September Showers

The water is hot. It would burn if I cared. There is steam rising from me like the ghost of a phoenix.

I open my eyes and I am on a plane. I am flying to a place that I don't know and I am leaving a place that I have already forgotten. I am circling all around the sun. It is a beautiful dream. I am over the sea.

The water is hot. I close my eyes beneath its fury. My face is upright and I see nothing. I am blinded with eyes sealed shut. All I know is the feel of sweat as it runs from my brow and lingers lazily across my lips like so many saltwater kisses.

They leave the taste of tears.

I open my eyes and I am standing in a city. I lived here once or I live here now. There are faces in the distance and street signs that I cannot read. They are memories and things yet to come and their dance is sweet and awkward and the tune is Gershwin or something catchy that I find myself humming.

I am humming it now, backed by the sound of water on flesh. It is like a drum left alone in a rainstorm. I am alone in a rainstorm. My song swirls at my feet, dips the girl and is gone.

All drains lead to the sea.

I open my eyes and I am older than I care to be. My children are walking away from me on a concrete treadmill. In the snow. Uphill, both ways. They are fast forward. They have bags and children of their own and they have chains heavy upon them. I trust they make merry all the year.

I am slow motion.

The lights fade. The curtain falls. I catch myself falling upon the shower wall. I am holding it up. It is keeping me in. It is a portal to possibility. It is a door to hide behind. It is a lone tree in open fields that stretch forever. It is dark and the water is hot.

I open my eyes and I am home. My skin is raw and pink as I step from the steam. I am so fresh. I am so clean. Each breath is better than the last and I am as young as I will ever be.

The Road Also Rises

The man stood in his front yard. He was barefoot and it was late. The grass was cool and wet beneath his feet and the sky above him was clear and filled with stars.

In one hand he held a glass of wine and with the other he stroked the ear of a dog too old to stand.

The dog could no longer feel the cool, wet grass beneath her feet. She felt nothing where grass should be, but she could feel the man and she leaned against him accordingly. They stood there beneath the stars saying nothing in the night and being loved by one another.

And there was a song in the distance where a train should be.

The man stood in his front yard with the old dog against his side and he watched each passing car, willing it to turn down his street. The old dog could no longer see the cars but she could see the road and she knew how it could leave her lonesome.

The old dog stood against the man where her boy used to be and she felt the scratch of his fingers against her ear grown quiet. The man thought that the old dog was due for a bath.

Headlights turned onto the street and the old dog whimpered as the man lifted her up the stairs and placed her on her bed.

The man ran to the car now parked in the drive and his eyes met the woman's as they each lifted a sleeping child and carried them from the night. The old dog wagged her tail beneath a clear sky filled with stars as ankles passed her by. She fell asleep accordingly.

And there was a quiet in the distance where a song should be.

Never Thought I'd be on a Boat

I've had a song in my head for days. This happens. Sometimes I'm stuck on a Waits tune or I hang my hat on the perfect pitch of Miles 'round midnight. Other times it's the haunting chords of Jeff Buckley or the lonesome road beneath David Gray. I get lost in both kinds of music, country and western.

And sometimes I'm on a motherfucking boat. Yes, this boat is real.

The boat song, not to be confused with that Banana Boat Song or the theme to Love Boat, was floating on my deck for days. I couldn't get it out of my head. It's docked there now, just off a memory.

I'm riding on a dolphin, doing flips and shit
This dolphin's splashing, getting everybody all wet

It's like poetry.

And then I sunk my battleship.

It was gone, out with the tide.

Straight flowing on a boat on the deep blue sea.

That song had sailed.

Hours passed on dry land.

Then an unknown phone in an unknown pocket in an unknown part of town rang, and its melody was like the Siren's:

I'm on a boat, I'm on a boat
Everybody look at me
'Cause I'm sailing on a boat
I'm on a boat, I'm on a boat
Take a good hard look
At the motherfucking boat

Seriously? There are kids on this bus, man.

But it was back and there I was, sans flotation device, and I slowly felt myself drown.

I looked at the guy who had unknowingly relaunched the ringing of my soul, and he was all, "What?"

And I was like, "What?"

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that with one unanswered booty call he had undone minutes of therapy. With one ignored debt collection he had thrown me to the sharks. I wanted him to hold me.

