untitled poem journal entry and a poem named the herd

spent so long in the darkness
that my brain slipped and fell
up side down
flat feet and subtle tattoos
proved I've walked through the fire
to see the light
the void made me question everything even you
tried to fill it with booze one night stands and lust
there is more darkness then there is light
it is easy to stray
your eyes may shut
but light shines through nature and the souls of the righteous
grab hold and we won't fall again

5/29/11
Sometimes there are two pigeons in the tree next to my balcony. Once a pigeon finds a mate, they are with them for the rest of their lives.
I observe them flirting in my tree. I think the male nudges his head on the female. As if he has to touch her and he can't keep still. The female flaps her wings as if she is embarassed by the male's advances. I can't see it but maybe she is blushing.
Maybe they wonder about the guy who is watching them on his balcony.
They eventaully fly away to another tree maybe to their nest or maybe to get privacy.
I haven't seen them for awhile. Maybe the female is pregnant, and the male spends his days finding food and comforting his mate.

The herd

Call for faith
When doubt simmers your brain
Prayer a predator
Distinguishes what is left
The spirit creates solid mentality
Its force gets us moving
Until it feels like a monsoon
Soaking wet
We go back to the herd
The shepherd never sleeps
We flourish with the clear stream
And vegetation

I revised Low Tide. It was written in Roanoke during Festival in the Park, I think when I was a freshman in high school

Low Tide
The night was beginning its reign
The only light starting to show were the stars
And the fiery red cherries on cigarettes
Providing a cloud of smoke
Which stood above couples sitting on blankets
The stench of love and hate was in the air
For this small southern town still segregated by race
The show was free

There was a jazz band on stage dishing out their hopes and fears
Spoon feeding the crowd like babies in a high chair
With every new note it was a wound being healed
It was like the music was saying, “yeah I’ve been there.”

I was entranced with every piercing melody

The trumpet reached new heights
Of dissolute paradise
The saxophone bled contentment
And the manic drums, piano, and bass
Brought back the past like a slap in the face

The jazz band kept playing
And I couldn’t catch up
Then suddenly STOP
The members on stage smiled at each other
With a deep breath
There was a sound of a lone cymbal
A wave of horns started to build
As it peaked they roared
Engulfing me with everything that was clear
Finally it broke and carried me away

Miles Davis turned 85

The jazz man's needle
hits the grooves
with a blow to the horn
undressing ladies with his melodies
making the men enviest
of his brass
with one mesmerizing solo
he makes the crowd feel lost
the only thing they know
is the glass containing
an adult beverage is their's
the walls the lights the ambients
belongs to the jazz man
who is now taking encores
the crowd yield miles


LOW TIDE
last day of summer
the sun was setting
which was the source of the colors
purple yellow and orange
like in a vincent van goh painting

the night was beginning its reign
the only light starting to show were the stars
and the fiery red cherries on cigarettes
providing a cloud of smoke
which stood above couples sitting on blankets
the stench of love and hate was in the air

there was a jazz band on stage dishing out their hope and fears
spoon feeding the crowd like babies in a high chair
with every new note,it was a wound being healed
it was like the music was saying, "Yeah I've been there."

I was entranced with every piercing melody

the trumpet reached new heights
of dissoluted paradise
the saxophone bled contentment
and the manic drums piano and bass
brought back the past like a slap in the face

the jazz band kept playing
and I couldn't catch up
then suddenly STOP
the members on stage smiled at each other
with a deep breath
there was a sound of a lone cymbal (Tt Tt TtTtTtTtTt Tt)
a wave of horns started to build
as it peaked they roared
engulfing me with everything that was clear
then it broke and carried me away

Motivation

Motivation

A set of earphones
Walks with a guitar strapped to his back,
Singing out to the morning streets.
Maybe inspired to write a song
That others would devour and then exhale on the world around them.

It’s like that one book at the beach that calls your name,
To be read;
Or that painting that forces you to pick up
a paint brush.
Will your creation be as
good as the motivation
that sat you down to create it?

Sharky's

safe haven for the rogue in us
dive bar with juke boxes selling cheap booze
dim lighting a smoke filled room
the rogue in us
knows the words
to the cover band playing
non smokers have a minascue room
away from the action
but atleast they don't have to breathe the
toxic smoke that will kill us all

some people are sitting at the bar
watching bulky heavy tv's
showing sport highlights
while a few play pool
most are standing dancing and shaking
music so loud you have to scream
in someone's ear
and if you stand next to the speaker
you become deaf
atleast you have plenty of cigarettes

the rogue in us
is glad he showered and shaved
but not everyone did
the rogue in us tries
but his failed attempts at
picking up the ladies
brings him back to the bar

the screen on the tv
starts to blur
Is that the beer
or tv the rogue in us wonders

high def is down the block
more expensive beer
and younger ladies
who haven't been forced into this

Alone buys the rogue in us
another beer
as he comes to the conclusion
he has been set free
from rejection
sometimes alone is a good friend
however his eyes still wander

a fight breaks out
no one not even the bouncers no the cause
the men have to leave their pool game
while others go back to the blurred tv

the clouds of smoke overhead stay there
like the last remaining filters on cigarettes
to fill up the landfills

the rogue in us
stands alone needing a taxi
to drive him home

Youth revolt in summer

Light the fuse
reach your arm back as far as it can go
throw then run
to catch the sky on fire
let ashes rain upon us
we will remember the simple things
as we rebuild from the top down

if we don't run inside to breathe
the artifical air from the air conditioner
we would burn outside
hell on earth
even the believers get a piece
still corrupt and unpure
man may try to extinguish the flames
but youth set themselves on hot
they run through the streets
with their clothes burning off
and hair on fire
waiting for the taste of cool refreshing liquid
that has turned into steam
we go inside but the youth revolt
heading for the shade
whatever is still left
the oceans, rivers, and streams
start to boil
they bubble like a jacuzzi
no one is safe
skyscrapers, to the top of trees, to the grass and soil below
feels like lava on bare feet

some speak of winter
some speak of spring
some remember of the river
as we all burn in the westend

The radical

the eye of the wild
maybe asking where would
life take them
radicals die alone
questioning authority
doesn't pay the bills
but you understand more then the business man

hear the wheels
on your one man transportation
the rubber hums with the on coming traffic
Academia can't see the city through your eyes

paint to canvas
uprising

and your dread locks will turn grey
but your way will stay in dreamers
speeches on their
soapbox
surrounded by their friends
holding cheap beer
and cigarettes

Sketch for SNL

I am sure you've heard the term milf. How about Gilf as in grandma I like to --. I figure Tyler Perry can be the grandma since he likes to dress in woman's clothes anyway. Tracy Jordan can be the grandson, and the guy who played Will Smith in last weeks episode can be the kid who has a crush on grandma.
Grandma would be like, "I need to drink more prune juice."
And The guy who played Will Smith would be going nuts. Tracy would try to get him to calm down
Then the friends would be like "Tell me a story grandma."
Grandma would go into a story about the great depression or something.
The friend would keep nudging Tracy and would be like check out those glasses.
"I wish I could sit on her lap but I think I would break her hip.

If I hosted Saturday NIght Live

If I hosted Saturday Night Live I would play into the fact I was nervouse and terrified of public speaking. I would tell the audience. There would be a long tube taped to my inner thigh that went down to my ankle. During the monalogue I would press the button so water would come out. The audience would think I was urinating. During my monalogue I would have story boards of children's book that I have written that were rejected by the publisher, such as: Daddy is a cross dresser and Johnny got his first boner to name a few.
I would have another tube inside of my arm and while I was showing the story boards I would vommit. After the vommiting and the urinating the janitor would comeout. He would survey the scene, shake his head, and then hand me the mop. Finally I would start mopping while telling the audience who was the band and that we are going to have a great show.

