Friday, December 30, 2011

A Cat Named Cool

He sat in the back of a smokey bar
With a dry martini and a cheap cigar.


He don't speak and he don't smile
He sits and he drinks and he smokes awhile

Not your friendly neighborhood Joe
He's like Jack Kerouac meets Vincent Van Gogh


People stop and pay their dues
To this Bad mother fucker in wing tip shoes

The Excuse

When I got home from school yesterday

I wanted something to drink.

I found a penguin in the freezer

And a turtle in the sink.



This can’t be for real, I thought

Someone’s messing with my head.

I saw a boa in my bath tub

And an alligator in my bed.



My house was all in shambles

My room was all a mess

There was even a gorilla

Wearing my mother’s Sunday dress.



I simply couldn’t believe it,

While I was away at school,

Giraffes were playing basketball

And there were zebras in the pool.



I tried to call the police.

I even called the Pound.

What was I supposed to do,

With all those animals runnin’ ‘round?



Koalas were in the cabinets

And Llamas on the lawn.

A Python in the pantry,

The list goes on and on.



So, teacher please believe me

‘cause all of this is true

I couldn’t do my homework

MY HOUSE WAS LIKE A ZOO!

Is there such a thing as destiny?

Is there such a thing as destiny?

Is there a purpose to this life?

Is there more to all of this,

Than heartache, pain, and strife?



I never felt I had a calling.

I never really felt the need for prayer.

I don’t place much faith in something

If I can’t tell it’s there.



If there is a higher power,

A God, great and divine

Then show me what you want from me

Give to me a sign.



Make it large and bold.

Make it something I can’t miss

Because there has to be something

More to life than this.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

You Have a Choice

I had a chance to help a cockroach.  It was on its back kicking its many legs wildly in the air.  It spun in circles, first clockwise then counter-clockwise.  Helpless and alone, its tiny head was pointing toward the hard yellow plated belly of his armor."HELP MEEE!" I imagined it cry like Jeff Goldbloom.  But what good would that do.  It would probably find its way in to my house, lay eggs, and breed hundreds upon hundreds of other roaches to devour my crumbs and give me the creeps.  It was ugly and insignificant.  So I crushed it under my shoe.  It's better off this way I thought, for both of us.
           I had a chance to make a friend.  He had messy hair and thick glasses, and his clothes were ten years past their prime.  He was awkward and weird and wore Velcro shoes.  He was a nice guy, pleasant and kind.  He held the door for me as I entered the store, even though I was twenty yards behind him.  I never said thank you but he was still polite.  A little later while shopping I entered the elevator to go upstairs the door began to close when the man shouted "Could you hold that please?" but I just looked at him, and let the doors close.  He was ugly and insignificant.  And he probably smelled.  It's better off this way I thought, for both of us.
            I had a chance to teach someone.  What a terrific thought.  The young man across the street was in his mid-teens.  He was working on a car to drive around.  It was an older model Ford sedan, faded blue with a busted tail light.  It had dings and dents all over it.  It was up on jack stands with the front wheels removed.  The boy was wrestling with the brake pads and rotors.  I've been there many times before.  He didn't look too confident in what he was doing and he was swearing like a Toledo truck driver.  I was going to offer my assistance but the car was ugly and insignificant.  And it probably wouldn't start anyway.  So I decided to be on my way, its better off this way I thought, for both of us.
              I had a chance to make a difference in the world, a chance to do something good.  But I was ugly and insignificant and I passed up that chance.  And no one was better off because of it.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Ordinary Things



The same sun rises
The same time each day.
  I see the same people
Do things the same way.

I need something different.
I need something brand new.
I need to find something
That’s different to do.

Love Poem # 7

The first time that I met you the sun began to rise.
For the first time in my life, I opened up my eyes.
A world opened up, a world I never knew.
A world that was perfect where only beauty grew.
You are my heart and my passion.
My sun, or so to speak.
You hardened what was soft
And strengthened what was weak.
I yearn to kiss your soft sweet lips and touch your skin to mine.
I want to wrap my arms around you and feel our hearts combine.

Freshness in a Cup

It's warm outside

I sip my coffee

I light a cigarette

Puff, blow, sip, stare

I love the calm of morning air.