I wanted to cut him with my iPhone app for cutting a bitch.

Instead I just gave him some stink-eye.

"Boat." I said.

And I meant it.

He backed the fuck up at that point. I let him drift. Bon voyage, motherfucker.

T-Pain carried me home.

My phone rang a few days later. It didn't play anything by The Lonely Island, but it did play something by Islands, because that's my ringer, and that was close enough to feel suddenly landlocked. My waters run deep.

It was the wife in another state in our other yard, and parked where it shouldn't be was an unknown boat. A boat.

"Take a good hard look at the motherfucking boat," I said.

"The boat is real," is how she should have replied. She didn't, but she knew what I was talking about so I forgave her.

"There's a boat," she continued, "in our yard."

"Tow that shit!" I yelled. My neighbors stopped pretending not to listen to me and gave me their full attention.

I put my hand over the phone and whispered into the street, "I've got a boat!"

"We'll get our towels ready!" they screamed as one WITHOUT EVEN MOVING THEIR LIPS!

"I think I'm hearing things," I said into the phone.

"Are you drunk already?" she asked.

"Already? Woman, it's Sunday and I'm sans family. There is no already, there's just is ready. And, still." I nodded at the neighbors. Someone in the back raised a fist into the sky. There may have been a beer in it.

"Whatever," she said. "What should I do about the boat?"

I was quiet for a moment. It was too much and my mind was doing a montage. I let it play. I owed it that much. In hindsight, the ascot may have been overkill.

"Hey," I whispered. "Is T-Pain there?"

"Um, no."

"Just checking."

"I think the boat is the neighbors," she added.

"Bastard."

I was reaching for my app without even realizing it.

"Did you at least get our water slide?" I asked.

"Yes, it's in the car," she replied. And then she said other stuff about something else(s).

I hung up the phone and looked past my sea of neighbors and their constant waves that crash until heeded. They could have been smooth as glass.

I almost had a boat. Then I didn't. Easy come? Yes. Easy go? Not so much. Still, I do have a water slide- a huge, awesome, double slide with a rock wall, tipping bucket, wadding pool and this thing which tells time. Also, it's inflatable.

Hey ma, if you could see me now
Arms spread wide on the starboard bow
Gonna fly this boat to the moon somehow
Like Kevin Garnett, anything is possible

Except it's not really a boat.

The water slide is real. And I'm on it.

Motherfucker.

Madness, Bubblegum and What It is I Do

For years people have been asking me what it is I do. The easy answer is what I don't do: Windows.

I'm a Mac.

Everything else? I'm on it.

Years ago I was fortunate enough to have a story published in a new magazine called Diagram. That same year the story was nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize. It didn't win, but nominated, honor, all that.

Over the past two years my partner at Limey/Yank Productions and I have been adapting the story into a screenplay. We've had some extremely favorable responses to it (and it's not even done). It's all networking.

At some point in the conversation about what it is that I do I find myself explaining this story. I try to tell people how it is narrated by someone of questionable morals, judgment and overall lack of trustworthiness. People assume it is based on me. It is not.

It is based on fiction. And to a lesser extent, me.

See, that's the lack of trustworthiness that I was talking about.

If you are so inclined, here is the intro from the story. For the record, the movie will be totally different.

If you are not so inclined then this post is pretty much over for you.

From Madness and Bubblegum:


I was seventeen the first time I saw a man die. It was Mrs. Banana's husband. Her name of course wasn't Mrs. Banana, but something else that I could never remember. It wasn't the same as her husband's, which was Franklin, Dr. Franklin, the dead guy. No, she was more independent than that and had kept her own name, or maybe she just made one up. I don't know really. So I called her Mrs. Banana due to her favorite outfit that she would wear at least twice a week. It was all yellow; cowboy hat, boots, belt, and jumpsuit. At first I thought it hilarious, then I started to think it rather sad, but by the time her husband died I just accepted it as the defining attribute of Mrs. Banana.

Of course she had other things, I guess you would call them quirks, that set her apart. She always wore a Walkman. It was red and white with a yellow cord that blended away on jumpsuit day. One day she came up behind me when I was talking to a guest and put the headphones on me. It was a tape of whales singing, or maybe they were screaming. I don't know really. That was what she listened to at all times, whales, not fish or waves, or foreign drumbeats, just whales. I told one of the other bellboys, Todd, about it and he said that I should call her Shamu instead of Mrs. Banana, so I tried, but it wasn't the same.