By the Grace of God

The trees went down
water rose
over the limits
the oldman flushed
Man's waste
back to him
The world shook in Japan
Mammoth wave took people with it
God tossed automobiles like match box cars
some lives willnever be found
as catastrophic as terrorism
we have no defense can only wait
just donations from the one's unaffected
still
lover's lay tangles
in bed sheets
a father's grace carries
his daughter to her home
children smile and step soflty off a school bus
we can experence different shades of unity
at a pastor's sermon
a punk show
and marching in line while singing cadence
even while feet step heavier
during these times of tragedy
God's grace still shines through the clouds
making us feel his embrace

Stranded- Taken from my book When We Were Young

Stranded
Because I was working so much, but wanted to spend as much time with Gloria as I could before she left for college, we hung out at my apartment when I had any spare time. One time she spent the night, and she woke me up at 8:30 am.
She walked around the apartment like she usually did, with a smile on her face. I, on the other hand, was shocked to find out there was such a thing as morning in the late summertime. She woke me up early because she had a gift certificate she’d received after graduation and the closest store (where the gift certificate could be used) was an hour drive down the road. I decided to go with her. I had nothing better to do; I had to work a night shift.
I went to the bathroom and prepared myself for something called "morning."
She drove her car. I smoked a cigarette and noticed the huge bags of coal underneath my eyes in the right-side mirror. It made me look like a junkie, but the sun was shining, and the wind was keeping me awake.
There was no conversation while we went down the long, predictable road. It was a straight shot that made the drive seem longer then it really was. I nodded off to the soothing sound of tires on smooth pavement. My eyes were closed, and I knew it wouldn't take long for me to go back to dreaming again.
My awake sleep was interrupted when Gloria hit something. One side of Gloria's car felt like it was on a gravel road. I awoke when the first thud hit my head, followed by a sound of grinding wheel metal rolling on concrete. Suddenly there we were, unable to go above 15 mph in the fast lane of the interstate.
Disgruntled drivers honked as they passed us, while metal from the wrecked side of the car shook the black top below.
"So," said Gloria, casually. "What do you think I should do?"
"Well, if I was in your position, I would pull over to the right side of the road, if you want to avoid road rage," I answered with the same tone.
Gloria did so, and we got out to inspect the left side of the car. When she described the sound to me, Gloria thought a helicopter was landing when she first felt the shake.
The final judgment was that the tire looked like a band-aid that had lost its stickiness to the skin. The tire was mutilated. We stared at it and laughed.
"I knew that was going to happen," Gloria said.
"How did you know that was going to happen?" Wondering if I was I being initiated?
"It happened to me when I was going with my ex-boyfriend. He complained the whole time. When it happened before, we got a ride to the gas station from a hippy in a Volkswagen van. He told us he just got off probation, and while he was driving, he was smoking pot."
"I hope we get the same guy,” I said, laughing at the omen.
The realization set in that we couldn't stand there and laugh at our misfortune. We crossed the lanes in a light jog, and then crossed a few more lanes while cars zoomed in the opposite direction. This got us to an exit ramp, where we walked in search of a telephone to call a tow truck.
Turning left, we reached a narrow bridge with barely enough room to walk. One car passed us, while a police car came toward us. We thought this was a good thing, because the policeman might give us a ride to the nearest gas station. I waved to him, but he drove past us. The cop must have enjoyed his air-conditioned car so much he didn't want to offer us a ride. Way to serve and protect, PIG! We laughed as sweat poured down our foreheads.
In the summer, we had no real schedules, so we had to laugh at these types of situation; we walked the rest of the way to a gas station. When we arrived, we wiped more of the sweat from our foreheads. I was willing to walk another mile with her to add to the last remaining memories of the summer.
We passed people filling up their cars with gasoline, and we headed to the pay phones on the other side of the parking lot. I gave Gloria 35 cents for the call. Luckily I had my AAA card.
I thought she was cute the way the phone touched her ear, and she seemed confused about what to say and do. I sipped on the grapefruit juice that I had bought inside the convenience store, still laughing about the tire that had been destroyed.
She got off the phone and told me the tow truck would take 45 minutes. I didn't care; I had no place to go. I also was having the time of my life. If I’d been with anyone else, I would probably have been plotting their death.
I imagined Captain in this situation. He would have left the car and walked back home, because he enjoyed that kind of misery. He would also have enjoyed telling the story at House of Waffles.
We went inside the gas station to avoid the heat and sat at a booth, which was part of a restaurant adjoining the gas station.
"I don't mind if you kids sit there, but our air conditioner isn't working," said the clerk at the cash register. It seemed like everyone's air conditioner was broken, or they didn't have one that year, during one of the hottest summers on record.
Gloria and I didn't mind though, We started talking about movies that one of us hadn’t seen. I was surprised to find out she had never seen Rocky. I watched that movie religiously. In fact, in high school I was in a band named Apollo Creed. Ironically, we died too.
I told her that the movie wasn't just a bad-ass boxing movie; it also had a love story in it. This is what I usually told girls about the movie, hoping they would want to watch it with me. It never happened.
When the tow truck arrived, I was disappointed, because I wanted the classic-looking tow truck. This one was a flatbed tow truck. The driver was an older man with wrinkles and a hat that said Clinton's. Gloria asked him if he was from AAA.
"Yup," he said." Ya'll don't look stranded."
We were too busy taking it all in, so it didn’t look like we were suffering.
We got inside the truck, and Gloria gave the driver poor directions. But I couldn't have given them any better. I guess all the heat made us stupid. The driver figured out where the car was while she did most of the talking. I enjoyed the ride and the air conditioning.
Finally, we arrived at Gloria's car, which resembled a tripod. It didn't take any time for our new friend to hoist the car on the flat bed. As he did this, Gloria noticed an orange citation. The ticket pretty much said that she couldn't leave her car on the side of the road, and we had to move it. The cop who drove past us when we needed a ride to the gas station probably circled around and put the citation there.
We got back into the tow truck, and the driver slightly tipped his hat and informed us his name was Clinton. We were in a town called Rocky Mount. Clinton must have taken a liking to Gloria, and decided to give us a free tour through his town.
He pointed out different locations, including an old, abandoned warehouse where a guy had committed suicide after he got caught selling moonshine.
This was a smaller town than the one we wanted to escape. The thing I liked about it was that there were no franchises, none of the same stores were built together—all free standing, and there were no strip malls. Everything was right there in the small town, although I couldn't imagine living there. I didn’t see a House of Waffles anywhere.
On our way to Clinton's shop, he stopped at a heating and air conditioning business. The man who came out to greet us wore a shirt that was similar to Clinton's, only it was sky blue with a patch on one of the pockets. I couldn't read what it said.
Clinton asked, "How's it going?"
The man said the same. Then there was a long silence.
Clinton said, "Bye."
The man said the same, and then we were off again. I guess they could only speak in short greetings in the town of Rocky Mount.
Finally, we arrived at Clinton's shop. We got out of the tow-truck, and Clinton asked to see my AAA card. As he inspected it, all of his workers walked at their own pace to their next job in the scorching sun. And they all wore the same striped shirt that Clinton wore, with patches that showed their name.
A few of them said, "Hey, Clinton."
Clinton said, "Hey,” back.
He put Gloria's car in one of the three garages. Then he came back to me, gave me my AAA card, and told us it would be a little bit of a wait.
Gloria and I sat on the curb in front of Clinton's gas station/shop. We watched his customers fill up their cars with gas. The old gas pumps were underneath a shelter that looked like it could fall at any moment if the wind changed direction. From where we sat, it looked like the whole area had a spilled oil finish, and the hut where the customers paid looked like a shack made of brick aged by car exhaust.
Even though Clinton's business looked like a smoker's lung, it seemed to run smoothly. People left there happy, as we did when Gloria's new tire was put on.
We said, "Thank you."
Clinton smiled back. His teeth were the only thing that lit up on his face. The rest of his face was permanently stained with his knowledge of cars. When a man like Clinton smiled, you had to smile back.
Gloria decided she would spend her gift certificate some other day, but I would have kept on going. We went home, and she told me that most of the people coming in to get gas at Clinton's reminded her of the family of her dad's girlfriend. Her dad paid for his girlfriend to go through hair styling school, but still she just sat on her ass and smoked pot. Gloria told me how weird her family was and how normal she felt compared to them. I told her how normal my family was and how weird I felt compared to them.
We arrived in Roanoke as the clock in her car hit noon. Was it really just noon? It seemed so much later. She brought it to my attention. This was the usual time my day started.
"Now, see everything you can do when you don't sleep in? You would have missed riding in a tow-truck."
We went back to my apartment and took a swim in the pool. Afterwards she went home, and I went to work.
www.jasonjepson.com, amazon, barnes and noble

Picasso Exibit a VMFA

Picasso used anything he could get his hands on to create art. Atleast that was how it seemed to me. He used what looked like to be paper towels, pastel which are simliar to crayons on canvas, cloth and wood to name a few.
In the cubism portion of the exibit, I thought one of the paintings looked as if my first grade nephew was trying to make a maze.
The painting entitled Guitar and bottle was 3d. You could see the curves of a guitar as well as rectangular shapes. You really had to stare at the art in Cubism to see what he was going for.
One of my favorites was the painting named weeping woman. You could see the emotion. Maybe this woman is kind of going into convulsions.
My favorite part of the exibit was one that was influence by his wife's Olga health. He had alot of anxiety during this period. Some people described it as troubling imagery. It was very colorful and uplifting to me for some reason.
Picasso had something with eyes. I didn't see two eyes that looked the same in the whole exibit. I don't know what to make of this. Such as the painting named Celestina. Old Celest had one crazy eye. Woman with joined hands had two different eyes. In Bust of a Man one eye wasn't even there.
There was a quote by Picasso on a wall. It read, "Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth." I am sure that people have debated what this quote means. I think it means our hands are the filter for the art which comes out of whatever you want it to be. DIfferent eyes including your own will what is really going on by the lie that was influence by reality.