The sun's dawning

Making tree leaves glow

Brilliant, fresh with dew

Yellows, greens, reds, blues

I'll make this day anyway I choose

Not Again

It creeps in slow
Flowing like used motor oil
Over the edge it drips
Globbing, pooling around my feet.
The dark puddles grow
Seeping through to the soil
I can see her lips
Dark. Blue like frozen meat

Gutting Fish

Near the open door
Behind a small end table
Lay the knife
I killed them with.


The rug was soaked
It was covered with dark
Stained matter.
The bodies lay in heaps.

The way they died,
Blood pouring from their wounds.
I sat and watched them stop moving
It was quicker than I thought

I smoked a while
As I sat there.
I thought about
What I had done

I could see the intestines
Bulging from one side of the small one.
The young ones are always the toughest.
But it had to be done.

Haiku

We are all guilty
Of the horror we have made
Of the lives we live

Friday, December 9, 2011

Amy's Song

She cries in the morning,

Uncontrollably, and without warning.

Like an animal in a tiny cage,

She has no answer for her violent rage.

She wants no handouts, but cheats and steals.

Hiding away the pain she feels

She walks the streets and looks around.

Scanning and searching on the ground

For pocket change we throw away

But it will help her through her day

Living live from fix to fix

Earning smack for turning tricks.

“Just one more shot and then I quit.”

But she really can’t live up to it.

She sits and she straps her arm

These track mark mean more pain than harm

Eager with a childish grin

Burning dope inside a tin.

Her high comes almost with no warning

But still she cries in the morning.

Untitled #1

The sound of a dog barking from a near-by yard was the first thing he noticed.  Even before he could open his eyes the rhythm of the barking beat against his temporal lobes.  Struggling against the breaking sunlight he opened his eyelids and regained his senses.  The dawn climbed to a point in the sky that washed him light.  The dew on the grass was still wet and loose blades clung to his right cheek like green and tan confetti.  He pushed his body up and sat cross-legged on the lawn.  He sighed and blinked his eyes awake before expressing a large wad of phlegm from his throat.  His mouth was pasty and his tongue was a piece of old leather.  A sharp pain shot up his spine to his neck.  He leaned to one side and dug a half exposed, quarter-size stone from the ground beneath his left buttock.  He looked around still holding the stone in his palm.  He was seated in a bean shaped patch of grass in the backyard of a suburban home.  A handful of beer bottles and cans rested like drunken frat boys, motionless on the lawn.  A small tabby cat lapped at the mouth opening of a translucent brown bottle, pawing it gently trying to spill the last remaining sample of stale malted barley. 
He threw the stone toward the feline, but it fled a moment before the stone struck the bottle, splitting in two.  A lawn mower roared to life somewhere nearby.  The sky above him was clean and blue and he felt strangely at peace.  The squeal and rumble of a sliding glass door broke him from his thoughts.  He glared, wide-eyed in the direction of the patio.  The rear door of the house was not visible from his spot on the grass. He had no way of knowing what was coming his way.  He was frozen from panic. His mind was not in control of his body.
   Two small feet in tiny pink socks stepped to the edge of the concrete patio.  A little girl with smooth olive skin stood staring at him. Their eyes locked and he was paralyzed.  Fear filled him, but the girl showed no sign she was scared.  He watched her as she watched him.  Her black hair was parted neatly down the center of her scalp and drawn up in tight little pig-tails, braided and perfect.  She wore a two piece pajama, printed with small pink, purple, and white hearts.  She stared for several minutes.
            “What happened to your face?” she asked in a small voice, breaking the silence. He sat dumb-founded at the young girl’s question.
            “Ana?” a woman’s voice echoed, the girl turn to look behind her. “What are you doing out there, Mija? Are you talking to the neighbor’s cat again?”
            “No, Mommy.”
            “C’mon, Honey, come inside. You can’t play out here until your father cleans up his mess.” The woman stepped into view and scanned the yard slowly.  The woman looked around at the mess of bottles and cans and sighed.   The woman didn’t even know he was there.  She redirected the girl back into the house. The girl look looked back at him briefly before stepping out of view.  Her little lips mouthed the words ‘bye, bye’ and then she was gone.
            He was alone again, on the grass under the clean sea of summer.  The girl’s question still resonated in his ears. ‘What’s happened to your face? your face, your face, your face’.  It was a chilling echo.  He mustered enough strength to crawl to a nearby window and peered into the glass at his reflection.  A monster looked back at him. The flesh that was visible was blistered and pink.  His left ear was missing and the meat on the left half of his face was melted away exposing large portions of his skull. The zygomatic, maxilla, and mandible bones were charred and covered in black flaky soot.  Where his left eye had been, a dark cavernous pit took its place of and most of his hair was gone.  As he looked at the grotesque figure reflected in the window, the smell of burning flesh flooded his nose and the taste of blood washed over his leathery tongue.  The lawn mower sound morphed seamlessly into a chorus of screams.  He could suddenly feel an intense heat cover him like a blanket.  The house and yard stared to fade and he collapsed beneath the window.  He felt his consciousness slipping into black.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Something Great