Now before I go any further on the nuances of Mrs. Banana let me say that she is not an important part of this story. She just happened to be married to Dr. Franklin, who was the first person I ever saw die, and since I know nothing of him I described her instead. It's all relative. I suppose that could make her a very important part of this story. I don't know really.

I should also tell you that my name is Lyle, this may or not be important to the story, but it is important to me. When Dr. Franklin died I was a bellboy at the nicest resort and golf club in Arizona. Now I am an ex-bellboy, recently fired from the nicest resort and golf club in Arizona. The resort and golf club is actually two entities, which of course are the resort, which is just a fancy hotel, and the golf club, which is just a fancy golf course, or maybe it is a fancy club, I don't know really. The point is that we had to deal with two types of people: rich hotel guests, and rich club members. Actually that's one type of person, rich. I should say that we dealt with two types of people, those we did know, and those that we didn't. Everybody knew Dr. Franklin.

I should say that Dr. Franklin knew everybody. I didn't know anything about him except that he was a plastic surgeon and his wife had a face as tight as a fist. Some said that he had actually created his wife out of plastic. Dr. Franklin on the other hand knew everything about me. He knew that I was a college man, that I enjoyed tennis and cricket, that I had lost my virginity to a whore in Mexico, and that my name was Larry. None of these things were true of course, but Dr. Franklin knew them, and he knew them about me. He knew similar things about Todd too.

The best Dr. Franklin ever looked was at his funeral. His hair was perfect. I don't know how they did it. He always had the worst hair due to the fact that he let his wife cut it. He told me once that there was nothing sexier than having your lover cut your hair. Those were the truest words he ever said to me. Of course when I was young I didn't have a lover, and now that I do I don't have any hair, but damn if it didn't sound nice.

Todd and I were able to go to the funeral by a stroke of luck. The entire resort and golf club staff had been invited to the private ceremony, but seeing as how we were just bellboys we lay pretty low in the pecking order of company fringes. About an hour before the service a guy came in for a job and we told him that he was hired. When we got back later in the day he was still there so I had him talk to the general manager about getting paid for it. The next morning when I got to work he was there again, except this time he was my boss. Seems he really was a college man, although I'm fairly sure he was still a virgin.

We needed a new boss, whose official title is that of concierge, due to the firing of our original one. It seems that he and Mrs. Banana were having an affair. I first became suspicious when the concierge, the first one, came in with the worst haircut that I had ever seen. He was a dandy , that guy, almost queer in fact, and his hair had never been out of place. Actually, I don't know that I ever saw it move at all.

So he comes in with this terrible haircut, which can happen to the best of us, but he was happy. I had never seen someone with such bad hair be so full of happiness, except Don King, but he's rich. Of course I would be that happy now if I had any hair, bad cut or not, but that's different. Anyway, the concierge, Franz, comes in and asks me what I think about whales. I told him that they had lovely voices, causing him to just stare at me in wonder. That was when I put it all together. He was in love with Mrs. Banana.

When I told Todd he said that he had known it all along. He said that the summer prior he had caught Franz masturbating in the pool-house while Mrs. Banana lay out in her yellow bikini. She had a great body, still does in fact. Franz begged Todd not to tell, and he didn't, which explained why Todd hadn't worked a bad shift in months. The thing was that Todd was positive that Mrs. Banana could see Franz the whole time as she lay there sipping piña coladas and listing to whales.

It had never occurred to me that she was the cheating type, but apparently she was. Shortly after the haircut word spread through the resort and golf club, and before long it got to the doctor.

Now remember, all of this happened in one day, starting with the haircut and ending with a possessed Dr. Franklin coming through the door. He confronted Franz, who cowered into near disappearance as only a concierge can do. This was not good enough for Dr. Franklin who decided to take the situation up a notch by grabbing the computer monitor off of the desk and hoisting it over his head while yelling at Franz and stumbling over its cord for balance. Before anyone knew what was happening he caught his foot on the edge of the lobby fountain and fell back into it with the monitor in his lap.

They say that he was electrocuted at the exact same time that his skull cracked against the marble statue of a golf ball that sat atop the water. They say he died instantly, but it looked like it took a long time to me.