A Good Man

A Good Man
The secret lives of men
Voices creeping up your flesh
Until you respond
No knows but you
Except the walls
And the close door
Invaded by your thoughts
Carry on routine
And try to forget
But to no avail
It could be anything
Another woman
A needle
Hardcore skin to skin revelations on your computer skin
Wine that flows like blood in the warzone
And yet we are seen as a Good man

overcasted day

it's like a school yard friend
standing behind you
with her hands over
your eyes
asking
"Guess Who?"
we can still play today
before the rain
the jungle gym is calling our names
and we're to young
to worry about adulthood's grasp
right now it feels like we're be this age forever
little arms, little legs
in little shoes
with a dirt stain
shoe laces untied
might trip
and yet we don't cry
our stammering feet just keep
on going

Be an above Average Whiteboy
I was in my sophomore year of high school and on my way to screen printing class when a black student put his fist up to the sun and shouted, “It’s your world Whitey!”
I instantly thought, “My world? I don’t want it! You take it!”
The student was also in my screen printing class, and later in the year, we actually became friends, such good friends that one day he asked me what my nationality was. I thought he was asking about my speech impediment-it did give a slight accent.
He told me that he knew about my speech impediment, and he didn’t care about that. He added that he never got along this well with a white person. I could relate to his statement because I had never gotten along this well with a black person.
We did get along. He and I had some of the best discussions in that class. We talked about the internet, and he was surprised to find out that I was not hooked up to the internet. I guess he thought all white people had computers hooked up to the internet. We also talked about Al Pacino and Robert De Niro movies which I especially enjoyed since I seldom talked about those movies with my other friends. We even planned our own robberies. He made my screen printing class much more interesting.
He made the teacher call him Charles but I called him Chuck.
There was another black student in the class. We shared the same name. One day I asked Chuck where I could buy some weed. Chuck pointed to the black student. I had never bought drugs before.
I went up to the student nervous. I even had my twenty in my hand. He saw the twenty, I asked.
He told me he didn’t have anything on him. I gave him the twenty and asked if he could get some. He nodded.
The next time I saw the student in the halls. I went up to him asked if he had anything on him. He was with his friends and he just walked away.
I tried talking to him some more times after that, but I never got anything.
In screen printing the teacher let go around campus with a camera. We would take pictures then develop them in the dark room in the back. The only thing was that we had to go in pairs.
I was discussing things with Chuck. I told him how I gave the student my money but he never gave me anything in return.
Chuck scratched his chin.
“See what you need to be now is an above average white boy you should get your money back.”
“You mean I have to fight him?” I asked.
“I’m not saying anything.”
I asked the student if he wanted to go take some pictures.
He nodded.
Then I asked the teacher. She said yes.
We grabbed two cameras and then we left.
I didn’t take very many pictures. I was trying to sike myself up to jump him. We walked all over the campus.
My high school at the time was made up of about four different buildings. When we got to last one, I started walking slower so there would be some distance between us. He was several steps in front of me, when I decided to run and tackle him.
I quickened my steps then start to go into a sprint. When I got to him, I stopped. I couldn’t fight anybody. He looked a little scared, and then he started laughing.
Finally we went back to screen printing. Chuck shook his head, and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the class. I was no above average whiteboy.
Chuck later graduated from high school, and I never saw him again.

The Bird Watching Trip

The Bird Watching Trip

“Jacob, you wrap it carefully…like so.”
My grandpa knew everything there was to know about birds. He taught me about how to mend a wing and about their environments. We took walks in the woods, and he pointed out birds: robins, wrens, and blue birds, if we were lucky. Whenever the nearby farmers came upon an injured bird, they brought it directly to my grandfather. They knew that he would be able to set that bird to flight again. I can remember many times when he said to me that he wished that he could fly like the birds. We both knew that dream would not come true.
One day Grandfather was too ill to go on our daily bird watching trip, so I walked on back into town. Everyone was talking about the big show that was coming to town in a few weeks. When I was going into the drugstore, a poster caught my eye. In big letters, it said, “Fly like the birds in a hot air balloon! For only $1.00. That sign gave me an idea.
I went back to my Grandfather’s house to check on him. His skin had a grayish tone to it. I asked him how he was feeling.
“Fine,” he whispered.
He had energy to speak. Since it was lunchtime, I went to the kitchen and fixed him some soup for lunch.
As I left for home I knew that Grandfather would not be with me much longer. I had to give him something to thank him for all that he had taught me. I needed money-fast, but how?
The next morning I asked Mr. Greene, my next door neighbor if I could earn some money working for him.
“I need to raise money fast, Mr. Greene, so I’ll only need to work for about a week.”
“Why do you need money?” Mr. Greene asked.
“I’m getting a gift for my grandfather,” I answered.
“The bird watcher, replied Mr. Greene. “Well, a boy your size can’t do much for a man like me, but I’m sure I can find something for you. Come to see me at 8: oo tomorrow.”
Next I went to the General Store and asked for a job. I knew Mr. Brown, and he gave me a job on the spot for fifty cents an hour. I worked for two hours, and I got a dollar. I put the money in an old pickle jar.
My father told me that Grandfather probably wouldn’t last until the end of the month. He said that Grandfather’s days were numbered.
That whole week I worked very hard. Mr. Greene gave me twenty five cents for every hour I worked, and I got more money from Mr. Brown. Finally I had enough money in my pickle jar. My hard work had paid off.
The next day I got grandfather’s wheelchair, and my dad gave us a ride into town where we found the hot air balloons. I bought Grandfather some cotton candy for our balloon trip.
“Jacob, where are we going?” He asked.
“We are going bird watching.” I said.
Grandfather shook his head.
“Jacob, you know I can’t walk a step. The doctor gave me this wheelchair so I could get around.”
“Who says we’re walking?” I said as I pointed to the huge balloon.
His mouth opened and his eyes widened.
“It’s beautiful, but Jacob, I didn’t bring any money.”
“Don’t worry. I have it all taken care of.”
“I’ll be waiting on the ground for you kids,” my dad said with a smile.
I gave my pickle jar to the man controlling the balloon. It jingled as he unscrewed the lid and grinned at my grandfather and me. We had some trouble getting my grandfather into the balloon, but that couldn’t stop us.
When we were finally in our position inside, the balloon roared as it ascended. As we got higher, Grandfather’s smile got bigger and bigger. He began pointing out the birds all over the place… some I didn’t even see. Grandfather seemed like himself again in that balloon.
When we got back on the ground, I saw a tear run down his face, but he was happy. He had been able to go bird watching for one last time, and this time, he had been right up there with the birds on display.