Rays of light burst brightly through the tiny spaces in the window blinds. I sat on the edge of the pink tweed chair in the corner of the hospital room. I watched my wife nod in and out of consciousness while the medication worked through her system. I was hours away from seeing my son for the first time. I was fighting back angst, and trying to keep my lunch from making a return trip up my esophagus. My nerves were buzzing and my muscles tightened uncontrollably. It had been a strange journey through nine months of mood swings, and late night fast-food runs. It all culminated to this moment, I was about to be someone's father.

Periodically nurses charged in and out of the room checking machinery, and charts. They adjusted equipment and saw to my wife's every concern. I watch wide-eyed as they hooked up a couple of sensors that began reading and recoding the baby's heart rate. I felt my pride well up within me when I was finally able to hear the gentle thumping of his tiny heart. I began to understand the meaning of unconditional love. I knew it would not be long before we would meet.

The daylight faded from the window blinds and time seemed to melt away. Hours flowed like minutes. Finally the doctor said the time had come to deliver my son to me. The room jumped with excitement as nurses bounced from cabinet to cabinet searching for this and that. Preparations were ready and the doctor was tied into his paper gown with latex gloves pulled to his elbows. I steadied myself next to my wife to coach her through this miracle. The doctor and nurses stared intently at the monitor looking for a sign of the next contraction. The doctor counted down. The next contraction came to its peak and he told her to push. She held my hand and I tried as best I could to coach her through. As she squeezed down on her abdomen, she squeezed my hand as well. I watched with enthusiasm as my son's head began to crown. That was the first glimpse I had of my baby boy. The doctor told her to relax and prepare for the next round. I felt the emotion swelling inside. I had my wife practice her controlled breathing and we prepared for another contraction.

Push after push I watched as my son came into this world. Finally the doctor said one more time should do it. When the contraction came she pushed with all her might. A split second later the doctor held a tiny child in his hands. My tension in my neck and shoulders broke loose when I heard his cry. My son was finally here. Nurses rushed to clean him. The doctor handed me a set of surgical shears and asked if I would like to cut the cord. I took the stainless steel snips from him as he directed me where to cut. I cut effortlessly through the cord. I walked with the nurse as she weighed and measured him. My son was finally here.

The Brad Chapter

This is a full chapter from a much larger piece of work, The title is a working title.  This is it still a work in progress. Enjoy:


The rain had been falling steadily for hours. It finally let up and the grey skies began to separate, revealing a brilliant blue. A semi-frantic knocking rattled the screen to the front door of our house. Our house was a four bedroom ranch-style home in a quiet sub-division in the desert out skirts of Phoenix. The neighborhood was isolated and surrounded on three sides by the vast and expansive sonoran landscape. It was primarily populated with military families from the nearby Air Force base.

I answered the door. Brad was standing there panting. Out of breath he managed to say, “Let’s . . . go. . ."

“Go where?” I questioned.

“Just . . . hurry . . . up.” He panted back. I quickly put on my shoes, grabbed my jacket and ran out the door, shouting as I left, “Bye, Mom. Be back later.” The screen door rattled shut and Brad and I ran off.

We ran into the desert. It was difficult to keep up with Brad. His excited energy kept him several large paces ahead of me. He waved his arms coaxing me to move faster. The neighborhood sank further and further toward the horizon behind us. We came up a hill to find Stewart waiting for us. He stood there with a wheel barrel filled with gardening tool. Three shovels, a hoe, a pick axe, and a steel rake were piled neatly in the steel bowl of the wheel barrel.