It was that day, the day that he died, that Mrs. Banana became Mrs. Black. She started wearing it all the time, not just once or twice a week like the jumpsuit, but every day. Even her Walkman was black now. So I never referred to her as Mrs. Banana again, or Shamu for that matter. The funny thing is that Mrs. Black is her real name. I think they call that irony, but I don't know really.

I also don't know why I started with this story, other than I just wanted you to be aware that I know things about death and madness.


The entire story can be found at Diagram and soon in a theater near you.

And Scene

This is where I stand at the window and watch the rain against the twilight. There is a cup of coffee in my hand and a world in my reflection. There are layers involved.

This is where I'm standing in the kitchen and the loneliness echoes against the silence. I'm standing at the stove, eating leftovers from a frying pan.

Cut. I'm at the sink and I'm rinsing the mug and setting it aside for my next cup of coffee.

I go with a beer instead.

About here you start to sense that this a montage. You should read it in slow motion.

This is where I'm standing in the street, about an hour before the sun started to set and the rain was but a drizzle. I'm playing with the order of things. See me hugging my children and putting them in a car that is driving away for what feels like forever. Pan out as the car fades along long and winding roads. I am the small movement in the bottom corner, walking away and looking like an ant from here. My back is heavy with memories. My fingers are running through my hair. The moment is fairly dramatic. There is talk of an Oscar.

Flip to the other side of the car left running and see a boy peeing into the street just moments before a long road trip without his father. This is put in to balance the previous scene. Even melancholy enjoys a good laugh.

See time pass. This is done mostly with lighting and shadows. Also, a clock with the hands moving quickly. There are long hours and little sleep and the chilling confines of unlimited possibility. The TV is on. It is off. The mug is full. It is empty. It is resting against the bottom of my lip and steam is rising from it.

The rain goes on and it comforts me. Maybe I spin in it with my head back, laughing madly and smiling skyward. Maybe I walk through it with a face unshaven and eyes heavy with whiskey. Maybe walk is a strong word.

The last scene is a bed covered in dogs and a man sleeping on the edge as is his custom. The ceiling fan is slowly turning. It is the dance of the wallflower, but it is a dance nonetheless.

This is where you jump out of your seat and try to beat the traffic.

A Promise Kept - Poems for Kids

Some time ago, back before I didn't post FOREVER I made a promise. Granted that promise was to this blog in general and none of the readers seemed very interested. Or not interested at all, actually, but hey, it's my blog and I'm a man of my word.

If you don't like bad poetry you should leave now.

I give you my poems for kids (as promised):


THE BELLY HOLE

On my belly
just left of the mole,
where other kids have buttons
I only have a hole.

I tried hiding it with scotch tape,
it tore off all my skin.
I stuffed it full of cotton,
but the swabs would not stay in.

I planted a flower in it
to see if it would grow,
I filled it up with catnip,
and Fluffy's front right toe.

I asked my mom to sew on
a button from my jacket,
I tried to stitch it shut
with some string from my racket.

I plugged it with a cork
my stomach got real numb,
so I poked it with a fork
I poked it with my thumb.

Of all the things I tried,
none could be hipper,
than my solid-steel, gold plated
new belly zipper.



HICCUP STYLE

Daddy says I’ve got hiccup style,
says I’ve been burpin’ for quite a while.
He could pat me on the back,
or I could breathe into a sack,
but he says the beat is good,
and if I practice it I could
be a professional hiccupee
as long as no one’s scaring me.



SNOWBALLS AND UNDERPANTS

Ice and cold
Between the fold
Of my cotton undies.
Throwing snow
I did not know
Could be so not so fundies.

When I was just the arm
Then I thought there was no harm
In practicing my aim.
Until someone shouted “fire”
Then I decided to retire
And the target I became.

If only I did duck
Instead of being struck
My bottom would be dry.
As it is my rear is wet
I can only imagine the playground bet
If I’m a briefs or boxers guy.



ROCK YOU

In still and quiet night,
Your eyes are shutting tight
Soon your lips will smile
I will rock you for a while

Hold me in embrace,
Feel my cheek upon your face
The wet is only tears
I will rock away your fears

Through stars, sun or rain
By buggy, boat or distant train
It is as peaceful as it seems
I am rocking you to dreams

Meet the ones you missed,
Remember those you kissed
Through clouds and rivers deep
I am rocking you to sleep.