A Dog and a Cat

All Sophia ever wanted to be was a dog. In her few short years on this earth she figured having a tail and four legs was the bee’s knees. Even her mom jokingly thought it was another milestone when Sophia ate her first bits of kibbles; she tried to turn Sophia’s interest into colors or the alphabet. To say Sophia’s peace she simply barked at her mother.
When it was feeding time for the family’s dog, Sophia would come to. Although she was too young to feed the dog herself, the dog was willing to share. Sophia would be on her hands and knees and lap up the dog’s water and eat up the kibble in their dog’s bowl.
One day there was a play date with a little boy and his mom who had just moved into the neighborhood. Since it had just snowed the children couldn’t play outside. Sophia’s mom and the little boy’s mom, who name was Thomas, simply vegged out and drank margaritas as their kids played.
Thomas had a pet obsession to. He loved his cat Thelonious, and constantly ate his fancy feast with a spoon. However, this fact wasn’t shared by Thomas’ mother because she wanted to make a good first impression with her new neighbor.
Sophia and Thomas watched TV, but then got bored. Sophia started eyeing the doggy door. Thomas noticed this.
“What are you doing?” Thomas asked.
“Have you ever wanted to have four legs and a tail?” Sophia inquired.
Thomas eyes lit up.
“Yes Yes I want to have four legs and a tail.”
Sophia listened in to her mom and Thomas’ mom who gossiping about their good-looking mailman. They both had their feed up and were wearing a sweat suit. Their eyes were glazed over, and they figured as long as the TV was on their kids would be out of their hair.
“Come here,” said Sophia, “let’s have a snack.”
Thomas got up on his feet, but Sophia when straight to her knees and hands.
“Like this.” Sophia said.
Thomas did so and the two slid their way to kitchen where Sophia’s dog’s bowl was. Occasionally Sophia yelped like a puppy. Thomas didn’t like that.
“I want to be a cat.” Thomas said.
He began to meow to pretend he was a cat.
“I don’t think dogs like cats.” Sophia said in-between bits of kibble who was imagining she was a dog.
Thomas went to the water bowl and started lapping up the water. Meanwhile the family dog was observing. He had a very confused look on his face, but he didn’t do anything.
The two children stopped indulging, and came to the conclusion that they were enemies, but they were pretending. Suddenly Sophia barked and Thomas hissed, and they crawled all over the kitchen pretending to fight.
Thomas who was getting the worse end of the deal noticed the doggy door. He crawled to it and since he was small in stature, he crawled right through it into the back yard. Sophia followed.
The back yard was muddy and had some puddles from the melted snow. It was so muddy that Sophia’s mom threatened her that if she took one step in the back yard she would have no more Elmo. The two stood on the back deck which was wet but not muddy.
They stood their barking and hissing as the mud in the back yard which was enticing them to come on like a toy store in the mall. It kept on calling and calling so much so that Sophia started forgetting about that puppets name. Sophia leaned forward and bit Thomas right on the back of the shoulder.
This scared Thomas and it hurt real badly. He ran off the deck into a huge mud puddle. Sophia followed and the two wrestled and scrirmmed and rolled and tumbled. They did this so much that the mud covered their clothes so you couldn’t see the image on their t-shirts.
The two moms that were inside heard this put down their third margarita and went to where they heard the squirmish. They went out the back door and saw what they thought was the end of their Margaretville.
“Sophia!” Sophia’s mom yelled.
“Thomas!” Thomas’ mom yelled.
The two children stopped and felt a wave of trouble coming their way. Sophia and Thomas stood up on their feet as the mud slid down their torsos. They were covered with the thick cold brownish mud.
The children got out and their respectable moms took them to be washed. Thomas’s mom took him home and Sophia’s mom took her upstairs for a bath.
They were life long friends after that.

5/10/11

It was my day to visit my kindergarden class. I didn't want to get out of bed. I had to make myself. The coffee helped.
I walked into the class and Life was already in trouble.
He yelled at the foster grandma. "Get your hands off me you old lady."
I wasn't there to see it but I had to force myself not to laugh.
Another thing that happened was that Ms. Cottan told the kids to tell me thank you. That meant alot.
Also there were my directions for the day on top of a board game.
This was new. I usually huffered around the class and looked for misbehavior (Idon't know how else to put it). Today I was encharge of station 2. Station 2 was suppose to play the board game.
In the note, Ms. Cottan wrote how the instructions were confusing that she made up her own. I familarized myself with her directions, the board, and the pieces of the game.
Then the students were asked to break into there teams. Life was crawling around on the floor. I told him to stop using the word please and he did so. He more often then not does what I tell him to do. He then went to station two where his group was.
There are about 13 students in this class. Gran it I am bad with names anyway but I only know the once that misbehave.The team leader of group two at station two is a beautiful smart girl. I don't know her name. She always wants to hold my hand. I still don't know her name. I feel so bad about this.
Charles was in this group to. He likes football more then he likes school which is fine. I try to tell him that if he wants to play football then he has to be good in school. It hasn't registered yet.
Anyway I did my best at explaining Ms. Cottan's rules to the group. I felt like they understood so they picked their pieces.
The pieces were different color.
The team leader went first then Charles,Victory,a girl who is painfully shy and quiet, and lastly Life.
I thought Life would have a problem with being last. Most of the kids in the class had a problem being last. Life didn't complain or anything.
When it was you turn to play, you were suppose to pick up a disk that had a letter on one side and a bug on the other. You say the letter then you have to think of a word that begins with that letter.
Charles had some trouble with this especially with the letter W so I whispered in his ear.
"Wagon."
Victory did fine. Next was the painfull shy and quiet girl. She picked up an O. She just sat there. Time went by. She just sat there.
The team leader asked her. "What lives in the ocean?"
"That's one right there." I said.
The team leader went over to me and whispered. "I meant octopus."
The quiet girl just shrugged her shoulders.
Why won't she talk.
I told the quiet girl that I was going to count to 5. Nothing happened and I took a long time counting too.
How can I help anyone if they don't talk?
Next was Life. He behaved himself got his letter said a word and rolled the die. It was perfect.
The game went on untill, Ms. Cottan told the class it was time for Mr. Moody's, who was another kindergarden teachers, surprise. Life got excited.
The class lined up and I followed then to Mr. Moody's class.
His class was infront of a rather larger screen.
I decided to leave after that after asking Ms. Cottan if I could go. She said I could.
Thinking out loud: LIfe needs more male role models in his life.
The quiet girl who drives me crazy should be friends with life. I want her to act up.
Victory is a good kid too. The reason I remember her name is because it is so cool

Ms. Elkins

red the color of her hair
added color to my confused
little world back then
i sat in the front of the class
to watch her hips
move from side to side
so gently
when she erased the black board

one day she caught
me staring
and just smiled back

recently
someone told me
she quit teaching
and got married
but even today
she is smiling
her hips
are moving
slowly
gently carefully
from side to side
just for me

This was published in Blindman's Rainbow in the Spring of 2002

THE BOSS
I sat in the most comfortable chair
supporting me like
a low hanging
cloud before
a spring rain

she was straddling me
arching her back slightly
when she took a drag from a cigarette

the ashtray was on my stomach
ashes were scattered
in my chest hair
from her lack of an aim

even after several attempts
to not blow
smoke in each others faces
our lips split
by gray slowly floating
to her ceiling
then disapearing

our filters
grippingly
disturbed
by the next time
we had
to put on an apron

Remembering Columbine- Taken from my book When we Were Young

The governor wrote a letter to all the schools warning them about taking troubled students seriously. Would I be considered a troubled student? I had been shaving my head for years. I liked wearing black, and I was considered a “quiet student.” Would that be enough to make me fit someone’s stereotype? Paranoia seemed all around me. There had been racial slurs spray painted on a brick wall at the school a few days earlier. Rumor had it that one of the black students was so upset when he saw the “writing on the wall,” that he punched the first white kid he saw. Like Columbine, my school was made up of many subcultures, each with its own identity. I didn’t think my school would be shot up, but I was scared of being suspended for no reason. My government teacher said it was a form of McCarthyism. These events were not what I was expecting during my last year of high school.
Part of me enjoyed the tension. We talked about the event in class. The kids who otherwise stayed quiet gave their insights without fear of being ridiculed by the so-called perfect kids, who acted like victims. Several of us felt empathy towards the situation, even though we thought using a gun was stupid. For many, high school was a place where you were put in your place, and most people I knew didn’t like their place or thought there had to be something better.
The kids who wore black trench coats were asked to take them off. They also bummed cigarettes from me. We got into debates about which was cooler, guns or swords. They chose swords.

Night Drive

huffer over the high beams, hiding the stars
go through the greens
look around at the reds
wonder what they're thinking
Brake lights aren't your friend
feel high
why rush when you're so close to the moon's faces
she's accepting and wants to talk
her voice caresses you
like the breeze you feel
with the window down
call phones aren't
ringing on your mind
tranquil desires
racing friendships
only to come home
inspired
by your prime
(whenever that was)
dotted line comes complete
as you sign by the X
to buy cigarettes
tongue feels dry
sweet tea in the fridge
look over the ledge
as you are in tranced by
the glow of street lamps