Stewart, Brad and I were all in the same 6th grade class at Sun Meadow Elementary School. Stewart and I both came from military families, both of our fathers worked at the base. Brad’s family was not involved in the military. Brad’s parents were divorced and he lived with his grandparents along with his mom and little sister. Brad rarely talked about his dad. A few weekends a year he would go visit him, and that is all we really knew. Brad and I had been friends since we could remember. Stewart’s family moved into the house next door to Brad’s grandparents and the three of us became fast friends.

“What’s all this for?” I asked

“We are going to build a fort.” Brad and Stewart said in unison.

The recent rain had softened the hard caliche soil. People constantly dumped truck loads of yard clippings and other trash in the desert around our sub-division, old boards and other scraped building materials were always strewn about. This made fort building easy for three 12 year old boys. We traded turns digging and moving soil. When one of us got tired he could stop digging and go look for boards, old lumbar, or just about anything that could be used as walls and roofing material. Within a few short hours we had dug a 10 foot by 12 foot square hole, 3 feet deep. It was decided that would be sufficient for a partially submerged fort. We added several arms to the hole to act as entry ways and escape hatches.

We continued to work on the fort for the rest of the weekend and through the next week. After school we would spend the last few remaining hours of sunlight constructing and modifying the fort. By the next Saturday morning we were done. It looked like a ram-shackled third world dwelling, but to us it was the Taj Mahal of desert forts. Brad, Stewart, and I stood outside the entry porthole admiring our craftsmanship. “Come on I got just the thing to celebrate.” Brad said as he lifted the plywood hatch and climbed into the fort. Stewart looked at me and shrugged his shoulders, then followed Brad inside. As I crawled into the large room that made up the interior of our fortress, Brad was unzipping his jacket. Tumbling to the floor was half a pack of cigarettes, two small bottles of whisky, and an out of date copy of Playboy magazine. “I took this shit from my granddad.” Brad told us, pulling a lighter from the front pocket of his jeans. I didn’t have any experience with the things lying in a pile on the dirt floor. I had never seen a naked woman before, let alone smoked a cigarette or tasted alcohol. We all took a cigarette from the pack and began smoking. We passed the liquor and the nudie mag between us. The liquor was gone quickly but the cigarettes burned slowly. Every time Brad would look at a girl in the magazine he would turn it around to show us saying “Look at the tits on her!” or “Check out the bush on this one!” Each girl in the magazine was more beautiful than the last. The way Brad spoke about the women in the pictures wasn’t like the normal Brad we knew. He was different and we weren’t sure why. Brad turned the page, “Eww! Gross! Look at this hairy nigger.” He said disgusted, “No one wants to look at her monkey ass.” He ripped the page out of the magazine and wadded it into a ball. Stewart and I both awkwardly laughed, we didn’t really know what he was talking about. I had never heard anyone refer to another person as a monkey, except when my mom would tell my brothers and me to stop monkeyin’ around. Then Brad took the lighter and set the wadded page on fire.

We continued to pass around the magazine looking at the beautiful woman and admiring their flawless bodies. When Brad’s next turn to look came around he turned the page to a gorgeous blonde with ruby lips and large breasts. “GEE-ZUS-CHRIST! I bet this is what Valerie Shelton is gonna look like in a few years.” He said. Valerie Shelton was a pretty little blonde girl in our class. She was the first girl in our grade to start to develop and everybody had a crush on her.

“MAN! Those tits are the nicest I’ve ever seen” he continued, “If you guys could make out with any girl at school, other than Valerie, who would it be?”

“Oh man! I wanna make it with Amy Ingles.” Stewart broke in.

“Gross dude, she’s a chubb-o.” Brad teased.

“Fuck you, Brad, I like her, she’s nice.” Stewart fired back.

“Chill out dude, I’m only bustin’ yer balls, she’s cute enough I guess. What about you Derek? Who do you wanna swap spit with?”

I thought a moment, “I kinda like Amber Casitas.” I said finally. Amber was Valerie’s quiet, half-Hispanic side kick. She had long, silky black hair and beautiful olive brown skin.

“Damn, Derek. I didn’t know you like the dark meat. You shoulda said something I woulda let you keep that picture of the monkey woman.” Brad laughed.


