“I have rooted out spies before and make no mistake, Chaplain: I will root out this one!” the Colonel bellowed. “God is a threat to battalion security and he will be treated as such!”

Colonel Hammer poked his head to Private Poorman’s cubicle and let it rip.

“POORMAN!”

“Sir yessir”, Poorman mumbled without lifting his face from the papers he was working on.

“BEGIN PROCEDURES! ASSEMBLE A FIRING SQUAD! WRITE A REPORT! GET ME SOME DAMN COFFEE! I AM GOING TO FIND GOD AND HEAVEN HELP HIM WHEN I LAY MY HANDS ON THAT SPYING S.O.B.!”

“Sir yessir”, Poorman muttered. If he concentrated, he could almost hear Chaplain Ignacio once again quietly weeping in his office, at the visitor’s seat.

Mutiny in the Middle Class (Snowdens of Yesteryear)

Posted on by under poetry, rhyming, solemn

Did the brute of Neanderthal,
as he lay awake in dark of night,
pray for mighty mammoth’s fall
so he’d rise in ranks and be paid more
in higher rocks for higher walls?

Did he think, the Viking man,
as he plundered England’s shores,
of team cohesion, project plans
or the hurt his raids might do
to the image of the brand?

Did that Templar Knight of yore,
as the pilgrim road he trod,
heavy find his shield and sword
and fret if he’d make enough
revenue to please the Lord?

Where have the Snowdens of yesteryear gone?
Where’s that whistle which once was blowing?
Who stifled my protests, once sharp and shrill?
And where’s the hero I longed to be,
standing true on highest hill?

Such questions make poor company
to the weary and worn, little me;
and beyond my door they stalk, sickly and sore:
all my hounds, crying for war.

None the Wiser

Posted on by under non-rhyming, poetry, solemn

I wrote down your names on paper scraps

and still felt none the wiser.

Like a child, I wait

for the better day

they promised me.

.

The Future is a fever dream,

a majesty, the Sweet Supreme:

and we’ve endured in silence,

trudging heavenward

to salvage what we may.

.

If longing was water, I’d be the ocean

and each day is one closer

to the melting of the polar caps.