Jazz Night

JAZZ NIGHT

Friday night and the blues led you to Meadow and Broad Street for the constant lover of live music with the Jazz and blues. Maybe another story in Richmond that encompassed a hard workweek. Maybe an escape that can be heard and tasted through the taps and the muse.
It was a second home for me when I was nineteen. This was back when the cover was three dollars instead of four, and the red white and blue shine by beer cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I revisited this old hangout after an honorable discharged from the U.S. Army. Another soldier in transition during unemployment through troubled times of war and a depleting economy. The hard stuff set passively on shelves to be sipped or gulped.
The dim lighted corner bar could be seen as a night oasis for fine dining. Although management had changed hands, jazz night always prevailed. A driver or passer by could sit at the bar or find a table or booth which would be a pleasant resting-place for a shelter from the cold of Richmond. Serving the customer despite the packed bar and there was an excellent chef , two bartenders, and a wait staff.
I was sitting at the bar when she came to sit beside me. She was one of the featured jazz vocalist of the evening, but she would have corrected you by saying her style was more blues with a little bit of jazz if asked.
Her name was Miss Lady E., and she had been singing there for about eight years. Her lively hood consisted of working at the hospital with a degree in mental health. Immediately, when she sat down her drinks were served, and she knew the bartenders and owners by name. The whole place started to fill at around 9:30pm while she was talking to me.
“The last time I sang. I was 13, and you don’t say the blue you sing the blues.”
She was there every Friday as she went into her personal view singing the blues.
Her son was in the military in the 236th. His occupation was in transportation, she told me. He was in the first gulf war, and when he was over there she couldn’t sleep at all. Miss. Lady E. said she was always beside a TV. He later died during his time of service, creating a time of depression. Although that was her field of study in college the skills didn’t help to release some of the pain as good as singing.
The band was still setting up, the conga drums were set, and the drummer brought in his cymbals. That night there was at the start of the evening a tenor and alto saxophone, electric bass, piano, drums congas, and chimes.
The tenor saxophone player stood up at the mic next to the alto who I had never seen before. He had long hair and a cowboy hat, and he was going up and down the scales. As the tenor, whose name was Doc, made sure everything was ready for the nights show.
The booths were starting to fill as the keyboardist and drummer quickly found out there was hardly any elbowroom. The beats and melody erupted the cramp space as the first song rose to the ceilings. The altos tone was perfect, but this listener might have misjudged his playing at the beginning of the evening. I was quickly proven wrong as the solo dropped my jaw proving himself as an equal on stage. Silk fingers quickly smoked the keys as a slapping bass took the place under siege. The traffic lights outside occasionally shined green and red as the jazzman at the keys called the shots for the second number.
The tenor player had another solo, and I had been there enough times to know the solos or at least a few. He usually played Old McDonald, the farmer and the dale while ending with shave and a hair cut. Then the alto came on howling with the snare and the toms of the drum set. The electric bass joined with harmony. The randomness began dancing in two groups. As this point of the night it was what ever moves you for January 21 2005. It was cramped anyway used just for the wait staff to serve the paying customers some how there was still enough room to dance. As the new girl from the street ventures in the men at then bar paused at the sent of her perfume. Even the aristocrats the businessmen the high dollar high roller cliental would say it was better then the boos.
The percussion and drums shook that lucky ladies hips, and it kept them clapping for more. Another alto saxophone’s echo throughout the streets beyond 7-11 and the medians. The trumpet player came in late but ventured into the set without losing a beat.
Ladora or “Roe,” was called to the mic for her version of ‘Bye Bye Blackbird.’ Her voice projected delivering more fulfilled spirits then what was served at the bar. Miss Lady E. gave her a standing ’O. Her song ended with the place in a saturated perfume and boos euphoria.
The man at the keys with the same silky smooth fingers caressing the bar already ambushed by the bassist. Another version of Summertime was sung as the cold howled at the windows. The trumpet player triggered the boom for another solo by a new Tenor pushing through like a fret train. The horns were handled like a woman through the “woes and the baggage.”
The pick me up touch the crowd for another Friday night of jazz serenading the city limits of Richmond. I decided to pay my bar tab as Bush preached against bigotry on the TV during a review of the inauguration. Hard times for many I was two dollars shy from paying my bar tab. As Miss lady E. was singing several people folded dollars in her pockets. She didn’t know what to make of that as she came back to sit down beside me. I was still thumbing through my wallet as she recognized the problem.
After applying for about twenty jobs and the honorable discharged I was reduced to this embracement. But Miss Lady E. one of the featured vocalist handed it over as if it was nothing. I said. “Thank you.”
I thoughtfully slid it across to the bartender. The blues was still lingering when I left and it would be there when we got back.

BLUE YOU

You
you're writing love poetry
but you ain't got a girl
you
you're a soldier without a war
you
you rent instead of own
you
you're so alone
so alone
you
you gave up the drink
you're only friend
you
maybe too much soul
for a white boy to carry
you
you think jazz speaks to you individually
you
you're rebelious days are over
so you're so you're
so alone so alone

Vet's prayer
Dear Jesus
You've delivered me through the storm but my war as just begun. Thank you God for jazz. It eases my mind but you give me peace of mind. I feel comfort knowing I can speak with you when ever I feel like it.
Life won't always be smooth sailing on calm seas. When the tide changes I know I can call on you. When the bullets are blazing you are my armor.
As a young babe I sang Jesus loves me and I know you always will.
Love,
Jason

Raised on Motown but in a punk band

I was in middle school. I was heavily influenced by 80's punk rock. I liked black flag, social distortion, Minor Threat, Bad Brains, or anything that had that kind of sound.
I was also in a band. I thought of the name. We called ourselves despite the other members disaproval RIOT.
It was just the three of us. I was the tone deaf lead singer. B. was on bass guitar, and S. played the drums. S. could also play the guitar. He would come up with the music, he would teach it to B., and then I would write the lyrics.
Since we were to young to drive, Friday's were our practice days. The three of us would ride B.'s bus, and get off at his bus stop.
One song's lyrics had a straight edge message. Like I said before I was influenced by bands like MInor Threat. This was also the first time I started writing, and usually when you first start to write poetry and lyrics, they are terrible.
One of our songs was called Fences. The first verse went something like this, "You think you're cool but you're a fool, you have no hope so you do your dope."
The chorus would go something like this, Be a man find away out or something.
Anyway it was a straight edge song, but meanwhile when we were getting off B.'s bustop, we were smoking hash and marajuana, and what not.
At the time I thought it made my vocals sound better-kind of raspy.
S. wanted me to sing not scream which is what I usually did.
We practice a few times and tried different guitar players. They of course hated my vocals.
One day S. volunteered us to play infront of our middle school. It was us that would only play two songs and a NIrvana cover band.
We played Fences, and I can remember the stares we got. Most of my classmates listened to Green Day or NIrvana nothing like this.
We also covered "My Girl," by the Temptations. Barry Gorby or whoever wrote that song would have probably been insulted.
We played my girl because the school band learned it. B. was in the band, he taught us. My dad played Motown all the time so I knew the lyrics.
After we PLayed "My Girl," and our two song set was over, the music teacher, whose name was Mr. Lipps came up to me and asked, "What was that!?"
I didn't know how to answer.
The Nirvana cover band went on after us. I think the students enjoyed them alot more then us. I didn't understand this at the time, because I thought we were more original. I started hating NIrvana, and to this day apart of me still does.

5/6/11

Fortress in the sky
forming alliances with
the trees blowing of steam
the sun is hidden like the queen
she will hear later about the attack
on dry ground
the precipitation charges
slickens the road
and windows
seek sheltor
the birds with no name
attack bluejays
trying to set up sanctuary
stray cats retreat back unto the drains
the breeze doesn't discriminate
the limbs of the trees bend but don't break
as the weekend begins
the highway hums
as cars venture back home
plans cover up the grounds like puddles
the cat still sleeps on the quilt
I am watching the dopplar radar
the storm looks like a swarm of bees
they don't sting
but keep growth alive
a war that has been fought several times this spring
a car stereo yells as the car goes by
the fortress in the sky reassembles
winds die down then breathes out again
finally quiet
except for the news fading on tv
blue skies smile but fortress is still protecting the queen
peaking through to see the enemy covered
in thin sheets of water
Is the sky retreating?
no thunder or lightening

words into lines into phrases don't capture the observation
reality is far more exquiste then the art that tries to cage it

The Meaning of Life

Holding your girlfriends hair back
as she vommits in a stranger's toilet
then having to kiss her afterwards

pushing down garbage with your bare hand
only to create more room for more garbage

all you can eat buffet

free refills

depending on a six pack and a pack of cigarttes
for life support
waiting on a potential right hook to your jaw

broken bottles on concrete
time on your hands
Then not having enough time the next day
Too much