“Yer an asshole.” I told him. He laughed a little harder. “What dogface would you make out with?” I questioned him and his taste in women.

“Miss Applewhite.” He said without missing a beat.

“She is HOT!” Stewart laughed.

“She’s a teacher dipshit, she doesn’t count.” I protested.

“The hell she doesn’t, I said what girl in our grade, since she is our teacher, she counts.” Brad stated proudly. He mused at how he liked women, not girls. That was more like the Brad I knew, he always had to do one better. If I thought a girl was cute, he had seen hotter. If I thought a car was cool, the one he liked was cooler. So it didn’t surprise me that Brad would rather make out with our teacher then any girl in class.

By the time summer hit, the fort was our regular hang out. Stewart stole a couple of extra packs of cigarettes from his parents and stashed them in the fort before his family left for an extended camping trip. Brad was also leaving to spend a few weeks with his dad. For the next month or so I was going to be by myself. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but at least I had a few cigarettes and the nudie mag to bide my time.

As the fourth of July approached I began to count the hours until Stewart returned home. They were due back that holiday weekend and as far as I was concerned it was worse than waiting for Christmas morning. I realized that summer that I hated being alone. I also realized that, even for a twelve year old boy, there was such a thing at too much masturbation.

The Wednesday before the big holiday, I went to the fort to puff a cigarette. Supply was running low and with Stewart and Brad gone, I was limiting myself to half a cigarette at a time to make them last. I was shocked to find Brad inside the fort smoking a cigarette. He was sitting with his back against the far side wall. His hands propped on his knees. There was a small pile of used cigarette butts between his feet. He said nothing as I crawled in. I could tell he had been crying. He was beaten up pretty bad. Both eyes were blackened. His left one was swollen shut and a kind of deep purple color that made my stomach turn. His nose was crusted over with blood and he had scrapes and bruises from head to toe. His right forearm was wrapped in a store bought gauze bandage and a quarter sized circle of blood and puss began to seep through. “Holy Shit! What happened to you?” I asked in disbelief. Brad didn’t answer; he stared off into nothing and took another drag from his cigarette. “Are you ok?” I rephrased the question. After a short delay he answered, “My granddad beat me up.” He didn’t look at me. He just talked, staring straight ahead.

“What? Did you call the cops?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“No,” he paused.

“Did you go to the hospital?” I continued to ask. He just scoffed and shook his head no.
“You don’t do shit like that in granddad’s house,” He said, “You take your punishment like a man.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“He burned me with a cigar.”

I said nothing after that. I sat silently next to him and we shared the last two cigarettes stashed in the fort. Neither of us talked.

“Fuck him.” Brad said, finally.

“Yeah, fuck him.” I repeated. I looked over at Brad and saw a tear roll out from his right eye. He turned his head a looked back at me. Before I could even think to move, Brad kissed me on my mouth. I jumped up. I was taken completely off guard.

“Whoa! What the fuck are you doing?” I stood there in complete shock. I could taste the blood and cigarettes from Brad’s mouth. I looked at him in disgust and left as quickly as I could. When the plywood hatch slammed shut behind me I could hear Brad sobbing inside.

Making my way back home I tried to make sense of everything that had happened. I didn't hang out with Brad after that. Weeks later, Stewart said he saw Brad loading his belongings into his dad’s pick-up. He told Stewart he was moving in with his dad.

I never told Stewart what happened, I was too embarrassed to mention any of it to anyone. I didn’t find out until years later that Brad’s grandfather had been molesting him for years. Brad finally stood up for himself and threatened to go to the cops. His grandfather beat him for even thinking of turning him into the police.

The primary male figure in Brad’s life showed affection with inappropriate touching and kissing. I came to realize that Brad had displaced ideals of how males showed affection. I came to terms with my own feelings from that day. I stopped blaming Brad for what happened between us. He was more mixed up than I ever realized and none of it was his fault.

In the bus depot, as I waited for the 8:15 to Denver, I saw Brad loitering around the men’s room. I watched from a distance as he panhandled for change. Periodically he would stop male travelers as they entered the bathroom. He would briefly converse with them briefly before following them into the lavatory. After several minutes the men would leave and Brad would post up along the wall by the door.