THE SECOND COMING

I’m going to be a dad...again
and still. Still I am a dad.
It will be new because it is you
and you have undeserved
shadows already cast over you
and boots to fill
but I have faith in you
though we haven’t
been properly introduced.

You are number two.
That is just a matter of chance.
It is chronological.
It is not a ranking.
Although your big brother
is about the coolest,
and you are luckier at this point
because you have things
that he never did-
like him for instance.

Come out smiling
and be welcomed.
Come out knowing
how fortune feels
and know that love
is the most important
currency that I carry.



HOTFOOT

My sister got a blister
on the bottom of her foot,
it's there cuz'a my fault
I pushed her in the soot.
I thought it might be funny,
'til she started cryin',
she screamed about them hot coals,
I swore that she was lyin'.
And so with my bare foot
I stepped into that soot,
and sure enough, them coals were hot,
and on my foot I also got
a big raw burnin' blister . . . .
a lot like the one I got for my sister.



DINOSAUR SONG

If dinosaurs sang a song
I wonder how it'd sound.
It would probably be like thunder
over rain that's pouring down.
Or maybe like a choo-choo train
rolling fast along the tracks,
or like a dozen snoring grandpas
asleep upon their backs.

Could it be like a drummer's beat
that leads an army of marching feet?
Or like a pack of howling wolves?
Stampeding cattle with a thousand hooves?
I suppose it could be any of these,
but what if dinosaurs were quiet as bees?

What if they sang like the evening wind
blowing softly, cool, and nice?
Or like a tiny mouse with friends?
Oh, I guess that would be mice.

About the only way I'll ever know
is to buy a dinosaur radio...
but I'm broke.



Promise kept.

I Brood and I'm Dangerous

There's a new picture of me over at MamaPop. It was taken by my DadCentric partner in crime Ryan of the Pacing the Panic Room Ryans - Florida chapter. I've been told that this is a good photo of me.

For instance, here's a conversation I had about it with Bossman Bing just last night. Note, most of this didn't actually happen.

Sweetney: It's a good photo of you.

Me: I'm smiling. I don't smile.

Sweetney: You're grinning. It's devilish.

Me: Grinning like I'll cut a bitch?

Sweetney: Don't you have work to do?

Me: Tell me a story.

Sweetney: Goodbye.

Me: Follow me on Twitter!

Sweetney:

See? She thought the picture of me was the greatest picture ever. That may be true, because the picture itself is good. Great even. It's the goofy bastard in it that is messing it up. The fact that Ryan was able to salvage anything out of that shoot just goes to show that Leibovitz can suck it.

Basically, Ryan is the shit.

The thing is, I've got an image and as such I felt that I needed to post pictures of me to support it. I don't smile. I don't have fun. I'm deep and drink whiskey and I stare into the night sky while pondering deep stuff, mostly about whiskey.

Look, this is how I really look when I'm being all artsy and occasionally fartsy:







I don't smile. Unless Ryan asks nicely. Don't make me cut you.

Damn Kids and the Light of Day

One had an accident. One had on purpose. The old dog craps on the floor before she even knows what happened. My eyes are sinking into dark, black bags.

There is madness in the rhythm and a rhythm to the madness. I wouldn't recommend dancing to it. It will cut a bitch. But it has a good beat.

Such is life that is lived around me.

Sometimes the truest photos are those you throw away.

Sometimes I drop nonsense and pass it as knowledge.

Days are filled with screams and laughter and the running where running is not allowed but really, who the fuck cares? Run, rabbits, run. Don't listen to your old man that has forgotten what makes you perfect. Every morning I am one more day away from remembering what you feel. You are wiser than I will ever be.

Today is Monday and that means nothing to you. The same games and mischief that you left in the hallway will greet you there. Sunday was just the day with the paper. Monday is an extra cup of coffee raised in the distance - a machine that you recognize by the back of my head.

Play your games and tip-toe past me. I'll call you on your shit. I am a stereotype. Smile when you are up to something, I'll likely go easy on you.

Monday is but a second of screen time, but that doesn't make it any less important.

Be yourself. Act. Don't let the credits stop you. Sometimes there are out-takes at the end and that just might be the part that really hits home.