would love to hear what you think

Fighting my battles
There have been several battles I have fought as a child. A battle for a child is what helps form their personality rather it is a victory or a loss. Some battles can be a small as sitting still during church, but other can be so big that the person will think of them for the rest of their lives. These are some experiences that have for some reason stuck with me.
I was in kindergarten living in a subdivision outside of Charleston West Virginia. In my neighborhood there were woods to play hide and go seek. Occasionally we played war. One day we were in the woods, and we found a tree house in one of our friend’s back yard.
In those days I played with my brother and our neighbor across the street. I don’t remember what exactly we were doing in the tree house. I guess we were just messing around like kids do. Suddenly the neighborhood bully heard us. I don’t remember his name but I remembered he had blond hair. On this particular day he had his bee bee gun which was a in the shape of a rifle. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have a bee bee gun.
He started loading it up. Then he started shooting at us in the tree house. The bee bees would either ricochet inside or hit the roof and bounced off. The three of us were ducks on a pond. I started crying hysterically. I think we all did. He kept shooting at us.
I looked up at my older brother with tears in my eyes.
“Are we going to die?” I asked innocently.
My brother wiped the tears out of his eyes, and whispered.
“When he loads again that is when we will run for it.”
We waited as he ran out of bee bees. Then he stopped shooting.
We stepped down the ladder and jumped out of the tree house running for our lives.
We didn’t surrender. We did, however, retreat.
Next in the fifth grade I was at Cherry Hill. It was called Cherry Hill even though nobody ever saw cherries on it. Sometimes underagers went there to drink and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes that was where kids would fight their nemesis of the school day which usually drew a crowd. The hill was usually used for sledding in the winter, but that day in Roanoke Virginia it was spring.
I was with a friend of mine, however my thoughts were distracted. A couple days before my speech therapist said I would never talk like the other kids. I wasn’t sure how I could tell anybody because I didn’t think they would understand.
My friend and I just had gone to 7-11 and our mouths were full of candy. The 7-1 that was in my neighborhood, which was considered to be a rich neighborhood. However when you first entered the houses weren’t as big as the once further up the street.
A kid came out with his brand new bike. It was a Schwinn, and it looked expensive. My parents bought me a Huffy, and it didn’t matter who I was with they usually brought it to my attention that my bike wasn’t as good as their bike.
That was how the rich kid made his presence known. I said a few words the wrong way (because of my speech impediment) and He started to mock me, and make fun of me.
It proved I would never talk like the other kids. I didn’t know what happened but I think the mocking on that day and all the other days mounted up. The words I couldn’t say festered inside me. Imagine wanting to say something but you can’t because you know either someone would not understand or they will mock you. Because of my speech impediment I was a quiet kid by choice even though I had usually had a lot to say. Eventually I took the rich kid’s bike and sent it riding down the hill without a passenger.
I was in awe at the bike when it went further than you would expect a bike to go without someone on it. Finally it hit a bump and went sailing in the air, and then came crashing down.
The rich kid went running down the hill. He dropped to his knees crying over the bike.
I actually started giggling. My friend asked me.
“What is he doing? It is just a bike.”
We eventually went to our separate homes.
That night my parents got a call. It was the rich kid’s mom. I remember knowing exactly who it was. I figured I was in trouble. My brother was there to, and I remember wondering if he was going to help me out.
My mom got off the phone. I figured that I would be grounded which meant no tv or trips to 7-11 to buy candy.
Both parents asked me about the events of the day. I explained to them what I was thinking. My brother just listened.
Surprisingly my dad gave me a high five, my brother laughed and my mom didn’t ground me.

Taken from the book When We Were Young

Boxing Party
It had been planned for a while, and I already knew about it, but everyone wanted me to be there because Captain was the first, then there was Boozer, a mutual-drinking buddy of our friend Scar, and then there was Old Man. It was all going to be at Old Man’s house. My expectations were high, and it gave me something to look forward to. I invited the other dishwasher Blink. Blink would enjoy it. He used to tell me several stories about how he would start a fight at a bar.
“It’s easy, man; all you have to do is look for a couple at the bar. Guy and girl. Then you walk up to the bar ignoring the dude and you buy the girl a drink and start talking to her. Then you usually have to talk some shit to the boyfriend. After that when you leave chances are the boyfriend will follow you with his friends. I did it to some frat guys. I got a fat lip.”
“How often have you done this?” I remember asking.
“A couple of times. Sometimes I just feel like fighting.”
“Don’t we all,” I concluded.
The party was Saturday night, and Blink and I had to work our usual day shift. It used to be just me, but now we split up the prep work.
Saturday mornings, we were both usually hung over, but it didn’t matter since we hardly had any customers. All we had to do was stick to the list: cleaning and gutting squid, deshelling shrimp, deveining shrimp, rinsing off vegetables, cutting off the stalks of fennel, the dreaded forty minutes of hell that came with making polenta, eggplant parmesan, scrubbing clams, and ripping out beards of mussels. That Saturday we were both a little excited about getting out as soon as possible.
“I’m walking over with Boozer and Scar,” I said energetically.
“I used to work with Boozer and Scar,” Blink announced.
“Really? That’s cool.”
Most of the list we completed the day before, after I cleaned the clams and Blink made the eggplant parmesan. The only thing we had to do was to clean and gut 50 lbs. of slimy stinky snot-like squid, but first we went outside to smoke a cigarette.
“You got a woman in your life?” I asked.
“Had one, but things changed right after I told her I was going to trying to change to be the man she wanted me to be.”
“Women don’t wait.”
“You got a girl?” he asked.
“Had one in the summer,” I said apathetically.
“What happened?” Blink asked.
It was an easy question, but the truth was the guy in the summer didn’t exist anymore. I wanted to fight him, and that fight was not far off.
“It didn’t work out. Just another crazed daddy’s little girl who should be sent to the Middle East and sold to the tyrannical dictators to be used as a human sacrifice.”
Blink kind of snickered and realized there was still a little bitterness there.
“Settle down man; we’re boxing tonight,” he said, trying to extinguish the rage.
I changed the subject.
“Check out the wall. You can still see some polenta that fell out of the window.”
We both laughed.
“It’s like a monument to your first day working here,” I said still laughing.
“Man, I didn’t know what to think of you after that day.”
“I value my goof-ups. They build character.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Sometimes I think I have way too much character.”
We went back inside, walked up the stairwell, and into the kitchen where the boss was rinsing the pasta.
“Are you boys having fun? I shouldn’t be doing this shit; this is your job!”
The boss went back to the line. “From now on, smoke one at a time.”
Blink rinsed the rest of the pasta, and I started cleaning the squid. Blink delivered the pasta to the boss, and then came over and started our two-man assembly line.
I would clean the squid by ripping the jelly-like body out of the capsule, and removing brain mass out of the capsule that looked similar to the thickest snot. I would put the split organism on Blink’s cutting board where he would slice the capsule into several strips, yank out the long tentacles used to capture the squid’s prey, slice it just above the two dead eyes and then remove the beak by punching through the remaining legs. Repeating the process, it took us about two hours to go through 50 lbs. of squid.
I had already scrubbed the clams, and Blink was done with the eggplant parmesan. We checked to make sure the cooks had everything they needed for the evening shift that night. The only thing we could do now was peal garlic, and pick parsley. I called first dibs on parsley so I could avoid the blazing garlic hands. Blink said he had no preference. We sat at the bar drinking bottled coke, talking shit to each other and counting down the seconds to quit time.
“The fire department didn’t work out for me,” I said still feeling the loss of a dream.
“Ah man, that sucks.”
“Maybe that’s why I feel like fighting.” There was no emotion in my voice.
“I don’t think I want to fight you anymore,” Blink concluded.
“It’s all in good fun, man,” I reassured him; “It’s a give and take. You’ll deliver some blows. I’ll deliver some blows. No big deal, I need this.”
Blink smiled and shook his head. “All in good fun.”
“What are you going to do now since the fire department didn’t work out?” Blink asked.
“Think of another plan,” I answered.
The dishwashers for the evening shift finally showed up so Blink and I were able to switch our cokes to bourbon and ginger. The cook who arrived said he had enough parsley so I switched to garlic.
“This is going to be fun,” Blink said in anticipation of the fight.
“Yup, I have high hopes,” I said.
“Knights in White Satin” came on the jukebox randomly, and I started singing, “Knights in white cotton,” as the anticipation grew with every sip of bourbon. The bartender was usually friendly with our free drinks after the shift. I could only taste the bourbon so I couldn’t complain, and worrying would be a waste of my time.
Blink and I reached for our glass at the same time, which was a source of relief for our burning fingers from peeling garlic.
“You know what my family motto is?” I asked.
“What?”
“Every day above ground is a good day,” I answered.
“Right on. I think that’s enough garlic.”
I was out of cigarettes, but Blink was willing to bum me out one of his god-awful menthols. I couldn’t complain.
“So are you going to call me, man?” Blink asked.
“Yeah when I get there, I’ll check out the scene, and if it’s lame, I will probably not call you. We’ll probably hangout though since you already know Scar and Boozer.”
“Cool.”
“Scar and I have been talking shit to each other. I have to fight him, too,” I said.
“This is going to be fun.”
We were told to move by the bartender, because some customers wanted to sit down at the bar. We signed our time sheets, and left later to meet up with the two fisted solution. It was all in good fun.
***