A few years earlier, a crack-head displaying similar mannerisms approached me outside a men’s room at the Metro Mall. He asked me if I had any crack he could buy. When I said ‘no’ he asked if I needed my dick sucked. I, again, declined. I offered him a smoke to leave me alone. From a distance I could almost hear similar conversations between Brad and these men. I had no doubt in my mind he was offering up blow jobs. I felt sad for him. I thought about what else had happened to him during the last thirteen years. I wondered what he might have been if things had been different for him.

My attention was broken when a loud muffled voice broke over the speakers announcing that the 8:15 to Denver was now boarding at docking bay 8-C and the departure time was in twenty minutes. I grabbed my green duffel and the picture of Karen and Duncan and made my way to dock 8-C.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Days

An old man sat on the edge
Of his bed.
His feet hung like weighted sacks
Attached to the base of his slender legs.
He stared with heavy thought
About where he was.
He breathed deep
And slid his feet into a pair
Of scuffed Oxford loafers.
He slid his feeble arms into
A modest short sleeve button up.
The old man walked slowly to the
Tiny kitchen in the northern most corner
Of his tiny apartment.
Two hard fried eggs, two fatty strips of bacon
And a mostly burnt slice of toasted rye.
He ate with great patience
And sipped a cup of black coffee
He had brewed on the stove.
His days were nothing to hurry through.
Watching a sparrow eat
From the sun baked bird feeder
Outside his Kitchen window.
The old man said nothing
But thought often.
He sat a long time
Waiting for nothing in particular;
His days were nothing to hurry through.
He would pace
Staring at knick knacks
His wife arranged so carefully,
Trying to imagine
What the hell he had them for.
The old man didn't bother
Turning on lights during day time hours.
Defused light flooded
The apartment with the reddish, pink hew
Of his wife’s home sewn drapes.
He read a digest from years ago
Like he did the day before.
The stories flattened out
Like stale re-runs.
His days were nothing
To hurry through.
His age showed
In the ripped seems
Of the crushed velvet couch.
He sat in a brown
Bingo hall style folding chair
Thumbing the pages of his digest.
His legs were crossed at the knees,
Exposing the mismatched socks
Bunching around his ankles.
The pinkness faded
From the room.
He turned on a single
Standing lamp.
With a warmed microwave
Meal from the oven.
He ate with great patience;
His days were nothing to hurry through.
He watched the six o'clock news
And retired to his bed.
He undressed and lied down.
He thought about his
Wife and where she was at.
He thought about when
He might joint her.
His days were nothing to hurry through
But his nights stretched on forever.


excerpt from "The Real Badge of Courage"

Shallow clouds hung heavy in the night sky, carelessly clumped together like a bachelors bed sheets. Rain misted to the ground dampening the wickless thirsty street. The road stretched on quiet and comfortless, eerie and alone. Streetlights glistened off the wet pavement concealing the hardened face of this city. I held my arms tight to my body. My hands tucked away in the pockets of my black canvas jacket. The only sound was the soft slapping of my boots in the puddles as I walked. The night was complete in its darkness and solitude. I walked those downtown streets for what seemed like hours.

I often walked the streets and allys of downtown to be alone. I don't know why I alienate myself. I felt isolated. I've work so hard all my life for nothing and nothing is exactly what I've got. Sometimes it's fuck everyone, and other times it's fuck me. The more I see the more I hate. I hate the way people treat each other. People pass me and they stare straight through me.

Across the street I spotted a dry place to sit down. Without breaking pace I crossed the street and walked over to a small two person park style bench. Horizontal wood slats with blistered and flaking lacquer mirrored my haggard soul. The bench sat beneath a sun bleach green awning of a store front. The shop was a mom and pop style coffee house with a faux antique decor. Shops like that make me sad. They are placed in the ground floor corner suites of skyscrapers as a part of some urban redevelopment project meant to give downtown a hometown ambiance. The American dream exploited for all it's worth.
I sat down on the bench and pulled out a cigarette from my pack. I placed the butt between my lips and search a moment for the Zippo my brother gave me on my last birthday. I slid it out of my jeans pocket. A quick flick of the flint wheel and the wick ignited. I lit the tip of my cigarette and inhaled deeply. In the silence of the night I could hear the crackle of the tobacco as the cherry caught fire. The smoke seemed extraordinarily thick in the chilly night air. I leaned back and let the nicotine flood my blood stream. I drew the cigarette away from my lips and hid the lighter in my jacket. I leaned forward and propped myself on my knees with my elbows. I looked solemnly at my feet. Those old boots I wore had definitely seen better days. The toe leather was scuffed away and the signature yellow stitching was frayed and fuzzy. The waffle maker soles had all but been worn through. I logged a lot of miles in those boots, but thinking back I realized I had never really been anywhere.
As I sat in the dark under that faded green cover, I looked out at the sleeping giants that towered around me. I sucked the last drag of my cigarette and flicked the butt into the street. It sailed through the air, end over end, like a Chinese acrobat. I paused a moment to hear it hiss as it died in a puddle.