And the Stars Look Very Different Today

If you were to float in space with your head tilted back and your arms spread wide you would spin somewhat slowly. And stars would rain down upon you.

The stars would slice right through you and your body would be filled with burning bourn after bourn of life that like liquid lingers . Then you would heal and you would turn again. Always turning. Of course this would take time.

I think of this body covered in deep tunnels from stars burning bright and paths slightly unwavering and I can see through it to those that have gone before and in a moment again at those still to come.

These stars are the people that impact upon you. Why their bodies aren't floating in this analogy I don't know, but they are stars here and they spark like fire and they shoot through your life within indeterminate distances of your heart. Somewhere else you are burning likewise through them.

They enter you and they leave you and if you're lucky some small part of them stays with you. Always.

My uncle died today. His path burned straight through my chest and his star has gone to places that he believed in. I am turning slowly and I am watching him go.

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

Uncle Dunc was 91 and he had the handshake of an honest man. He leaves more than family behind. He will be missed.

They Shoot Raccoons, Don't They?

This past week was the hottest of my life- and I'm from Tucson. I suppose the main difference is that in Tucson we had some sort of cooling system, whereas in Seattle we have a faucet and a ceiling fan. Hence me spending my nights on the back deck alone in my underwear but for a bottle of something, some gaudy lighting and the whispered sounds of Lady Holiday. Also, Chet Baker. Jazz sounds good in the dark and the heat. It compliments the whiskey.

I sat there and felt inspired. I wasn't sure what I took with me from BlogHer other than a deeper knowledge of social dramas and a pocketful of drink tickets, but apparently it gave me my second wind, which at this point is technically my 57th. I've been doing this a long time, and sometimes not at all. Point? The creative juices were flowing. Again. Finally.

So I would sit and write and sweat and drink until it was time for my neighbor to get up and then I'd gather the tools of my trade and head off to bed. My neighbor has no desire to see me in my underwear. This has been made clear again and again. His loss.

Yet, there is an audience around me. My deck is a stage built within an amphitheater of cherry trees and blackberry bushes. I am on display. I am nature's peepshow. I am naked and vulnerable. And my stage is nightly rushed.

The sounds always give them away. Against the smokey sound of trumpets there is a step out of rhythm. Against the soft knock of ice on ice there comes a scratch against wooden planks. Against the sighs of my heated breath lie the sniffs of danger in the air.

The masks don't hide their identity. In fact, they give them away. They are bigger than I am comfortable with and they have no fear of me. Men drinking whiskey in the dark against a background of jazz are far less dangerous than you would think. We are committed to the written word and matters of the heart. Ours is not the shooing of beasts or conquests over them. However, ours will smack said beast across its little masked face with a MacBook Pro should necessity dictate. Poets are not pussies.

They enter one at a time, but anyone can tell that they are together. It is obvious in the way he looks at her. It is obvious in the way she looks through the night and into his heart. Masks cannot mask passion. Theirs is a dance beneath steamy jazz and the give and take of cherry trees. They do not fear me. They only fear smells that carry upon the air and the sounds that neither of us make. We are together on this. It could be a deer or a fox or a cougar or a bear. I have no patience for predators and I watch my guests carefully. If they run I stand ready. If they sit and ponder the moon I sip my drink and follow suit. If they walk around the cats of indifference for their nightly snack of biscuits flavored with liver and tuna then I turn my gaze back upon the words beneath me- the words that will never be done and the memories constantly growing.

There are prizes dangling before us all. There are trophies and carrots on string and the idea of a book finally finished or food left unattended by finicky cats. There are obstacles all around. There is danger in the cherry trees and creative juices no longer flowing. Perhaps your El Guapo happens to be the actual El Guapo. We all die like dogs.

A few weeks ago the boys found a dead raccoon on a shady sidewalk. They did not fear it or poke it with stick. They paid their respects and pondered the possibilities. They accepted death as part of the journey and kept moving forward, making my book all the longer and the night that much quieter. They smiled softly and they walked slowly.

And somewhere beneath a swaying cherry tree there is a mask wet from tears and the haunting echoes of a trumpet shouting memories across the universe. The day may be for seizing, but the night is for nothing, just blank pages and empty dance cards. Nothing is ours for the making.