Scar and I were at Boozer’s place along with Boozer’s girlfriend. Scar matched the boxing gloves and looked up at all of us.
“What time does it start?” he asked.
“I think it starts when we get there,” said Boozer.
“I probably shouldn’t box you, Boozer. I would hate to kick your ass in front of your girlfriend.” I said.
“Girlfriend?” Scar questioned, “When was the last time you got any, Jonah.”
“What the hell is this small man syndrome?” I said knowing how to push Scar’s buttons.
“We’re boxing!” Scar announced.
“We’re boxing first,” I concluded.
“I need a few beers in me first,” Scar mumbled.
“Damn, you boys are starting the shit talking early,” Boozer’s girlfriend laughed.
I nodded with a chin up to Scar; he did the same back to me. It was all in good fun.
“Are you fellas ready to go?” I asked. The anticipation felt like a muscle spasm after a long busy shift.
Scar guzzled down his beer. “Yeah.”
We started walking to Old Man’s house; there was a slight chill in the air. The conversation was about work and paying rent. I wasn’t involved in the topic of conversation; it was the last thing on my mind.
“What are you thinking about, Jonah?” Boozer’s girlfriend asked.
“Boxing.”
“How’s work?” Boozer asked.
“It’s work,” I snarled.
Scar looked at me. “You’re crazy!”
I lit up a cigarette. My hopes were high.
When we showed up at Old Man’s house we found out he didn’t have his usual keg so the three of us chipped in for a case of beer to split. Scar and I voted us out of the block and a half walk for beer since we were going to be getting our exercise very soon. This forced Boozer to actually move for once.
“I hate beer.” Boozer’s girlfriend complained.
“I’ll pick you out something,” assured Boozer.
Boozer left and came back with two twelve-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 for his poor girlfriend, who didn’t like beer.
“Only the best for my girl!” Boozer laughed.
Boozer’s girlfriend shook her head and rolled her eyes. Boozer was used to this response, so he didn’t care. Besides, he had his beer.
“It’s orange, baby. You like orange.”
The four of us drank in the kitchen and wondered why there was no one else waiting to box.
Scar especially was starting to get antsy. “Where is everybody? Aren’t we supposed to box? I’m gonna ask, Old Man, what the deal is.”
He walked into the next room where everyone was drinking and watching TV. Then he came back.
“I asked Old Man if we are going to box here tonight, and he said, “I hope not?”
“Was his girlfriend with him?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Scar answered.
I threw up my hands, as the fun seemed to have slipped away. “That’s why.”
Boozer’s girlfriend rolled her eyes. “I thought there was going to be boxing here tonight.” She seemed to have no preference either way after a few sips of Mad Dog. Suddenly she jerked herself away from the bottle of Mad Dog and decided she did in fact like the taste of beer. Not wanting it to go to waste, Scar, Boozer, and I passed around the bottle. It reminded us of cough syrup.
“I’m going to call Blink and tell him to come over, even though nothing is going on,” I said, remembering my promise to Blink.
He sounded disappointed over the phone; Blink decided to come over anyway even though I apologized, because boxing hadn’t been on some of the other partygoers’ agenda.
We all sat in the kitchen drinking, occasionally kicking around the empty boxing gloves. It was just us, those who might have been seen as the weirdoes or freaks who scrambled the words one time or another, “I hope I don’t waste away,” or “I want to do something more.” Some were college students with no place else to go, dropouts, struggling artists, high school jocks without the scholarship, two job slobs. It was only one night of our lives, hopefully, something better would happen next weekend.
Blink, finally came over after he spoiled himself with some expensive Irish beer. We toasted, and Scar and I decided we might as well go at it. Old Man, entered his kitchen to get some more beer. Scar and I were pulling on the last glove with our teeth.
“You’re actually going to box?” Old Man inquired.
“That’s why you invited us over, isn’t it? Help me move the table from the middle of the floor” Scar said, maybe overly motivated to kick someone’s ass.
Old Man grabbed one end of the table, and I grabbed the other. We moved it out of our way, while Old Man grabbed another beer.
“You all are nuts,” he announced.
“Only with the gloves on.” I surrendered.
Scar smiled.
He was shorter then I was. The bike accident he was in a couple of months prior gave him his name. With Scar it was either a scar, a broken bone from a punk show or a bike accident. This permanent memory started below his left eye, and headed south to his mid-cheek. It made him seem taller to a stranger.
Scar and I stood in the middle of the kitchen and took off our shoes. Blink used his watch to keep time. We weren’t going to fight in rounds since we all knew our black lungs would be the ones to throw in the white towel so we had a time limit.
Scar and I touched gloves. I, immediately, used my longer reach against him, because back in Boozer’s apartment I couldn’t get past the scar. He was at perfect fist level for me. It was hard for him to get on my inside. He was able to fling some shots up to my jaw. Hearing the ruckus, people from the next room started rolling in to watch the fight. I landed a few more blows to Scar’s head, and he did the same to mine.
“Time!” Blink announced.
“You two are crazy,” said one of the strangers from the next room.
Scar and I ignored the comment.
Scar pointed at me with his glove. “You are too tall.”
I started rubbing the left side of my face. “This side of my jaw hurts.”
We both broke open a beer. No one won, no one lost; it was all in good fun.
“I don’t want to fight you again,” Scar said as he shook his ringing head.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “Who’s next?”
We recruited some other fighters to enter the makeshift ring while we rested. It was now Boozer’s turn. At first glance he looked like anyone else. A string stretch across chest read Abercrombie & Finch. He went to a different college close by. He and his opponent strapped on their gloves. We were all expecting a close and even fight. They looked like the same size and the same height. It looked like it was going to be an even blow fight. Instead, Boozer got his ass kicked. Everyone thought he at least looked tough before the fight standing there with the gloves on smoking a cigarette. Thank God he could paint.
During the monsoon of punches, his girlfriend yelled. “He’s just an artist! Take it easy!”
The poor Boozer didn’t throw one punch, although his guard was always up. The opponent’s punches broke through his raging beer face. There was nothing Boozer could do, but wait, punch, jab, jab, but wait, punch jab, jab, punch jab jab...
“Time!” Blink yelled, fearing the safety of his friend as he jumped in between the two fighters, stopping Boozer’s branding. We later found out that Boozer’s opponent was friends with a golden glove who taught him what he knew about boxing. We called him the Ringer.
Boozer walked back to his already opened beer with his usual smirk on his face shaking his head. His girlfriend gave him that look of sympathy that causes every man to confess. Boozer was in love. They kissed. He wouldn’t have admitted it but I think Boozer actually blushed (or maybe his face was just red from all the punches).
Captain couldn’t make it that night for a similar reason. He was meeting his girlfriend’s parents. We each had an extra beer for him, because it wasn’t the same without him. We weren’t very good with parents, and since Captain was meeting an airborne ranger we hoped for the best. I was ready to box again.
“Blink!” I yelled.
He looked up from his beer and his watch.
“Okay.” He gave a gesture to Boozer’s girlfriend to be the timekeeper.
“Ready!” Boozer’s girlfriend announced.
We touched gloves. This was personal. To motivate myself, I thought, this guy who smoked the god-awful menthol cigarettes might be planning to take my job. It wasn’t the best job, but it was my job. Just the menthol cigarettes in his front pocket was reason enough to go bare knuckles.
“Go!”
With two hard left jabs to the face I felt the sting like I felt from the steel wool used to scrub the pots and pans with the thick layer of grease. His shots were coming. We both had to work tomorrow.
He landed a right hook to the temple. I felt it. Yep, I thought. We were fighting for the same job. Two left jabs, a right hook, and another right hook. I waited, hesitantly for him to deliver his two right hooks. It was my job. It was one of the lowest jobs to have, but it was mine. He shook his head after feeling some more blows by yours truly. The scrapping went on, and we were still entry-level employees when it was over. We had a beer to celebrate.
There was no response from the other would-be fighters for the next fight. I looked at Boozer giving him an invitation.
“I don’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted to drink tonight,” said Boozer.
“I don’t want you to fight anymore either,” said Boozer’s girlfriend.
Scar found himself a new recruit. The new fighter was an art student who said he had never done anything like this before. He must have said it a thousand times; walking to the gloves like he already knew what the result of the battle would be. Scar began talking shit. Both fighters put on their gloves. The art student took off his glasses. Blink took his watch from Boozer’s girlfriend, and she put her arms around Boozer. Scar and the art student touched gloves.
“Go!”
The art student was taller then Scar, but Scar had no problem taking advantage of the rookie’s lack of experience. The art student let his presence be known, however, with his first right hooks ever thrown at someone. The art student took more blows to the head as his senses fell to an institution that had no deadlines or assignments. All that was inside these walls was time. It seemed the art student began learning a different lesson when he reacted to Scar with a furious upper cut that stopped Scar in his tracks. Yet Scar’s smile was not falling from his face. Scar hadn’t seen a textbook for three years, and the art student had probably only seen his mother’s kitchen. These were two lives that wouldn’t normally intersect.
“Time!” Blink yelled.
Scar, bummed the art student out of a beer, and then they both exchanged bruises and glassy eyes. In this room, no one was better than anyone else.
Blink went to get some more recruits, and then he came back.
“Some guy wants to fight now, too.” Old Man said apathetically, because anything could happen at Old Man’s house.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“He’s finishing his beer,” Blink answered.
“Why isn’t he in here?” I asked lighting up a cigarette and starting to strap on the gloves.
“He’s finishing his beer,” I mocked.
Old Man brought out his camera, thinking that he could use the footage for his video class. The new recruit finally showed up, bragging about his wrestling background.
“I went all-state in high school.” A dream that could only exist in his glory days.
He strapped on the gloves and I stared through him, seeing my way already paved. I wanted to beat the bullet out of Hemingway’s head, pound on Bukowski’s big white belly, torment Steinbeck’s soul, and blacken Kerouac’s free spirited eyes. This fight would be about rejection. I could see the rejection letters from my writing right in front of me, and he was wearing boxing gloves.
Blink managed the time. Everyone in the house was now in the kitchen.
We touched gloves, as the newly formed crowd in the kitchen grew silent.
“Go!”
The past will hammer your gut and bludgeon your brain. It will push you even though you can’t go any further; it doesn’t follow the rules, while it delivers cheap shots that can only leave you stunned. Move!
Jab…jab…jab…. He delivered the blows.
I had my guard up, but slightly blacked out, yet still standing. I threw a couple of jabs to his jaw, and temple. Then I was pushed to the wall again. I was standing straight up as he landed a hook coming out of nowhere. I wondered what was holding me up. It wasn’t the past; it wasn’t my car or my job. It wasn’t my parents or the rent. He delivered more blows to my head. The punch blurred into my deceased heroes; they were supportive like a guardrail. Maybe it was punishment for thinking about using spell-check or thinking that maybe I could be the exception. You could die a thousand times and still have to wake up the next day.
When Blink yelled, “Time!” I asked for more.
I landed a few more shots, and the strangers did the same. I was still standing.
When it was all over, the stranger went back to his beer lying on the table before he entered the kitchen. I was stumbling on my own two feet, smiling and chuckling like a predator that had been caged by something more powerful.
“We have to do this again,” I said still smiling at the stranger who now saw in full view the damage he had done. He dropped his sore jaw, when he saw I was taking the beating a little too well.
“Your cheek is bleeding.” Boozer said.
“Really,” I said. “Can I bum a smoke?”
He gave me one and lit it for me.
My eyes were tied down by surviving the winter, a shitty job, and this life with no instructions or direction. I was doing the best I could with no guarantees.
My whole face seemed like it was slouching as I exhaled drags, dancing out from the corners of my mouth. I was willing to take anything that thought it could knock me down. I was tired of taking it like a man, and I was not going to be defeated by anyone.
I opened another beer. I turned around to offer one to the stranger, but he was gone. He apparently didn’t get it. I could only come to the conclusion that maybe he, too, had something to prove, and he thought he had met his match.
Blink, Old Man, and I walked into the hallway to view the footage from Old Man’s camera. During the fight, Blink would sometimes look back at me with inquiry after every blow to my head, daring to ask if he should call “Time.” I had some trouble focusing on the tiny screen of the camera.
“How am I still standing up?” I asked.
Blink and Old Man shook their heads. They didn’t know. The recruit walked passed us drinking his beer, pretending he had no interest in the footage by Old Man.
After the footage, I slid my sock feet to the floor, using the wall as a guard. The hallway had gotten longer somehow. I eventually entered the bathroom, and shut the door. I stared in the mirror, slightly swaying to maintain a balance. It looked like I had aged twenty-one years with the two shiners and soft pillows underneath my eyes. .
“You haven’t lived unless you failed,” I said softly to the image in the mirror.
Blink finished his six-pack and decided he was ready to go home. We gave him some beers for the walk. Boozer, his girlfriend, Scar and I eventually left as well. The sounds of the city sounded like they were under water. At least I knew how to walk.
“Hey man, are you sure you’re okay?” Boozer asked.
“Never felt better,” I answered.
***
We stopped at a convenience store, Scar picked out a donut, Boozer bought a bag of chips, and I was ID’d for cigarettes. The lady behind the register hurriedly compared the person on the ID to the person who was standing in front of her. She must have thought it was a robbery. I smiled back; showing all my coffee-stained teeth.
“You look so innocent in this picture,” the lady said.
I paid her for cigarettes, and went outside to wait for Scar and Boozer. Scar was the first to come out.
“She didn’t charge me for the donut.” Scar announced.
“She was probably scared of my black eyes.”
Boozer came out scratching his head apprehensively. “She didn’t charge me for my chips.”
“Nice lady,” I said.
Scar passed out back at Boozer’s place, and I walked back to my apartment. It was still early for Saturday night/Sunday morning when I hit my uncovered mattress, already in the grips of a tranquil abyss. I promptly awaited the best sleep in my life.
The best sleep was behind me when I started making coffee in the early afternoon. A letter from the fire department and the telephone bill were there as well. The letter from the fire department, of course, told me officially what I already knew, that I couldn’t go on to the next stage of competition, which was the agility test. But somehow I felt that I had just passed an agility test, and I was still standing.