I didn't real care much for this rain, but the wet streets in all their naked glory gave me comfort. Up ahead I spied a little street marquee that read Dickey’s Pub hanging above a steel door and a gas light sign. I needed a drink. Inside, the patrons all had the same life hardened faces. Only the degree of desperation set them apart from each other. An old black man sat alone in a circle booth to my right. His wide brimmed hat hid his eyes. A cigarette hung haphazardly from wiry fingers. A glass of whiskey rested motionless on the table in front of him. I couldn't tell if he was asleep, or a wake, or dead.

Along the far wall sat a May-December couple. The old man wore a knock-off Tommy Bahama style Hawaiian shirt and khaki slacks. His arm was wrapped around the young woman's waist as he kissed on her neck. She stared off into space the way someone does while waiting for a bus. The man was old enough to be a grandfather, and the girl was too bored with him to care.

A small group swarmed around the billiard table bathing in cheap booze and flattering cheaper women. There were five of them, three brutes and a pair of leathery cougars. One of the men was thick from an obvious misuse of anabolic-human growth hormones. Raised and jagged veins streak like mountain ranges across the landscape of his neck. He flexed and postured for the two older women. Skin dangled from the women like soggy bread on a sandwich. Their tits spilled out of blouses and their belly fat overflowed their jeans. The other two men shot a game of nine ball. One was a loud mouth chubby bastard. He seemed to make it a point to swear as often as possible. The other had a slight muscular build. His hair was frosted and styled in a chaotic mess.

In the middle of the floor ran a divider wall. On the far side sat a group of middle aged men in matching blue shirts. They sat with their backs to the door and the light in the bar obscured their faces.

The barkeep was a fat, bald sonofabitch with a greasy face. He leaned on the bar watching a static replay of a baseball game. I sat down at the bar. My shoes pealed from the concrete floor. He eyeballed me and I motioned for a beer. The bar sank from an amber glow. Dank and desperate, this place looked how I felt. The bartender leaned into talk. His breath smelled of cheese and scotch. Jeff was his name. He told me how he would take home brawds and fuck them in filthy ways. The way this guy looked, he was either slipping them roofies or he was paying for it. My guess was it was a little of both. Jeff was a disgusting wretch of a human, and the last thing I needed was a visual of this guy fucking.

The thickest brute walked up on my left. He ordered a fresh round of drinks for his parlor gang. He turned into me as he stepped away and bumped my shoulder, spilling beer on my sleeve. He said nothing, not even an apology. As he walked back I said "Excuse you." with a noticeable emphasis on the sarcasm. 

"EXCUSE YOU!?" He answered back with a raised voice.
"No," I replied "Excuse YOU."
"YOU LOOKIN' FER A PROBLEM MUTHA FUCKA" He shouted. His two pals perked up and began to advance in my direction, pool cues in hand. "I SAID SUMTHIN' TA YA BITCH! WHAT? YA CAN'T HEAR NOW!" He stepped into me flaring his chest into the back side of my shoulder. I didn't turn around. "OH I SEE, YOU SOME KIND OF PUSSY!"
"No, that’s not it." I said in a low voice. He leaned in. 

 "What was that pussy" he said, lowering his voice and matching my tone. He leaned a little further to get in my face. I grabbed my bottle and smashed it over his head. He stumbled back a step or two. As quickly as I could I drove the broken end of the bottle deep into his neck. He fell back trying to grab for his bloody face, gasping for air. His buddies ran at me.