5/2/11 Bin Laden is dead. I picked a fine time to quit drinking

It is Monday which meant I had to wake up at eleven for my one on one with Dr. Bradshaw. I was bebopin' down the road to 103.7 the river when it came on. Bin Laden is dead. It took every muscle not to wreck my car. That was one of the reasons I joined the army. I turned it up.
I arrived at Mcguire, smoked a cigarette and went to Dr. Bradshaw's office.
There was a spring in my step. My head was clear but still solid mentally. It was as if America gave a great sigh of relief to the once lost in the world trade center and the once lost in war.
I showed up at Dr. Bradsaw's office to find a note on the door. She was sick. I showed up for nothing. Then I remembered that my other doctor told me to go to the blood lab. I did so.
In the waiting room, I shared my sentiments with a man who was waiting on his dad. He said that the old timers the once in vietnam said there will be a retailiation.
I told him how over the years I had become a woose. I didn't like war or guns or any of that. I told him how I wished the soldiers would be sent home.
Finally my number was called.
I sat down in the blood room or whatever they called it.
I had only black coffee today I asked if that was okay. The blood lady said that was fine.
As she was putting the latax or whatever around my arm to bring out my vein, I told her I had to settle down because I didn't want it to affect my blood test.
She told me everything is okay.
When she was done I left.
I went back outside and smoked two cigarettes. I talked with this volunteer who used to be in the Navy during the first desert storm.
He said he found out last night, he said after I gave him a cigarette because he had none.
I told him I had just gave up drinking and now I really wanted a beer.
He started laughing. That's good.
He went on to say that he was introduce to alchohol in the Navy. His first experence he got really drunk so drunk that his wife had to drive him home. One of his friends passed out and they painted his toe nails and put fritos or something on his nails. We both laughed.
I gave him aother cigarette, thanked him for volunteering, and then waited in line to get my car at the vallet.
The line started to get longer.
An older man cam up to me. He had something in his hand I thought he wanted to give me.
"Where did you served?" He asked.
I told him I didn't see combat, and that I was at Fort Irwin. He walked away with what looked like coaster for drinks in his hands.
I got my key for my car and decided just to walk to it instead of waiting for the vallet to pull it around.
I drove back home wanting a beer very badly.
I went to Kroger ignoring the voices in my head that wanted cool and refreshing libations.
I settled on a six pack of IBC diet root beer.
I went to check out and asked for three pall mall blues shorts. I could tell that the check out girl was a few windows short of a sky scraper so thought this maybe a problem but I was in a good mood so I didn't mind.
At first she came back with one. I put three fingers in the air and said three. She came back got two more and held them in the air. I nodded. They were 100's not shorts. I thought maybe my speech impediament got in the way. I didn't complain. I paid and left.
Now two bottles of root beer are in the freezer. I'm writing and waiting for them to get cold so I can celebrate.
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN AFTER 9/11.

TURN UP THE WAR
can't stand to hear
mozart ringing
stagnant brainwaves
revolve around
outlets and ower surges
sparking the black out
inside
speechless at the sight of the fiasco

flesh melts off
skeletons
yet still shreiks
revenge
while
entering the melting pot

colors
blood death and tears
phase out
the red white and blue

a car reads "nuke'em" (in Richmond Va)
a writer calls peace treason

thoughts delayed
in combat fog

now they are planning
an opposition
united by tragedy